Read Amaranthine and Other Stories for Free Online Page B

and he wondered what Sharon had packed for dinner.
    John snatched a bag from his locker and strolled through the canteen door. He spotted Andy, a colleague and a dear friend relaxing in the corner— munching on fries and reading a naval book.
    “What you doing here? You had your break, didn't you?” John said, collapsing into a vacant seat. He opened his plastic food container, then stared at Andy's ketchup-drowned fries.
    Andy groaned and slammed the novel down. Interrupted reading bugged him. Mike barged in, holding a pot of hot tomato soup in his remarkably hairy hands. He grinned and headed over to the table. Andy shifted over to the other chair.
    “Hey Mike, how's it going?” Andy asked, gesturing towards the empty seat.
    Mike put down the sizzling pot and leaned closer. A sly smirk spread across his chubby cheeks. “Got news for you, gentlemen. Have you been introduced to our new supervisor yet?”
    Both men exchanged surprised grimaces. Andy spoke first. “We have a new supervisor? Since when?”
    Mike sipped his soup, blowing at the steam. “Since today. Oh, and John? You definitely won't approve of him.”
    John swallowed a mouthful of peanut butter sandwich, sneaky crumbs still hiding in his beard.
    “Why not?”
     
    The door slammed open and a robust figure appeared. The man's oval face seemed even darker under the canteen's bright lights. He sported a mocha raincoat and clutched a tattered rucksack, decorated with outlandish symbols. Swollen blood vessels altered the natural colour of his eyes.
    The black man strolled towards the trio, his stride slow and lazy.
    “You must be da mechanics; I are now in charge of you. Ma name is Imamu,” he said in a Haitian accent.
    Andy sliced the awkward silence in half with his extended hand.
    “Hello! I'm Andy and this is Mike and John.”
    “Evenin',” said Mike, also shaking hands with the new authority.
    John's hostile expression communicated without words. Imamu sensed the bearded man's animosity and jabbed him with a red glare. John refused to break eye contact at first, but shifted his gaze eventually. He failed to endure Imamu's trance-like stare. He grabbed his empty container and brushed past the intimidating stranger, cursing.
    The changing room stank of oil and sweat. They found John in a furious state of mind.
    “I'm not going to bow down to THAT!” he raged, slamming the rusty door of his locker. “I refuse to take orders from his kind. I'd rather quit. Did you hear him talking like he owned us? Who the hell does he think he is? He's just a stupid jigaboo!”
    Andy and Mike swapped disapproving glances. John was a racist with a short temper—common knowledge in the factory. Due to his many years of service, the management turned a blind eye. John often rambled but his senile mind wasn't capable of inflicting harm. Or so they thought.

    Andy observed the buzzing mechanism. He reached down to his cluttered toolbox—then twitched. A pink palm handed him a wrench. Andy took it, startled by the frowning face.
    “Ya friend does not like me,” Imamu said.
    Andy wiped oil off his hands with a stained cloth.
    “I do apologize for my friend, he means no harm. It just takes him a while to get to know people, that's all.”
    The supervisor remained frigid. “Lies! This note was taped to ma locker,” he said, dangling a piece of paper in front of Andy, “and let me tell ya now, boy, I do not take lightly to threats—especially from a racist bigot!”
    Imamu's red pupils flashed with menace and Andy swallowed, not doubting the conviction behind the man's threat.

    The apparatus roared to life and Andy yelled, victorious. It had taken him over an hour to diagnose and fix the problem.
    He chucked the wrench in the box and removed his safety goggles. Mike zigzagged between the machines, arms waving and rushing towards him. His pale face betrayed him.
    “What is it?”
    “It's John…he had an accident,” Mike panted.
    “What accident? What are you