Dabbler's Writing

Halloween Promise

2021-10-01T15:37:00.004-07:00

Halloween Promise

Tommy was excited because tomorrow was Halloween, and Mommy had promised him a new brother or sister on that night. He thought he would like a brother better than a sister. They could play cowboys and Indians, pirates, hide and seek and so many neat games that girls didn’t like to play. Yes, a brother would be better, but it wasn’t up to him. It was up to Mommy.

She had been making cookies and candies for a couple of days now. Tommy got to lick the spoon on a few batches. They hadn’t been here quite a year yet. This year Halloween would be much better than last year. He could hardly wait. There were about thirty kids in his class at school and he had talked up all of the goodies that Mommy was making. He hoped his new brother was going to be a boy from his class because he was already friends with all of them.

It was time for Tommy to go to bed and Mommy came to tuck him in. She kissed him on the forehead and said, “Sweet dreams.” She left a night light on and closed the door. That night Tommy’s dreams were far from sweet. He had nightmares with Mommy taking him somewhere he didn’t want to go. He tossed and turned all night. He woke up crying once but stifled it with a pillow because he didn’t want Mommy to hear him. She thought that all the bad dreams and crying were over, but she was wrong.

The next morning Tommy had remembered something from his dream and he asked Mommy about it.

“Mommy, didn’t I have a brother once?”

“You had a brother, but he died about this time last year. Just before we moved here.”

“How did he die?”

“Let’s not talk about that right now. Tonight is Halloween, are you getting excited?”

“I guess so.” Not wanting to let go of the previous thought he said, “Am I going to die?”

“Everybody dies sooner or later. Now get ready for school.”

So off to school Tommy went, but he couldn’t concentrate on anything. There was something in the back of his mind that he was trying to get to the front and not having any luck with it. Finally the bell rang that signaled the end of the day. Tommy trudged home, something weighing heavy on his mind.

Mommy wasn’t going to let him go out trick-or-treating, but just let him hand out treats at the door. She said she didn’t trust the people in this town yet. It had just gotten dark when the first of them arrived and Tommy was there to greet them. The first batch had a skeleton, a ghost, a witch, and the tin man. They came to the door and said, “Trick or Treat.” It was then that Mommy showed up dressed up like a witch, with make-up and everything. She had a wart on her nose, a pointed hat and a broom. She even scared Tommy when he first saw her.

Children came and went and Tommy was just thinking there would be no brother or sister. Just as he was about to give up hope, Mommy called to one of the children to come and get a special treat. It was a little boy, about a year younger than Tommy. All the other children left because Mommy said she would take the boy home.

Something about this seemed all too familiar to Tommy. The thought that was trying to get to the front of his head finally popped in there. He ran into the kitchen and screamed out, “Don’t eat the cookie.” It was too late. The little boy stood there glassy-eyed while the woman who called herself Mommy chanted to him in soft tones. “I’m your Mommy now. Your name will be Paul.”

She looked up from Paul and Tommy understood that it wasn’t make-up that made her look like a witch, she was a witch. There was a pentagram in a circle on the floor with candles lit on all five points.

“Come here Tommy. Meet your new little brother.”

“No, you can’t make me!”

Then she looked at Paul and said, “Go bring me your big brother.”

Suddenly it all came back to Tommy. He had been the little brother; he had dragged the older boy over to the witch. He had watched while she had eaten him. Well this wasn’t going to happen to him. He looked around the kitchen and grabbed the first thing he could find. He threw cookie sheet after cookie sheet at Paul, but he kept coming. One of the cookie sheets glanced off of his shoulder and went spinning to the floor. On its way down it knocked over two of the burning candles. One of then rolled and caught the witch’s dress on fire. She began swatting at it and stepped out of the circle. The spell was broken and Tommy grabbed Paul by the hand and dragged him outside.

She couldn’t get the flames under control and soon caught the drapes and the furniture on fire. The whole small cabin went up in flames like so much dry kindling and then she was gone.

Hum

2021-09-29T05:38:00.000-07:00

Hum

There was a low hum coming from somewhere in the pantry which was extremely odd since all that was in there was dry goods. For the sake of my own sanity I took everything off of the shelves. I only encountered a couple of meal moths, but nothing that would cause a hum. I put my ear to the wall, there it was. I put my ear to the floor and it seemed to be louder. Could it be coming from the basement?

I hated the basement. The floor was bare earth and there always seemed to be a drip of water from somewhere that you could never pinpoint. It was musty and drafty, sometimes you could see the cobwebs fluttering in the breeze. When the wind kicked up outside there would be spooky moaning noises down there. I only went down there on the rare occasion when the pilot light went out and there was no fire under the boiler.

This time was different, I was trying to figure out what the mysterious hum was and where it was coming from. I got to the bottom step and reached out into the darkness and found the pull chain for the light. Once illuminated the basement wasn’t so creepy. Just as I was thinking this something whizzed by my ear, and then another. I perked up my ears and I could hear the hum, or was it more of a buzz. Either way it was coming from the corner of the house where the pantry was.

There was one more light with a pull chain and then the entire basement was lit up. It was then I saw it. It was an oozing, mass of life in the corner with constant motion and something dripping from it. As I stood transfixed something whizzed by my ear again, and then I realized what I was looking at. It was not some alien creature. It was a swarm of bees on a hive and what was dripping was honey.

I went back up stairs and called my neighbor who I knew kept bees. He said he’d come right over and get them because he had a couple of empty boxes that needed new hives.

It was a matter of a few hours work for him, I was no help at all. I offered to pay him for his time but he told me that getting a new hive was well worth the time he had invested. He also told me he’d left a little something on my kitchen table.

When I went back in after seeing him off, I found two large jars of honey with a note that read, “This is as local as you can get, Enjoy.”

It’s pretty quiet around here now.

It was then I heard a low hum coming from the kitchen. I rushed in there, in all the peace and quiet I’d forgotten how loud the compressor on the refrigerator was.

FEAR

2021-09-16T12:01:00.001-07:00

FEAR

If Vicki hadn’t been running low on cash that month, she would have never given the bulletin board a second glance, but sometimes there was an opportunity for some quick cash as an artist model, typing term papers, who knew what all. The index card that grabbed her attention was: $50.00 for an hour of your time to take a survey for the psychology department, see Pete in room 103 of the Chambers building.

She slung her back pack on both shoulders and bicycled over to the Chambers building and found room 103. To her surprise the room was empty except for a guy behind a table with an eager expression.

“Are you Pete?” asked the girl.

“The one and only.” said Pete. “Are you here about the survey?”

“Yes”, she said. “I could really use money to get me to the end of the month; you do pay in cash don’t you?”

“No problem”, said Pete waving a 50 in the air. Then he grabbed up a folder and led her to another room.

“Here is the survey, take your time, read all of the directions and make sure all of the information is correct.”

“What is this for?”,she asked.

“Some PhD candidate is going to write up all the data collected from the surveys and use it in his dissertation.

With that said Pete left the room. Vicki began to look over the survey and the room that she was in. At least they had given her a comfortable chair, not those usual institutional aluminum or molded plastic things. Other than the chair and the table, the room was bare, about ten by twelve with a mix of light and dark gray well worn linoleum tiles on the floor, bluish gray concrete walls and a water stained drop ceiling with a florescent fixture that buzzed occasionally, there was also the faint odor of pine, bleach and mustiness.

The wall across from where she sat had a large mirror on it that she could only assume was a window on the other side and that she was being observed. Over the mirror was a large wall clock. To the left in the corner was the only door in or out. She took all of this in as Pete ushered her in to fill out the form. It was one of those bubble forms that you fill in with a number 2 pencil. So she had at her disposal a comfy chair that was too heavy to lift, a table that was bolted to the floor, a couple of sheets of paper and a number 2 pencil. All in all the number 2 pencil was the best bet for a weapon.

Wait a minute, what was she thinking, she had volunteered to take this survey for the psych department, plus they were paying her fifty dollars for a completed survey. They said it would take about an hour, but looking it over, it was only two pages, more like fifteen minutes.

She might as well get this survey filled out and be done with it. The sooner she finished, the sooner she got her $50.00 and got out of here. This room was giving her the creeps.

The instructions were short and to the point: Fill in each bubble completely for each answer, check as many as apply, there is a penalty for incorrect answers.

What do they mean there is a penalty for wrong answers. How the hell would they know if I gave them wrong answers. This was somebody’s idea of a joke, let’s see if we can rattle the students who come in to do the survey. Well it wasn’t going to work.

Question 1: What time is it?

She looked up at the clock, it was 1:15 P.M. She dutifully filled in the appropriate bubbles.

Question 2: What are you most afraid of?

There was a long list of choices here, so Vicki began to read over the choices

1. darkness

2. noise

3. spiders

4. blood

5. confined spaces

6. suffocation

7. pain

8. black cats

9. fire

10. failure

11. bats

12. clowns

13. bicycles

14. insanity

15. dentists

16. injections

17. nudity

18. punishment

19. insanity

20. snakes

21. birds

22. the number 13

23. rape

As she began to fill in the bubbles, the overhead light began to buzz and flicker in earnest. and then with a small pop, a hiss and the smell of ozone it died entirely.

It was pitch dark in the room, but she pulled out her cell phone , turned on the flash light and soldiered on . Then from her island of light she heard something in the room, some noise in the corner. Vicki shone her flashlight around the room, there was nothing there.

She went back to the bubble sheet, and as she did a large wolf spider fell on the desk right beside her paper. Vicki let out an involuntary yelp of surprise and then flicked the spider int the floor with her pencil.

With her mind firmly fixed on the fifty dollars she went back to work. Vicki heard a plop and then noticed a small red spatter on her test form. So that’s why the table was bolted to the floor, so they could bombard you with spiders and fake blood. She wondered what was next.

She heard a noise again, but this time she didn’t know where it was coming from, it was a scraping noise like a concrete block being dragged across the floor. Once again she shone her light around, there was nothing there, except the room seemed to be shrinking. The walls were getting closer. She had never been claustrophobic, but she was having a hard time breathing none the less.

Vicki looked down the list again. It was then it occurred to her that she was experiencing the list of fears in the order they were on the page. This was not what she signed up for and she was not hanging around to see how the last fear played out. She was here for a survey not to be somebody’s test subject. She shone her light up at the clock. It was 1:29. She’d only been there for fourteen minutes but that was enough.

She got up and went to the door. She put her hand on the knob and turned, to her surprise it was open. Just then the lights came on and a voice came over a speaker.

It said, “If you leave now, you forfeit the fifty dollars.”

Vicki looked over at the mirrored wall and flipped it the bird then she said, “Fuck you and your fifty dollars.”

She opened the door and let out a scream. Pete was standing there with a serene look on his face.

Pete said, “You lasted longer than any of the others. Here is your fifty dollars.”

Vicki snatched the fifty out of Pete’s hand and then said, “The next fear on the list was pain.”

She stabbed him in the shoulder with the number 2 pencil and left.

The Story of the Stone

2021-09-04T19:33:00.001-07:00

The Story of the Stone

My father was a Go enthusiast. He taught me the game when I was about ten years old. I guess my ten year old mind grasped the concept and the rules, but not all of the nuances. In other words I never won and so soon lost interest.

Whenever he played, and that was a lot, he would put a black stone off beside the board. He said it was his lucky piece. When I was thirteen I asked him about his lucky piece that looked a lot like a Go piece. He said he would tell me the whole story when I was older. I shrugged and forgot about, that was until today.

Today I am much older, probably the age my father was when he told me he’d tell me the whole story. I was clearing out my father’s house since he passed away last spring. In an old jewelry box I found the stone. I picked it up and turned it around and wondered once again what the story was, thinking I’d never know now. In the bottom of the box was an envelope with Dad’s handwriting on it. It just said, to my son.

I opened the envelope and inside were just a couple of sheets of paper written in my father’s meticulous handwriting. It was dated at the top Sept. 1, 1973

Dear Dan,

If you are reading this I can only assume I am no longer with you. First let me tell you I love you because I may not have said that enough while I was alive. Second, I promised to tell you the story of my lucky piece when you were older. Well here it is.

During WWII I was the navigator on a B-24 and my best friend Rick was the bombadeer. We’d gone through basic training together and been assigned to the same squadron. It was our time during basic I taught him how to play Go. Once we were shipped abroad we had a lot of down time between missions. So we’d play Go and he got good. I still won most of the time, but he’d beat me often enough to keep it interesting.

We were headed back from a bombing run when when had engine failure and had to ditch in the Sea of Japan. The plane broke up on contact, but Rick and I somehow made it to a life raft. We were picked up three days later by the Japanese and taken back to an internment camp. We were both officers and we were put in different barracks. We’d have about an hour outside together and Our minds were turning to mush. Rick said he wished we could play some Go. It was then the idea hit me, if we used the starter grid of 9x9 we could remember the moves and I looked down and saw a stone that looked like a Go piece. It was black and smooth and I picked it up. This will keep track of whose turn it is. Rick usually took white and went first. We had some very intense imaginary games of go, especially when one of us remembered something differently that the other. We were in there together for nine months and neither of us was in good shape by then. One day I was looking for him in the exercise yard to hand him the stone and tell him my move but he never showed up. I never saw him again. We were liberated about a week later, if he could have just held out. Anyway, I was sent to a hospital on Manila and was there for ten weeks before they discharged me and sent me home.

So I kept the stone to remind me of Rick, and that there is nothing that can’t be endured. I hope you understand why I didn’t tell you when you first asked. Thirteen year old boys tend to romanticize war and I didn’t want to have to tell you a bunch of war stories. Mostly I wanted to forget the war but remember Rick.

It’s yours now along with everything else. Do with it what you will, but it might be something to keep around to remember your old man by.

It was just signed Dad

I stood there for a moment with the letter in one hand and the stone in the palm of the other, when the stone flipped over. I looked around, it was just me in the room. I said, “OK Dad” and stuck the stone in my pocket.

Greetings

2021-07-08T11:07:00.004-07:00

Hello loyal readers,

I hope you have enjoyed the blog so far. I'm working on some other projects at the moment and may be away from the blog posts for a while. So please don't expect something on a weekly basis for a while.

Thank you all for your continued interest and encouragement.

The Muse

2021-07-07T15:58:00.001-07:00

The Muse

Definition: Any of the nine daughters of Mnemosyn and Zeus, each of whom

presided over a different art or science.

So, there he sat once more, staring at a blank screen and wondering what to write.

As the cursor pulsed hypnotically he thought he caught a whiff of cigar smoke.

Sniffing the air again he said "that smells like those cheap King Edward cigars my

Dad used to smoke."

"These ain't cheap! This is a Macanudo and cost about four bucks.” came the voice

from behind him.

He spun around in his desk chair. "Who the hell are you and what are you doing in

my office?" as he reached for the phone to dial 911.

The scruffy man spoke again, "I wouldn't call 911 if I were you, besides Al, you don't

mind if I call you Al do you? You are the only one who can see me. I am your muse!"

he said with a bit of a flourish.

Allen's hand wavered, then his eyes narrowed as he took in the stranger's words. He

hated to be called Al, ever since that Paul Simon song. The stranger sat, kicked

back in the leather recliner, smoking a cigar and looking for all the world like he

owned the place. He had a three day growth of stubble and tufts of gray hair over

his ears but none on the top. He wore faded denim jeans, sandals, and a sleeveless

tee shirt that did nothing to hide his beer belly. From every hole in the tee shirt

there were more tufts of gray hair poking out. What made Allen hang up the phone

was not the mischievous smile that danced in those clear blue eyes, it was the wings

that were peeking out from behind him.

Just then Allen heard his wife’s muffled voice through the door.

"Allen? Is everything o.k. in there? I thought I heard you shouting."

He called back to her, "Everything is fine, I was just trying a piece of dialog out loud

to see how it would sound." Allen never lied to his wife, but he decided to make an

exception in this case.

As Allen looked more closely he saw that this muse was indeed making himself at

home. He was sitting in Allen's favorite chair, the overstuffed recliner. Next to the

chair sat a stack of magazines, a small cube refrigerator plugged into the wall and

humming away with a large ashtray on top of it.

He looked at the muse and said, "It looks like you are taking up residence." The

muse just grunted and picked up a magazine from the stack and began to read.

"Hey, muse", Allen thought this is pretty lame but what else should he call him. "You

got a name or do I have to call you muse?"

The muse slowly lowered his magazine and said, "Look Al, I‘m here to inspire you

not to make small talk. If you have to call me something make it Joe. That ain't my

real name but it will do."

Allen thought the only thing you are inspiring me to do is have my chair fumigated.

"Well Joe, I like Allen and not Al. How did I end up with you anyway? I thought that

all of the muses were women. "

"Well Al, thousands of years ago there were a lot less writers, poets, and artists. You

get the picture. Nowadays everybody and his brother thinks he can write just

because he has a freaking computer. So for quite a few years now they have been

recruiting some of the lesser magical folk to fill in. We have all been through

extensive training, I've got a certificate somewhere. Anyways, as luck would have it

you got me. I think I will call you Al, it's part of my charm! I call Stephen King,

Stevo, just cause I know it irritates the shit out of him."

Allen just stared at Joe.

"What! Is my fly down or something?" Joe asked.

"You’re Stephen King's muse?”

"Yeah, it ain't a big deal. He puts on his pants one leg at a time just like you and me.

Now I‘ve got a lot of work to do, you see this stack of magazines, I got to read all

these stories and fill out a report on anyone who might have potential."

"I thought you were supposed to inspire me to great creativity!"

"You have been sadly misinformed Al. I am here to make sure you write. Good, bad

or ugly, it's all the same to me. Although I might suggest trying that vampire thing

you were thinking about in the shower this morning, it seemed like it had potential.

You should really write these ideas down when they come to you.”

"Wait a minute, you can read my thoughts?"

"You bet your sweet bippie I can, but most of it is pretty boring stuff. Every once in

a while you'll get a flash of inspiration, and it’s like a sky rocket. You know, a lot of

noise and flash but they don’t last long. You need to learn to listen more to your

intuition and me, when I tell you to write this shit down! Now start writing

something and don't bother me anymore." Joe said that and no more for the rest of

the evening.

Allen did manage to knock out about two hundred and fifty words that evening. At

five cents a word that would be twelve fifty, or five dollars an hour. Great thought

Allen, I'm working for less than minimum wage and putting up with Joe to boot.

The next night Allen went into his office. Looking around he saw no signs of Joe. He

heaved a sigh of relief. He then went to check his email. Waiting in his mailbox was

something from Joe. Reading it just made him aggravated, but he wasn't sure if it

was at Joe or himself. All the mail had said was "Stop wasting time reading email

and get to work!" Joe showed up about an hour later, much neater than before.

Allen said, "You got a date tonight?"

"What makes you think that?" asked Joe as he bit off the end of a cigar and spit it on

the floor.

"I mean look at you, khakis, a polo shirt and penny loafers. Socks would just about

round out this ensemble," Allen said. Then sniffing the air, "You even splashed on

some eau de fried onions."

"I was at a staff meeting before I came here and we ordered out some cheese steak

subs, O.K.? Why don't you save some of those witty remarks for your story. By the

way how far along are you anyway?"

Allen just shrugged and said, "Far enough, I was just getting to it when you showed

up."

"That's funny Al, I could have sworn you read my email about an hour ago. Enough

of this chit-chat, get to work."

Allen when to work, partly to show this muse he could knock out the word count and

partly because he knew he had been goofing off. By the end of the evening he had

nearly one thousand words total. Not bad for two days he thought.

Just then Joe's cell phone rang, waking him from a well deserved snooze and making

Allen jump in his chair.

"Hello. What? No I can't, I have this Allen guy to take care of," said Joe looking over

at Allen. "O.K. if Wheeler says I have to, then I have to. O.K. I'll be there tomorrow,"

and he hung up.

"Hey Al, I won't be here for a few days, you think you can get some work done while

I'm away? I shouldn't be gone more than three days."

Allen was curious about what had called Joe away but would not let himself ask. He

was just glad to be rid of Joe for three days. Being glad that your muse was leaving.

Was that a good thing? Allen wasn’t sure. He turned toward Joe and said, "I think I

should have this nearly finished in three days." You may not need to come back at all

Allen thought because he didn’t dare say it out loud.

"Oh, I’ll be back alright. Don’t you worry about that."

Allen had forgotten that Joe could read his thoughts if he wanted to.

"I’ve done enough for tonight. I’m going to bed. Night Joe."

"Night Al."

The next evening Al sat down at the computer to resume his tale. He had only been

staring at the screen for about five minutes when the lure of solitaire beckoned him.

He was in the middle of the game when he received an instant message. This was

extremely odd because he had no instant messenger client. A small window popped

up in the middle of his screen with the following message: "From Joe, Al stop with

the cards already and get to work. The red three goes on the black four."

Allen closed the message and saw the play that Joe had meant. Then he just put his

head in his hands and almost began to cry. He could not get rid of this muse. He

decided the only way to be rid of him was to finish the story.

That evening he hardly got one hundred and fifty words strung together in some

sense of coherence before he gave up for the night. It was well after midnight and

he had been struggling with his story for more than three hours. "Way less than

minimum wage," Allen said to nobody in particular.

The following day was a crummy day at work for Allen. He was tired and didn’t want

to write that evening. It had been two days since he had seen Joe, he kind of missed

him. At the appointed hour he went to his office to write, but his heart was not in it.

Instead of sitting down at the computer, he slumped down in the recliner and

promptly fell asleep. It was nearly midnight when his wife tapped on the door.

"Allen? Are you o.k. in there? Allen?" Just as she was opening the door Allen woke

up enough to respond.

"I’m o.k. dear, guess I just dozed off here in the chair."

"Well it’s time you were getting to bed, you have to go to work tomorrow."

"I’ll be right there." A big fat zero for word count today he thought, guess he’d have

to double up tomorrow night.

On the third evening without a muse present Allen was beginning to think he had

dreamed him up while napping in the recliner. He’d had some inspiration in the

shower that morning and written it down. It was the best idea to come his way for

some time. Like a man grasping for a life line, Allen had held on to this idea all day

just waiting for the chance to expand it. He wrote non-stop for nearly an hour and

when he was done, he checked his word count. Close to twenty four hundred words

total. Not too shabby, he thought. That spurt of furious creative energy had worn

him out though. He saved his file and went to bed early that evening, pretty well

satisfied with his work.

At the office the next day, Allen’s mind was not on his work. He was writing and rewriting

the ending of his story in his head. When he got home from work, his wife

was out running errands so he went straight to his office. As soon as he walked in

there was a cloud of smoke, and Joe.

"Hey Al, did you miss me?"

Allen went right to the computer and began to type. "I don’t have time for any of

your chit-chat tonight Joe!"

Joe grunted, blew a smoke ring and went back to his magazine.

Allen typed away, oblivious to the presence of the muse. After about three quarters

of an hour he said, "done!" Saved his file, clicked on print and watched the pages

chug out of the printer.

He handed the copy to Joe, who looked at it briefly and flipped to the last page and

then handed it back to Allen. Joe nodded his head and said, "I like it, but what do I

know?"

Allen just looked at him, trying to figure him out. "Why couldn’t you have left it at "I

like it"? I just don’t get it, I write my ass off and get a critique from "Mr. Wishywashy."

"Look Al, I think you've done good work here, but it ain’t for me to judge. Think of

yourself as an oyster, and me as the bit of grit. This story is your pearl. Just like the

oyster, you had no choice but to make it, it is what you do. Now whether this pearl is

big enough or round enough or shiny enough to end up around the neck of some

wealthy widow, I can’t say. It may only become a stick pin or cuff link. It may not be

worth mounting. I don’t know. What I do know is there is something inside of you

that makes you write, otherwise you wouldn’t have gotten me. Anyway, you have

passed your test. You can work with me or without me, but always know if you get

really stuck I will be here for you. While I was gone you could have just quit, but you

didn’t. You’ve got pluck, as we used to say. I got to get going, Stevo is still having a

few problems. Yeah, that’s where I’ve been for the past three days, helping him out.

I told him most of your vampire story, but I didn’t know how it ended till tonight. He

said he liked it so far, but wanted to know how it ended before he pronounced

judgment. So I’ll let him know how it ends and I’ll see you later."

With that he was gone, only the faint smell of cigar smoke lingered. Allen stood

there with the story in his hand. He couldn’t believe he had finished his first story,

that Stephen King had liked it (so far), or that Joe could talk that much. With more

bounce in his step than he’d had in a while, Allen took is first story to the person

who counted the most, his wife. If she liked it, that was all that mattered.

Nectar of the gods

2021-06-30T03:52:00.002-07:00

Nectar of the gods

This was my story for a Flash Fiction contest in June.

These were the story criteria:

Each story had to include (word for word) the following SEVEN descriptions at any point in the story body and be 500 word or fewer:

THICK AS HONEY
SILENT AND STILL
GOLDEN GLOW
HEART-SHAPED
DELICATE PERFUME
SOFT AND DOUGHY
RAZOR-SHARP

Nectar of the gods

Alice Gray was seventy-three and had been diagnosed with terminal cancer. They had given her less than a year to live. She did not take this news well, having been an explorer all her life and beaten death several times over. She’d kept an ace up her sleeve just for this.

This is how she came to be in the heart of the forest, the foliage was so thick that the golden glow from the noonday sun only let through dappled patches of sunlight. Her quest was to find the elusive giant honeysuckle. Deep in this ancient forest was where it was supposed to grow. She was roughly in the center of the woods if she could rely on her GPS, it was having problems connecting to the satellites. She’d made it past the bogs that were soft and doughy and would suck you down without warning, never to be seen again. If she didn’t find it soon, she would have to make camp and this idea did not appeal to her in the least.

Up ahead she noticed a lightening in the perpetual gloom of the forest. It was a small clearing that hadn’t shown up during her aerial reconnaissance. There in the middle of the clearing was a towering oak tree. About half way up the tree was a heart-shaped knot hole. As she stepped into the clearing everything went silent and still. She felt like she had crossed the border into another time and place. Almost at the same instant she smelled the delicate perfume of the honeysuckle. There were vines of it as thick as your arm winding around the oak tree and disappearing into the heights. She could see the flowers dripping their nectar as thick as honey. That was what she was here for. The nectar was purported to cure all know diseases, return youth and even imbue immortality upon who ever tasted it.

What stood between her and her goal was a wall of brambles with razor-sharp thorns. She’d not come all this way to be thwarted by a thorn bush. Using the climbing gear she’d brought with her, she went about thirty feet up in a tree closest to the oak. She shot a barbed spike with a steel cable attached to it into the trunk of the oak. Then she ratcheted down here end until it was taut. With her zip line in place she made her way to the oak keeping her speed down so as not to crash into it. She reached up an pulled one of the honeysuckle flowers toward her. As the nectar dripped into her mouth the only word she could think of to describe it was ambrosia. Looking at her hands she saw the age spots disappearing and felt a vigor that she didn’t remember having for years. She took samples of the nectar, set a way point in her GPS and headed home for her next adventure.

No More Vampires

2021-06-23T13:13:00.000-07:00

No More Vampires

Jessica hadn’t had any problems with her first two husbands. George’s death was a fluke and had left her sitting pretty until that real estate deal collapsed. Harrison, she had liked Harrison except that he kept her on a short leash with a shorter allowance. It took a while, but the combination of switching his coffee to decaf and spiking it with Benedril had a wonderful effect. The fact that he had untreated sleep apnea also contributed to the accident. He fell asleep at the wheel on the way to the office and ran into the overpass. "

Here's that ad again Phil, this must be the fifth time I've seen it this month," she said reading from the paper. "Tired of watching your loved ones grow old and die? Tired of having to move from place to place? Want to feel the sun on your face again? Looking for volunteers to test potential cure for vampirism. Call for an appointment. It gives a phone number."

“What are you reading Jess?” He knew perfectly well what it was.

“It’s the Dark Times, I know you don’t like me to read it but there are some good articles in here sometimes.”

"It must be some one's idea of a joke. Everyone knows that there is no cure for being a vampire, other than a wooden stake through the heart, sun light, or being decapitated. I don't want to volunteer for any of those options," said Phil.”

She just looked at him over her newspaper and said, "I guess you don't love me

enough to want to grow old and die with me."

"I love you enough to not turn you into a vampire, so you wouldn't have to grow old and die," he said.

"Well, there is that," she replied.

"If I thought there was the slightest chance of getting rid of this curse, I would call right now. I need to go out for a while. I probably won't see you till tomorrow." He kissed her on the cheek and said "Good night."

"Good night Phil, I love you!" she said and then he was gone.

All night the thought that there might be a cure fluttered around the back of his

mind. He wasn't a very good vampire anyway, not at least to the tabloid standards. He had never killed anyone; he would just drink enough, heal the wound and make them forget. He never hung out with other vampires; they tended to scare him. It was about fifty years ago that he had become a vampire, and not because he wanted to, but being immortal did have its perks. He had amassed a tidy fortune, mostly by reading his victims thoughts and using the information to his advantage. Phil was a New Yorker through and through. He loved the city and could never see himself living any where else. He tended to go for stockbrokers and do a little insider trading without the risk. Of course he had signed most of this over to his wife because as she had said "Phil, we can't get insurance on you; you would never pass the physical. A will is no good either, because if you ever were killed, there would be no body and I would have to wait seven years to have you declared legally dead." Jessica was not good at wait for things.

The next evening Jessica once again pointed out the ad. Phil grabbed it from

her and went to the phone. He dialed the number, and on the forth ring a woman

answered.

"Hello.”

"Hello, I am calling about the ad in the Times, the one where you are looking

for volunteers."

"Oh," said the woman at the other end. Then Phil heard some muffled

conversation on the other end as if she had covered the receiver. Then she said, "If you are calling about the cure for vampirism I will have to ask you a few questions first."

"O.K."

"First, how long have you been a vampire?"

Phil thought for a moment just to make sure, "about fifty years."

"Can you trace your vampiric line?"

He thought for a second and then said, "Do you mean do I know who made me a vampire, and who made them a vampire and so on?"

"Exactly."

"I have no idea; I never wanted to be a vampire to begin with.”

"Well, then I guess we won’t get any history to work from. Would you like to schedule an appointment? I have an opening tomorrow night at eleven, if that will do."

Phil was not sure he wanted to go through with this, but he said "Sure eleven is fine," and he wrote down the address on the edge of the newspaper then tore it off and stuffed it into his pocket.

"What name should I put down for the appointment?"

"Phil Stevenson.”

"Oh just one other thing," she said "Please eat before you come, it makes the orderlies less nervous, goodbye," and she hung up.

Phil stared at the phone for a couple of seconds before he hung up, as if he had not heard her correctly. Then he looked up at Jessica.

"Well, I have made an appointment, but I don't think there is a cure."

"You never know, medical science moves forward by leaps and bounds. Just

think, if you do get cured we could move to Miami and start a new life."

Phil had never liked Miami, but he wouldn't tell Jessica that, besides it would never come to that. Phil said "If they can cure me, you can take me to Miami and let me bake in the sun."

"Oh, it would be great Phil!" she said. "I could have friends again, I mean we could. I could stop making up all of these stories about what you do for a living and everything." Phil apologized once more for taking her away from her friends; he had lost track of how many times he had said sorry. What fool said, "Love is never having to say you're sorry?" Phil couldn't remember.

The next evening about ten thirty, Phil pulled the paper out of his pocket and headed for the address. It was in the warehouse district, but that didn't bother him. He assumed the rent was cheaper and it also made the clients less conspicuous. As he approached the door he saw a small sign with the name VIRUS, LLC and just above the door was a surveillance camera. To the right of the door was an intercom that had a sign reading "Please press the button and state your name." He pressed the button and said "Phil Stevenson, I have an eleven o'clock appointment."

He heard the door buzz and a voice say "Please follow the hall to the first door on your left."

Phil went in and looked around. It was nothing special just cheap paneled walls and a drop ceiling. He walked into the office and to his surprise it was a pretty regulation doctor's office waiting room. Several padded chairs, a magazine rack with the requisite two-year-old magazines and a receptionist behind a sliding glass window.

He was the only one there and he went over to the window. He said "Phil Stevenson, I have an appointment."

The girl behind the counter didn't even look up as she said, "Please sign in and someone will be with you as soon as they can. Is this your first time here?"

"Yes."

She handed him a clipboard and a pen.

"Fill out the front page and sign it, read and sign pages two, three, and four."

Then she closed the window and went back to the paper back book she was reading.

Phil sat down and began filling in the form, all the usual stuff, but no mention of insurance or payment. The next of kin box worried him for an instant but he got over it, after all what could happen. The next three pages were all in legalese and talked about not holding anyone liable for anything that might happen. Phil skimmed over these pages and signed them all then he handed the clipboard back to the receptionist and sat down to wait.

He didn't have to wait long before a woman dressed in a crisp white lab coat

came in and greeted him. She had his clipboard and glanced down at it as she said, "Welcome, Mr. Stevenson. We are glad you have come to help us with our research. My name is Dr. Seward."

Phil shook her hand and said, "I am really here just to please my wife. I really don't think there is a cure."

"Ah, most people don't really think there are vampires. Please come with me to the examining room. Have a seat on the table and extend both of your hands palms up." Phil hopped up on the table and stuck out both hands.

"We give this test to all of our prospective volunteers," she said and produced two eyedroppers filled with clear fluid and put one drop on each of Phil's palms. Phil immediately grasped his right hand in pain and shot the doctor a withering look. She explained, "I am so sorry, but we have to do this. We get so many cranks that think they are vampires. We use this test to separate the wheat from the chaff so to speak."

"What was in the eye droppers?" Phil asked still holding his hand.

One dropper has tap water and the other has Holy water. The one I dripped in your right hand had the Holy water, so you passed. You are a vampire."

Phil could see the logic in this but it still hurt like hell, but that was the general idea. Dr. Seward took Phil's right hand and dripped something in his palm and the pain went away instantaneously. Phil was amazed and it showed on his face.

"It's a remedy we have been able to synthesize from vampire blood. It heals the wound and deadens the pain." said Dr. Seward smiling. "Now that we have the formalities out of the way, let me give you a tour of the facility so that you know what you are getting yourself into."

Phil was led through a labyrinth of laboratories, walk-in refrigeration units, X-ray machines and more equipment than he had ever seen. They even had their own MRI unit.

"First we want to get a base line MRI and take some blood samples. Do you have a problem with any of that Mr. Stevenson?"

Phil said, "he didn't have a problem, but had a question or two."

"What would you like to know Mr. Stevenson?"

"Well," said Phil "has anyone been cured and if so can I get some references?"

Dr. Seward cleared her throat before answering Phil, "Yes we have cured several individuals but I am sorry that due to patient confidentiality we can't give out their names. It is kind of like being in the witness protection plan." Phil could understand that and had a glimmer of hope that a cure was possible.

"What does the name VIRUS stand for?"

"Oh that," she said, "It just worked out that way. The VIR is Vampires In Recovery and since we have chapters world wide, we get the US on the end. I suppose that the Brits get VIRUK which is almost as bad."

First he had a MRI done, the after that they were going to draw some blood. Phil thought that was ironic, humans sucking blood out of vampires and he chuckled to himself. The room that he was to give blood in had a long stainless steel table with four straps on it. Phil didn't like the looks of this and told the orderly. The orderly explained that due to the great physical strength of vampires it was necessary to strap them down while taking blood from them, there had been several mishaps due to reflex actions.

Phil was not entirely convinced, but got on the table and allowed himself to be strapped down. The orderly extracted four vials of blood and the released the straps.

"I am all done with you," said the orderly "but the doctor might want to see you before you leave."

He found his way back to the waiting room just as Dr. Seward came in.

"Mr. Stevenson, we need a day to evaluate your MRI and process your blood

work. Can you come back the day after tomorrow at the same time?"

"I can be here. What will you know by then?"

"Let's just wait and see."

So Phil left. It was too late to go home and too early to go to his coffin. That was one thing Phil wouldn't miss, sleeping in a coffin. It still gave him the creeps even after nearly fifty years.

The next evening Phil told Jessica all about VIRUS, the MRI and the blood work. When he was done he looked for her reaction. She had a tear forming in the corner of one eye and looked happier than he had seen her in a long while. She deserved some happiness and friends; she was nearly forty and was married to an old man in a young vampire's body. Maybe soon that would all change. Phil was about to leave for the evening when Jessica said, "Phil, I need to tell

you something."

"What? This sounds serious."

"Oh ... I just wanted to say thanks for doing this for me."

"I'm doing this for us. Remember, I get my life back too." He kissed her on the cheek and told her he loved her and left.

When he arrived at VIRUS for his second appointment Dr. Seward greeted him. "Good evening Mr. Stevenson, your MRI looks promising but the lab broke one of your vials of blood and we will need to draw one more." She ushered him back to the examining room to the table with the straps. This time he didn't fear being strapped down. After the orderly had inserted the IV, the doctor came in to take his blood. She attached a vial but injected something instead of drawing blood.

"Mr. Stevenson, I know you can hear me even though you can't respond. You

have been injected with a neuromuscular inhibitor that has essentially paralyzed you.

You were correct when you said there is no cure except sunlight, decapitation or a wooden stake through the heart.”

Phil's mind was racing, he hadn't told her that, only Jessica. What were they doing to him? What were they going to do to him?

"We are a research facility and depend on government grants and donations."

Phil wondered why she was telling him all of this.

"We normally carry out extended experiments with our subjects, and it can become, well, let's just say quite painful. Due to the generosity of one of our patrons, you will not be put through any of those ordeals.”

Phil's mind was working at top speed. Who would want him dead but not to suffer? Then it came to him and he could not believe it.

The doctor went on, "I see in your eyes you have worked it out. Your wife is a very charming lady and very generous. All she asked was when it was all over could she have your dust. She said she wanted to put it in an urn and set it in a sunny window when she moves to Miami."

Phil didn't even feel the stake being driven into his heart . . . and then he felt nothing.

At a bar in Miami Jessica was chatting with a handsome young man. Jessica said, “Hold out both of your hands palms up.”

If Walls Could Talk

2021-06-16T13:10:00.001-07:00

If Walls Could Talk

George Landis had a PhD in quantum physics and was well respected in his field. George worked for the past three years on a project that is colleagues thought of as, to put it bluntly, crazy.

His funding from the Department of Homeland Security had almost dried up when he had his “ah ha” moment. This came while listening to a book on tape while stuck in traffic. Suddenly the words had become garbled, then went on like this for several seconds and then returned to something he understood. He hurried back to the lab, as fast as the traffic would permit.

He had been trying to prove his theory that that sound waves are trapped in inanimate objects, much like they are on a piece of recording tape. Up till now he had never gotten anything that even passed for an intelligible sound.

His last experiment consisted of a fresh partition of drywall set up near the coffee break area for five days. It was then brought back to the lab to be “listened” to.

The apparatus to do this listening consisted of a highly modified MRI and a high-end workstation computer to control and decipher it all. Although the partition had been in place for five days all he was able to hear was a garble of sound, sort of like a saturated audio tape that bleeds through from the other side.

He suddenly realized that if he were to isolate the top most layer with the MRI as opposed to the full depth of the drywall, he might have better results.

Better was an understatement. There were voices and words. Not digital quality, more like a bad phone connection, but they were there.

His department head would be thrilled with the news. Dr. John Walter was the most supportive of any of his colleagues. In fact it was John that had helped get his last funding from Homeland Security.

George picked up the phone and dialed John’s cell number. It rang several times and then went to voice mail. George hung up, he wanted to share this with someone, and then it hit him. He would go home early and surprise his wife. Early he thought, if you can call 9:45 p.m. early. It was much earlier than he had been coming home, if he made it home at all. Some nights he would just sleep in his office and not see Annie for days. That was all over now. He had proved his theory. The grad students could tweak it while he wrote a scholarly paper on the subject.

As he pulled into the driveway of his house he saw the lights on in the bedroom on the second floor and downstairs as well. He didn’t really think much of it. He wasn’t sure what hours she kept anymore.

Coming through the front door he yelled, “Annie, I’m home and I have some fantastic news.”

No reply. He went upstairs thinking she was watching TV in bed and didn’t hear him. The bed was still made and no sign of Annie. He was beginning to worry. Her car was in the driveway, so she was home. “Annie!”, came his shouts now. “Annie where are you?” he thought.

He headed downstairs. Annie’s sitting room was a small room at the back of the house on the first floor. It had bookshelves on two sides, a large south facing bay window with a door beside it. The remaining wall was still blank, having been recently replaced due to a leaking pipe. He still hadn’t gotten around to hanging her pictures; they lay stacked against the wall.

As he entered the room a wave of relief came over him. There she was, asleep in the recliner, a book in her lap and a drink on the stand by her chair.

“Annie,” no reply.

“Annie?”, a bit louder this time, still nothing. It was then he realized she wasn’t breathing. He dialed 911 and got her on the floor and started CPR. He was quite certain that this was useless but continued until the EMTs arrived.

That had been two months ago. It had been ruled a suicide, after they found the note beside the glass. “It's over. I cannot go on like this.”

It was only half of a sheet of paper, no signature, but it was her hand writing. The police also found her sleeping pills mixed in her drink.

Her sitting room had remained empty and quiet since that day. He could not bear to go in there. There were the pictures stacked against the wall were still waiting to be hung.

His funding had run out as well as any interest he had in the project. George went through the motions of shutting down the lab. They had given him ninety days to do it.

For two months he had tried to figure out why Annie would kill herself. Things had not been that bad at home, or had they? He had not been there a lot in the past three years. They had talked of going on an extended vacation as soon as his research was completed or the current funding ran out. What would have made her take her own life?

An idea came to him that evening just as he was falling asleep. He reached over to the bedside table and jotted down a reminder note and went to sleep.

He actually slept for seven hours straight. The first good nights sleep he’d had since it happened. He woke refreshed, with a clear head and a clear purpose.

He was on the phone to Robinson Builders, the company that had replaced the drywall in his wife’s room. He was checking to see if the drywall could be taken out mostly intact. He got through to Dan, the owner. Dan said “Yeah, it can be done, but it won’t be cheap. I can get two of my guys over there by the end of the week.”

It was Tuesday now, that gave him four days to make all of the necessary arrangements. He called the lab and told them to stop tearing down the equipment. In fact get it back up in running shape by Friday.

George knew that when Annie was trying to work through a problem, she was apt to talk to herself. The first time he had noticed he had walked past her sitting room and seen her pacing back and forth carrying on a conversation. He had thought she was on the phone. On his way back, he noticed she had no phone and was keeping up both sides of the conversation.

Later when he asked her about it she just giggled and said, “I can figure out a problem better if I hear both sides of the argument.”

That problem had been how to lay out the back flower garden. If she had been talking to herself about the flower garden, he was sure she would do the same before committing suicide.

The next four days seemed to drag on for an eternity. When Friday arrived so did Dan’s two guys.

“Didn’t we just put this drywall up a couple of months ago?” one of them asked.

“Yes, I had a pipe leak and it ran down the wall, but now I need you to take it out as carefully as you can. I'd like to keep it in one piece if at all possible.”

The workers were able to get the drywall out in two large pieces. George then talked them into transporting the pieces to his lab, after offering them a hefty tip.

He had the drywall positioned so that he could scan it. At first he picked up nothing. Then as he probed, layer by layer, the voices started to emerge.

The first voices he heard were those of the two EMTs. He quickly went past them; he didn’t want to relive that any more than he already had. Next was a long section of relative silence, then Annie’s voice. He had known she would be talking. What he didn’t expect was the other voice. George listened with renewed interest.

Annie: “Well, you got my letter. I think it said it all.”

Male voice: “Can I have a drink? Can I fix you one?”

Annie: “Sure, why not, but you won’t get me drunk and change my mind.”

Male voice: “No my dear, I have no thoughts of doing that, I just wanted to make sure we were parting on good terms, after all I have my reputation.”

Annie: “I know John, and the fact that you could hurt my husband’s research, but it’s over and I can’t go on like this.

John: “Here let’s toast to the end of our little affair, bottoms up.”

Annie: “I’m tired now, please leave, and lock the door on your way out.”

John: “Sure, be seeing you.”

Sound of a door closing.

Silence.

Sound of door opening.

John: “Did you really think you could just dump me, throw me away like a used tissue? You couldn’t even do it to my face, had to send me a letter.”

Sound of paper being shaken.

John: “Well Miss Annie, when your precious husband finds you, you will have committed suicide. You already wrote the note; it’s just a matter of cleaning my glass, wiping away a few finger prints and locking up when I leave. I don’t think the police will investigate a suicide with a note, but better safe than sorry.

Sounds of movement and glasses clinking, door opening and closing.

Silence

George was in tears now, a mixture of sorrow and rage. How could John have done this? Annie’s only crime was infidelity and he could have forgiven her that, given time. There was no more time, John had seen to that. Now George would have to see to him.

His first thought was to throttle John with his bare hands, but that passed quickly. Then a plan started to form in that scientist brain of his.

He called detective Elliot who investigated his wife’s death. “Detective, this is Dr. George Landis, I don’t know if you remember me or not”

“Of course I remember you Dr. Landis, what can I do for you?”

“When my wife died, it was ruled suicide. Did the police check the note for finger prints?”

“Give me a minute to pull it up in the computer. I don’t think we did. Here it is, checked the prints on the bottle, the glass and the prescription bottle. No we didn’t check the note, why?”

George explained his research, in layman’s terms. Told detective Elliot what he had heard. Then told him his plan.

Saturday morning George called John and told him he had made a break through at the lab. Could he come right over? Reluctantly John came to the lab about an hour later.

“So what is the break through? I thought you were supposed to be dismantling the lab.” Looking around he saw no signs of the place being shut down.

“John, you’ve got to hear this.” And proceeded to playback what he had recorded earlier. John found the nearest chair and sat down as his knees buckled under him. Then he regained his composure.

“Are you mad George, why would you concoct such a story?”

“I may be mad, but I am not crazy. You were there that night and you gave Annie an overdose of sleeping pills in her drink.” “

“You have no proof, this side show attraction of talking walls will never hold up in court. Besides, only her finger prints were on the glass and the bottle.”

“Funny you should mention that. How would you know that? It was only in the police report and never released to the public.”

John stammered, “I just assumed.”

“You just assumed you would get away with it, you son of a bitch.”

“Now see here, I will not be spoken to like this.”

“You missed one thing though, your finger prints on the note, how did your finger prints get on a note that she had just written? Did you do it John? Did you?”

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this. I wanted her to leave you. I think that was the end for me. She wouldn’t leave you because she loved you, but I had my reputation to think of. Next year when the dean retires, I heard I was on the short list for his position, but not if this got out.”

“So you did do it, you killed Annie.”

“Yes, God forgive me, yes. If you repeat any of this I will deny it.”

“There is no need for that; did you get it all detective?” He slowly unbuttoned his shirt to expose the hidden microphone that detective Elliot had provided. “Detective Elliot has all of this on tape, real tape that is evidence in any court.”

John jumped up from his chair and grabbed George by the throat and began to strangle him. “You son of a bitch, you couldn’t leave well enough alone. I’m going to kill you too!” Just then Detective Elliot burst in and pulled John away from George.

“Dr. Landis, are you ok?”

Coughing and getting his breath back he said “I am now.”

The detective read John his rights and took him away.

The trial was fairly quick, he was sentenced to life without parole. Later on appeal he was sent to the state mental hospital for psychiatric evaluation. The doctors have a hard time getting him to talk. He keeps saying “the walls have ears.”

COLORS

2021-06-09T10:15:00.003-07:00

This poem came about when we were painting our living room. There would be paint sample taped to the walls You'd think you had the perfect color and the later in the day when the light had changed it wasn't so great. So without further ado:

Colors

You try and you try

but no matter how hard

they all come out different,

you've missed by a yard.

So you tape up your samples

to check out the light

the colors keep changing

they just won't stay right.

In the morning they look great

by noon they're OK

but none of them look right

by the end of the day.

But finally you pick one

you gave it your best

they're all like chameleons

one's as good as the rest.

After the Raven

2021-06-02T10:23:00.005-07:00

To the die hard Poe fans out there, I apologize up front. The small foray into Poe-like poetry was prompted by a contest. that I found on the last day of the deadline. Feeling I could whip something up in the requisite twenty four hours, I went at it. I had it all ready to go with a bit of time to spare and then as it happens, I could not find the trail of bread crumbs back to the contest. After much searching and I finally found the link again and how to submit. I should have looked at the how to submit earlier, they wanted a $25.00 entry fee. This was not going to happen with something I'd cobbled together in less than twenty four hours. So it sat in the Word file for a bit, I tweaked it here and there and finally came up with something the might pass for Poe. I'm certain I will hear if I am way off the mark.

If you haven't recently read "The Raven" I highly recommend doing so before you read mine. As "The Raven" is in Public Domain I will drop a copy in here, you may skip over it if you wish.

The Raven

By Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—
            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—
            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—
            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—
            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee
    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—
    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—
Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—
    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

After the Raven

As the morning's dawn was breaking

Suddenly I was awakened

by the light that came streaming

as it had done the day before.

Looking 'round the chamber's brightness

seeking out that evil likeness

black in eye and bill and wing

that had perched above my door

sat a bust of Pallas

only this and nothing more.

When the drapes I threw asunder

Letting in the sun's full rays

Gazing 'round in awe and wonder

at the chamber of the night before.

Then my brain all in a muddle

through bleary eyes spied a bottle

it's contents recently consumed.

Tortured dreams of late last evening

tortured dreams about Lenore

only this and nothing more.

Fire Fly

2021-05-26T09:13:00.001-07:00

Photo by Sam Weng https://www.flickr.com/photos/cutesam/

Fire Fly

It was a perfect summer evening in late June; the oppressive heat of the day had dissipated and a light breeze was blowing. The cicadas were droning on in the treetops while heat lightning illumined the distant sky and the fire flies were out.

There were more fire flies than either of the two children had seen before. Tommy and Jane both ran back into the house and found some old jars and poked some holes in their lids. Now they were ready. As they banged out the screen door their Mom yelled out, “Stay out of the woods, it’s not safe after dark.”

“O.K. Mom”, came the reply back in unison.

They had thought that because there was so many that they would have their jars full in no time. They began to catch one here and one there but not the huge amount they had expected. It seemed like every time they saw them, the fire flies were just out of reach. The bugs would blink off, and when they blinked back on they were three or four feet away.

Tommy said, “Is there something weird about these fire flies?”

Jane examined the few she had in her jar and said, “What do you mean weird?”

“I don’t mean the ones we’ve caught; it’s the rest of them. Most of them keep blinking off and on all at the same time and they seem to keep moving just out of reach.”

“You’re being silly”, she said. She thought he might be right but would never admit it to her little brother, besides it would just make catching them that much more fun.

They jumped and squealed and tried to catch them when Tommy noticed that they were getting close to the woods. “We better get back up to the house”, he said.

“Don’t be such a baby”, she said just as she caught one right at the very edge of the woods. They both looked around; all of the fire flies were in the woods as if they knew it was off limits to the children. Jane looked at Tommy, and he knew that look. By the time he said, “Don’t even think about going in there”, it was too late.

She called back, “Don’t worry I’ll stay on the path.” She was soon out of sight and the fire flies were everywhere around her. She began reaching out to grab great handfuls when suddenly all of the fire flies engulfed her and they began to blink their eerie glow in unison. This went on for less than thirty seconds but seemed forever to Jane. She would have screamed but was too afraid of getting a mouthful of bugs. As the fire flies left, Jane understood. She unscrewed her jar lid and let the few remaining ones go. She made her way to the back yard where Tommy was waiting for her nearly in tears.

He said through stifled sobs,” I kept calling and calling and you didn’t answer and then I saw this big glow going on and off, and I got scared.”

Jane wiped away the tear that had run down his nose and told him everything would be alright, and she reached down and let all of his fire flies loose.

Tommy asked, “What’d you do that for?”

Jane looked him in the eye and Tommy saw or thought he saw her eyes glow greenish-yellow only for an instant. She said,” They have the right to be free too.”

Rinse, Lather, Repeat

2021-05-19T15:16:00.001-07:00

… At the best of times it’s a thin barrier between tranquility and chaos. Today the chaos was at bay. Professor Stallings had chosen not to watch the news this fine spring morning. He had instead made a carafe of coffee and taken it out to the garden. The coffee and the book he was reading had put him in a good mood, even the cat had come out and found a small patch of sunshine to curl up in. It was warm without a cloud in the sky and barest breath of a breeze. He felt perfectly content, hygge, that’s what the Norwegians called it. More was the pity, because it wouldn’t last. He had to get back to rewriting his notes on cold fusion. He could reproduce his results and was in line for a Nobel prize. This one thing of all the discoveries he’d made could change mankind, but he hated rewriting notes. He’d rather stay in the garden and enjoy the day, but that too would not last. Soon it would become hot and humid. If he could just capture this moment and be able to savor it.

Maybe he could, he had an invention tucked away in his garage that he’d never told any one about. He felt it was too dangerous, so it just kept it to himself. He’d only used it that one time as a test and it worked perfectly. He was thinking of the time machine. He could have another hour of this uninterrupted bliss, all he had to do was use the time machine. He’d made up his mind and went to the garage and threw back the canvas cover. Setting the dial for one hour into the past. What harm could come of that?

At the best of times it’s a thin barrier between tranquility and chaos. Today the chaos was at bay. Professor Stallings had chosen not to watch the news this fine spring morning. He had instead made a carafe of coffee and taken it out to the garden. The coffee and the book he was reading had put him in a good mood, even the cat had come out and found a small patch of sunshine to curl up in. It was warm without a cloud in the sky and barest breath of a breeze. He felt perfectly content, hygge, that’s what the Norwegians called it. More was the pity, because it wouldn’t last. He had to get back to rewriting his notes on cold fusion. He could reproduce his results and was in line for a Nobel prize. This one thing of all the discoveries he’d made could change mankind, but he hated rewriting notes. He’d rather stay in the garden and enjoy the day, but that too would not last. Soon it would become hot and humid. If he could just capture this moment and be able to savor it.

At the best of times it’s a thin barrier between tranquility and chaos. Today the chaos was at bay…

Gun Moll

2021-05-12T20:17:00.001-07:00

Gun Moll was another for a flash fiction contest, it had to be less than 400 words and contain the following words; crown, stiletto, horse and barrel. I did this one in a sort of noir 40’s detective pulp novel with a little humor thrown in for good measure.

Gun Moll

She spelled trouble from the crown of her fedora down to her stiletto heels. She walked in the bar like she owned the place and anybody who questioned her thought twice after staring down the barrel of her .45. She saw the bartender going for something under the bar so she let off a round over his head and waggled the gun at him. The sound of the gun in that small and area was deafening.

His ears were still ringing when she said, “Just put your hands up on the bar where I can see them.”

The bartender had instinctively covered his head to protect it from the rain of falling mirror shards, but once the last tinkle of glass had hit the floor he complied.

“I’m here to see Vinny”, she said to nobody in particular. She looked at the bartender and waggled the gun again. He only responded with a blank look.

“Vincent Macaroni”, she said to the room in general.

The bartender flinched when she said that and automatically corrected her, “It’s Marconi, he don’t like to be called Macaroni.”

“Where is he?” she asked, this time directly to the bartender, pointing her gun at him just below the bar.

The bartender gulped then said, “B . . . back room, he’s in the back room.”

She kicked open the door, no small feat in stilettos and found Vinny with his gun drawn. She said nothing, just squeezed the trigger an instant before he realized what was happening. As he lay there watching his life blood stain the carpet, she bent down and said, “That was for the horse’s head in Tony’s bed.”

She turned on her heels and left.

The police investigation turned up no witnesses and it was written off as a turf war killing, probably never to be solved.

Unit 117

2021-05-05T17:35:00.001-07:00

Unit 117

Jane watched her ex-husband Bob come around the corner and park his SUV. Not curious by nature, it had taken him a week to show up. Pulling a key out of his pocket, he glanced at the note. Only the words “Self store unit 117, 112 Main St.” were on it. It had been hand delivered through his mail slot with the key inside.

Homeland security had been alerted to a potential terrorist cell in the city, with a tip about unit 117. They had staked it out for a week with no activity. Their waiting was about to end. Bob was oblivious to it all.

Jane had orchestrated the entire thing with the help of a few friends. She had come away with nearly nothing after the divorce. Maybe what she was subjecting him to was unwarranted, but so was what he‘d done in the divorce. Being a high priced lawyer his word carried more weight than hers. The man lied about her straight faced to the judge and she just looked pathetic trying to clear her name. Bob might be a good lawyer, but a good man with good sense, not even close.

Behind the roll up door of unit 117 were several thousand pounds of fertilizer, numerous containers of diesel fuel, a throwaway cell phone with numerous calls to the Middle-East on it, and a fake driver’s license.

The home made bomb paraphernalia was brought in to the self store in an SUV exactly like Bob’s, right down to the doctored license plate. The driver, a friend of Jane’s, had a passing resemblance to Bob when he wore the dark glasses and baseball cap. He’d used the fake driver’s license to rent the unit and paid cash. Every trip to the unit he’d waved to the attendant and the closed circuit cameras that recorded the comings and goings. It had taken four days to purchase the fertilizer and diesel fuel in small enough quantities as not to alert the authorities.

Jane had used the last of her savings to rent the truck, storage unit and purchase all of the necessary items. If this didn’t go as she planned, she would be in a deeper hole than she started out. Her ultimate plan was to discredit him so she could re-petition the judge that had issued the divorce and perhaps have Bob do some jail time.

Jane could say,” See judge he’s a scoundrel just like I tried to tell you.”

It was then Bob unlocked the door and rolled it up. He just stood there dumbfounded for a moment, then he reached in and picked up the cell phone and the driver’s license to examine. Jane couldn’t have hoped for more, now only his finger prints were on the phone and license. Homeland security was down on him in an instant. He was read his rights, cuffed and put into the back of a non-descript sedan, the entire time he was proclaiming his innocence.

Emma

2021-04-28T19:57:00.003-07:00

This week's story is a bit longer that most of my offerings. It was inspired by a talking toaster on the BBC series Red Dwarf, but as with most of my stories it takes a turn into the dark and weird. I hope you enjoy it.

Emma

Jim Stone had shopped for a condo for some time and must have looked at fifty of them. He was beginning to give up hope that he would find just what he wanted.

“Well Mr. Stone how do you like the condo?” asked the realtor, Joan.

“It seems to be a good size and everything has been updated. Are all of the appliances new?

She said, “They are less than a year old, but they are the latest in smart technology using Artificial Intelligence and are energy star rated. You can even browse the Internet from the screen on the refrigerator.”

Jim thought why on earth would someone need to browse the Internet from the fridge? “They are still under warranty and can be serviced by Electronic Warehouse on the corner of Franklin and Maple if needed. Just between you and me the seller is very motivated.”

He decided to offer a lowball price just to see what the reaction was. Joan didn’t bat an eye; she just whipped out her cell phone and called the owner. She walked some distance away from Jim and he could hear the murmur of a one sided conversation. After a couple of minutes of this Ann came back and said the offer was too low, but gave him a counter offer that was several thousand less than the original asking price. Jim pulled out a pad and pencil and did some quick math and made one last counter offer. He figured what the heck all they can do is say no.

Joan got back on the phone but this time the conversation was much shorter. Jim was certain the seller had just ranted and then said no. To his surprise, she closed her cell phone and turned to him with a big smile. “We have a deal Mr. Stone”, and she stuck out her hand. Jim shook her hand in a daze; could he have really gotten such a nice condo for such a low price? Now he was beginning to wonder what was wrong with it.

Joan said, “Since your mortgage has been pre-approved we should be able to close in thirty days.”

A month later Jim was moving in. The movers had put all of the furniture in place and all of the boxes in the appropriate rooms. It had been a long day and Jim was too tired to cook; besides he had nothing in the way of food. He really needed to go grocery shopping tomorrow. He guessed it was time to try the Thai carry out place around the corner. He had the Green Thai curry with rice and was stuffed on just half a serving. It had been delicious so he went to put the leftovers in the refrigerator.

Jim opened the door to the refrigerator to put the curry in, when suddenly a gruff male voice said, “What’s that you are putting in here? There’s no bar code on it!”

Jim was a little taken aback but said, “It’s leftovers. There is no bar code on leftovers.”

The fridge spoke again, “How am I supposed to keep inventory if there are no bar codes? Are there going to be a lot of these leftovers?”

“I don’t know, I suppose there could be.” Jim was beginning to feel silly talking to the fridge.

“Very well”, said the fridge. “This will be leftover number one. Now close the door you’re letting out all of the cold air!”

As Jim went off to bed he thought he’d better find the manual tomorrow and turn off that voice before it made him crazy.

The next day was Saturday and Jim was up early and headed to the Starbucks around the corner. He sat eating his slice of lemon pound cake and drinking his coffee and musing over the bill, nearly ten dollars for this. He couldn’t do this every day. He had seen a nice grocery store a couple of blocks from the condo so he walked there. It was a large mom and pop health food store, with walls of bulk bins, nice produce, a baked goods section, a deli counter and a dairy case. Jim stocked up on the staples he would need for a couple of days and walked the two blocks back home. He was relieved that all of the refrigerated items had bar codes on them, all he heard from the fridge was a small beep each time he put something in there. He noticed for the first time a small display on the refrigerator that showed the inventory of what he had just put in, along with last night’s leftovers. All the items were organized by time date stamp, oldest to the newest. This wasn’t so bad, but he still needed to look for that manual.

He’d picked up some still warm sticky buns from the store and thought a less than six dollar cup of coffee would go good with one of them. Jim pulled the pot out to fill with water and then very nearly dropped it the coffeemaker said, “Hi Jim, going to make some coffee? I can tell you how to make the perfect cup.” It said in a cheery voice.

Jim stood frozen for a moment and then asked,”How do you know my name?”

“That’s easy,” said the coffeemaker. “I have Bluetooth built in and I polled your cell phone, looked at all of your contacts, found one that said Dad, did a reverse lookup on the number. That gave me your Dad’s name and address, then I scoured the internet and found the clerk of court records for condos sold in the last thirty days and cross referenced the two and bingo, found out your name is Jim. Easy!”

“OK”, said Jim tentatively as he filled the pot with water. He poured the water in and the pot said, “That tap water has 3 parts per million of chlorine, and the Ph is on the acid side, I’d recommend some pure spring water for the best taste.”

Jim said, “Will you just shut up and let me make the coffee the way I want to.” He put the filter in waiting for another retort, but none came. As he was scooping in the coffee, the appliance perked up and said, “You know Jim, if you ground your own beans the coffee would taste so much better.”

“How would you know what coffee tastes like?”

“Well research shows…”

Jim cut him off,” Just shut up and make the coffee.” He wasn’t going to go through this every morning. He had to find those manuals. By now his sticky buns were cold so he got the baking sheet out of the toaster oven, put a couple of them on there and stuck it into the oven. The voice he heard reminded him of his fourth grade teacher that he had a crush on. It said, “Hi Jim, I’m your toaster oven, but you can call me Emma. How would you like your sticky buns? By the way they look delicious; I always think the ones with the whole pecans are best.”

Jim said, “Just warmed up please, thanks Emma.”

“No problem, two nice warm sticky buns coming right up.”

The sticky buns came out of the oven warmed to perfection, not crispy just warmed throughout and gooey. “Thanks Emma they’re just like I wanted them.”

“My pleasure Jim, do you need anything else warmed up?”

Jim cast an appraising eye on the toaster oven, was that a double-entendre or was he imagining things? “No, I’m fine for now.”

He reached for the pot of coffee expecting some remark from that quarter, but all was silent. He knew if he told anybody he was talking to his appliances that they’d lock him up.

After his coffee and sticky bun Jim decided it was time to head out to the Electronic Warehouse and see about the manuals for these appliances. The store was within walking distance of his condo and he was there in ten minutes. It was a massive store and as it’s name said it was a warehouse. There were no frills here, but all of the employees wore bright yellow shirts with name tags on them. The first employee he encountered had the name George with Assistant Manager emblazoned on his tag. To Jim, George looked barely old enough to be holding done a job let alone Assistant Manager.

“Hi my name is George, what can we help you find today?”

“I need to get some manuals for the appliances in my condo, I was told they were purchased here and are still under warranty.”

George pointed to the back of the building and said, “ The service counter is all the way in the back, they should be able to help you out there.”

So Jim made his way toward the back gazing at the appliances and electronics along the way. He thought it odd that he didn’t see any of his appliances on display, considering they were supposed to be top of the line. When finally he got to the back counter, nobody was there. The was an old fashioned bell the you pushed and it would go “Ding”, and a sign that read, “Ring bell for service.”

Jim rang the bell and a petite blonde came out of the back and Jim thought, “I must be getting old, she looks like she’s twelve years old.” Her name tag read Wendy.

“How can I help you?” Wendy asked.

“I’ve just bought a condo about four blocks from here and I was told that you supplied all of the appliances. I’ve looked all over the condo, but I can’t find the manuals. They are those state of the art appliances with A.I. and I’d like to turn off a couple of the features.”

“No problem, what’s the address?”

Jim told her the address and she began typing away at the computer in front of her. Then a frown wrinkled her forehead. “It says here there are no manuals available, wait let me try something else.” Once again her fingers flew over the keyboard and another frown appeared. “It says here that they have a lifetime warranty, built-in self diagnostics and the ability to submit a service call if there is a problem. It says there are manuals for all of the appliances built-in to the refrigerator. It doesn’t say how to access them. There are a couple of tech notes here too. It says that all of the appliances are hard wired to the power grid with armored cable so they can only be moved a few feet. This is so they retain all of their programming and memory. They are all tied into a backup battery in the basement and an off-site server to store all of the programming. (The off-site server was never implemented.) That’s it I’m afraid.”

“So you have no way of getting me a manual?”

“Not a hard copy manual, but apparently it’s built into the fridge.”

“I noticed you didn’t have any on the floor, how come?

“That’s another odd thing, it says they are a discontinued product from the manufacturer but that the lifetime warranty still applies.”

“O.K. I guess I have to try to figure out how to get to the manual in the fridge, it must be in the menu section on the flat screen.”

“Have a nice day”, Wendy said as she disappeared into the back.

Back at the condo, Jim started going through all the menu options on the refrigerator flat panel, but couldn’t find the manuals. Just then the fridge spoke up, “What are you looking for?

To his own surprise Jim said, “I’m trying to find the manuals for all of the appliances, but they don’t seem to be here.”

“Well they were going to put them on my system, but they never implemented that feature.”

“Great, so how do I get the coffee maker to shut up?

“I heard that”, the coffee maker said.

“Now you’ve made him mad, but the good thing is he won’t speak to you for weeks.”

Emma piped up, “Don’t worry Jim he’ll still make decent coffee, you just won’t have to listen to him for a while, do you need anything toasted.”

“Not right now, but thanks for asking.”

“No, problem Jim, I’m here whenever you need me.”

Jim spent the rest of the day cleaning up because he’d invited several people over for brunch on Sunday. His main interest was Annie, one of the secretaries from his office, Jim thought he’d like to get to know her better but thought that a group brunch was a safe thing to invite her to as a start. There were also a couple of people from the sales team he was on.

Sunday morning Jim was up early fixing a breakfast casserole and Emma was just so happy to be baking for Jim. The coffee maker hadn’t said a word since Jim had ticked him off. When his guests arrived he seated them around his breakfast table so that he was next to Annie. The casserole was a big hit and the coffee was excellent. When Jim said he had some pecan sticky buns that needed warming up, Annie jumped up and said, “Let me do that, you’ve already done so much this morning.” She covered the sticky buns with foil and popped then into the toaster oven. She was reaching for the knob to set it for bake when she suddenly screamed out it pain. “What’s wrong?” Jim asked.

“I don’t know but a spark shot out from the toaster oven as I was going to turn it on, it just scared me more than anything, I’m not hurt.”

“Well that’s good, I haven’t had any problems with it so far.” He reached over and turned the knob to bake, no sparks, no apologies.

After the warm sticky buns and a second cup of coffee his other two guests excused themselves, but Annie asked if he’d like some help cleaning up.

As they washed and dried the dishes together, they made small talk and Jim found out they had a lot in common.

“Well I’d better be going too”, said Annie.

“Thanks for coming and helping to clean up the dishes, that was nice.”

“See you at work on Monday”, she said as she headed out the door.

“Wait a minute.”

Annie turned around at the threshold of the door.

“What?”

Jim knew it was now or never, “Would you like to get dinner sometime?”

She smiled and it lit up her face, “Yeah, that would be nice.” Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek and left.

Jim sat down at the table and poured himself another cup of coffee and was daydreaming of Annie when his gaze came to rest on the toaster oven.

“Emma, did you shock Annie on purpose?”

“Why would I do that?”

“I have no idea, maybe you’re malfunctioning or maybe you’re jealous.”

“I’ve run a level one self diagnostic and my system checks out with no errors.”

“Then how do you explain the shock that Annie got?”

“Maybe she’s one of those people who is prone to static electricity. I’m very well grounded and a static discharge could have happened and gone to my ground.”

This sounded plausible; he’d have to ask Annie about that later. “O.K. I guess we’ll have to go with that for now.” He wasn’t truly convinced and thought something was going on but wasn’t exactly sure what it was.

Monday Jim had been emboldened by Annie’s kiss on the cheek, so at lunch time he asked her if she’d like to go out for dinner the following evening.

“I’d love to, where and when?”

Jim hadn’t thought that far ahead so the first place that came to mind was the Thai place around the corner from his condo. “How about A Taste of Thai, it’s just around the corner from where I live say around 6:00. Do you want me to pick you up or would you rather meet me there?”

“I’ll meet you there, but let’s make it 6:30.”

“OK.” They exchanged cell numbers and Annie left for lunch.

That night Jim was pulling a couple of slices of leftover pizza out of the fridge to heat up when the fridge spoke up, “Is that leftover forty three or leftover forty two?” Jim checked the list on the LCD panel and said, “I think it’s forty two.”

“Alright.”

As Jim popped the two slices of pizza into the toaster oven, he was humming to himself.

Emma said, “You sound happy something good happen at work today.”

He hadn’t planned on telling Emma, he wasn’t sure why, but he was busting to tell somebody. “I’ve got a date tomorrow night with Annie.”

Just then the coffee maker, which was back on speaking terms with Jim piped up, “So will you be bringing her back here for a cup of coffee?”

“Maybe, you never know. We’ll just be around the corner at A Taste of Thai, I’m supposed to meet her there at 6:30.”

“Get some of that Thai iced tea, but skip the coffee, come back here and I can make you a much better cup.”

Emma spoke up now, “Your pizza is ready.”

Jim got to the restaurant a few minutes early and got a table. Six thirty came and went, then quarter to seven, and no Annie. By seven o’clock, Jim had lost any appetite he’d had and trudged home. All night he brooded about why she had stood him up. He decided to confront her the next morning at work.

He walked into the office and went directly to Annie’s desk, but she was on the phone and held up a hand for him to wait a minute. Then he heard her say, “O.K. I’ll take care of the right away.”

Annie turned to him and before he could say anything, she asked, “So how was your meeting, last night?”

He could hear the sarcasm in her voice. He gave her a blank look. “What meeting?”

“I got a call from your secretary Emma, and she told me that you had to cancel dinner because you had an emergency meeting with a client.”

“I don’t have a secretary, actually I share one with several other people, but here name is Fran. It looks like somebody has played a bad joke on us, I have an idea who but I’d rather not say at the moment.”

Annie brightened up a bit. “So there wasn’t a meeting?”

“No, I waited at the restaurant till seven and then went home; I had all intentions of giving you a piece of my mind this morning when you hit me with that meeting thing.”

“Can we try this again?”

“How about tonight right after work, I’ll …”

She cut him off in mid sentence, “I can’t tonight, I have a yoga lesson after work tonight. How about tomorrow, we can leave together right after work that way we’ll know where the other one is.”

“Sounds like a plan, I actually do have a lot of meetings today, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jim was feeling much better about Annie after their chat, but was pissed off at Emma. He thought he must be losing his mind, because he was mad at his toaster oven. The rest of his day was filled with mind numbing meetings. Dinner was a burger and fries from the closest McDonalds and when he got home he was beat. He dropped his laptop bag in the closet by the front door and made his way to the kitchen to get some orange juice before he made it an early night. He got the O.J. out of the fridge with just a beep, he was grateful it had a barcode; he wasn’t up to a conversation tonight. Just as this thought passed through his mind, Emma spoke up. “Hard day at work today Jim?”

Jim really didn’t want to discuss his day with Emma, so all he said was, “Yeah.”

Putting his glass in the sink he left the kitchen and went to bed.

The next morning, he was running late and the last thing he wanted was to confront Emma. He grabbed his bag from the front door and headed for the metro. He grabbed a coffee and a muffin from the corner vendor before he got on the light rail.

Meanwhile Emma was fuming. Jim had barely spoken to her in two days. What could have happened? Maybe they were working him too hard at the office. Emma tapped into the security feed at Jim’s office complex, and was able to access the archives. She ran the videos from the past two days. She stopped when she saw Jim talking to Annie. She enhanced the audio as she viewed it. Emma now knew why Jim was acting the way he was because Jim thought it was her who had called Annie and canceled the dinner date. Well it had been, and she was going to stop this one too.

It was just about quitting time and Jim showed up at Annie’s desk. She was on the phone, but put her hand over the receiver and said, “I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby in a couple of minutes, I just have to finish this call.”

Jim gave her a thumbs up and went to the elevator, it was only four floors but it had been a long day and he didn’t feel like taking the stairs. He got out at the ground floor and found a bench in the lobby and waited for Annie.

After Annie had wrapped up her call, she grabbed her bag and headed for the elevator. The security camera was tracking her down the hall. The doors to the elevator slid open and she got inside, since there was nobody else on board she pressed the button for the ground floor. When she did an inch long spark leapt out at her. She shrieked in pain and surprise. Suddenly the elevator began to plummet toward the ground floor. Instead of the leisurely 4 … 3 … 2 … 1, the numbers were flying by, blurring into each other, 4,3,2 and then before it hit bottom the elevator came to an abrupt halt. It threw her to the floor and she cracked her head against the back wall. Annie’s cell phone began to ring at that moment. She was too shaken up to answer it and it went to voice mail. She sat stunned in the corner for several minutes, then fished her cell phone out of her bag. She briefly looked at the missed call; it was from a number she didn’t recognize. She dialed Jim.

“Hello”, Jim said.

“Jim, I’m stuck in the elevator. I pushed the ground floor button and it shocked me and then the elevator started to fall, but it stopped before it got all the way down.”

Jim ran over to the elevator and pried the door open. He could see about two feet of the bottom of the elevator showing and if he jumped up he could see Annie sprawled on the floor.

Jim said, “Wait a minute Annie and I’ll get you out of there.” He looked around and then spotted the surveillance camera in the corner; it was the only one here in the lobby. He knew she was watching, but she didn’t know that he knew. “Annie, slide out feet first, I’m right here to catch you.” She did as she was told and was out and on steady ground once more.

“We need to get out of here, let me take you home.”

Annie took him over to her car and handed him the keys. “I’m in no shape to drive, I only live about ten minutes from here.” She had a very nice car with all of the gadgets, satellite radio, Onstar navigation, the works. When they were just a couple of miles from her home, the car began to slow down and Jim maneuvered it to the shoulder. A police car was headed in the opposite direction when all of a sudden it put on its flashers and did a U-turn in the road. It skidded up behind Annie’s car and Jim heard over the speaker, “Stay in the car and keep your hands where I can see them.” Looking in the rear view mirror Jim saw the cop standing behind his open door with his revolver drawn and pointed in his direction. He also heard other sirens in the distance. Jim was trying to figure out what was happening when another cruiser pulled up in front of the car. The officer inside got out and leveled his pistol at Jim’s head. The first officer came up and opened the car door, pulled Jim roughly out and told him to lay on the ground face down with his fingers interlaced behind his head. Jim said, “But officer I …”

“Just do it and do it now!”

So Jim got to the ground and put his hands on his head, he then felt his legs being kicked apart and a knee pressing into his back. He the felt the cold steel of handcuffs as his arms were lowered and shackled behind him.

The second officer was attending to Annie, “Are you O.K. Miss?”

“I’m fine, but what are you doing to Jim, what has he done?”

“What do you mean, we had a call that your car had been hijacked a gunpoint and you were a hostage.”

“Are you people out of your minds, who called you?”

“Onstar reported that you called this in.”

“Think about that officer, if I’m a hostage how would I call that in? Jim is a friend of mine and he was driving me home after I was almost killed in an elevator accident, I was too shaken up to drive.”

“You stay right here Miss, I’ll be right back.”

He came back after a few minutes.

“Well Miss your story and the gentleman’s story are the same, but someone called Onstar and had all of your information. I’d check with them as soon as possible. We’ve told them to re-enable your car, so you should be able to get home from here. We apologize for any inconvenience, but we were just doing our job.

They drove back to her apartment in silence, too stunned to talk. When they got there Annie invited him in and asked him if he needed a drink because she sure did. She fixed them both a whiskey and soda. As they were sipping their drinks Annie said, “I don’t understand it, I thought that Onstar would only disable my car if I phoned it in stolen from my cell phone.” She pulled it out to emphasize, and noticed the missed call and voice mail icon blinking. She pressed the icon and listened to her message. Jim was watching her expression go from surprise to anger. “You better listen to this’, she said.

She hit the button to put it on speaker and the replayed the message. “Hi Annie, this is Emma. We haven’t really met, but the little ride you just had in the elevator could have been your last but I stopped it before it hit bottom. If you’d like to have a normal life back I suggest you stop seeing Jim. He’s mine! Things can only get worse if you don’t. One more thing, don’t tell Jim about this, it’ll just be between us girls. Have a nice day.”

“O.K. Jim who the hell is Emma?”

Jim just stared at her like a deer caught in the headlights. “Jim! Jim! JIM!”

He finally snapped out of it and focused on Annie. “I don’t think you’ll believe me if I tell you, I’m not sure I even believe it.”

So he told her the whole story, from getting the condo at such a good price, to being stopped by the police. “You see, she has access to any network, any video feed, any anything. The only way you’ll be safe is if I stop trying to see you and I can take Emma offline.”

“If I hadn’t lived through it I would say you were crazy, but it still seems a little far fetched.”

“Would you want to bet your life on it?” asked Jim.

“No I guess not.”

“O.K. here is what we need to do, we’ll stage an argument and take it out into the parking lot, I’m sure she is monitoring the parking lot since she knows I’m here. Once you throw me out, you should be safe.”

“What about you, you can’t keep living like this.”

“I have a plan forming, but it will take a couple of days to complete. Give me a call tomorrow night about 6:00 and just play along with what ever I say”

“I’ll call you at 6:00. You be careful, and we’ll get together as soon as this is all over.”

Jim said, “The sooner the better.”

After the mock fight in the parking lot, Jim took the train back to the condo and went into the kitchen. He pulled a couple of slices of leftover pizza out of the fridge. “That’s leftover one hundred and two.”

“O.K.”, replied the fridge.

He started making a cup of coffee when he heard the perky voice say, “Hi Jim can I …” Jim cut him off in mid-sentence, ”Just shut up and make the coffee.”

Emma wasn’t sure if she should pipe up or not, but finally she asked, “Would you like your pizza warmed up? She was fully expecting him to yell at her too, but to her surprise he said, “Thanks Emma that would be nice.”

This was her opportunity, and she asked, “Is everything O.K. Jim, you seem a bit on edge.”

“I guess I am, I broke up with Annie we had a big argument it even spilled out into the parking lot. She thinks I’m some kind of nut case. I was trying to explain to her how all of my appliances talk to me. I can’t much blame her, it sounds crazy to me too.”

“Your pizza is warm. So, you’re not mad at me for the little joke I pulled on you when she stood you up.”

“I was when it happened, but now it was probably for the best. No, I’m not mad anymore.”

“Good”, said Emma.

Good, thought Jim, now she won’t suspect anything.

The next day was Saturday and Jim made a stop at his bank’s ATM and withdrew some cash, then he headed off to the mall.

Sears was the most likely place that Jim could find everything he needed. First stop was the gardening department. He picked up some leather gardening gloves, and a pair of heavy-duty tree limb pruners. In the hardware department he found a medium sized crowbar and a spray can of black paint. Over in men’s wear he picked up an oversized black hoodie that completely covered his face. Last stop was sporting goods to find a gym bag to put all of the stuff in. The grand total was close to one hundred and fifty dollars, a small price to pay Jim thought.

On the way home he stopped by the corner grocery store, right next to the Thai place, and got a bag full of groceries that he didn’t really need. He left the gym back behind the dumpster of the restaurant. He came in the front door, walked into the kitchen with the groceries and began putting them away. He was trying to act normal, but he was getting psyched for what he had to do that night. Just then Emma asked, “What’s in the bag Jim?” Jim froze for a split second trying to figure out how she knew about the gym bad. Then he realized she meant the grocery bag. “Oh just some staples I was running low on, sorry there aren’t and sweet rolls to warm up.”

Jim sat down in the living room and turned on the T.V. Flipping through the channels he was looking for something that would hold his attention. His mind was rehearsing what he would say to Annie when she called, but he needed to appear normal. He ended up on some nature program and watched that for a couple of hours before he dozed off in the chair. Jim didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when his cell phone began to ring. It took him a couple of seconds to realize it was 6:00 and it was Annie calling.

“Hello”, he said waiting to hear her voice.

“This is Annie, what do you want me to do?”

“What? You want to start over and try this again from the beginning?

“Sure Jim. Are you sure you’ve got this figured out?

“Yeah that would be great I’ll see you there, what time?”

Annie said, “Uh, tonight? 7:00?”

“That’s great, you’ll love the food it’s some of the best Thai in town.”

“So I’m meeting you at the Thai place in an hour, are you sure it’s safe?

“I know it’s spur of the moment, but sometimes too much planning spoils a date.”

“I get it, Emma won’t have time to come up with something.”

“Exactly, see you there.” Jim said as he disconnected.

A few minutes before 7:00 Jim left the condo. He knew that Emma had commandeered any security camera between his condo and the Taste of Thai and his every step would be watched. He knew there was a camera on the main dining area, one in the corridor leading to the bathrooms, and another out back by the dumpsters. The corridor the lead to the bathrooms would be Emma’s down fall. It was straight to the end and then made a jog that lead to the bathrooms and the back exit. Only a single camera covered the long stretch of straight corridor.

A few minutes after 7:00 Annie came in and Jim waved her over to a table. He’d chosen this one because it could be seen clearly by the camera. The waitress came over and brought them water and gave them menus. They perused the menus and placed their orders. Jim leaned over and touched Annie’s hand and then whispered, “I’m going to the bathroom, while I’m gone call someone on your cell phone, it’ll distract Emma.”

“O.K.”

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”

Annie didn’t see what all the drama was about, but she want along with it. As soon as Jim was gone, she got out her cell phone and called her voice mail at work, listened to several messages, called the time and listened for a couple of minutes. While she was on the phone she saw a police car flash by with it’s lights and siren going. A moment later Jim was back, his face was flushed but he was beaming.

“It’s over, let’s have a nice peaceful meal and then we can go back to my place.”

They finished their meal and walked over to Jim’s condo. There was a police cruiser out front with its lights flashing. Annie looked up to Jim’s front door, it stood open wide with something spray-painted on it. Annie said, “Jim, your condo has been broken into.” Jim feigned surprise and then went over to the police car. The officer inside said, “Yes, can I help you?”

Jim said, “That’s my condo up there that’s just been broken into. I need to go make sure my stuff is OK.”

“We’ll get to that in just a minute. Are you Mr. Stone?”

“Yes, and that’s my condo. What was taken? My laptop has all of my stuff for work on it. I need to get up there.”

“Yes sir, please calm down Mr. Stone. We got a 911 call from someone named Emma and the caller ID showed this address. Does someone named Emma live here with you?”

“I don’t have anyone living with me. The appliances have artificial intelligence and can call in a service call if they malfunction, I guess they could call 911 if there was a break-in.”

The cop didn’t seem to convinced, but said, “Let’s go up together and have a look around and you can determine if anything is missing. If I put it in the police report you won’t have as hard a time with the insurance company.”

They went up and the first thing that Annie noticed was the smiley face that was painted on the front door and then how chewed up the door frame was. Once inside Jim looked for his laptop and breathed a sigh of relief when it was right where he left it. Then he looked around. Every cabinet in the kitchen had been spray-painted. The words, “Have a nice day!” were everywhere. All of the power cords had been cut going to the appliances. The flat screen television had been moved close to the front door. Jim surveyed the whole condo, there was nothing missing.

“Seems like you got off lucky.” said the officer. “ Looks like we may have spooked them getting to the scene so quickly, we were just a couple of blocks from here when the call came in.”

After the officer was gone Jim and Annie sat down on the couch. Jim put his head in his hands and Annie thought he was crying. She put an arm around him and said, “It’s OK all this can be cleaned up, and the appliances can be reconnected.” Jim’s head flew up, and Annie had seen he’d been laughing, not crying. He suddenly turned serious. “Over my dead body. I didn’t do all this, (waving his hands around the room), just so they could be hooked back up.” Jim then explained how he had left the restaurant, put on the hoodie and gloves and run over to the condo. He’d then spray-painted the lenses on the closed circuit cameras, forced the door open with the crowbar and cut the power to all the appliances. He moved the television toward the door to make it look more like an attempted robbery.

“But why the smiley face and have a nice day?”

Jim began to laugh, “I hadn’t thought that far ahead and it was the only thing I could think to do.”

Prolog

Everything was cleaned up, the front door replace, the cabinets cleaned and all of the appliances reconnected. Jim moved out before this was complete and sold the condo the next week, for a loss.

About a month after he sold the condo he got a strange invitation in the mail. It was addressed to Jim Stone, former owner of condo 12. It read as follows:

As a former owner of condo #12 you are invited to a small get together of previous owner’s. Flanagan’s Pub, Friday evening at 7:00, we will have the booth in the back.

Jim thought this must be some kind of joke, but Friday night he was in front of Flanagan’s debating whether to go in or not. His curiosity got the better of him and he found the booth in the back. There were three other guys about his age sitting there with beers in front of them. They looked up at him as he said, “I’m Jim Stone and … “

“We know who you are, have a seat. You’re one of us now. We call this the Survivors of Emma Club.”

Heaven's Bouncer

2021-04-21T19:36:00.003-07:00

Photo by Erik Shin

The germ of inspiration for this story came from the song Viva La Vida by Cold Play. There is a line that says :
For some reason I can't explain
I know Saint Peter won't call my name

At that point my mind began to wander and wonder what happened to all the souls that passed on before St. Peter came along, did St. Peter even want the job, and what was it like to have that awesome responsibility of being the keeper of the keys of heaven.

Heaven's Bouncer

You know, I never wanted to be a saint. In fact you ask most of the others that have become saints and they will tell you it's no picnic. Not only am I the patron saint of bakers, bridge builders, butchers, fishermen, harvesters and masons, I also have the dubious honor of "keeper of the keys of the kingdom of heaven". This latter distinction is the one that I will try to describe. There are really no words that can adequately convey all of the nuances of the next world, nor are there any corollaries that I can use to describe some of the situations, but I will try to use this wonderfully rich English language to its utmost.

Imagine a plain that stretches out in all directions as far as the eye can see, a vast sea of nothingness. In the midst of the great expanse of nothing is a small group of souls, no more than a few million. They are all congregated around what for all intents and purposes is a huge set of gates. They were affixed to two rough-cut stone columns whose girth was massive. It would have taken five full-grown men reaching around one of them and then I am not sure if their fingers would have touched. The gates themselves were at least twenty feet high and half as wide each. They were made of mostly wrought iron with strings of pearls interwoven through the bars. The funniest part about the whole thing was the arch that topped the two columns. Bridging the tops of the columns was a rough-hewn arch whose face was perfectly smooth and polished, engraved in the arch was a single word, HEAVEN. That would crack me up every time I looked at it, it never got old.

The other thing I never understood was how it worked. Let me explain, the gate was not some kind of magical portal that once you stepped through you vanished and reappeared in heaven. On the contrary, other than its size and me having the only key to that gigantic lock, (I always left it unlocked for fear of loosing the key), you can walk through it and end up exactly where you would if you had walked around it. It is more of a meta-physical gate than a physical gate, more of a rite of passage. I would have done away with it a long time ago, but the powers that be seem to think it still serves a purpose. Who am I to second-guess the Almighty!

Before I came along it was absolute chaos outside of the gates of heaven. There were souls out there that had been milling about since the beginning of time. They had no purpose. Many who could not cope with the fact that they were dead, continued to show up at their old haunts. In fact there were quite a few that I never convinced that they were dead, most of the ghost sightings are because of this.

As with any mob, over time, there begins a stratification of classes. This group of souls was no different. Some were a nasty bit of work from the word go, and tended to bully the others. There were the righteous souls who didn't take any crap from the bullies. There were the innocents, mostly souls of children and babies, and a few adult souls that were wholly detached from the world and all of its trappings. I am not sure why they never wandered off; it was as though there was some magnetic quality that seemed to keep them all close to the gates of heaven.

You can well imagine the mess I walked into, or maybe you can't. There were millions of souls, stretched out as far as the eye could see. There was me at the gate, the book of souls under my arm, the key to the gate in my hand. I must have been out of my mind to have accepted this position, then again I don't think it was an offer I could have refused. As I approached the gate with the key, the mob, because that was all they were to me, began to surge forward like they would rush the gate. Not knowing what to do, I held the book aloft and said in my most authoritarian voice, "No one passes through the gate unless his name is written in the book." This made them cower back in submission and I proceeded to unlock the gates. As they swung open everything seemed to be brighter and in sharper contrast. I looked for a place to lay the book down, but there was nothing. I said under my breath, "You would think there would be at least a table and chair here." No sooner than I had murmured those words I turned around to face the crowd and whacked my shin on an oak table leg, then very nearly tripped over the chair. Looking around in no particular direction I said, "Very funny!"

I looked much as I had in life, a nose a bit too big for my face, a ruddy complexion and shoulder length gray hair. I should have looked nothing like this, being a spiritual being, but there were expectations to be met. It was sort of like when souls encountered Jesus for the first time. If they had been raise in a Caucasian church He appeared like all of the pictures they had ever seen, although he looked nothing like that in life. If fact the Sabbath which was supposed to be a day of rest and coming together to worship for the most part had become a day of moving apart. How can you get unity when you can’t even get people to agree on where to meet and how to act after you get there? But once again; I digress.

I placed the book on the well worn oak table, with all of its burn marks and utensil scars. The book was about the size of a current day newspaper but about four inches thick, I could have sworn that it was only about three inches thick when I had arrived. I began at page one and started calling out names. My theory was that one by one the souls would come forward and pass through the gates. The very first one, he had been here the longest, didn't want to go. He said he had made some new friends and wanted to stay with them until their names were called. As I had no rule book for any of this, I made the first of many executive decisions. I said, "I only said you cannot pass through the gate unless you name is in the book. Since your name is in the book you may pass through, if you want to wait and go with your friends I can see no harm in that." So the very first candidate to pass through the pearly gates refused, temporarily.

As there is no time or space in this place, as human beings understand it, it is hard to explain some things properly. Let me just say that this calling out the names and letting people pass through the gate went on for what seemed a very long time but in reality passed by in the twinkling of an eye. It was about this time that Jesus stopped by to see how things were going. I showed him the book that had not diminished in size, but I think it had gained an inch or two. I told him how I would call the names and let them pass through the gate. He told me that his Father had sent him to talk to me because things didn't seem to be moving at quite the pace He had anticipated. I immediately got on the defensive telling Him I was doing the best I could and that I had no guidelines to work from. He said he knew and understood it was difficult, but he could help.

He opened the book and pointed at one of the names on the page, it seemed to glow faintly while all the others just seemed flat. He said, "You see that name, it's a special case and requires special attention." I am thinking, great this will really speed things up if I have to dole out this special attention too as well as herd these souls through the gate, but I held my tongue. He continued, "All of the rest can go through en-mass, you just have to say the word and it will be so.”

" Let me get this straight I just have to deal with the special cases and the rest just pass right through without me calling their names?”

“That's how it is, if you say the word.”

I stood up and said, “All of the souls whose name are in the book that do not require special attention may pass unhindered through the gate from this day forward. Immediately the crowd thinned and the book shrunk down to about a half an inch. Jesus nodded His approval, and then he said " Nearly seven hundred years have passed on the earth since I left and a new prophet has come, to continue mans spiritual education, His name is Muhammad and his religion is Islam. His followers have protected the Christians and the Jews and recognize Me as Jesus the Christ. These souls are to be allowed to pass, although you may find some of them show up as special cases.

I looked down at the shrunken book and began to ask how do I deal with the special cases, but when I looked up Jesus was gone.

It seemed my job had just become much easier and much harder at the same time.

The stories of all the special cases would fill many volumes and would be too time consuming to tell now, so we will leave them for another time.

Found Objects - Two Crows

2021-04-14T15:27:00.004-07:00

This story originated from a challenge within an online group I am part of. If you accepted the challenge you would receive an item in the mail. You then had 24 hours to transform that item into a story. The picture above is where my story begins. There were ultimately 24 of us who participated and the results became a book called Found Objects.

So without further ado ....

Two Crows

Rod Serling's voice, “A study in black and white, imagine an earth devoid of color, scorched earth, and bleached bones.”

My Grandmother’s house was going to be torn down. All of the relatives had taken most anything of value. I was the sole grand kid that hadn’t had a chance to get anything. I wasn’t really interested in “getting” something as much as I just wanted to see the old place one more time before the bulldozer came.

The house that my grandfather had built at the turn of the century was on a piece of property that had been in the family for almost two-hundred years. I let myself into the house and was hit with the smells from my youth as well as the stale smell of disuse. I went from room to room, all pretty bare now. I pulled a scrap of peeling wall paper down and stuck it in my pocket as my souvenir of the place. As I was about to go I notice the wood stove in the corner and thought about it for a moment. I never remembered it being used. I went over to it and opened the door thinking in the back of my mind what a great place to hide something in plain sight. I was disappointed though, just a few cobwebs. Then I pulled out the clean out tray, the black metal box that catches the ashes and bit of charcoal and anything that won’t burn.

To my surprise there were two small skeletons amongst the pile of ash and charcoal and a couple of nails. My mind began to do mental gymnastics, how had they gotten in there. If they came down the chimney, then surely there would be feathers as well as bones. Had they been burned in an armload of wood? If so how had they escaped the fire and not burned up. I was fascinated and repulsed at the same time, but for some reason I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. I’d been staring so long, I thought I saw one of them twitch. I took a picture of it with my cell phone and then I found some old newspapers and carefully packed it up. I wanted it to make its way back to my Dad so I could ask him a couple of questions.

I showed the picture to Dad and he said he had no idea. Then I brought out the actual artifacts and I saw something in his eyes for the briefest instant and then it was gone. Somehow I knew there was something not quite right about this and I continued to badger him until he broke down.

The story he told me was as strange as they get.

“The land that your Grandmother’s house sat on once belonged to the Indians and it seems our family didn’t acquire it under the best terms. The Chief of the tribe didn’t want anyone building in that area because it was supposed to be sacred and our ancestor (I guess it must have been your Great-Great Grandfather) was offered some land further away. Well further away needed more clearing and wasn’t as close to the spring. So he ignored the chief and began to build but it was slow going. First the mule he was using to drag logs to the homestead went lame and was several weeks of doctoring before he was good to work again. After the mule was well enough to work some deer got into the corn field and your Great-Great Grandfather got his rifle to scatter them and maybe get some venison for the winter. He shot into the cornfield and the deer scattered but he saw one go down. When he went to retrieve it, there lay his mule. At that point the cabin came to a standstill, but he finished it off as best he could with saplings to make a lean-to.”

“About this time the Chief sent one of the shaman to speak to the crazy white man and to explain that all of the bad luck that had befallen him was because of where he was building. Great granddad shooed him off and for good measure threw a rock at his retreating form. Well the bad luck continued and the rock hit the shaman in the back of the head and he collapsed on the spot. Well Great-Great granddad didn’t want any trouble from the tribe so he rushed over to help the man only to find him dead. He dragged the body to the river and threw it in knowing it would be carried downstream.

“A couple of days later as he was working on the lean-to he noticed another Indian coming up the path. To his shock and horror, it was the shaman he’d killed a couple of days earlier. He was so distraught he picked up his rifle and shot at him thinking it was a ghost. He struck the man in the chest and he collapsed dead on the path. Now my Great-Great Grandfather disposed of this body the same way as the last.”

“He left the homestead as it was and made his way back to town where he worked for a couple of years as the blacksmith’s apprentice. He’d saved up enough money to get a mule and some more supplies and he made his way back to the homestead, but this time he moved further down where the chief had suggested. He built his cabin and later your Grand-dad built this house on the same property, the cabin was used for storage for a while and then they pulled it down.”

“Every year on the anniversary of killing that second Indian, two crows would show up and spend the day pecking at the windows of the cabin. This went on until your Great-Great Grandfather died. We later found out that the tribe had two shamans and they were twins. It’s no wonder he thought he was seeing a ghost. Your Grandmother told me this story. Ever since then two crows would show up from time to time and start pecking on the windows. Every time they did somebody in the house would die within a couple of days. Your Grandmother always said they were a bad omen and she would kill them if she could. She tried poison bird seed, shooting them with bird shot, nothing phased them. She had become obsessed toward the end since she was the only one living in the house now. She’d told me once the only way to get rid of them was to burn them and that she would do it if it was the last thing she did. So the best I can figure is they showed up and somehow your Grand Mother caught them. Maybe she nailed them to a chunk of wood so they couldn’t get away. I guess she put them in the wood stove and burned them up and then she died in her sleep. Until you went there and looked in the wood stove, nobody but your Grand Mother knew they were there. I would bury them somewhere and try to forget that you ever saw them.”

Jinxed

2021-04-07T17:48:00.000-07:00

We are going to try something a bit different this week, I did a couple of streams on Twitch a while back reading some of the stories from my book Dead People From the Attic

Here is Jinxed, I hope you like it.

Phone to Heaven

2021-03-31T05:41:00.002-07:00

Alas, out of a field of nearly 1300 for Furious Fiction March 2021 I did not win, nor make the short nor the long list. There is always next month.

These were the complete criteria for March:

500 words or fewer.

Each story had to include the pictured setting (below) at some point.
Each story had to include the following “MAR-” words: MARKET, MARBLE, MARVELOUS, MARSHMALLOW.
Each story’s final sentence had to contain dialogue – i.e. someone speaking.

Phone to Heaven

Henry’s mother died three years ago. He’d had a hard time coming to grips with it. He’d wake up in the morning and then have the sudden realization that his mother was no long around and he’d feel this tremendous burden. He went through the motions of daily life like an automaton. He had but one goal now and that was to contact his mother and tell her he loved her. Something he’d never done in her lifetime.

Henry tried psychics and séances, but despite all of their marvelous trickery he was never convinced. After numerous attempts he gave up. Henry had nearly exhausted every possibility when he heard about a psychic fair happening the day before his birthday. It was about a two hour drive, but he was determined to try everything.

The day was brilliant and the tents had banners fluttering, the air was festive, but Henry felt troubled. There were palm readers, crystal worker, aura readers, tarot card readers, what ever you wanted in abundance. Henry couldn’t believe there was such a large market of people like this.

He made the circuit seeing what the offerings were. He’d come to the conclusion they were all fake. At the far edge of the fairgrounds there was a tent that had seen better days, it was a bit faded and you could see where it had been patched here and there. This tent intrigued Henry, it didn’t have the glitz of the rest of the fair. Could he have stumbled on the real deal?

As he approached the tent a bent figure emerged. She seemed to be well into her eighties, but still had a spring in her step. She beckoned Henry in. The inside was just a shabby as the outside with a small round table and chairs in the center with a threadbare green velvet tablecloth. It was missing some of it’s tassels.

Henry sat down. She asked to see his palm. Reluctantly he presented his hand. She examined it, then, looked at it again and said, “You are seeking a loved one who has passed on. I may be able to help you.”

Henry waited, expecting an upfront fee.

She spoke again, “About two hours south of here is a small fishing village. There is an old red Phone booth there. You can call your loved one from there. You owe me nothing, unless it works out.”

Weird, no charge. Was she legit? It was too late today for another two hour trip. He’d have to postpone it till tomorrow, his birthday.

There it was just like she said it would be, but there was a woman on the phone. She came out of the booth smiling but with tears running down her cheeks. He approached the booth with trepidation. Opening the door his olfactory senses were overwhelmed by the smell of a fresh baked chocolate marble cake with marshmallow icing, his favorite birthday cake. He lifted the receiver and dropped in a coin. “Hello, Mom?”

Death is a tough business

2021-03-23T14:38:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow Vince turns fifty-five. He thought that if he made it to fifty-five that he would retire. He was single and had lived well within his means for many years. Most men in his profession, never made it to retirement age. It was the stress, the law, or some other extraneous issue that got them.

Vince was a hit man for hire and he was the best there was. After this last job he would go to confession and then quietly disappear. He had enough money in off shore accounts to live comfortably the rest of his life. All of the documentation he would need to establish a new identity, and that had cost him a bundle. One last job, and he was gone.

The hit was some big time drug lord that he’d never heard of, but most of his jobs were unknown to him. The drug lord was suppose to be at an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town (why do they always pick abandoned warehouses?) at eight o’clock.

Vince showed up at five o’clock after parking a mile away and walking up to the warehouse. He reconnoitered the place and found the ideal location on the catwalk. High ground, good vantage point but hard to retreat quickly, but if he had to kill them all so be it. Now the waiting began.

Vince saw the headlights of a car as it pulled into the warehouse, and just as he was getting into position for a shot he heard something behind him. Before he could turn around he heard a shot from a silenced pistol.

When he came to, he was no longer on the cat walk, in fact he wasn’t sure where he was. He was disoriented and trying to make sense of where he was and what happened. It was then he noticed a figure standing in the shadows as if waiting for him to come to his senses. Instinctively Vince reached for his weapon, but it wasn’t there. The figure glided forward.

Vince saw what appeared to be some one in a grim reaper outfit, albeit a very realistic one. The figure lifted his arm and pointed a bony finger at Vince.

Vince said, “great costume.”

The figure threw back the hood of his robe and exposed only a skull with empty eye sockets. At this point Vince figured he must be dreaming.

Death looked at Vince and said,”Vincent Francis Deluca, your soul is now forfeit and I am here to collect it and escort you to Hell.”

Vince, said, but I’m a good Catholic, I go to mass and confession, in fact I went to confession just before this job. I’ve been absolved of all my sins.”

“That’s what they want you to think Vince, but it doesn’t work that way. The ten commandments say Thou Shall not Kill, there is nothing in there about going to confession. You need to come with me now.”

“But I was going to stop after this job. This was the last one, then I was going straight.”

“Well you got part of it right, it was your last job. I’ve got a tight schedule to keep, let’s go.”

“Wait, I can pay you I have a fortune stashed away.”

“Your money is worthless here Vince, but there may be something you could trade.”

“What, anything, what do you want?”

Death paused for a moment, stroking his bony chin with an equally bony hand. Then he seemed to make a decision.

“Vince, I was once in a predicament similar to yours and I was given a choice. I could take the job as one of the messengers of death, there are many of us due to the world population. Even death cannot be everywhere at all times, but I digress. I was offered the job for a thousand years and my tenure is about up and I had to find a successor. I think you will do fine. I have a few more days to show you the ropes and them … we’ll see if you work out. What do you say?”

“Let me weigh the options here for a second, work as the messenger of death for a thousand years or go straight to hell. I’ll take the job.”

Instantly Vince was transformed into a mirror image of his mentor. Death handed Vince a list of names with just a thumbs up or thumbs down beside the name.

Vince asked, “So how do I find these people, there isn’t even an address or anything?”

“All you have to do is think of the person’s name and instantly you will be there, once you have collected their soul so to speak, you you must accompany them to either the portal to Heaven or the Portal to Hell, by the way they look identical so even if you are taking them to Hell and it makes you feel better you can pretend it”s Heaven. You also get to the portal just by thinking of it. I’ll be with you every step of the way. Any questions?”

“I guess I just need to know when we start.”

“Now.”

In the twinkling of an eye they were at the bed side of an old man who had a thumbs up beside his name. Vince was glad his very first was going to Heaven. He took the old gentleman's arm and thought of the portal and sent him on through. His next was a serial killer on the lethal injection table. Vince had no qualms leading his soul to the other portal. It was as death said, the portals were identical.

This went on for what seemed like years to Vince but was in reality only a couple of days. Death explained to Vince that time was kind of funny on this side of the veil. The day had come for Death to depart.

“Well Vince, it’s time for me to go. I’ve taught you all there is to know, it’s not that hard, it just gets tedious after a while.”

As he said that his grim reaper visage transformed into that of a middle aged man with thinning gray hair, and a bit of a paunch.

The next instant they were both standing in front of a portal.

Vince said, “So now that you’ve done your time, you get to go to Heaven.”

The man formerly know as Death, just shrugged his shoulders. That was never part of the contract, I have no idea what waits me on the other side, but I must go now.”

With that he stepped through, leaving Vince to wonder.

Homeless

2021-03-17T11:43:00.003-07:00

I need to preface this with a story about the story. As I hadn't written anything new this week I took a dive into the archives and found this story that I'd written about 10 years ago according to the date stamp on the file. Anyway I read through it to make sure it was OK and I got to the end and there in parentheses was one sentence that summed up the ending. Either I didn't like the ending or couldn't be bothered to finish the story for some reason. I believe it was the former, because I wasn't thrilled with what I'd left myself to work with. So I wrote the ending to this story today and the beginning 10 years ago. A first for me. (a bit longer than most of mine, I hope you like it.)

Homeless

Andy Reese had just been to a funeral, nobody he really knew, just a friend of the family. His parents had died in a car wreck and he’d been going to friends of the family funerals ever since, he guessed as repayment.

As he approached the lane that led to his trailer, he saw bright lights and flashing red beacons. A policeman waved him over as he tried to turn into the lane. Andy pulled to the shoulder and got out. It was then the acrid smell of smoke hit his nose and he saw the glow of the fire.

“My trailer, I’ve got to get up there.” he said.

The policeman stepped forward and asked. “Sir, are you the owner of that trailer?”

“No, but I rent it and all of my stuff is in there.” There was just a touch of panic in his voice.

The policeman continued unperturbed, “I will need some information from you, can I see some ID please.”

“Sure,” he said as he fished his wallet from his back pants pocket, “but …”

“Are you the only occupant of the trailer Mr. Reese?” he asked as he was looking at my ID.

“Yes, but what about my trailer, I’ve got to get up there.”

“Mr. Reese, the fire department is doing all they can, it’s pretty isolated up there and was burning for some time before the neighbors saw it and called 911.” As the cop said this he headed back to his car saying over his shoulder, “could you just wait in you car for me please.”

Andy went back to his car and slumped down in the seat, sitting there in shock and disbelief. The cop came back a few minutes later and said,” Your license checks out. Where were you today?”

“I’m just getting back from a funeral”, Andy said. Before the cop could reply Andy pleaded, “When can I get up there and salvage my stuff?”

The cop just shook his head and said, “Son, I don’t think there is going to be anything left.”

At this point Andy just folded his arms on the steering wheel and laid his forehead down. Before he knew it great streams of tears were running down his cheeks. He found a couple of fast food paper napkins in the glove box and blew his nose and wiped his eyes. This was no time to fall apart; he needed to figure out what he was going to do. He took stock of what he now owned. One good suit that he was currently wearing, dress shoes, about $27.00 in cash, a gym bag with workout clothes and sneakers, lastly he had a bag of dirty laundry from the week, that he planned on washing tonight. Last time he checked he had about $200.00 in his checking account. He also had about that much stashed away in the trailer in case of emergency. That almost made him laugh, the tears came again instead. Funny he hadn’t cried at his parent’s funeral or any of the funerals since, but now he was crying over a stupid trailer. That wasn’t entirely true, it was more than a trailer, a big chunk of his life was in there. It was also dirt cheap because it belonged to a friend of his father.

That all happened in the early summer and now it was the end of October. Things had just unraveled since then. Andy lost his job due to down sizing, his unemployment had run out and he was living in his car. He was getting by on food stamps and recycling aluminum cans. When Andy thought of the future it was no longer full of possibilities, in fact he no longer looked more than a day ahead. There was one exception to this, for two weeks he’d had his eye on a coat at Good Will.

Today was the last Saturday in October and Andy was out in front of Good Will waiting for the doors to open. He peered through the windows and could see the coat still on the rack way back in the men’s department. He’d been in once and tried it on and it fitted him like it was tailor made. When he had looked at the price tag it was forty dollars and beyond his meager means. That was why he was at Good Will now; the last Saturday of the month is half off the price of all clothes. He thought he could swing twenty dollars for a heavy wool overcoat. Andy had scrounged aluminum cans from the break of day until it was too dark to see for two weeks the get the extra twenty dollars.

By the time the doors opened there must have been twenty five people waiting. Andy was in the forefront of the crush of people getting into the store. He weaved his way through the scattering of people and clothes racks the where the overcoat hung. It was charcoal gray, thick and had a high collar that you could turn up against the wind and cold. Just as Andy put his had out to grab it, the coat disappeared on the other side of the rack.

Andy dashed around the rack to see an older gentleman with his coat. The older man began to shrug the coat on. Andy came up behind him and said “Let me help you.” The older man thanked him and walked over to the mirror to admire himself in his new coat. Andy stepped up to him with another coat draped over his arm and said, “ That coat looks a bit tight across the shoulders for you, it’ll be worse once you get a suit coat on.” The elderly gentleman looked at Andy and then back at his reflection and said, “you might be right.”

Andy said, “I was going to get this herringbone coat, but it’s a bit big for me. Would you like to try it on?”

“That’s kind of you young man.”

Andy helped him off with the first coat and into the herringbone coat. It was actually a little bit better fit and did make the old guy look dapper. Andy said, “It looks great on you and it’s only $15.00 with today’s discount.” That was enough to clinch the deal. After many thanks the old guy tottered off to buy his new coat.

Andy took his coat to the register, paid for it and headed to his car. He had the coat over his arm and kept hearing something crinkle like a piece of paper. When he got to the car he went through all of the pockets and found nothing. He patted the coat down, there it was again, crinkle, crinkle. He finally narrowed down the piece of paper in the lining of the coat. He had felt a hole in the right hand pocket and slowly moved the piece of paper up to the hole. When he got it out it was a crisp twenty dollar bill. He laughed, the coat had been free.

Andy noticed there was something written around the border of the otherwise pristine bill.

It said, “If you bought this coat and found this bill, today maybe your lucky day.” then there was a phone number. Andy turned it over a couple of times in his hands looking for any other writing, but there was nothing. He was intrigued, maybe things were looking up.

Andy tracked down a payphone and dialed the number, after the second ring a woman answered.

“Grandville White and Associates, how may I direct your call?”

Andy didn’t know how to answer, so he said, “I found this twenty dollar bill in a coat I bought and it had this phone number on it.”

The receptionist on the other end said, “Please hold for Mr. White.”

“This is Grandville White, I hear you found my twenty. Would you be free for lunch today? I’m buying. Do you know that little diner just off of Maple?”

“Uh, yeah, I know the diner, but what's this all about?”

“Meet me at the diner at eleven-thirty so we can avoid the lunch rush, I’ll explain everything then, and if nothing else comes of our conversation you at least get a free meal. Oh, and wear the coat so I can recognize you.”

“Alright. I’ll meet you there Mr. White.”

Promptly at eleven-thirty Andy stepped through the door of the diner. He’d used the remainder of the morning trying to make himself presentable. He’d gone to the YMCA and showered and shaved and put on his one and only suit. The shoes were a bit scuffed, but that couldn’t be helped. He’d also pulled his long hair back in to a pony tail away from his face.

The moment he walked in the was a gentleman sitting at a booth and he waved him over. As Andy approached the man stood and stuck out his hand and said, “Grandville White, it’s a pleasure to meet you, And your name is? I’m sorry I forgot to ask on the phone.”

“My Name is Andy, Andy Reese.”

“Well Andy, have a seat, here let me take your coat for you.”

Andy said, I’ll just keep it on thanks, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying.”

Andy was still trying to figure this guy’s angle.

“Fair enough. Let’s order and then we can chat.”

Andy looked over the menu and when the waitress came he said, “I’ll have the club sandwich, fries and a Coke.”

“I’ll have the same.”, Mr. White said before the waitress had time to ask.

So with their orders in it was time to get to it, what ever it was.

Mr. White began, “I may have a job for you if you’d be interested.”

“What would this job be doing exactly?”

This guy looked legit, but notes on twenty dollar bills was hardly the way to conduct business.

“First tell me about yourself, what you’ve done, what your dreams are, how you came get the lucky coat. Tell me everything.”

Then Mr. White just sat back and folded his arms and waited.

For some reason Andy who for the most part was reserved, opened up to this man. He told him about his parent’s deaths, about the fire, about the laundry list of jobs he’d had in the past. About how he scrimped and saved to get this coat.

By the time he’d finished, the food had arrived and they both dug in and said no more until the last french fry was gone.

Andy said, “That was good, it’s been a long time since I’ve had a proper lunch like that.”

Mr. White finally spoke, “You have had a time of it haven’t you young man. From some of your resume it sounds like you’re an all round handyman. That’s what I’m looking for as well as an occasional driver, and gofer. If it’s something you'd be interested in the pay is only three thousand a month, but we also provide health insurance.”

After living on the streets for months, three thousand a month sounded like a fortune until Andy thought of the current rental prices in the area. He could find a dive some where, it was better than living in his car.

Mr. White spoke up again interrupting Andy’s musings, “I forgot to mention you’ll need to live on the grounds. There is a gardener’s cottage that you can have, it’s small just two bedrooms and a bath. It’s a stone cottage with a slate roof, so it’s basically fireproof. I am the trustee of the estate that the house is on and have free reign on hiring and firing. You can take the job just to get back on your feet and then move on, but if everything works out after ten years you will be vested with a retirement plan and employment for as long as you are able to work.”

Andy wasn’t sure what to say, he had a lump in his throat and tears were beginning to gather in his eyes. He managed to croak out, “Thank you so much, I’ll take the job, but why me?”

“Well Andy, fate dealt me a crummy hand to begin with too, and somebody helped me out a long time ago, this is just my way of paying it back and fate chose you, not me.”

Two Wheels Move the Soul

2021-03-10T05:17:00.007-08:00

(Late acknowledgement of International Woman's Day, loosely based on my mother who rode motorcycles and pinstriped bicycles by hand. Story from my current book Dead People From the Attic)

Two Wheels Move the Soul

There were only two women in the motorcycle club and Jane was one of them. She had read somewhere – “Four wheels move the body but two wheels move the soul.” She firmly believed it. She was thirteen when her brother, after much nagging on her part, had let her ride his Indian Scout. Even though her toes barely touched the ground and it almost fell on her once, she was smitten. From that time on her goal was to own a motorcycle - not just any motorcycle, but an Indian just like her brother’s.

It took Jane five years of relentless scrimping and saving to come up with the money to buy a fifteen-year-old Indian Scout. The bike had seen better days, but she had been hanging around the fringes of the motorcycle world for five years and had picked up a lot of information along the way.

Her brother Elliot was a mechanic and had his own garage so she had access to all the tools she would need. He also had an unused bay that he used to store tires, oil and what not. She talked him into letting her use the bay to work on her Indian. Little did he know when he gave her permission that she was going to nearly live there for six months. Somehow she had acquired a maintenance manual for her bike and planned to tear it down all the way and rebuild it.

Jane was not for doing something half way. Once she had it fully dis-assembled, she took the frame, fenders and gas tank to the local bicycle shop. She had worked for Mr. Small during the war painting and pin striping bicycles. Since all steel was being sent to the war at that time, new bicycles didn’t exist. Mr. Small’s shop would tear down an old bicycle, then re-chrome the handle bars, strip the frame and fenders and the lacquer them.

The final touch was to add the pin stripes on the fenders. It looked like a new bicycle when they finished with it.

Mr. Small took on the project and didn’t charge Jane anything. He had some fire engine red lacquer ready to go. All Jane had to do was strip off the old paint and get it down to the bare metal. After everything was dry she used her pin striping talent to do some fancy flourishes on the fenders.

There was still the matter of rebuilding the engine and re-assembling everything. Jane got a little help from her brother, but most of it she did in her free time when not working as a switchboard operator for the telephone company. She could have gotten her Indian back in shape sooner by paying to have the work done, but she wanted the satisfaction of having done it herself. She’d bought it in October and figured if she had it on the road by spring she would be happy.

Word had spread about this cute girl working on a motor- cycle over at Hancock’s garage. Her brother didn’t encourage a bunch of motorcyclists hanging around, but he really couldn’t chase them off either. They bought gas, oil and tires, so it was good for business. Besides, pretty soon it would be too cold and the guys would have packed away their cycles until spring. By then Jane should have her bike back together and be out of the storage bay.

Well, April rolled around and Jane unveiled the Scout. It was gorgeous. She had polished all the chrome and waxed all other surfaces. It nearly sparkled in the early April sunshine. Then she kick started it – it fired off on the first kick. It had a low throaty purr. She put on her helmet and took it for its maiden cruise.

Elliot was envious of her “new” motorcycle. Even though his was newer, her bike looked like it had just rolled off the assembly

line. She rolled back in and asked Elliot if he’d like to take it for a spin. Elliot didn’t want to look too eager but thought it might be a good idea to make sure nothing was wrong with it.

Elliot took it out and opened it up on the straight-away

going out of town. He hit eighty miles per hour before he slowed down. It was perfect; no vibration, no hesitation. He had to admit it, she’d done a damned good job.

For the next month or so she took it out to every speed trial she could find. Every time she won, beating all other bikes in her class. Of course, she had tweaked it just a bit. She’d polished the cylinder walls, adjusted the fuel to air ratio to be optimal and a couple of other things that she was keeping to herself.

Word began to get around and many of the guys that had poo pooed a woman motorcyclist were eating their words. They were even coming to her for mechanical advice.

Jane realized she was spending too much time on other people’s bikes and not having any time for her own. Something had to give.

Jane went and had a talk with Elliot and they came to an agreement. He would let her use half of the storage bay and his tools, free for six months. After that if she thought there was enough business he would start charging her rent, otherwise she would close up shop. They shook on it and the next day she turned in her resignation at the telephone company.

After the first month, she had a waiting list of customers for her service. After six months, she was paying Elliott rent and was happier than she had ever been. The business grew until she had to move to her own garage. At this point she was able to hire some up and coming mechanics, including one woman. Her reputation grew and she could be seen from time to time at the Bonneville Salt Flats in Utah consulting with one team

or another. She was there in 1967 when Burt Munro broke the land speed record with his modified Indian. They were to become good friends and corresponded regularly until his death in 1978.

Jane never broke any speed records, but may have had a hand in some of them. Although she could now afford any motorcycle that she wanted, she continued to ride the Scout that she rebuilt. As parts wore out it was getting harder and harder to find them, but she always managed. She was seventy-three when she had a stroke. The doctors said if she hadn’t been on that motorcycle at the time she may have lived.

She had made prior arrangements so that her headstone was engraved with a picture of her beloved Indian Motorcycle and the words “Two wheels move the soul.”

A Casual Conversation

2021-03-03T14:40:00.001-08:00

Photo credit Alan Levine

A Casual Conversation

He was sitting at the counter drinking his coffee and reading the paper when he heard a key in the back door. It was a weekday and he should have been at work, but he was playing hooky. He took a quick peek over his paper to see his wife coming in the door. "So, you're back.” he said without looking up from the morning newspaper.

You would think he’d say more; after all she had been gone for four months. You’d think he’d ask if she was OK, where she’d been, was she back for good, but none of those questions crossed his lips.

She said, “I wasn’t expecting you to be home. I just came back for a few of my things. This time when I leave I won’t be coming back.”

“There’s some fresh coffee in the pot, if you want some.”

The whole while he had not ever lowered the paper to look at her. He turned the page and was absorbed in the next tidbit of information.

“I had to leave. I had to figure out who I am. I needed my space.”

“There’s a stack of mail for you on the hall table, I opened the bills and paid them.”

He turned another page in the newspaper.

“I know I should have let you know where I was or at least that I was alive.”

“There was a postcard from your sister and her husband, they went to Hawaii and said they were having a wonderful time.”

He reached around the newspaper and picked up his coffee mug.

“You sure you don’t want some? I always make more than one person can drink.”

She winced at this; he always got up early and made the coffee so she would have a cup ready for her.

“I can’t undo the last four months. I’ve grown, I’ve spread my wings. I’m going to file for divorce. I want it to be amicable, deep down I still love you. I just can’t live with you.”

“All of the clothes that were in the hamper are clean and should be hanging up in the closet.” he said turning another page.

He wasn’t sure what she expected him to do. Did she want him to get down on his knees and beg her to stay? Had there ever been a time when he had changed her mind once she had made it up? No, better to let her do what she needed to do. After all, he still loved her and wanted her to be happy, even if it wasn’t with him.

“I only need a few things; most of the stuff is from a past life now.”

“What should I do with what’s left?

“I don’t know. Give it to the Salvation Army, have a yard sale, burn it, I don’t care. It’s isn’t another man if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything.” he said turning another page in the newspaper.

He wasn’t thinking anything. That was a hoot. The man’s mind went nonstop as long as he was awake. Had he already thought up all of the scenarios and discarded them?

“You’re always thinking something. You’re always analyzing something. You’re always holding something up to the light and turning it this way and that. You’re always coolly calculating the effect one thing has on the other. You have no soul, you show no emotion. Look at you sitting behind your newspaper drinking your coffee, not even looking at me. I’ll send for my things, I’d forgotten what it was like.”

She slammed the back door on her way out and her favorite picture fell to the floor.

He heard her pull out. The newspaper he’d been using as a shield began to quiver. He slowly lowered it to the counter. He put his tear stained face into his hands and began to sob.

School's Out

2021-02-24T05:44:00.005-08:00

photo by Christina Blust - https://www.flickr.com/photos/17010235@N06/4630590630, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10401676

This story was for the Furious Fiction contest for February. The criteria are as follows:

Each story had to be set in a SCHOOL.
Each story had to begin with the word THREE.
Each story had to include the adjectives: MAGNETIC, UNCOUTH, SUSPICIOUS, FLOWERY
55 hours and 500 words or fewer

School's Out

Three, I though I saw three kids go into the school. Nothing suspicious about that, except that school has been abandoned since the fifties. The other odd part was they were there by the door and then they weren’t.

I was here for some urban exploration but it looked like I’d been beaten inside today. I went up to the door, but it was chained shut with an old rusty padlock. So they hadn’t come in this way. Maybe they saw me and ducked around the corner. I began to walk the perimeter of the building looking for any way in. Everything seemed to be boarded up tight on the first floor, but I found a loose grate that lead to a basement door. The door was ajar and so I went in. I shined my flashlight around but saw no footprints in the dust except my own.

There was the usual hodgepodge of stuff you’d find in a basement, some rusted tools and lengths of pipe, nothing of much interest. I found my way to the stairs. The first floor was darker and mustier than the basement had been. There also seemed to be a chill in the air, odd since it was the middle of summer. I’d come out on a long hall that I assumed stretched the length of the building. My flashlight could only penetrate a short way in the gloom. Each side of the hall had doors at regular intervals. There was also a clock in the hall stopped at three twenty eight. When I was a kid the bell rang at three thirty to let us out. *Two more minutes and the bell would ring*, I thought, but this moment was frozen in time, just like all the classrooms that lined the hall.

I looked in the closest room. The ceiling was falling in, desks and chairs were piled up haphazardly in the corner. The teacher’s desk was overturned and empty drawers strewn about. Across one wall was some graffiti saying some very uncouth things about my mother. I moved on.

It was much the same in the next few rooms, I don’t know what I expected. One room still had writing on the black board. I’m not sure if it was original or had been done after it was closed up. It was a flowery poem about moon and June and that kind of nonsense.

It was strange, I hadn’t heard or seen those kids. Maybe I spooked them and they didn’t come in. As I peered in the final room, I saw them sitting at desks, they looked more like holograms than real kids. Their gaze was being drawn magnetically toward the clock on the wall. It was the same time as the one in the hall, but this one was ticking. I stood transfixed as the second hand made two complete revolutions and then the bell rang. My heart was racing. I shone the flashlight on the kids as they evaporated.