Special Paper

Late night rainstorms are like Santa Claus, leaving little presents for any child who knows where to look for them the next morning.  Alvie Harrison was such a child; jumping from puddle to puddle, trying his best to splash them into the trees behind his house, but doing a better job of drenching his t-shirt instead.

Alvie was going to see his Great Uncle Bakchos who lived down the way.  Uncle Bakchos had a wonderful garden, full of brilliantly-colored plants and flowers; a hedge maze and topiary beasts from far away worlds. It was one of Alvie’s favorite places to play, particularly after a good rainstorm.

Uncle Bakchos looked almost exactly like his brother, Alekos, Alvie’s grandfather and the man Alvie was named after, except that Uncle Bakchos had a short, white beard.  When Alvie came into the yard, he found his Uncle sitting at a small, stone table and eating grapes.  A rolled-up piece of paper sat on the table in front of him.

“Hello, Uncle Bakchos!” Alvie greeted him, smiling.  But his uncle was lost in thought, staring at the clouds in the distance and nibbling his grapes.  Finally, he snapped to attention and noticed Alvie staring at him.

“Alvie!  Oh, my boy, good to see you, good to see you.”

Alvie reached for the paper, “What’s this?”

“Aye, be careful!” Uncle Bakchos picked up the paper, “Gently, my boy, gently.”  He started to unroll the paper for Alvie to see.  Alvie looked at the charcoal drawings and his eyes lit up.

“A map!  I love maps.”

Uncle Bakchos smiled.  “This isn’t just any map, but a map drawn on Sendak paper!”

Alvie noticed the other blank sheets of paper under his uncle’s map.  “What’s Sendak paper?”

Uncle Bakchos’ eyes went somewhere far away as he explained.

“It’s special.  Unique in all the world for its ability to take you to a wonderful place, where the wild things live.  Home of the boy king and the dancing.  Ah, yes, the dancing.”

“Dancing?” Alvie grimaced, “I don’t know about dancing.  But boy kings and wild things sound nice.  I’d like to go!”

Uncle Bakchos smiled and patted Alvie’s head.

“Of course you do, my boy!” Uncle Bakchos said, pulling a stick of charcoal from his shirt pocket and handing it to Alvie.  “Here.  You’ll want to make a map of your own.  Things may have changed since your grandfather and I went those many years ago.  But Alvie,” he handed the boy a piece of Sendak parchment, “remember this.  You’ll cross a large sea.  On the other side, you must be the fiercest of all wild things and look them in the eye.  And when you arrive, a boy king yourself, try the dancing.  I don’t think you will mind so much.  For it is a dance, once learned, that will stay with you when the world turns gray.  A stray bit of light against the shadows.”

Alvie stuck the charcoal stick in his pocket and then carefully rolled up the Sendak paper, ready to go.

“Well, okay.  I’ll try the dancing.  But if I don’t like it, I’ll just stop.  Kings don’t have to dance when I’m king.”

Uncle Bakchos grinned once more before sending Alvie on his journey.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *

R.I.P.  Maurice Sendak

Helmsman of the first fantastic voyage I ever went on, allowing the blueprint for many of my childhood adventures thereafter.

Never Sample the Peddler’s Wares

Once upon a time in the land of Arke, there lay a small village whose citizens never got sick, never felt ailments of any kind.  One day a peddler came to the village with wares stemming from the farthest corners of Arke.

“Come!” he barked, “Come see my treasures!  I’ve all the wonders of Arke represented in my wagon!”

So the villagers came; first a few at a time and then in droves.  They handled the fabrics and the leathers.  They toyed with the trinkets and tasted the wines.  Finally the peddler asked, “Who among you will be the first purchase?”

But the villagers all began to feign boredom and walk away.  “What?” the peddler bellowed, “Not one of you will pay for your sample of my wares?”

Shushed murmuring was the village’s response.  Slowly the peddler climbed into his wagon, only to return with a long staff.  He stuck the staff near the road.

“A curse upon this village!” he yelled, and a red glow shown from the staff.  The peddler climbed back into his wagon and left the village, leaving his staff standing where he’d placed it.

Within a week the villagers all began to feel strange. Coughing and sneezing became common sounds in the village market and taverns.  Runny noses and aching heads the norm.  The villagers didn’t know what to do; these symptoms were so foreign to them.  After a town meeting, the village council thought to remove the peddler’s staff.  Many feebly tried but couldn’t muster the strength.

Finally, a young girl decided to seek out the peddler, taking a small amount of money with her.  Upon finding him, she purchased what little her money would buy, a small crystal necklace.  She raced back to her village as quickly as her fever-wracked body could manage.

But when she arrived, the village was gone.  Not a stick from a building or a marker from the roadway was there.  She stood in an empty valley; no sign that her village ever existed.

With tears in her eyes, the little girl absently rubbed the crystal necklace around her neck.  She coughed once, snapped the necklace’s crystal and vanished, leaving only the sound of a lonely wind, howling in the valley.

Focus

I’m hungry.

Do we have any leftover Chinese in the fridge?  I think there was a little.  I could just slip away and –

No, no.  I’m editing.  Gotta stay the course.  This book won’t edit itself.

Wouldn’t that be cool; a self-editing novel.  Like you type the last period and put it into a drawer, leave it alone for a few days and come back.  Done.  Little elves do all the work.  Like in that story with the guy who makes hats and gets behind so the elves catch him up overnight while he’s asleep.

I’ve reread the same paragraph three times now.

Dammit, I’ve got to concentrate!

Okay, for real.  Deep breath.  Stretch.  I can do this.  Get this one in the bag.

Man, my sentence structure is awful here.  Was I trying to imply that the goat’s wearing a sweater vest?  That’s certainly how it reads.  And I’m pretty sure I meant to type impregnable, not impregnate.  I don’t even know how one would go about knocking up a heavily fortified fortress. . .

Fortified fortress. Good job there, Writer, way to reach with the vocabulary.  And I wanna do this for a living?

C’mon, don’t go negative.  I’ve written a book!

Just have to edit it, is all. . .

I’ve only been at it for two hours and I’m not getting up until I’ve put in at least three more.  I’m doing this!  I’m finishing getting this novel edited today!

. . . . . .

. . .maybe it was shoes, not hats. . .

A Birthday Story

This tale is a little too long to be an actual flash, I know.  But, here’s the thing, I intended it to be a birthday gift for my wife and I asked for any and all outside prompts via social media before writing anything. The list that came from that was: A birthday wish, a blind man, a candle, childhood, elven archers, a golden goose, Hercules’s Club, James Spader, Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing”, a knight in shining armor (though I didn’t actually put him in it) a lap dance, marijuana, an oddly sentient cat, penguins, Pep-O-Mints, a plastic trash can flung at a car, political intrigue, puking on the highway, a rhyme, squirrel pastry, a strong female protagonist, a threesome (again, I stretched this a bit), thrills and the letter W.  This uneven, thoroughly wandering tale is what I came up with.

Hope you enjoy.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Juniper Soot is eight-years-old and lives in a junkyard just outside of town.  It’s not her actual home, you see, but rather where she prefers to spend her free time, for reasons that are not the business of you or me.

On Friday she stopped by the gas station for a pack of Pep-O-Mints and a Cherry Coke.  The clerk was watching a little T.V. under the counter.  On the T.V. a man was getting a lap dance from a stripper.  “Who strips to Don’t Stop Believing?” the man wondered aloud, focusing on the screen as Juniper put her little purse up on the counter.  Looking up, the clerk turned off his T.V.

“Pennies again?” he asked, annoyed, “Why don’t you ever have any real money?”

“Pennies are coins.” Juniper told him. “Coins are money.” She continued to count out the pennies until she had paid him.  “Thank you!” Juniper told the man and opened her Pep-O-Mints, crunching them on her way out.

When Juniper got to the junkyard, she saw a brown cat waiting just outside the gate.  It was watching her as she approached.

“Hello there, kitty.” Juniper said, holding her hand toward the cat.

“Hello.” The cat said in return.

“What’s your name?” Juniper asked, seemingly unimpressed with a talking cat as the cat nuzzled her open hand.

“I’m Story.  I was invited to a party just inside here.”

“You know Sir Bannendworp?” Juniper asked as the two made their way through the junkyard gates.

“Indeed.” the cat named Story purred, “Though I have not seen him in some time.  Is he well?” she asked, hopping on top of an old tractor tire as they walked.

“Most days.” Juniper told her.  Then she twisted her face up, using her wondering look. “I don’t think he likes his birthday, though.  He holds his head and keeps asking if a mystery is here.”

Juniper didn’t know if cats could smile but she was pretty sure Story did just then.

“Not a mystery,” Story told her, “but Mystery.  Mystery’s my brother.  I’ve come in his stead to see poor Sir Bannendworp.”

Suddenly a loud crash from in front of them made Story jump down and stand in front of Juniper.

“It’s okay.” Juniper petted Story’s neck, “It’s just the penguins.”

A cloud of smoke billowed from a makeshift hut with a marijuana leaf painted on its side.

“I could take her to the dance. She said I look like that guy, with the face, in that movie Stargate and that show with the fat Captain Kirk…” A stuffed penguin was saying.

“James Spader.” A second stuffed penguin told him.

The first stuffed penguin nodded and pointed to the second while talking to a third stuffed penguin. “That guy.  She said I just need the glasses.”

“She needs glasses.  Hey, what time’s the –” the third penguin noticed Juniper and Story.

“Hey guys, this is Story.” Juniper told the penguins.  “Story, this is Bob, Dodge and Weave.”

The penguins stared at Story.  Thirty seconds ticked by.

“I would love a squirrel pastry.” Dodge, the first penguin said.

“What?  You’ve never eaten squirrel.” Weave, the second penguin told him.

“I just like the idea of it.” Dodge replied while Bob sat down in the dirt and started yodeling.

“What a strange threesome.” Story thought as she and Juniper continued deeper into the junkyard.

Rounding the corner the pair came upon a busted down ancient-looking RV that was surrounded by old car parts.  A golden goose was painted above the door and a suit of shiny armor stood empty, a hollow sentry, just to its left.

Juniper knocked on the door three times.  A thin woman with large eyes opened the door.

“Juniper, so glad you could make it!” the woman said.

“Hello W,” Juniper said, following the woman into the RV and introducing her to Story.

W led the two back into the RV’s living area which was loaded with old books and magazines.  Story saw Juniper place her Cherry Coke in front of a young man who appeared to be blind, seated at a table.  A lone candle was lit before him and he was chewing something.

“Thank you, Juniper.  I’ll enjoy it later.  The penguins retrieved some Hercules’ Club from across the highway for me earlier.  Chewing the leaves helps my toothache, you know.  They were almost killed in the attempt.  Bob fell, puking on the highway and was nearly run down.  Probably would have been if Dodge hadn’t flung a plastic trash can at the car bearing down on him.  At any rate,” the man spit the leaves out into a handkerchief that W had handed him, “I hear you’ve brought a guest.”

“Hello, Ian.” Story said to him.

The man named Ian sat back, quickly inhaling.

“Story?” he said.

“It’s me.” The cat replied.

“Who’s Ian?” Juniper asked.

“He’s me.” Ian replied, “Ian Bannendworp.  No one’s called me Ian in years.  But, wait,” Ian sat back up quickly, “if you’re here, then…”

“Then your birthday wish those many years ago came true and my brother’s work is done.  It took quick wits in the political arena amidst the elves – they do love their arrows – but your past is no longer shrouded in the unknown.  It’s become a tale instead.” Story hopped onto the table in front of him.

“I don’t understand.” Juniper sat down on the floor and crossed her legs, minding a pile of books as W joined her.

“You see, Juniper, Sir Bannendworp and I know each other from a long time ago.” Story explained, “Who he is was lost to him in crossing over to this world and, once upon a time, he wished that my brother might help him.  This is what came of that wish.”

Story sat, staring into the flame of the candle.  As she began to speak, Juniper noticed her voice sounded different; more like Juniper’s teacher voice sounded when she read the class a book.

“In the realm of Bellacree, across the narrow sea

Lays the Kingdom of Yurn.

A nation beyond dreaming, its white towers gleaming

And where time doesn’t turn.

But internal strife arose, and not one hero rose

The land, to ruin, fell.

To each surviving member, they couldn’t remember

The lives they’d known so well.

In their immortality, they crossed the narrow sea

Where’s the Kingdom of Yurn?

With the story now ended, your memory mended

To home you may return.”

The young knight shook his head as if out of a daze.  He looked around the room with fresh sight.  When his eyes landed on Juniper, he smiled.

“You’ve been a good friend, Juniper,” he told her, “but it’s time I leave.  I’m long overdue, I’m afraid.”  He turned to Story.  “Thank you, Story.  And be sure to thank your brother.  You will see that Juniper gets home safely?”

“Of course.”  Story said as she stood again.

Juniper didn’t understand what was happening.  Before she knew it, she and Story were the only ones left in the junkyard.  W had disappeared into a blue light with Sir Bannendworp and now the penguins were just stuffed animals again.  She picked them all up anyway and put them in her backpack.

Story walked Juniper back home, all the way to the edge of her own yard.

“Will you be okay?” the cat asked her.

Juniper thought about it for a little while.

“I think so.” She said.

“What will you do next?” Story purred.

“I dunno.  Maybe I’ll go visit the Kingdom of Yurn.”

Bar Talk

Mike sat at the bar and focused on his fourth whiskey, watching as the little air bubbles escaped from the melting ice and reached the surface.  The bar was about to close for the night.  Mike was swirling the ice around in his glass of amber bliss when he noticed them walk in; a man and a woman.  Two newcomers to the joint, or at least Mike had never seen them before.  They sat at the end of the bar, but close enough that Mike could make out their conversation.

“Nice of you to meet me like this.” The woman grinned at the man, “I didn’t know if you would.”  She tucked her long black hair behind her ear as she ordered champagne from the approaching barman.

“Beer for me; whatever’s on tap.” The man told the barman.  He turned to the woman, “I always do.  Why would this decade be different?”  He kept his silver hair short, giving him a militant look.

“This has been a tough decade for you.”  The woman gave a demure pout, “I haven’t made things very easy I’m afraid.”

The barman delivered their drinks as Mike forgot his.

“It’s not your function to make things easy for me.” The silver-haired man told her and swigged his beer. “So, I’m here.”

“’Not your function’.  You know, you might actually enjoy the game if you weren’t so uptight.” The woman ran her fingers through a bowl of pretzels, “You make it too easy to beat you.”

“You’ve not won.” The silver-haired man said quietly, “You’ve made strong moves in a long game is all.”

“Oh, honey, you may have played some safe hands in the fifties, but you’ve been getting trounced regularly since the sixties.” The woman laughed and sipped her champagne.

“Some in the sixties burned bright.” The silver-haired man said, “Their fire’s still felt to this day.” He ordered another beer.

“A fire I had doused by the dawn of the seventies, either by drug or by thug, before it could do any real damage.  The poetry of their muses is merely used for selling cars and hamburgers in this age, only relevant to baby boomers and top 100 lists.” The woman finished her champagne and held the empty glass up to signal the barman. “Granted, I had a few of your sixties stragglers to see to in the eighties, but I handled them.”

The silver-haired man ordered two shots of tequila when the barman brought their drinks and simply swigged some more beer in silence as he waited for them.  His drinking partner took his silence as leave to continue her bragging.

“Oh, but you really didn’t enjoy the eighties, did you?” she laughed.  “No, not a bit.  I really outdid myself that decade.  The misinformation, the fear, made for a very untrusting time.  From government to the church; neighbors even.  Simply scrumptious.”  She shot the tequila the barman brought, “What did you have again?  MTV and We Are The World?  They’ve still yet to realize that American fame does not a world make.”

“A great deal of good took place in the eighties, in and between government, churches and neighbors.  If you can only count your wins amongst the pop-culture landscape –” the silver-haired man began.

“But that’s what you never understand!” the woman yelled, snatching her champagne glass up, “That is my masterstroke! It’s why you’ll never catch up!  I’ve brought about the age of reality as fickle entertainment.  Of bad television.  I underscored it in the nineties and it is gospel today.  Every person has learned it before they’re a teen demographic.  Fame, even at fifteen minutes, is everything.  Negativity sells.  None of them sit up and take notice of anything less than sex, death and dirt!  I mean, war is even trivial to them!”  She finished her champagne in a gulp.

The silver-haired man had shot his tequila during the woman’s diatribe.  Sitting there nursing his beer, merely listening.

Composing herself, the woman took a deep breath and then signaled the barman for the check.  She looked to the silver-haired man as if to size him up.

“Why continue this game?” She asked him.  “Honestly.  Why?  As it stands, I see no way of you ever being a real challenge for me again.  You doling out poets and kings to administer compassion and wisdom to a world that eats its wise men seems a waste of cosmic proportions.  Why not admit defeat with a modicum of dignity?”

The silver-haired man drank from his beer and looked at the woman.

“The potential of tomorrow.” He said.

The woman just laughed at the silver-haired man as the barman approached.

“Is this separate tabs?” the barman asked the couple.

“Not in the least.” The woman said to the barman, still smiling at the silver-haired man, “I haven’t paid for our drinks since 1959.  Loser pays, is the standard wager.”  Then she gathered her things and left.

Mike continued to watch as the silver-haired man finished his beer.  The barman walked the check down the bar to the silver-haired man.  Not knowing why he did it, Mike suddenly spoke up and got the barman’s attention.

“Hey, put their tab on mine.”  Mike turned to the silver-haired man, “I got this.”

The silver-haired man just looked at Mike.

“That’s not necessary.” He said, reaching for his wallet.

Mike grabbed the check from the barman.

“I insist.” Mike said, slipping a fifty into the barman’s hand.

The matter settled, Mike sipped his whiskey.  The silver-haired man gathered his things and walked down the bar to where Mike sat.

“I appreciate that.” The silver-haired man said, “Might I ask why you did it?”

Mike thought about it for a long while, finishing his whiskey as he did.  Finally, getting up from his chair, he said, “I overheard your chat with your friend there.  Couldn’t help it. Now, I don’t know from no poets or kings, or whatever you two was on about, but it’s a weary old world.  That I do know.  And sometimes, when ya can, you buy a guy a drink.”

Desert Stray

“Okay, wait.  Do you mean, like, 28 Days Later zombies or Romero’s?”  Cissy asked as the wind toyed with her long, blonde hair.

Joe shifted gears in their beat up hatchback then flicked his cigarette out the window as they sped down the highway.

“Both.” He replied.

“Oh, God.” Cissy said, picturing all that undead flesh, “I guess – wait, can I have a shotgun instead of a 9mm?”

“Sure, but that means your SUV only has a quarter tank of gas in it.”  Joe smiled.

“Fine.  Well, I guess I’d blast my way out of the – this is stupid.  No way would I have gone to the library during a zombie apocalypse!”

“You hadn’t heard the news.” Joe said, after thinking for a second.

“Then why the hell would I be wandering the streets with a shotgun?” Cissy asked incredulously, “What kinda scary-ass library is this?”

“Yeah,” Joe admitted, “I didn’t think this question through very well.  My brain’s getting tired.” He said through a yawn.

“Well, we’ve been playing since Oklahoma.  We can take a break.” Cissy said, rolling her window up, “Want me to drive for a bit?”

“Sure.” Joe said, pulling over to the side of the highway.  “Just let me get a few hours’ sleep and then I’ll take back over.”

While Joe came around from the driver’s side, Cissy got out and stretched, looking up at the desert moon.  The night air had gotten chilly, making Cissy regret her wardrobe choice of a t-shirt and shorts.

“I’m going to get in my bag really quick, grab some sweats.”  Cissy said, climbing into the back seat.

“Okay.  Hey, will you grab my –”

“Grab what?” Cissy asked, looking up.  She inhaled sharply.  What looked to Cissy to be a large, black dog was standing in the light from their headlights, staring at them.  “Is that a wolf?”  Cissy whispered.

“Stay in the car and shut the door.” Joe whispered back.

Cissy did as Joe said and shut her door just as he shut his.

“Is it a wolf, Joe?”

“Do they even have wolves in the desert?  I dunno.” Joe said as the creature moved closer toward them, staying in the headlights.  “It looks hungry.”

“Joe, let’s just go.” Cissy shook his shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s a good idea.” Joe climbed over the middle console back into the driver’s seat, “I’m wide awake now.”

“Joe!” Cissy grabbed his arm, “Where’d the wolf go?”

Joe peered through the window but didn’t see the wolf anymore.  It wasn’t out the front window or either side.  He climbed back over and looked out the passenger side window.  The animal, whatever it was, had simply vanished into the night.

“I don’t see it anywhere.” Joe said.

“Let’s go.” Cissy shivered.  She told herself it was because she was cold.

Joe got them going down the highway again.  They sat in silence for a long while, both lost in thought.  Eventually, Cissy dozed off.  As she slept, she dreamed.

She dreamt of long pathways cut in sand and framed in stone.  She was being chased.  She could hear her heart beating faster; her breathing, heavier.  Only, it wasn’t her breathing.  It belonged to whoever hunted her.  It was close.

Closer.

Cissy came to a cliff in her dream.  There, at the cliff’s edge, stood her pursuer.  A black wolf with an oddly human face.  As the man’s face on the wolf’s body circled Cissy, it spoke:

“Thanks for the lift.”

And then it jumped at her.

Cissy woke up screaming.

Joe shook her by the arm.

“Are you okay?”  Joe asked.

“Yeah.” Cissy took a swig of water to steady herself.  “I’m good. Bad dream.”

“Sounded like it.” Joe said, “Well, we’re almost in the clear.  Twenty-four more miles and we’re out of the desert.”

Cissy sat quietly.  She couldn’t explain why, but something about being free from the desert made her smile.

Conversations In the Park

Templeton Gabtree, whose mother was clearly a deeply devoted Charlotte’s Web fan, trusted no one like he trusted the pigeons in Paraffin Park.  The park was actually named Van Buren Park, after the eighth President of the United States, but Templeton was not overly fond of the number eight; he found it to be annoyingly coy, so he instead referred to the park as Paraffin Park, due to the vast number of salons surrounding it, instead.

Templeton worked as a clerk in a law office downtown.  He rather enjoyed the monotony of his day; the dull rhythm that came with research.  He more often than not kept himself to the lower offices, away from his coworkers, as his constantly humming Dio tunes while he worked seemed to unnerve them.

Returning to the subject of pigeons, Templeton always fed them during his lunch break over the course of his workweek.  Today was Saturday, however, and on the weekends Templeton stopped at Stony’s, an outdoor vendor located off Vlautin and 5^th, and bought the pigeons a soft pretzel to enjoy.

Templeton’s typical spot in the park, the blue bench across from the small wishing fountain, was already occupied when he arrived.  A woman dressed in running gear was nursing what appeared to be a sprained ankle.  Templeton looked for a seat elsewhere as his feathered friends began to surround him, cooing in appreciation.  Templeton began his hellos as he looked for adequate seating.

“Hello, John.  Jacob.  Nice to see you, Jingleheimer.  You look well, Schmidt!”

Opting to just sit cross-legged in front of the fountain, Templeton pulled the soft pretzel from his pocket.

“Sorry, but Stony was out of the salt-free kind.  I’ve been working off all of the salt I can, though, so you should be fine.”  Templeton said, scraping off another section of pretzel before breaking it off.  “Esteban, don’t be such a pig.”

“Coo, Coo.”

“Yes, well, you snatched Bess’ lunch from her.  Mind your manners.”

“Coo, Coo.”

And so it went, Templeton calling each of his friends by name in greeting while he fed them the soft pretzel.  He discussed the week’s events, how work was very busy lately and how Margaret, a woman in accounting, had been caught taking long lunches.  Templeton then explained how the recent holidays had put him behind on his comic books.

“It’s not that I can’t appreciate why they can’t arrive on Wednesday, I’m merely stating that –”

“Coo, Coo.”

“‘They’re only superheroes.’?  What does that even mean?”

“Coo, Coo.”

“Blakely, you’ve just been all but intolerant of comic books since Green Lantern came out.  Personally, I didn’t think it was so bad.  You just –“

“Coo, Coo.”

“Now look here, I’ll not have you speaking down to me about the Hulk.  Let’s just move on before we both say things we’ll regret later.”

Templeton continued bantering with his friends long after they had finished their soft pretzel, oblivious to the fact that the woman nursing her ankle had been a captivated audience as well.  Judging her ankle steady, she made her way over to the odd group.

“Hello.” She said as the pigeons hurried away from her, circling Templeton, climbing on and around him onto the fountain.

Templeton stood up.

“Hello.” Templeton returned.  He’d never been very good with people.

“Coo, Coo.”

“I’m sure she does not have any treats for you, Esteban, you greedy boy.”  Templeton admonished the pigeon close to approaching the woman.

“I’m sorry,” the jogger said to the bird, “I don’t.  I’m Lisa.” She said to Templeton, extending her hand to him.

“Templeton.” He shared, shaking her hand.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help overhear that there was a Green Lantern hater over here.”  Lisa said, looking to Blakely.

Templeton just looked on in wonder as Lisa explained the film’s merits to Blakely, who bobbed his head argumentatively, and returned to his seat by the fountain.

“Coo, Coo.”

A Busy Saturday Morning

(This is a short piece that I’d entered in a contest a while back to no effect.  If you read Absent Hobbes, you may well recognize our protagonist here.  Hope you enjoy.)

It was getting pretty late in the morning when seven-year-old Alvie pushed his glasses back into their proper position on his nose.  Keeping Groogers out of his mom’s bushes was sweaty work, but it needed doing.

Alvie unrolled the hose and wrapped it around the base of his mom’s favorite bush, the one with the purple flowers, until it formed a circle, then he clamped it with a zip tie.

“That old Grooger won’t get in there now.  He won’t get by our trap.  Groogers love the smell of garden hoses too much.  Once he stops to sniff – WHAMMO – it’s up, up and away!” he told Samantha, his best friend and next door neighbor.

“What about sheet nets?  I thought they didn’t like sheet nets.” she replied, carefully minding the bright red, helium-filled balloon that was tied to her wrist.  She pulled open a cardboard box marked Alvie’s Hunting Stuff, “Isn’t that what you said yesterday?”

Alvie made his way over to the box and started going through it; grabbing an empty soda bottle, looking it over and then setting it aside as he went back into the box.  “It’s Moos that don’t like sheet nets.  Where are my sofa springs?”

Samantha crinkled her nose at an old sock stuffed through a toilet paper roll.  “I don’t think you’re right.  Where’s the Book, I’ll look it up.”

Samantha, red balloon bouncing joyfully behind her, made her way over to a green knapsack that had U.S. Army written on the front of it.  Alvie kept only his most prized possessions in that knapsack.  Just then it contained a small coffee can full of little rocks that they had gathered from the planet Bodar (the mound of earth that had been dug up last summer when Alvie’s grandpa had had a pool put in), scrap from an alien spaceship that had flown over Alvie’s back yard (a tool that the cable repair man had dropped last week and was in fact still looking for) and the Book, a store-bought journal that Alvie and Samantha used for taking notes about their adventures.  There was a slot on the side for storing a pen but Alvie had lost the pen, so they used a green crayon instead.

Samantha thumbed through the Book as Alvie found the two springs he’d been looking for.  He placed them on either side of the zip-locked hose.

“Now I just need a stick to tie the balloon to, connect that to the springs and we’re ready.” Alvie said, looking up at Samantha, “Want to help find one?”

Samantha shut the Book and put it back into the knapsack.  “Huh, it really was Moos.  Yeah, okay.  How big of a stick do we need?”

After locating a stick suitable for Grooger repelling, they put everything they hadn’t used back into the box and dragged it to its place in the garage.  Afterwards, they climbed a tree and waited.

“Kip Burrow got the new Wally Weirdo.” Samantha mentioned to Alvie as she peeled bark pieces off the tree, “He says it’s awesome.”

Alvie watched the clouds pass overhead.  “Grandpa says video games make you not able to see things like Groogers.  He says –” Samantha interrupted him with a shushing noise.  Then Alvie heard the low growl coming from the bushes, too.

SNAP! Both Alvie and Samantha saw the stick flip and fly away on the balloon.

“We got him!” Alvie yelled, climbing down the tree.

“Your mom’s bush is safe!” Samantha cheered.  “Okay, I’m going home for lunch.” She crossed Alvie’s yard toward her own, “Don’t start making the fort without me!”

Alvie gathered up the hose and his springs.  “I won’t!”

Homesick

This piece is part of a shared prompt idea with @Dannigrrl5 and @JasonDWarden based on the picture shown here courtesy of @icypop

Read Danni’s story, Fade to Black here.

Read Jason’s story, Transparent Love  here.

And enjoy mine below!

*     *     *     *     *

For the third Saturday in a row since I started tending bar at The Cellar Door, I found I couldn’t handle the stuffiness of the club, or that the customers seemed to get particularly handsy just before close, so I went out the back for some fresh, autumn air.  That’s when I saw the lady; a small, dark-skinned woman, standing by the little bench at the park’s edge across the street.

As it started spitting rain, I watched her lay a single flower down on the bench.  Being as it was a quarter to three in the morning, and now raining, I thought I’d run over and see if she was okay.

The first thing I noticed as I approached was that she wasn’t dressed at all properly for the chilly night; just a long dark dress and a simple wrap around her shoulders.  I could see her bare skin through the loose knit of her shawl.  A nearby streetlight shrouded her face in small shadows, making it hard for me to read her emotional state.

“Are you okay?”

She didn’t respond right away.  When she did, it seemed to be to the bench, not to me.

“Fine.” She almost whispered, “Fine.”

“Okay, well, it’s just that it’s raining and you look cold.  Can I –“

She turned to me then.  She was much older looking than I initially thought.  Her eyes were sad.  Beautiful, but sad.  She turned back toward the flower that she’d placed.

“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you.  I’ll just go back to work.”

I started to leave when she spoke again.

“This is what it comes down to, you know.”

“What is?”

She pointed to the flower.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“This moment, with this precise sunflower and this precise bench, is happening across a thousand, thousand Earths.  Sometimes out of reverence for something lost.  Other times, regret for a deed done; but the blossom is always placed with a purpose beyond just being a sunflower on a bench.”

I could only stand quietly, wondering if she was sick.  And who to call when you’ve got someone who is that kind of sick.  She seemed to read my mind.

“I’m not unwell, girl.  Though, I suppose that’s not true.  I’m just not sick in the way you think.”

It started to rain harder.

“Can I call someone for you?” I asked, trying to distinguish the storm clouds somewhere in the night sky, “Some family, maybe?”

“I’ve no kin here.”  She slowly looked over the bench, into the park. “Tell me, have you ever heard of Shakespeare, girl?”

“No.  Is that a street name or –”

“No.  Not a street name.”  She gave a sad, small grin but continued to look into the park.  “A man.  A man who lived in a different time and place, it seems; and the reason for my placing the sunflower on this bench.  An appeal to my Queen, to let me come home.  It seems to have fallen on deaf ears, however.  Or, perhaps your magic here is too different from my own.  Regardless.”

She turned, tightening her shawl around her shoulders, indifferent toward the cold rain drenching both of us.  She picked up the sunflower from the bench and handed it to me.

“For your kindness.”

“But, no, I don’t want to disturb –” I tried to place the flower back on the bench but she wrapped her hand around mine, stopping me.

“It’s done me no good here, girl.  Don’t worry; I’ll try again on another night in another world and continue trying until I find my world.  You keep this one.  It’s a gift.  No strings attached.”

I watched from the bench at the park’s edge as she walked away down the road; watched until she was out of sight, lost in the cold autumn rain.  It was Henry yelling at me to come back inside that broke the spell; otherwise I may have stood there forever.

I’m not sure what I was waiting for standing out there like that, what I thought would happen, but I couldn’t shake the image of a sunflower on a bench, placed there by various hands for a myriad of reasons across countless worlds just like mine.

I guess I was wondering then, as I do now, if any of those other pictures in my mind’s eye were her, too.  Whether another sunflower on another bench worked the magic she was talking about.

Whether she got home.

I like to think that she did.

Appalachian Blues: A Jedediah Coalstream Tale

There are one and ten brave souls, waiting beneath the moon.  Clara, their only teacher, went missing last Wednesday after church choir practice.  They found her car abandoned at the edge of a nearby creek; keys in the ignition, purse in the passenger seat.  Nothing missing except Clara.

The mountains, surrounding, whistling a dead man’s tune in the crisp, cold air.  One and ten souls, braver than most, standing guard in the shadows of their campfires, waiting beneath the moon.  A cracking log, spitting embers into the night, signaling the stars, saying “Wait, wait for me!” like a little brother left behind.

There is a motorcycle rumbling, coming up the country road, interrupting the mountains’ whistling.  Its rider arriving is emboldening one and ten brave souls to ask of themselves more than they ever have, waiting beneath the moon.  One brave soul, head covered in a Coca-Cola hat, standing before the ten other, addressing them in the firelight.

“I told you he’d come.  Jackie, get the hemp ready.  We’re going to save your sister.”

There’s a young woman digging in her backpack as the rider is approaching.  As she’s pulling out a length of rope, the motorcycle is stopping before the one and ten brave souls, gathered in anticipation beneath the moon.  The rider is pulling off his helmet, turning off the motorcycle and then extending an arm to the approaching man in the Coca-Cola hat.

“Mr. Coalstream,” the man in the Coca-Cola hat is saying, clasping the rider’s forearm, “I can’t thank you enough for coming.  I didn’t know who else to turn to.  Who else to get involved with. . .well, with what we’re dealing with here.”

Getting off his motorcycle, the rider is replying “No need for formalities.  Jedediah’s fine.  You’ve got the fires burning oil?” Jedediah’s asking, looking around the area.  “Five pits, all burning oil and birch wood?”

“We do, sir,” the girl called Jackie is answering, holding up her small length of rope while trying to put loose strands of hair behind her ear, “and I’ve got the hemp rope here.  Three feet is all you needed?”

The man, Jedediah, taking the rope from Jackie, examining it closely, seeming satisfied, is walking around Jackie.  Ignoring her, Jedediah is looking around to the other faces of this group, checking their fingertips and sniffing their hair.  He is taking the hemp rope and sweeping along the ground until dust clouds, like frenzied freed spirits, are dancing amidst the smoke of the fires.

A wolf is howling in the forest of the mountains.  Followed by a second wolf.  There’s a third.  Now a chorus of wolves, howling at the night, at the moon, at those standing around the fires.  A flicker of fear is passing among the one and ten brave souls.  If fear is in Jedediah, it is not showing.

Jedediah is positioning the men and women of this group two to a fire, having them sit cross-legged with the fire between them.  He is placing Jackie in the middle of the circle of fires.

“Can’t I be by a fire?  I want to help.”  Jackie is saying, tearing up as she does so.

Jedediah is pulling some cloth from his pocket and wiping his hands with it.  Looking into Jackie’s eyes, he is folding the cloth into a long triangle and now tying it around the top of his head.  The howling wolves sound closer.  There is anger in their song.

“Clara is trapped, Jackie, but I know she can still hear what’s happening now.”

Jedediah is circling, slowly circling, Jackie.  The whites of his eyes begin slowly disappearing into the darkness of his skin, looking to Jackie like his dark pupils are expanding, making her feel afraid.

“Wh–what are you doing?” she is asking Jedediah, spinning along with him as he is circling her.

The wolves sound closer still.  Their high-pitched wails sounding more and more like dead things, hiding outside of the fire’s light, explaining their torment in the only way they know how.  Jedediah is taking a step back from Jackie now, reaching back into his pocket.

“You were too jealous of Clara, weren’t you, Jackie?  You felt stuck in a small town with no prospects and no talent, didn’t you?”  Jedediah is pulling a black harmonica from his pocket.  “But Clara, she’s a different story.  She has the love of the community.  Suitors lined up from here to two counties over.”  He is blowing a quick, sad note on the black harmonica.

Jackie is fondling the stretch of rope, looking nervously to see if the others can hear as they sit catatonic by their fire pits.  The wailing of wolves is upon them.  Jackie is suddenly looking over Jedediah’s shoulder to almost see a small, red-skinned man, his gray hair in long braids, standing naked just outside the edge of firelight; melding with the night shadows, mixing between physical form and nightmare.  Feeling empowered, Jackie is no longer needing to keep up pretenses.

“I hated Clara,” Jackie is smiling a toothy smile, “so much.  She had what I wanted, so I offered her up to any dark god that would have her.  Now, she’s gone and people will notice me.”

“I’ve nearly undone what you did to your sister.” Jedediah is grim, “Novices always mess up their offerings.  You really shouldn’t have played with magic.”

“Novices?!”  Jackie is laughing a crazed cackle to the heavens, “You think I’m a novice?  I may not have understood what your little plan was tonight, but it isn’t going to work!  This is nylon, stupid!  It isn’t hemp rope!”  Jackie is trying to throw the length of rope at Jedediah.  She is looking confused at the rope staying attached to her hand.

“I know.”  Now Jedediah is playing the black harmonica.  A blues tune never meant for the ears of man.

“What is happening?  What are you doing?! Stop!” Jackie is screaming as the rope is working its way over her fingers, consuming its way down her arm like a half-starved constrictor.  Her shoulder is popping, dislocating as the rope swallows its way toward her head and over, muffling her screams and finally bursting her skull.  Within a minute, the being known as Jackie is gone, leaving in her place only a length of rope.

Jedediah is ending his song on the black harmonica.  He is walking over to where the rope is and, picking it up, heading to the edge of the firelight with it.  There, the almost man is holding out its almost hand.  Jedediah is giving it the length of rope that is now Jackie.

“I already have someone waiting for Clara at the creek where you got her.  Clara better be there.  Don’t forget,” Jedediah is saying, tapping the black harmonica in his hand, “I know other songs.”

The almost man is giving a slow nod and disappearing back into the mountains, the sound of rattlesnakes slithering on sand its accompaniment.  The brave souls, who now only number ten, are beginning to move in the fresh morning light as if they are waking from a deep sleep.  The man in the Coca-Cola hat, seeing that Jackie is no longer among them, knows that the plan worked.  That this stranger with the black harmonica saved Clara.

He must keep his gratitude, though, or whisper it into the wind.

The man known as Jedediah Coalstream is gone.