* * * * *

Mark slammed the kitchen cupboard closed in frustration. It was empty, of course. When wasn’t it? No one around here bothered to do grocery shopping except him, and nowadays he was too preoccupied to take a trip to the Food Emporium two blocks away. Until his stomach began begging him for mercy, that is. Like now.

Ducking into the bedroom, he grabbed a jacket and his ever-present camera. It’s sad, he thought, emerging into the living room. I’m sad. I really do live in my work. And my work never seems to end.

Roger and Mimi were on the couch, completely engrossed with each other. Mark doubted that they had noticed anything BUT each other since Mimi’s little brush with death -- was it two months ago? Already? Two months since Mark had finished his film, only to realize that it wasn’t truly finished. Two months he had spent filming new footage, new concepts. And he was almost done. Just one last shot remained, provided he would ever find it.

“I’m going to the supermarket for some cash and food,” Mark announced to the two lovers. They didn’t even look up. He sighed. “I’ll be back in ten minutes or so. Then I’ll force feed Cap’n Crunch to you two so that you don’t starve.” He paused. No response. “Thank you Mark! See you later, Mark! Hope you find your perfect shot, Mark!” Still nothing. Shaking his head, he walked out and slammed the door behind him.

Roger and Mimi heard the door slam, but they opted to ignore it. Mark would come back before too long. He always did, even when sulking. Right now, all they cared about each other. It was hardly an unusual sentiment, but one they allowed themselves to indulge in. Today, they weren’t talking much, merely content to sit close together and listen to the sounds of the city coming from outside the little loft.

A few minutes later, the door opened and Collins breezed in. “Morning, sunshines,” he announced, dumping a bag of groceries on the table.

Roger and Mimi stood up quickly. “Ignoring the fact that you somehow got in without the key,” Roger started, “why are you here?”

Collins shrugged. “I haven’t heard from any of you for weeks,” he said accusingly, “and that’s a sure sign that you’ve all been too wrapped up in your little personal lives to bother eating. So,” he gestured to the bag of food, “lunch. And as to getting inside, I do have the key.” He tossed it to Roger. “I bumped into Mark on my way down the block; he gave it to me. Just as well, because somehow I get the feeling that no one would have answered the phone.”

Mimi laughed. “But I thought that Mark was going to Food Emporium himself. Why--”

“Oh, he still had some things to pick up there,” Collins interrupted her. “These are all relatively perishable items, you see. He wanted to get some stuff that would -- what was the phrasing he used? -- ‘last in the cupboard for a few months.’ Plus, he had his camera in hand. He probably couldn’t force himself to return without getting a few candid shots of strangers.”

“Sounds like Mark to me,” Roger said, sticking his hand into the bag and pulling out a package of soup crackers. “Let’s eat.”

Some minutes later, they all heard the loud screech of tires coming from down the block. Mimi practically dropped her spoonful of chicken noodle soup. Roger laughed. “That was probably Mark,” he said, jokingly. “Lately he’s been so wrapped up in finding his perfect shot that he pays no attention to his surroundings.”

“What perfect shot would that be?” Collins asked.

“Something about birds, I think. An ending for his film or something, I’m not sure. Anyway, I’ll bet that was his third near-miss this month. I keep telling him that if he isn’t more careful, he won’t last any longer than the rest of us, in spite of his survivor shpiel. If we listen carefully, we’ll probably hear the driver’s curses and Mark’s shouted apologies.”

Chuckling, they listened. “I’m not hearing any shouted apologies,” Mimi teased. “So much for Mister Psychic here. Roger, you’re about as perceptive as--” She cut herself off, suddenly. Her eyes widened. Faintly at first, but gradually growing louder, all three heard the sound of sirens.

“Oh, no,” Roger whispered, and bolted out the door.

Mimi and Collins just looked at each other. “He’s probably wrong, you know,” Collins said hurriedly. “It probably has nothing to do with Mark.”

“Yeah, probably,” Mimi agreed, but neither of them were surprised to realize that they had followed Roger out of the loft and down the stairs.

A block away, they saw the ambulance’s flashing lights. A cab driver was talking to a policeman, babbling, “He just came outta nowhere -- I never see him, he just appeared -- stupid jerk, what was he doing crossing the street in front of me?”

Mimi couldn’t see the person who had been hit. But Roger, several yards ahead of her, could see something more than she. He stopped dead in his tracks, just standing limply in the middle of the sidewalk. Collins and Mimi jogged up beside him, shivering a little in the February wind. He wasn’t even looking toward the accident victim, who was too surrounded by bystanders and ambulance workers to be visible. Mimi followed his hollow gaze, and gave a sharp cry, turning to bury her face in Roger’s shoulder. But Collins walked forward, and ignoring the scattered groceries, gently picked up the camera, lying lonely and broken on the cold pavement.

-------------------

PART TWO

DISCLAIMER: not mine, yada yada yada

Last Shot: Sighing
by kaydee falls

--------------------
Mark had been on his way back home when he saw it. His shot. It was right there across the street. Fumbling with the bag of groceries, he somehow got the camera on and focused. He still didn’t think it would work out, but he had to try. The film could always get dumped in the trash if something went wrong, following reels and reels of its predecessors. But, as if he had scripted it, the shot was perfect. Breathtakingly perfect. Two long months he had searched for this, and it was there, on film, right in front of him. He wanted to yell, to jump, to hug a passerby. Discarding these options, he stepped out onto the street, camera poised, catching the image of the pigeon flapping away above his head.

He never saw the cab.

Jerked from his grasp, the camera went right on recording, capturing on film its brief but spectacular flight through the air, until it landed on the cold pavement. It bounced twice, then finally came to a rest. The lens was shattered, the film blank and dark.

* * * * *

Mark has got his work
They say Mark lives for his work
And Mark’s in love with his work
Mark hides in his work

Images flashed through Mark’s mind at an alarming rate. Angel and Mimi danced before his eyes. Collins dashed through the Parthenon. Maureen kissed him and fought with him. Joanne juggled instructions and cell phones. Benny smiled and laughed like he used to. And Roger’s voice was always in his ear, hurling accusations at him, as Mark cowered and futilely tried to defend himself.

But from what

He realized that his eyes were still open, and somehow registered the inside of an ambulance. Why did he bother? There was nothing left to see. Nothing left worth seeing. After all these years, he understood that he had finally seen enough.

From facing your failure
Facing your loneliness
Facing the fact you live a lie

But for some reason, he didn’t close his eyes. Not now, not yet. And suddenly, cold panic rose up in him. His camera! He had let go of his camera when the taxi struck him. Where was it? And, oh God, what if it had broken? His last shot, his perfect shot, what if it were ruined? Waves of pain, both physical and emotional, washed over him.

Yes, you live a lie -- tell you why
You’re always preaching not to be numb
When that’s how you thrive
You pretend to create and observe
When you really detach from feeling alive

The shot was printed on his mind, but now it was hazy. The sight of the ambulance, the medics, they were getting in the way. Frantically trying to ward off the pain, all Mark could think about was his final shot. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and was struck in the chest by burning needles of agony. So he breathed more shallowly. Very gradually, with each breath, he felt himself calm down, and as he calmed, his breathing grew slower and slower.

Perhaps it’s because I’m the one of us
To survive

How ironic, Mark thought. He sighed, and closed his eyes.

-------------------

PART THREE

DISCLAIMER: we’ve been through this already. i make no money for my efforts, aight?’

Last Shot: Soaring
by kaydee falls

-------------------
As soon as he picked it up, Collins knew that no one would use this camera again. The little red “recording” light was still glowing faintly, however, and he gently switched it off. The end of the reel of film would be garbage, blank, but there was still the possibility that the rest would be viewable. But he himself knew next to nothing about video cameras and film, or how to get the movie out of the shell of the camera. Funny, he thought, I once taught Computer Age Philosophy, I can reprogram the hell out of a computer and hotwire an ATM to spew out cash, but I couldn’t get a picture out of this thing if a life depended on it.

His gaze drifted to Mark’s limp body being lifted on a stretcher into the ambulance. We’re not so different from a camera, he mused. We’re broken, shattered by an unlucky twist of fate, damaged to the core, and yet there’s always the chance that the professionals can still salvage some film. Some life. Oh God, let them save Mark.

* * * * *

They were all huddled together in the loft: Roger, Mimi, Collins, Maureen, Joanne. Sitting in a small circle around the phone, waiting for word from the hospital. It had only been a few hours since the accident. A few long, tense hours in which they could do nothing but wait. No one touched the chips Maureen had absently dumped in a bowl and brought to the couch. They just sat

After Mark had been loaded into the ambulance, Collins had immediately gone to the pay phone and called Joanne at her office. Meanwhile, a dazed Roger had stumbled over to a police officer and demanded to know exactly what had happened. The policeman told him it was none of his business, and Roger replied that of course it was his damn business, he was Mark’s roommate, and that someone had better tell him what the hell was going on.

The cop got interested in Roger then, and had started firing questions. His name? Roger Davis. Victim’s full name and address? Mark Cohen, we live just down the street. Next of kin? His mother lives in Scarsdale, I don’t have her number on me but I’ll call her. Your phone number?....The list went on and on. Finally, Roger had enough.

“Would you just tell me how this happened?!” he screamed. He whirled to face a very nervous cabbie. “Did you hit him?!” Roger demanded. “Did you run him over?! What the fuck were you thinking, you asshole?!” The cab driver started babbling again. Roger clenched his fists and started forward, but Mimi rushed forward and grabbed his arm, pulling him away and murmuring softly into his ear. Tears were running down her face. Roger looked into her eyes and said nothing.

And now they all sat silently back in the loft. Suddenly, the phone broke the silence, jarringly. Roger dove for it. “Hello?” he whispered. He listened to the voice at the other end of the line, face blank and unreadable. He murmured monosyllabic responses into the phone occasionally, still expressionless. To the others, it seemed like hours before he finally said, “Thank you,” and hung up.

They all looked at him, questioningly, searchingly, needing to know and yet too afraid to ask anything. For another long moment, Roger was silent. Finally, he spoke.

“He’s gone,” he mumbled, then lowered his head into his hands and began to cry.

“Oh, no,” Maureen whispered, shocked. “He can’t be. We can’t....we can’t have lost him. Not Mark.”

Collins sighed, strangely unable to cry as the others all did. “He was the one who should have lived. I always expected him to outlive us all. He is...was...always there, always there....”

Roger looked up. “Well, he isn’t,” he said harshly, jumping to his feet. “What’s the point of talking about it? He should’ve been the survivor, but he wasn’t, he’s dead, he left us. It’s over!” he shouted, pacing the room. “God dammit, he’s over!” Tears streaming down his cheeks, Roger smashed his hand into the kitchen counter, then grabbed the broken camera sitting there and prepared to smash it into something as well.

“Roger, don’t!” Mimi pleaded, running over to him and catching his arm. “Don’t do this,” she whispered. “For God’s sake, don’t destroy Mark’s camera. It was his life.”

“And now it’s broken,” Roger responded. “Just like Mark.”

Collins walked over, and took the camera out of Roger’s hand. “The camera is broken, but I think the film inside is still good,” he said softly. “I think Mark might have found his last shot, Roger. And I think we owe it to him to see that it can be seen by all his friends.” His eyes filled with tears, at last.

* * * * *

It was relatively simple to produce an image out of the camera, once they took it to a professional. What was difficult was to splice it onto the end of Mark’s film, and touch it up. But Roger worked hard, and was able to complete it a few weeks after the accident. He devoted all his time to ensuring that Mark’s vision was maintained, while Joanne took care of the trial surrounding the short filmmaker’s death, and had the cab driver sentenced for manslaughter. Finally, Roger invited all of Mark’s friends to the loft, for a showing of the film.

Once the group of people had quieted and the lights dimmed, Roger flicked the projector on.

Mark had titled the film “No Day But Today.” It was a spectacular montage of images and words, flashes of life. There were glimpses of friends, family members, laughter, fights, smiles, tears. Even Roger was amazed by the depth and complexity of his friend’s vision. No part of their lives were left out, and yet it didn’t seem rushed or flighty. It was Mark, Mark all over, even though his face never appeared.

At the end, the film showed Roger. “This is where Mark’s film left off,” his projected image said to them. “He told me that it was almost finished, that it lacked only one last shot. But on February 28th, Mark Cohen was struck by a taxicab while walking home. He died a few hours later.” Film-Roger wiped his eyes, and life-Roger did the same. So did many other members of the small audience. “We found his camera, broken, on the sidewalk. It was still recording.” The image of Roger faded away, and was replaced by film of a small crowd of pigeons pecking at invisible crumbs on the sidewalk. The voice continued, “We think Mark found his shot after all.” As if on cue, all the pigeons were startled into flight, a chaotic mass of feathers and beaks. “He found his release in his film, in his perfect shot,” Roger’s voice whispered. The focus shifts to one lone pigeon, diverging from the path of the flock. “I think...I think his spirit just soared away with the birds that day. And I think he finally found...he finally found his peace.” In the film, the pigeon soared higher and higher. Finally, it disappeared into the grey clouds.

-------------------

I finally finished this dratted story! Thank ye kindly for sticking with it.....

AUTHOR’S NOTE: ironically, on November 30, a day or so after I finished writing part one, a close family friend was hit by a truck and killed, in roughly the same neighborhood of NYC as the fictional Mark lived. This little series is dedicated in memory of Jerilyn Reiter, 1947 - 2000.

---------------------

PART FOUR

DISCLAIMER: not mine, k?

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I honestly thought this series was over, but I’m just in a sadistic mood. This is a sort of epilogue. It takes place about 14 years after the last one....

Last Shot: Surviving
by kaydee falls

-----------------------
I don’t know why I’m still in the church. It’s late, and I’m completely worn out from the funeral. I should be home, I should be getting ready for bed, but I’m rooted to my spot here. I’m just so tired.

The moon glints through one crystal stained glass window, creating cold patterns on the hard wooden floor. I reach out a hand to touch the moonlight, and watch it play along my fingers. But I don’t feel anything. I laugh to myself, softly, at my own silliness. It’s only light, I remind myself. It has no substance.

Sometimes I feel like I have no substance, either, any more. I’m still relatively young, but some switch has turned off in me. I’ve lost the enthusiasm, the passion, that I once had. And I know why I’ve become such a living statue. I think the knowing is far worse than the lack of feeling.

I’m alone in the church tonight, for now at least. I glance at my watch.

December 24th, ten PM
Eastern Standard Time...

Mark’s voice sings in my ear. Biting my lip, I try to block out the memories. But the contrasts are stark and impossible to ignore. Fifteen years ago today, we all met. Well, it was the first time all seven of us had been together. There were no shadows that criss-crossed our faces, like the shadows that dance around me now. We were all young, strong, and heart-wrenchingly alive. Fifteen years....

And now I’m alone. I’m the only one left. And that hurts.

* * * * *

We all drifted apart, not long after Mark’s unexpected death. He really was the bond that kept us together, and once he was gone, there was nothing holding us. We floated away from each other like dry leaves, drifting mindlessly. Collins tried. He would always call us, try to arrange a get-together. On the year anniversary of Mark’s death, we did come together for one last time. But by then, even Collins had realized that there was no point to it anymore, and stopped calling.

The pairs of lovers stayed together for a little longer, but then even they went their own ways. I remember the day I walked away from my relationship. Part of me hated myself for leaving, but another part felt nothing but relief that it was all over. Long periods of time would go by in which I had no word from any of the other four, and I know it was the same way for then. Contact resumed only for funerals, which could be years apart. At each funeral, there were fewer and fewer of us. And there was no way to go back.

Oh God, if I could only go back to that first Christmas Eve, fifteen long years ago. I would have done so many things differently. Angel’s death was horrible yet natural, but Mark’s could and should have been prevented. If he hadn’t died, then maybe the rest of us would have remained close for all these years.

If he hadn’t died then, I might not have been alone now.

But he did die. And so did everyone else.

* * * * *

Collins resumed contact with me a few months ago. We were the only ones left, then, and hadn’t spoken once in the two years since the last death. When we met again, I just embraced him and cried. Then I asked him why he wanted to see me, after so long.

“Because I think we should never have spent so much time apart,” he said simply. “I’ve been thinking, and I realized that I would have given anything to have been with the others while they were still alive. I would have died willingly ten years ago, if all that time had been spent together, through thick and thin. We shouldn’t have let ourselves drift apart.”

“I know,” I whispered. “If I could have sat by their sides while they died, held their hands....”

He smiled gently. “It would have made us feel so much more...complete. Fulfilled. But it’s too late for that, and I don’t want to make the same mistake with you, now that we’re alone.”

“But why the sudden urgency to make amends?” I asked.

“I’m dying,” he replied quietly. “Don’t look so shocked; according to all laws of practicality, I should have been the first to go. I was the first one diagnosed with this disease, wasn’t I? And people like Mark were never expected to die at all, not until reaching a ripe old age. But as it stands, it finally caught up to me, and I don’t want to die alone.”

“Collins,” I suddenly realized, “if you had died....I never would have known. I never would have found out.”

“I know,” he replied. “And I couldn’t do that to you.”

“How long do you have?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer. Collins shrugged.

“A week, a year, who knows? No more than a year. But I’m ready. I’m tired,” he added, scarcely whispering. “God, I’m just so tired.”

For a while, his gradual loss of energy was almost unnoticeable. I saw him as often as I could, although we both held reasonably respectable jobs, at last. At least three times a week, we would meet for lunch, or dinner, or for a movie. I was not in love with him; I never had been. But he was a comfort to me, a constant reminder of the old days, and I think I comforted him as well, just by being there.

Two weeks ago, he took a turn for the worse. It didn’t come as a surprise, but it still shook me. It angered me. I had lost him for so many years, but he had found me -- and now I was just going to lose him again. It wasn’t fair, it was cruel. But there was nothing I could do except sit by his side and hold his hand.

Three nights ago, he spoke to me for the last time. He seemed distracted. “I’m a little nervous,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what kind of welcome I’m going to get.”

“What?” I whispered, uncomprehending. Then realization dawned on me. “Oh, Collins, they’ll open their arms to you.”

“How can you be sure?” he asked, frowning slightly. “They might not have approved of me. I’ve done some selfish things, you know.”

“Nothing you did was ever selfish,” I replied. “And of course I’m sure.” Digging back into the recesses of my memory, I quoted, “‘I was in a tunnel, headed for this bright, white light. And I swear, Angel was there. And she looked good!’”

He smiled. “The near-death confessions of Mimi Marquez,” he joked lightly. “I’d forgotten.”

This scared me. Collins always had an excellent memory. He could never have forgotten any mantion of his beloved Angel. But I swallowed the cold panic threatening to rise in me, and forced a smile. “Angel will be waiting for you,” I told him. “I’m positive about it.”

“That’s good,” he said sleepily. “I miss her...”

He closed his eyes. After a few long minutes, he opened them again. His eyes were strange. I don’t know if he even saw me, or knew who he was addressing any more. “You’re the last one,” he whispered. “Don’t you dare give up.”

I tried to laugh. “Are you kidding me? I lasted this long without any of y’all, I can keep going forever.”

“I’m serious,” he said. “For a while, I couldn’t even be sure if any of you were still alive. I thought maybe I’d never find out. Maybe you were all dead. Sometimes I wanted to die, too. But then I remembered, I’m the survivor. For as long as I am able, I must only survive. That’s all that matters, surviving.”

I just nodded. I didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “Just go on living. Please....”

And he was gone.

* * * * *

I open my eyes and realize that I’m kneeling in front of the altar, silent tears running down my face. Slowly I stand up. A startled voice behind me says, “Who’s there?”

I turn to see the priest, Father Georges, standing there. When he recognizes me, he smiles. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t see you there. Normally I’m alone here at this hour.”

“I’m sorry to have scared you,” I say, a little embarrassed. “I just-- I was--”

His smile is kind. “I understand,” he tells me. “You were at the funeral earlier, weren’t you? My condolences. Were you close to the deceased?”

“We were old friends,” I reply, tiredly. Suddenly, I’m aware that I’m completely exhausted, and I stifle a yawn.

“I don’t suppose you’re staying for Midnight Mass...?” he questions. I shake my head. “Ah, well, I didn’t expect it. We don’t see you here very often, but do realize that you are always welcome.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. “But I think I’m going to go home now.”

“Goodnight, then,” he tells me. I turn and walk to the large double doors. “Merry Christmas, Joanne!” he calls after me.

Almost against my will, I smile. “Merry Christmas, Father Georges,” I reply, and step out into the bitter weather. Merry Christmas, Collins, I think to myself.

It’s been fifteen years, and now I’m the only one left. But I’m surviving.

--------------------------
It’s the series that wouldn’t die! But I swear I’m done torturing them now. Feedback is what I live for. Be in the giving spirit, please? Feedback hugged close to my heart when it’s directed to HPTFalien@aol.com