This Man Says

It started to rain around 8PM and hadn’t stopped. The sickly yellow lamp of the streetlight rippled when seen through the third floor windows. Reynold LeFevre tried to sit still. Every squeak from his chair echoed throughout the empty, mostly dark office and it was a little too disquieting for him. If not for the streetlight, his desk lamp and monitor would be the only sources of light; to conserve energy the lights went off at 9, no exceptions. For the third time that week he’d stayed late to work on his project and only in the last hour had the effort begun to pay off.

Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes from the strain of staring at a monitor. He backed away and rubbed his eyes, though he had trouble opening them again. Everything stayed blurry for a moment, with spots floating around until a few blinks later when it all went back to normal. When he focused on the monitor again it was too late. The glare became too much and triggered a nasty headache. He looked at his watch, unsurprised to see it read 1:18AM. There would be no more progress as all the tables, figures, reports and statistics bled into each other in a hodgepodge of numbers and right angles.

“I need some damn coffee.” He said, shutting down his computer. When he turned off the lamp his headache abated, but it left him in the relative dark of the office. The rain had let up and left fat droplets that all glowed the same sickly yellow on the windows. He watched as they ran down the glass, colliding with other drops that collided again until only a streak remained and disappeared from view. Suddenly, he heard a faint pop, almost like the filament of a light bulb snapping. Standing at attention, earnings folder shoved halfway into his messenger bag, Reynold looked around. Nothing. The security guard didn’t make rounds in the office anymore, unfortunately. He resumed putting away his folders, a little harried this time when another pop went off. This time much louder.

He could’ve sworn he saw a bit of flash from the far end of the office too. It’s nothing, I’m just tired, he thought. There came another loud pop, a thunder clap compared to the other two, and everything went dark. The lamp post that illuminated the office erupted in sparks that faded in the rain and shards of glass that fell to the street. Reynold ran for the window, his arms splayed in an effort to avoid running into chairs or desks. He pressed himself against the glass and looked to the alley below. In the pale moonlight he saw one shadow chasing another. He tracked their progress by splashes in the puddles they ran through. When they got too far away he followed them, minding the narrow aisle.

Another gunshot went off as the hunted rounded the corner to the front of Reynold’s building. The bullet must have hit, because they collapsed and rolled to a stop, clutching their leg. The reach of a nearby streetlight didn’t extend far enough to give Reynold a clearer view, but he could see the hunter ambling toward their victim. Please don’t kill him, he thought. The hunter obliged and only kicked the man in the chest before holstering their gun. Relieved, Reynold watched with rapt attention as the scene played on. The hunter waved into the dark and from down the street a pair of headlights came on. They flickered as the driver started the engine and drove up to their signaler. The clean white van passed under the streetlight; Sellars’ Construction in red screen print on the side was all Reynold could see before it passed into the darkness once more.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 3

Eggs and Toast by Craig Sellars. Inspiration for this story.

Slipshod

Just before dawn on a balmy Sunday morning, a mile outside of a festive looking shanty town, a spaceship landed. It resembled a dilapidated, lime green Ford Pinto station wagon with startling accuracy, save for the gull wing doors. With a click and a hiss the passenger side door opened, spewing white clouds of pressurized air from the seam. A figure stepped out, its eyes wide, round and glowing white. It was actually just the goggles; the rest of him wasn’t all that impressive. Spindly limbed with messy black hair, he wore a dusty red smock and black rubber galoshes. His mother certainly hadn’t dressed him that day.

“Where’s the town, Todd?! You said you’d land near a town!” he yelled, brushing off his clothes.

“I did land near a town. Honest I did.”

“Well where is it then?”

“A mile, uh…” Todd raised his arm like a divining rod. “That way.”

“Ugghhh.” The little one groaned, his shoulders drooping as he threw his head back in frustration. “That’s not close at all! And take off that dumb gas mask. The air’s fine.”

“Stop yelling at me, Tim. If I landed closer somebody woulda seen. And I’ve seen their movies, Tim. If I take this off-“

Tim waved away Todd’s superstitious worrying. “Whatever. Now I gotta lug my stuff the whole way.” He stepped back to the ship and leaned inside, fumbling around. After a few moments of rifling through empty take-out containers and soda bottles he got what he needed. He gripped a leather strap connected to both ends of a large pipe with flared ends and an aiming reticle...

He has a bazooka, apparently. I did not know that. Todd took something of his own from the ship, wrapped in a tarp, and strapped it to the top of his backpack. In direct contrast to his slim friend, Todd had a wide, stocky frame that held up quite well to Tim’s ineffectual physical abuse. His arms were like marble pillars and his hands were the size of frying pans, but his legs looked like they would buckle at any time from the weight. He wore a burnt orange robe and a full face gas mask with goggles that glowed just like Tim’s.

Tim slung the bazooka over his shoulder and fidgeted with the strap, squirming to get comfortable under its weight. He watched as Todd closed the door of the ship, causing the whole thing to rock. Tim closed his door with all his might, and succeeded only in closing it.

“Whatever. It’s time to go.” Tim readjusted the strap again and walked toward the village.

“It’s over there, Tim.” Todd said, pointing and looking at the ground.

“Whatever! Let’s go!”

“Okay, yeah. Sorry.”

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 2

Crash Site by Tang Kheng Heng. Inspiration for this story.

It ain't what it used to be

“It kinda comes and goes, y’know? The nightmare. I just see Sophitia falling and my god damn jetpack isn’t going fast enough. Most times I don’t even wake up when she hits. I keep flying down until I hit too.”

“And then you wake up?”

“That’s usually enough, yeah.”

“I see.”

Marqus watched as his therapist scribbled a note on its pad. He couldn’t help but notice a screw coming loose from the neck.

“Hold still a second Biff. You got a screw coming loose.”

“Projecting isn’t conducive to treatment, doctor.”

“Oh, ha ha.”

He picked up one of the many cross-head screwdrivers lying around and, bracing Biff with his hand, tightened the screw. The robot’s glowing white eyes flickered and died, its arms stuck in note scribbling position. Marqus waited a few seconds for reboot until he noticed the tapping pen.

“Biff, knock it off.” He rapped the handle of the screwdriver against the metal skull and the eyes lit back up. “Honestly, why you had to develop a sense of humor.”

“I am programmed to understand the human psyche on such a level that developing such traits was all but a foregone conclusion.”

“Yeah. You mentioned something like that before. G’night, Biff.”

“But doctor, your session-” Marqus flipped the off switch. The way a robot’s voice lost momentum and wound down to stuttering groans when shut down would always unnerve him. To be sure it turned off he tapped Biff’s head again. Nothing.

He hadn’t always been so quick to shut down his robots but their constant mechanical whirring sounded best when it stopped. However, after years surrounded by them he could no longer stand straight up silence, so finding just the right balance between quiet and noisy was a never ending struggle. Even the otherwise inaudible buzz of light bulbs reached his ears. He turned out the lights as he left the room.

The spiral staircase creaked at every footfall and the wrought iron hand rail felt cold as death. Whenever it was windy, which was often, trips to and from his therapy sessions became a foreboding affair. Biff had commented on it before, going so far as to suggest they go elsewhere in the compound, making Marqus remind it of his long and perilous career that left mere creaking and chills a non-issue. He preferred to keep his past well removed and secure from his present and the east tower was perfect for that.

“Augh! What the-!” He felt a stinging sensation in his palm,  different from the dull ache of mild arthritis. A thin cut went across it, though only small sections were bleeding. He looked for the cause and found a fine point barely sticking out of the rail. In the dozens of times going up and down the steps he’d never come across it, so while he cursed his luck he couldn’t help but laugh at the odds. Examining the cut further he realized that it intersected a scar he got years before in heated combat. It faded to a pale streak over the years, but he could still make it out when he squinted.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 2

Beyond All Spheres of Force and Matter by Federico Piatti. Inspiration for this story.

Chalk

 Melanie loved to draw. Melanie did not, however, like to be outside. So when her father presented her with a brand new set of sidewalk chalk she was less than enthused.

           

“Sidewalk chalk? I like crayons an’ markers, dad. They don’t make my skin all bumply when I touch ‘em.”

“I know that you like them, Melanie. With markers and crayons you only have a small piece of paper, but you get a much bigger canvas with chalk.”

“Yeah, but-“

“Aren’t you always telling me how you need more and bigger paper?”

“So get bigger paper, please.” She hung her head as she said it, glancing sideways at the plastic clamshell container. She did like the soft, pastel colors. “I’ll try them.”

“You will? Not just for a few minutes like the watercolors?”

“The paper kept gettin’ soaked!”

“You’re right. We’ll just have to come back to that one day.”

Melanie loved the smooth and simple nature of watercolor art. When several attempts to replicate the style with her preferred mediums didn’t meet her exacting standards, she asked for a watercolor set. She was greatly disappointed when she couldn’t get it to work. Being five at the time didn’t help matters one whit.

Her father was always supportive when it came to her hobby. He didn’t have much free time with such a demanding career, so what little there was he used to bond with her over their shared love of art.

She picked up the container and, with the familiar assurance that dad would be in his office, she took it outside. The cement patio was fairly large and occupied by furniture. A set of rocking chairs next to a small, short table were perfect spots for stargazing. Rain from last night left flat craters on the dusty glass tops of two dinner tables, but the chairs around them were dry and warm from the unimpeded glow of the sun. It was gorgeous outside, making Melanie squint to see properly.

She held up a hand and looked for the source, flinching once she found it. Going back inside where the sun couldn’t reach sounded like a great idea. Yet her interest in seeing what some of the chalk would look like when scrawled across the cement sounded better. It took her a moment to decide on a spot. Moving furniture if she needed the room wouldn’t be much of a problem, but she liked to work with as few interruptions as possible. The neatly empty space next to the garden, she thought, would be perfect.

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 2

Good Day, Sunshine by Russell Walks. Inspiration for this story.

Signal in the Concrete Sea

            Debris from the constant skirmishes warped the layout of the city into an unrecognizable state that hindered Emily’s progress to her waypoint. Buildings stood like corpses on display, their insides blown apart and scattered in the streets. Steel support beams stuck out from the rubble all gnarled and frayed. They made her think of scorched hands grasping for a world above the destruction. It helped her to ignore the real bodies.

            Her mission consisted of a single objective; to signal the resistance’s surrender. Their forces were crippled beyond recuperation and all communication was blocked. Even after weeks of sustained loss this decision wasn’t easily reached. Senior officials were whittled down to a handful that no longer held majority against the younger generation of leaders that wished to continue fighting. Rhetoric of honor found in death clashed with the sound advice of living to carry on the spirit and will of the people. It took a concentrated assault from Domain forces to draw the conclusion that surrender was best.

            Since contact with Domain was limited to firefights their options to convey the message were severely limited. A traditional blue signal flare would be the only certain way to get the message across. The only issue left was how to deliver it.

Emily had long been disillusioned with the war, so when the declaration was given it was as if she had suddenly been woken from a deep, numbing slumber. To be asleep while so much was at stake weighed on her, so before requests for a volunteer went out she demanded to be given the opportunity. Taking cover in the charred husk of a school bus did little to dissuade her from the mission.

Her overly large coat made it difficult to squeeze into and out of confined spaces, and the bulky flare constantly threatened to become dislodged from its clip on her shoulder holster. There weren’t many elements not conspiring against her at this point, but it only made her more determined, if not outright defiant. She would strip away Domain’s reasons for slaughtering citizens and extinguish its apparent lust for doing so.

All she needed was time.

***

            “I’m telling you, Commander, all we need is more time.” Captain Moore said, exasperation clear in his voice. “We are close to discovering their base of operations, and once we have that we can deliver a final blow to the resistance and be done with them forever!”

            “I understand your reasoning Moore, but compiling a majority of our forces into a single entity is an invitation for attack. Battles haven’t been fought like that in over a hundred years and for damn good reason.” Commander Dufresne took a slow drag from his cigarette then put it out to save it for later. He ignored Moore’s tantrum of knocking over a lamp and storming from the room, spitting out curses as he went.

In his long and storied military career there was no end of brash upstarts. The medals on his chest mattered less and less, apparently. For years it sickened him to be forced to deal with them, but the high turnover rate ensured their stay was strictly temporary. Soldiers he hated to bury; they fought with singular purpose: officers he gladly disposed of; they schemed to avoid the responsibility of war.  In that way he respected the rebels; they fought with purpose as well in spite of it being wholly wrong. They deserved to die; nothing less was acceptable.

            “Commander Dufresne?” said a voice over the intercom. Dufresne acknowledged it with a grunt, and the person continued. “We have intel that needs your attention, please report to central command.”

            “Noted. I’ll be there in a minute.”

            “Very well, commander.”

          

~~~

continued in Stranger and Fiction Anthology 2

The Signal by Ritche Sacilioc. Inspiration for this story.

The Life Expectancy of a Dish Washer - Intro

Back in January when I was reminded of LitFest in May, I knew that I wanted to submit a non-fiction entry along with my fiction and poetry. Almost instinctively I knew that it would be about my time as a dish washer. When I told my friends and family about it, they agreed that I had plenty of material to make a compelling piece of literature. When I told my former literature professor she was excited to finally get a chance to read about it, given how much detail I would go into when we talked in her office.

The title for the entry came just as quickly, and it's the only thing that stayed a constant from inception to completion. Sure, I posted a few excerpts from it, but they were bits I came up with while back in my dishpit. I wasn't sure where I'd make them fit, because I hadn't even started writing it yet. As I was writing it, spots opened where they fit naturally, as if I had already written it all subconsciously and was simply putting it on the screen.

As for the story itself, I can assure all of you that none of it is generalized, fictitious or overblown: it is all true. If my words and assurances aren't enough, I have pictures that I'd be more than happy to show that would substantiate them. So, without further ado...

The Life Expectancy of a Dish Washer

____There are no available statistics for the average duration of employment as a dishwasher. That’s not surprising. It’s also not something I need for this paper, because I’ve been a dishwasher for the last three years so I have some familiarity with the subject. Too much familiarity if I’m being honest. Lack of vetted statistics aside, a person will normally be a dishwasher for only six to nine months for two reasons: they only accepted the job in the hope eventual advancement, or they can’t handle it and quit.

____My career as a dishwasher began in April ‘08 and has been exclusively with the Red Lion hotel in Kennewick. I had no plans for advancement, though I was assured it was “a transient position” (the then executive chef’s words, reprinted for posterity. not mine.) and I would be in another department soon enough. As if that poorly worded promise wasn’t enough, I also desperately needed work and this was the first opportunity I had in months. I wasn’t about to turn my nose up at a job supposedly reserved for homeless people, so I accepted the position. I remember the rationalizations I made, of finding a better job or making my way to another position, but only one of them took root: I no longer had to deal with the general or shopping public.

____Before dish washing I worked at an Amazon call center, and before that I worked at Hastings. For years my careers revolved around customer service and I had simply burned out on being helpful and courteous. Being a dishwasher meant zero contact with people that weren’t employees, and that was all I needed to know. I took that idea, that simple notion of isolation, and I nurtured it. I could finally do a job without interruption, and I was sure that I could do it well. After a month of it, I wasn’t.

____I wasn’t fast enough, I didn’t know where things went and I was sure that everyone hated me. The dishes were clean, which was an unthinkable prospect at the time, but it wasn’t enough. The previous dishwasher, who became a cook when I showed up, would constantly tell me how badly I was doing. Things like “You’re takin’ way too long washin’ them dishes. You gotta go faster, or else.” or, “You’re pissin’ off other departments by not keeping those silverware caddies full.” I would feel worthless and get infuriated to the point of desperately wishing I could quit, if just to make her be dishwasher again. She couldn’t even get things clean, which made my slow but steady output something of a revelation in comparison.

____It would take another month before I learned where everything went, even longer for my speed to improve and accept that not everyone hated me. After four months, the executive chef that hired me was replaced, and my situation changed for the better in every way. Brandon had worked at the Richland property as a sous chef for years, so this was his promotion. He was closer to my age than anyone else in the kitchen, and that made it easier for me to open up and begin to actually enjoy my time at work. This became even easier when Mike, his friend and co-worker from Richland, came to work there as well. He was a few years younger, but we had much of the same interests and similar senses of humor. It was then that I began to develop actual friendships, and it made the sometimes difficult job of washing dishes somehow bearable.

____When I reached my own six month mark, I wasn’t feeling the stress inherent to the position. I was having fun with friends where I also happened to clean bits of food from plates and assorted cutlery. At nine months I was more pre-occupied with my second quarter of college than I was with my dreadful job. I instead marked the year it had been since I left Amazon, and how nice it was to not have angry people screaming at me over the phone anymore. It would take roughly a year until I began to succumb to the pressures of being a dishwasher, aided entirely by the annual Mother’s Day brunch. In no uncertain terms, that event is responsible for more instances of employee self-termination (quitting, just so we’re clear) than any other. How I survived it the year before was due entirely to the help I received, and that help would no longer be there.

____I arrived at 6AM, and I did not leave until 5:30PM. I worked practically non-stop, and when I finally got home I could barely speak, let alone sit upright long enough to have some of the delicious food from my family’s own Mother’s Day celebration. It was by no means a record, because in July of ’08 I worked a 14 hour shift, 11AM to 1AM, with a single 10 minute break seven hours in. My family didn’t know where I was and they even began to worry that I might have died. Nevertheless, that brunch is what started me on the slow decline into the distinct phases of burnout, apathy and genuine harm to my well-being.

The Life Expectancy of a Dish Washer - Continued

____Being employed as a dishwasher for a full year, I was drifting further away from the crowded median of that particular bell curve. I had reached a point where I knew what I was doing, and I was doing it well enough that I couldn’t bear the idea of starting over at a new job. Not only that, I appreciated the fact that my work schedule never conflicted with school and my checking account was healthy. Reasons to keep my job appeared and became neatly appointed stacks that demanded compliance.

____What kind of job could I get with “Dishwasher: 1Yr3Mo” listed on an application, or even the slightly fancier “Dish Room Attendant: 1 ½ years” on a resume? My options diminished the longer I stayed, and so did my hope of getting out while I still could. I was becoming institutionalized in a way, all the while dragging myself further into outlier status: a lone dot, far removed from the normal dots huddled together in their 6 to 9 month stints as washers of dishes. It was around my one and a half year point that my surroundings began to really affect me. Disorganization in the kitchen had a constant presence from the day I started, and I successfully corrected the bulk of it by this point, but of all its instances, improper stacking of plates could not be remedied.

____Every day when I come to work I walk through a short hallway, past the locker room, freezer and dry storage, temporarily unaware of the state of the dishpit. It’s not until I’m mere feet from it that I can see the amount of dirty dishes waiting for me. It takes another six or so steps until I come to the spot where my fellow employees put their plates. This is where I would regularly see the most harrowing displays of indifference from other staff members. The stacks of plates would be so mind-blowing at times; it's as if they were built from chaos and entropy. Like so many ceramic nuclear warheads, silently daring me to dismantle them without incident. They’re an amazing testament to what laziness can accomplish.There were a few times that the offending departments were told to stack them properly, and they did for a month or two. Then the inevitable slide back to putting a plate wherever would leave more delicate heaps for me to disassemble.

____I don’t know how many times I felt and fought the urge to give a measured tap to those messy stacks, but in all of my employment I never succumbed to that desire. I even managed to make a sort of open-ended game out of it, which I called Creative Dish Stacking. It was nothing more than making structures out of dishes that ranged from simple to exotic, but it was a huge boost to my sanity. Brandon caught on quick, and we were soon seeing who could out build the other. He took it a step farther and would make “stealth builds” behind me as I washed dishes. It’s enjoyably disconcerting to turn around and see a three foot tall building made of black plastic tongs and metal plate covers. As fun as that diversion would be, it just wasn’t enough to stem the tide of oncoming burnout.

____Because I was the only dishwasher, whoever was cooking on my days off would be responsible for the dishes. It wasn’t a problem at first, as the cook on duty would do a majority of the dishes, but the amount done became less and less until only the bare minimum was done. This made having days off a double-edged sword, since I would have to clean whatever was left when I got back. It was difficult to enjoy my time away from the kitchen because I knew the longer I was gone, it would be in even worse shape when I returned. There were times I’d come back and see a mostly bare counter, but they were a rare exception to a depressing rule. Still, it’s understandable, because the dish washing machine is a pain to work with.

____In all honesty, it’s not even a dish washer. It looks and acts likes one, and it might even say it is, but it’s a dirty liar; it is a dish sanitizer, and nothing more. It works by pulling racks through with a set of six evenly spaced hooks while jets of scathing hot water spray the dishes. If any desirable results are to be achieved, each item must be scrubbed clean before being sent through and even that sometimes isn’t enough. Also, one of the hooks will occasionally pop up, preventing the racks from going through. It has to be fixed manually by reaching into the machine full of 180° water, and pushing it down with a finger. It has to be done quickly because that water is constantly dripping in scalding splashes onto the arm being used. Using utensils like tongs or spatulas doesn’t work, and even then the arm is still in there.

____I was once severely burned by the water when I accidentally left the hatch open and started it, and for weeks after I would flinch whenever I flicked the switch to ON. If that wasn’t bad enough, just a few months ago the heating element shorted out, signaled by a loud bang and a puff of smoke. As I was standing next to it in a puddle of water, it’s not a stretch to say that I could have been electrocuted. The machine is a piece of shit. No, I take that back. It was a piece of shit 15 years ago. Now it's a doddering old man with cataracts driving his Buick at freeway speeds through a school zone. That's the kind of dish washer I have to work with.

The Life Expectancy of a Dish Washer - Conclusion

____Putting up with circumstances such as these for three years is a feat best not repeated, though I admit that I have a sense of pride for having done it. Even then, it wasn’t all bad. I’ve made good friends and had fun in my time as a dishwasher, and all the confounding behavior and forcefully applied incompetence can’t dilute that. More importantly, my job allowed me to do something fairly surprising, considering the type of work I was doing; I could think.

____Washing dishes is stressful, to be sure, but it’s also not too terribly difficult. I could very easily slip into autopilot while alone in my dishpit, and think about any number of things: what I’d do when I got home, homework that was due soon, story ideas and even the direction my life was taking. I was in my dishpit when I decided to become a college English professor. I had visions of sitting in my office grading papers, when the clattering rumble of a cart outside my door would trigger a flashback to being in my dishpit. This menial task I was set to doing would let me appreciate my eventual career more than if I was working retail, or some other job fit for a college student.

____Being a dishwasher is fine as a temporary measure, but prolonged exposure to it is unadvisable. In the last two months I’ve had daily migraines, near constant heartburn and I’ve begun to develop what I can only describe as borderline insomnia. It stems from my job, and I know this because two weeks ago I was given a week off, and in that time my migraines eased, my heartburn decreased and I could sleep easier. Those maladies may have temporarily subsided, but I could not stop reminding myself that I had to go back there. I tried enjoying my free time by going to movies and spending time with family and friends, but that nagging, gnashing idea of going back persisted. I decided on one simple thing during my time off; when I get back and it looks like I’ve been gone for a week, I’m putting my two weeks in. Sure enough, the kitchen looked the part.

____The silverware bin was full to bursting, none of the sheet pans were clean, and I found bits of mold growing in soup cups. At the end of my shift I wrote a note to Brandon explaining my decision, as well as my intention to train my replacement. Brandon understood completely, and he has been more than gracious. If anything he’s surprised I stayed on this long. Today, April 22nd, is my last official day as a dishwasher. As I said I’ll be training my replacement, whenever they are hired, because as much as I despise that place I don’t want to leave it the way I found it. My replacement also needs to know there is a life expectancy for a dishwasher, and they would do best not to exceed it.

The Magician - Intro

The following is my fiction entry for LitFest this year, and while it's not exactly what I was planning I'm happy with what I have. I've had the idea kicking around since January, but I've been completely unable to get a start on it. It wasn't until five hours before it was due that I managed to write that all important first sentence (for me anyway) and I was finally able to finish it.

I'll probably return to it at some point and expand on the idea and possibly make it more serious and/or gruesome, but for now this is what I have. It's somewhat meant to be symbolic of people that need to have absolutely every small detail of a story, namely the people that hate that Lost didn't answer every single question it posed. Which is why I have so many references to it, and that at one point Mr. Locke declares "...I'm lost."

With the 3,000 word limit I wasn't able to fit as much as I would like (word count is 2,717) which is probably why I'll be going back to it at some point. So anyway, that's a little bit about this particular story. I hope you all enjoy it, and as usual I'd love constructive feedback.

The Magician

The Magician

____Between a meadow and a peaceful valley lies the town of Shepherd. Rockwellian to a fault and a single shared highway exit to its name, it’s the kind of town where doors are left unlocked and porch lights burn at dusk. Elm trees dot the community park and occasional yard, providing an ample supply of shade in the summer and dead leaf piles for jumping in come fall. That’s the kind of town Shepherd is.

____As the sun settles in on a balmy July evening, the community has gathered in the town theater. They’re waiting for Benjamin Locke to appear on stage and for what the posters through town hail as his “Astounding Show of Magick and Mind Trickery” to start. Engaging in polite conversation and eager speculation, the townsfolk recall the productive day and the neat treat in store for them. Mayor Worsley himself booked the act, a fact he boastfully repeats to Henry Gale and his shy daughter Alexandra.

____“I’m tellin’ ya Henry, the things this Locke guy can do are astoundin’, just like the poster says. Astoundin’!”
____“Well that certainly does sound a treat, Mayor Worsley. I know Alex here’s been ‘specially lookin’ forward to it.” Henry gave his daughter a gentle tug closer, and smiled down at her waiting for a response. “Well? Aren’t you Alex?”
____“Of course I am Dad, you know that.” Her cheeks grew pink, and she made a grasping motion to her collar though it wasn’t at all snug. The lure of a magic show was motivation enough for her attendance, but not quite enough for socializing. Mayor Worsley took little notice, and excused himself.
____“Oops, people are getting restless and that’d be my cue Henry. Have a seat and enjoy the show.”

____Henry and Alex took their seats and watched as he bounded down the aisle and up the back steps to the stage. The house lights went down as the stage lights came up, and Worsley greeted the crowd with his usual gusto and vigor.

____“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m excited to see you all here tonight. I know you’ve all seen the posters I had posted ‘round town, and I also know it’s been a hot topic in daily discussions, my popularity ratings notwithstanding.” The crowd gave a warm chuckle, keenly aware his ratings were high. “I can promise you those posters read correct, and that tonight’s show will be astoundin’ as all that. Just you sit, take it in and give it up for Benjamin Locke!” The crowd responded in kind with as thunderous an applause as a small town like Shepherd can muster. Worsley was right, and the show will be astounding as promised, but it will not end well.

____Locke came onto the stage dressed as any magician should be, a snappy black tuxedo and silk top hat, and he drank the audience’s applause like sparkling water. His gorgeous blonde assistant trailing behind in her surprisingly modest costume tossed him an over-large magic wand which he caught deftly, but stared at in disbelief.

____“So sorry folks, but it seems Miss Eloise gave me the wrong wand.” Eloise coyly put her hand to her lips, delightfully feigning surprise at her mistake. “Trivial matter though, and I can fix it.” With a tap, a smack and a final whack, the trick wand burst into a colorful bouquet of flowers, from which he pulled his real wand. Trivial as it may have been, it was a joy to behold for the town of Shepherd, and Alex especially. Locke knew he was off to a roaring start, and he kept the momentum high throughout his act.

____Many staples of stage magic made an appearance in the show; doves born from empty metal lids and fire, the disappearance and reappearance of a rabbit, destruction and restoration of personal effects, lovely assistant teleportation and even the defiance of gravity! Spellbound, the crowd “Ooh’d” and “Ahh’d” at all the right times with a clockwork precision. Captive in Locke’s enchanted hands and mesmerized by Eloise’s beauty and grace, Alex felt the people surrounding her fade away leaving only herself and the magic on stage. Surging applause brought her senses back, as well as the people, as Locke thanked them and announced his last trick of the evening.

The Magician - Continued

____“Now, for this particular trick, I will need a volunteer. Not that Miss Eloise isn’t a capable helper in her own right, but because she will be part of the trick!” Eloise repeated her coy hand-to-mouth gesture, and curtsied genially. “Normally it would be someone from the audience.” At this, the crowd erupted once more, hands flying up in the dire hope of being selected. Alex was no exception, as she stood on the warped wood bench flailing her arm as best she could until Locke raised his arms to quell the commotion. “Thank you all, but as I said, I would normally choose from the audience. Mayor Worsley has the honor tonight, and he’s quite excited for it. So please, a round of applause for Mayor Worsley!”

____While not as enthusiastic as they were moments before, the people of Shepherd clapped and whooped for their beloved Mayor. Worsley took to the stage, soaking in the attention and the bright stage lights as politicians are wont to do.

____“So, Mr. Locke, what is it you need my help with?”
____“Mayor Worsley, what I need you to do is verify that these-!” Eloise wheeled a rack full of swords onto the stage, “are genuine, hand forged rapiers!”

____Bewildered, the crowd whispered sharply, deathly curious to know what they were for and if they were indeed real. Worsley removed one of the blades from its place and inspected it closely. While he was by no means a swordsmith, he knew what to look for in a sharp blade. After flicking the edge with his thumb, he nodded and announced the sword was real. At this, Eloise wheeled out a large wicker basket, like what would be found at a market in India.

____“Ladies and gentlemen, your Mayor has kindly verified that these rapiers are real. Now, for my last trick, Eloise will climb into this wicker basket,” which she was already doing “and with some assistance from your Mayor, I will pierce it with these very swords!” The gasps from the crowd were so sharp and so deep, that it felt as if the air itself had been robbed from the room. “For this trick, I will need absolute silence, so please… do not… make… a sound.”

____Locke closed the lid on Eloise, and grasped the first sword. Setting the tip gently against the edge, Locke thrust the blade into the basket. There was no sound that came from it, just as there was no sound from the audience as Locke picked up the second sword and repeated the motion. He drove the third sword in, plunged the fourth and fifth blades as well, and still no sounds from the basket or audience. With one sword left, Locke motioned for Worsley to come closer, and he placed the sixth sword into the Mayor’s hand. They both carefully positioned it, and on his own, Worsley drove the rapier deep, and a blood curdling scream exploded from the basket!

____The audience shot up to their feet, panic tightening its icy grip on their throats when Locke yelled for calm and Worsley did the same. When the noise was distilled to an ominous murmur, Locke lifted the basket lid as Eloise burst free, nary a scratch on her, the same lovely smile on her face as before. Monstrous applause and excited hoots filled the theater as Locke and lovely Eloise bowed. Mayor Worsley clapped the loudest and thanked the both of them for the truly “Astoundin’” show.

____“That really was something else there Benjamin. Them posters didn’t lie one bit, and I know we’d love it if y’came back this time next year.”
____“I believe that can be arranged Mayor Worsley.”
____“Please, please, call me Charlie, Benjamin. But, listen. Before y’go, I think we’d all like to know exactly how you did what you did, wouldn’t we folks?” The townsfolk gave an agreeing round approval at the idea, though Alex didn’t quite consent.”
____“How I did it?” Locke laughed heartily; playing along with what he believed was a game. ____“No, you should know that a magician doesn’t divulge his secrets, Charlie. It’s simply not how it works.” The smile on Worsley’s face faded slightly.
____“Actually, I don’t know that’s how it works, and frankly that’s kind of the problem. We should be told how you did all this. It’s only fair, and somethin’ of a lie otherwise.”
____“A lie? Charlie, magic is supposed to be mysterious. If I told you how it was done what magic would there be?”
____“I don’t think that’s for you to decide. Now, we want to know how you did this.” A chorus of ‘Yeah’s and ‘It’s only fair’s came from the townsfolk, and any trace of a smile had since faded from Worsley’s face. This was a man who got what he wanted, and Locke began to see that. Not every face in the crowd lit up at the Mayor’s calls for transparency. They were happy with the show, and content to let it stay a mystery, but a silent majority is no match when the minority is so vocal.

____“Okay, I’m lost. You people honestly don’t know that magic is meant to have a layer of secrecy? You can’t seriously be that backwater now can you? Charlie, I-“ Worsley gripped tightly to the lapel of Locke’s tuxedo, his face slightly purpling with anger.
____“Don’t you call me Charlie, and don’t you call us ‘backwater!’ We’re a friendly and welcoming community here, but we do not take kindly to liars, cheats or deceivers.”
____“Dammit, you senseless hick, let go of me!” Locke struggled to get free, but Worsley outmatched him in nearly every physical category.
____“Not until you tell us how you did it, you swindlin’ fraudster!”
____“You let him be!” The shrill burst of noise came from deep in the audience, causing the Mayor to start and ease his grip on Locke. The creaking of warped wood echoed through the hall as people turned to see who dared to speak out against the scuffle and disdainful murmuring.

The Magician - Conclusion

____Alexandra Gale was trembling terribly, her hand grasping desperately at her collar as if some noose was around it. She couldn’t stand to see such a wonderful person as Benjamin Locke be treated in such a way, especially after what he had given to the town. As the townsfolk turned to her, she could feel the burn of their eyes upon her being. She did not like attention, even in small doses, but as she looked around at her fellow people the burn of their gaze turned to brazen embers within her.

____“All that Mister Locke wanted to do was give us a good show, and he did that. Didn’t he?” Heads scattered through the crowd began to nod, and a meek “That he did” cropped up as well. Alex felt the embers breathe, as wisps of flame danced inside her. “And what he’s saying is true, he can’t just blab his secrets to us. That would ruin the show. How impressed would we all still be if we discovered how unimpressive it actually was?”
____“Pretty damn unimpressed, that’s how much!” The cry came from somewhere in the audience, but Alex didn’t look to see as she was so excited to be making a stand, the fire within her raging now. More people were coming to her side, aiding her with ecstatic cries and words of encouragement
____“So I say we should be happy with what we did get, and hope that if Mister Locke does come back next year that he’ll have even more amazing magic tricks for us!” The crowd cheered at her words, and began chanting “more magic, more magic.” Alex was no longer grasping at her collar and she felt a great pride in what she had just done.

____Mayor Worsley’s face faded from purple to a light puce during Alex’s speech, and he had let go of Locke completely. When the chanting wouldn’t stop however, the color began to intensify again. He strode to the front of the stage and screamed.

____“Never! I refuse to let this, this sharlaton within city limits again. Now you stop that damn hollerin’a’yers and get back home! And you,” Worsley raised a meaty finger and pointed it in Locke’s face. “You get yer damned act out of my town, y’hear. You are never to return as long as I’m mayor of this place.”
____“Yeah, however long that is!” Worsley spun towards the slowly dispersing crowd, desperate to match a face to the voice. “I know that’s you, Sawyer! I heard you make that ‘unimpressed’ comment earlier too!” Before he could return his attention to Locke, the magician had already vanished from the stage along with his props. Eloise really was a pro at the magic game, coy personality or not.

____Alex was walking with her father, who, despite being on friendly terms with Worsley, was immensely proud of his daughter. “See, Alex? I told you before that you have the ability to stand up for yourself. All you need is to do it.”
____“I know Dad, you’re right. It felt so great to do it too. And I can’t wait ‘til I get to see-“
She gasped, excited to see Locke next to his truck a dozen or so yards away. “I’ll be right back Dad.” She ran off at a clip as her dad stood and watched, happy to see his daughter growing up.
____“Mr. Locke! Hi!” A little startled, Locke turned around, looked down and was relieved.
____“Hi there, little girl. You’re the one who stood up for me.”
____“That I am. I’m really happy that I came to see your show tonight. It was incredible!”
____“Thank you. That really means a lot to me, considering what happened. What’s your name?”
____“Oh, um… my name is, uh, Alex!” She giggled, and composed herself “Sorry, I still get a little nervous when I talk to new people.”
____“You? Nervous? I can’t say I believe that, what with all that in there. You really saved me in there Alex. I owe you.”
____“Well, you could come back next year, maybe? That would be payback plenty for me.”
____“Payback plenty eh?” Locke smiled, but let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry Alex, but I don’t think I’ll be coming back here any time soon. At least not with Worsley still around.”
____“What?! But you heard Mr. Sawyer and them right? Worsley won’t be mayor for long, and you’ll be able to come back!”
____“He might not be mayor, but I can guarantee he’ll still be around. Someone like that doesn’t just go away. He’d make it rather difficult for me to return, I’m sure.” He saw the expectant look on Alex’s face fade, which made his heart sink. “But I’ll tell you this, as powerful as Worsley might think he is, he can’t keep me out of other towns in the county. And if you’ll promise to be there, I can set up a show nearby. Deal?”
____“Of course you’ve got a deal!” Joy filled Alex’s face as she smiled widely, and coyly put a up a hand to cover it.
____“Hey now, keep that up and Eloise might end up losing her job.” Suddenly the horn honked, startling both Ben and Alex, as Eloise poked her head out of the driver’s side window.
____“Benjamin darling, I’ve got the truck running. Hop in now.”
____“Well, you heard her Alex. I can’t leave my beautiful Eloise waiting. You go back to your dad and I’ll see you again soon enough.” Ben trotted around the front of the truck and hopped into the passenger side. Eloise blew a kiss to Alex, and drove away.
____Alex was sorry to see such interesting people go, but she took comfort in the fact that she would see them again someday. Running back to her dad she waved her hand as if she held a wand, curious if she could do magic like Locke some day.

Condolences

This is one of the poems I'll be submitting for this year's LitFest, and it's also my most personal. It wasn't an easy poem to write given the subject matter, so I kept it open in a Word file just in case that inspiration struck. This is also what I felt I needed to finish before I could really start on my other entries, so now I feel I'll be able to do them justice. Enjoy :)

Condolences

In a hotel lounge lit by televisions
and drowning in karaoke renditions
as lyrics flash, words numb and burn
from friends, curious and consoling.
Bitter by proxy, angry and confused,
the injustice of it, that fact trumps fiction.
They talk as if someone has died
or some other loss occurred that first of August

The chirrup of my phone awoke me.
A blue sky’s clear light, harsh to my eyes,
mixed warmth with chilled air on my face
happy to see your name, hear your voice, ecstatic,
deliver the inevitable. Lovely, numbing news.
I was the fifth to be told, but the loss of hope
would be the same, no matter the order.
The burn of August reduced to November chill

Heavy coats on chairs, alcohol’s heat inflames
incredulity. Supportive cries and claims of aid,
phone calls, stopped, for good reason.
A love still breathing is better left so,
like ideals, too hopeful, do best in a dream.
Lights burn, night over, so much is learned,
though Best assured, her heart is with you
it’s a warm consolation among condolences.

Maybe Another Time, Post-Meridian, When you got no place to go...

There are two things that I had a problem with while writing this story. Coming up with a title, and deciding on the name of the main character. Maybe Another Time is just as much a place holder as Post-Meridian and When you got no place to go... were. It's odd because I usually have no problem titling my stories. All I can think of is that this is a more realistic story than I usually write so an obvious title doesn't jump out at me like it usually would.

Naming the main character was/is even more difficult. I can't put my finger on why, but no name really seems to work. Darren is my fifth or so choice after Kelly (original, I know), Steve, Alden, and David. I'm willing to concede that the character is a lot like me, and that's why I can't choose a name that I feel "fits."

As for the story, I wrote it for my Creative Writing class earlier this year. The criteria called for a story broken into three parts, and the people in my group were having a hard time figuring out how to do that. So being the helpful person I am, I gave a very brief example of a brother picking his sister up from the airport. Obviously I expanded on the idea as I was talking to them and turned it into the story below.

I'm proud of what I wrote, though as I was reading it over to put it on here I changed a few things. I feel there's still more I can do with it, so this should be considered the most current iteration. Well, I hope people like it.

Maybe Another Time Pt. 1

_____“Your sister’s flight is going to land-“
_____“I know!” Darren cut his mom off, irritated at the apparent lack of trust. He was just about to close his laptop, get his jacket and leave for the airport when she called up to him. The laptop stayed open however. “At gate B16, 9:43 post meridian, our adventurous Caitlin will finally be home. Goody.” The last part he muttered under his breath. His mom seemed to hear it however.
_____“I don’t want that attitude Darren. Just, please, get off of your computer and go pick up your sister.”
_____Darren complied. He didn’t want to upset his mom any more than the current situation already had, and her voice was beginning to show signs of strain. He closed the laptop and dropped it onto his bed. Looking outside only served to make things worse. The window was spattered with rain drops, and each one had a dull yellow glow from the corner streetlight.

_____It was an especially chilly November, and he could hear the wind rushing steadily against the house. This made the job of picking up his younger sister from the airport even less appealing. Why she can't just get a damn cab. Darren picked up his jacket and went downstairs, certain he had a brooding look on his face. He got to the bottom of the stairs and was turning into the living room when his mom called from the kitchen.

_____“Darren.” His mom’s voice was calm, but tired. He hesitated for a moment, not sure what she was planning to say to him. Probably more excuses for his sister, but he went to the kitchen anyway; he didn’t want to upset her. She was sitting at the small round breakfast table, dressed in her nightgown and leaning over slightly with her hands trying to keep themselves occupied. He went over to her and sat down. For a few seconds there was only silence. Feeling just a little awkward, he looked past his mother and into the back yard. The sliding glass door was bone dry, but he could see the kitchen lights shudder every time a strong gust of wind hit the house. His mom broke the silence.

_____“I don’t want you to say anything to your sister about her trip when you pick her up. She’s had a hard enough time without her brother piling it on. Just pick her up, and bring her home.” Darren was still looking outside, watching the tree in their backyard lean in the wind. “Darren?” His eyes left the tree and met his mother’s.
_____“Yeah.” He knew he sounded non-committal, but he talked through it. “I won’t say anything to her. I don’t even want to talk to her right now if that helps.”
_____“Darren, please. It’s not your sister’s fault. She thought she was ready for school, but it just didn’t work out.” The tiredness in her voice became more apparent, but it held no remorse, and that’s what finally served to set him off as he stood up from the table.
_____“Of course it just didn’t work out. She’d only been there a few months, and I doubt she even tried while she was there. Now because of that wasted effort, there’s a bill sitting around waiting to be paid and you don’t even care!” Darren heard the words he was only thinking come out of his mouth, and he would have regretted them if they weren’t true. He only regretted that his mother was the only one to hear them.
_____“It wasn’t a waste, Darren.” Her voice wasn’t like he thought it would be after saying what he did however; there was only more exhaustion in it. “Caitlin did what she thought was best, and I’d rather have you kids do that than do nothing. Just because you got through college in one go doesn’t mean that’s how everybody should do it.” Darren wanted to argue, but his mother stood up from the table and flattened her nightgown. He stood taller than she did, but the height made very little difference. “Darren, please just go pick up your sister. Okay sweetie?”
_____Darren sighed in mild defeat, though still upset with his sister and seemingly shrank a few inches. “Okay Mom.” She hugged and wished him goodnight, went to her room, and closed the door. The light from underneath met momentarily with the fluorescent light of the kitchen, but it blinked out and broke the connection. Darren looked at the clock on the wall, and headed for the door.

Maybe Another Time Pt. 2

_____It was easy for Darren to get out of the neighborhood as it was usually quiet at that time of night, but just as he suspected, the way to the airport would not be so simple. It had stopped raining, but the streets were so pitch black that they soaked up any and all light. All that could be seen were the intense headlights and the dim, then suddenly bright tail lights of the other cars on the road. Darren loved to drive, but this love was always hampered by the fact that everybody else loved to drive as well.

_____It didn’t help that most of them were terrible at it. Why are you following so close, you jackass? was a constantly recurring thought. Yeah, see? And then that happens. Idiot. Naturally, he always put the blame on the other motorists, because that’s where it usually belonged. Darren knew wasn’t a perfect driver, and was well aware that such a thing didn’t exist. He felt that George Carlin had put it best: Have you ever noticed how anyone going slower than you is an idiot, and anybody going faster than you is a maniac?
_____
_____But Darren wasn’t getting annoyed at the idiots and maniacs. Having to slow down yet again because drivers aren’t patient made him think of his sister, and how it was her fault he had to deal with the huddled masses. He knew he shouldn’t say anything to her, but he was thinking up some mean remarks regardless of the promise he made.
_____“Come on short stack, your loser drop out chariot awaits.”
_____“Hurry up. People with lives have better things to do tonight.”
_____“One of those suitcases is going to have to go on the roof.”

_____The brake lights of the car in front flashed on and bounced as the car practically ground to a halt, catching Darren by surprise. He slammed on his brakes and slid to the right, bumping the empty curb before slotting back into the slow procession of cars. “Sonuva bitch! Pay the fuck attention!” This was directed more to the car ahead of him, as there was still plenty of space between them, but barely any between that car and the one in front of it. He knew he deserved some of the scolding though. From what he could tell, there was no damage, and he felt no difference when he drove away. It was little consolation however, as he still had to put up with these idiots for another seven miles at least.

_____Why she couldn't have gotten a cab.

_____He knew exactly why. Though their parents paid for her to go to college, she was the one who paid for the flight back home. She really pushed for it; she scrounged up what money she had, desperate to prove that she was capable of being independent on at least some level. Even so, He was still the one that had to go and pick her up. He had to watch it all unfold on the sidelines, and keep his mouth shut even if he was trying to be helpful. She refused to talk to him when the trouble started, and that’s what hurt him the most. Now that it was all over, he had to play the nice brother.

_____The scattered cars before him weren’t a bother like they were a few minutes ago. They were all on the freeway now, and everybody liked their space when going 65 miles per hour. But Darren was sick of looking at a sea of idle tail lights, and became a slight maniac to those he was now passing. He officially didn’t care anymore. He didn’t even want to say something nasty to his sister when he got to what would surely be a crowded airport. Maybe he did, but he felt an annoyed silent treatment might be the better choice.

Maybe Another Time Conclusion

_____Thankfully, mid-November turned out to be a not so busy time for air travel. Getting into the airport was a bit of a hassle, having to wait for the cars ahead of him to stop at the parking booth to get their ticket. A lot of them turned out to only be dropping off instead of picking up. Darren watched them stop along the terminal entrances, letting passengers out to make their late flights. Some goodbyes were more sentimental than others, with the driver getting out as well.

_____Darren was grateful to find a parking spot close to the terminal. He knew he’d have to carry some of his sister’s baggage back to the car, and he wanted as little responsibility as possible. She didn’t want his help while she was at school, so she shouldn’t need it now. He looked at the clock on his car stereo and was surprised to see it was already 9:58.

_____“Crap. With my luck she’s probably already off the plane and waiting for me. She better not have called Mom.” Darren turned off his car and got out, locking the door as he did. He avoided puddles on his way to the terminal entrance, but stepped in what was likely the last and deepest one. He swore as his shoe and pants leg dripped, and left a single, wet foot print on the white tile floor of the terminal as he walked. He went to the directory, listening to the ‘squeak-step, squeak-step’ of his feet as he went.

_____It wasn’t that big of an airport, so the baggage claim where Caitlin would be was fairly close by. He got himself pointed in the right direction and briskly walked to the baggage claim, the ‘squeak-step, squeak-step’ slowly fading away as the bottom of his shoe dried. He was not happy, to say the least. He wanted out of that airport, done with the traffic and back home in his bed where he could pretend his sister was somewhere else.

_____He rounded the corner and saw the baggage claim, and the people huddled around it occasionally stepping forward to grab their luggage. A portly older gentleman leaned forward and grabbed a carry on that seemed much too small to handle everything he would need for a trip. The man walked away from the crowd, peeking into his bag as if to make sure nothing was missing. When Darren looked back at the waiting crowd, he saw Caitlin. He was about to call something rude out to her when somebody stepped up and bumped her out of place. She didn’t fall, but she didn’t step back to where she had been.

_____Darren watched his sister just stand there, dejected. She wore a simple jacket, t-shirt and jeans, that all hung limply on her. Her hair wasn’t even the usual raven colored sleek it had always been. Instead it was slightly tussled, with errant strands sticking out. But that was nothing compared to the look on her face. There was a miserable sadness that he’d only seen once before; when she was seven and her favorite toy bear had gone missing. Her lips were tight, holding back a desperate need to break down. From the corner of her eye to the bottom of her chin was a thin, faded grey trail where her tears streamed silently.

_____In that moment, Darren forgot everything about the mean things he was thinking and thought he wanted to say to his sister, who had only wanted to prove her worth and independence. He walked up to her and placed his hand gently on her shoulder.

_____“Hey, Caity.” He said as warmly as he possibly could.
_____She looked at him, the corner of her mouth lifting a tiny amount, and spoke a softly audible “Hi.” Darren felt genuinely surprised that she could manage that much. She was so unlike herself at that moment. Darren put his arm around his sister’s shoulder and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Thanks for picking me up Darren.” She snuffed her nose, still trying to keep herself somewhat composed.
_____Darren snuffed his nose too, fighting the urge to cry. “Any time.”


The End