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#Happy-Wife #Classified-Record #Never-Alone #In-These-Books
The below story was my most recent entry into the 2020 NYCMidnight.com short story Challenge. The genre was Ghost Story and it had to include a Paparazzo and Infidelity. I am not sure where this one places yet, but will update as soon as I know. WARNING – This one is a bit mature and dark.
Happy Wife happy Life
Synopsis: Jaron has not been on a date for some time, Elora’s unique tastes make finding someone she likes difficult. This is the story of their first date, the spark, the passion, and the tragedy that followed.
‘Come on, when’s the last time you had a date?’ Jaron thought about what his friend had said, the question echoing in his mind. It was late, and despite having a good day, anxiety crept over him as he sat on the edge of his bed. Of course, he wanted to go on a date, of course, he wanted to meet someone, but… he wondered if he could. It would be several hours before he fell asleep that night, his eyes darting glances to a picture of a woman that only seemed to prolong his anxious state.
“I have a special relationship with death,” Elora said casually.
“You do?” Jaron asked, careful to not sound alarmed. This was the first date in a long time, he wanted it to go well regardless of what came of it. Dinner was ok, the conversation revolved around the meal mostly, and now they were enjoying drinks.
“Yes,” Elora continued, searching for a reaction. “I grew up in a funeral home, I’ve been around it all my life.”
“Have you ever seen ghosts?” Jaron asked as he leaned over his glass, his brow peaking with interest.
“Maybe,” Elora said with playfully devious eyes. “All kinds of strange things happen in a funeral home.”
“What’s it like working in one?”
“I grew up in one, my mom was the undertaker, I only helped with a few things.”
“Oh,” Jaron said, there was a slightly disappointing pause as he leaned back trying to think of something to say. “What do you do for a living now?”
“I am a photographer of sorts,” Elora lifted her wine glass and swirled it as elegantly as she could before taking a sip.
“Oh, for weddings and stuff like that?”
“No, not really. I suppose you could say, I am a paparazzo.”
“A papa what?” Jaron asked as he leaned in toward her again to listen more intently, relieved that the conversation was progressing.
“You know, the paparazzi, the people who take pictures of celebrities,” Elora said, she pulled a surprisingly large and heavy camera out of her oddly large purse. “Always have to be prepared, you never know who you might see”
“Wow, that’s cool, I just work in payroll. Which celebrities have you taken pictures of?”
“A few, usually b-list models, rookie athletes, or some obscure musician. It’s enough to pay the bills. But my real passion is taking pictures of the dead,” Elora said in a playfully devious voice to match her eyes from before. She expected Jaron to be put off by this but she had a hard time reading him.
“Should I be concerned if you ask to take my picture,” Jaron teased, not missing a beat, matching his tone just as playful and devious. On the outside he was calm, on the inside he was high-fiving himself for being clever. Elora’s eyes grew wide and serious.
“HA!” Elora burst into laughter, snorting several times before she finally caught her breath. When she had control of herself again, she took a sip of wine before asking, “Are you curious about it?”
“About what?” Jaron asked. He had been congratulating himself on being quick-witted and had almost forgotten what Elora had said. “Oh yeah, the pictures, do you take them where they lie or do you move them after you kill them?”
“Well,” Elora’s cheeks raised high as her mouth curved into a smile making them blush. Growing up in a funeral home tends to make someone’s humor exceptionally dark and morbid, she had a special fondness for people who exhibited the same sense of humor. “Some people like to have one last picture, as a keepsake. It’s called post-mortem photography, and it’s how I got into taking pictures. I suppose you could say that I was inspired by the dead to become a Paparazzo.”
Elora’s passion for photography was the perfect topic to carry them forward. A few drinks later and the two were laughing and talking like long lost friends. Elora explained the trial and error of her first Post-mortem photography sessions and shared a few stories about taking pictures of the living. Like the time a man’s arm fell off during a post-mortem session, or, the time she managed to snap a shot of a famous soccer player on a date with his mistress. Jaron was filled with questions rooted in genuine interest.
“I haven’t had this much fun in a long time,” Jaron remarked candidly as he took Elora’s hand.
“Me either,” Elora said, blushing again. Her hand fit perfectly in his. Jaron’s grip was gentle and warm.
“I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I really don’t want this night to end. Do you think you would like to come back to my place?” Jaron asked, his words emboldened by the drink, his chest a cavern of butterflies.
“Yes!” Elora almost shouted. “I mean, I would love to.”
The front door to Jaron’s house flew open, the two of them brought a flurry of noise and motion to an otherwise dark and still home. The laughter trailed down the hall to the living room, where the two found themselves sitting on a couch. Heart racing, pupils dilated, breath quickening, the attraction and desire were palpable.
“Let me get us something to drink,” Jaron said, briefly pausing the playful escalation, trying not to be overwhelmed. It had been a while since he had been on a date, much longer since he had done anything else. Elora nodded, biting her lip to calm herself. He stood, straightened his shirt and disappeared into another room.
Elora took this time to look around, she really liked Jaron but she wasn’t naive, she knew there was a lot she didn’t know about him. Her eyes darted through the room, his place seemed well kept. Then she saw a picture on a table. She recognized a younger Jaron immediately. He was standing next to a woman in the photo. Jaron reappeared carrying two wine glasses that had been heavily poured, he handed one to Elora.
“Thank you,” she said as she took the glass. “You look so young in this picture.”
“Which one?” Jaron asked as he looked at what Elora held. He froze, his anxiety rose slightly, threatening to ruin the wonderful night he was having. “Oh,” he said, glancing around the room.
“Who’s that?” Elora asked, sensing something wasn’t right.
“My wife,” he said, quickly followed by, “she passed away three years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Elora said, holding the picture awkwardly, trying to think of something to say. Jaron stood up and walked over to her, he took the picture and placed it on the table face down, before pulling Elora close into an embrace, his face just inches from hers.
“No need to be sorry, tonight is about us,” he said. She leaned into him, looking up expectantly.
It was hours later when Elora awoke, she was naked in Jaron’s bed, sweet memories of their embrace danced through her half-sleeping thoughts. The room was lit by a small night light plugged in by the door. She reached over to pull closer to Jaron, but he wasn’t there. A crack of thunder shook the house forcing her fully awake, it was storming outside.
“I’m sorry,” Jaron could be heard saying from another room. Elora looked about in the dim light seeing several crosses and religious images that she hadn’t noticed earlier when they had stormed passionately into bed. Her eyes settled on a clock. It was just past 3:30 am. “Please don’t!” Jaron’s voice pleaded from the other room.
Elora, now fully awake, stood up and steadied herself, the alcohol still in her system. She found her purse and used the camera’s screen for better light. Noticing her nudity, and feeling suddenly awkward, she gathered her clothes and got dressed. She could hear Jaron still talking, but his voice wasn’t as loud, the words were muffled through the walls. She pressed her ear against the door but couldn’t make out much. Straining to listen, her eyes moved about the room. The crosses and religious images seemed creepy in the low light and made her feel slightly uneasy.
“Of course…. I do… and love…. she… you used to…” The sentences were broken up by inaudible words that didn’t carry from the other room. “I’m not cheating!” Jaron said more loudly. Elora’s eyes widened, she asked and answered her own question all in the same thought. The woman in the picture, Jaron’s strange reaction to it, his wife… was alive.
Filled with confusion, anger, jealousy, fear, embarrassment and several other shades of emotion, Elora opened the door quietly and moved down the hall carrying her shoes and purse. She crept closer to the front door but would have to pass by the living room where Jaron and his wife were. She slowly peeked from the shadows to see Jaron with his back towards her. Straining, she tried to see who he was talking to, but the lights were off and she couldn’t make out the shape of another person in the darkness.
“I know I cheated before, I’m sorry, but this is different,” Jaron protested in frustration. There was a pause as if he were waiting for a reply, but then he continued. “That’s not fair, please.”
Elora had heard enough, she darted for the exit. A flash of lightning flooded the hall with light accompanied by a crack of thunder as Elora’s hand touched the front doorknob. She let out a startled squeak and looked over her shoulder. She saw Jaron grow rigid at the sound of the noise. Then she heard the telltale sign of a lock clicking into place just in front of her.
Jaron spun around, bewildered. “No,” he whispered.
“I’m leaving,” Elora said loudly, but the storm seemed to drown out her voice. Her hands struggled with the lock, it wouldn’t budge. “LET ME OUT OF HERE!” she demanded, now fearful.
“I wish I could,” Jaron replied, his voice filled with regret. “You should have stayed in the room, you aren’t safe here,” he took a step towards Elora.
“LEAVE ME ALONE!” she screamed as she broke into a run for the room in the hopes that she could lock the door behind her. A streak of lightning flooded the hall with light blinding her for a moment followed by a clap of thunder, then a second thunderous clap. Elora had slammed into something solid, her head throbbing as she crumpled to the ground crying out in pain. Her purse flew out of her grip smacking against the door in front of her, her camera and other things scattered to the darkness.
“She can’t go in there,” Jaron said as he approached to look at Elora’s body sprawled out in the hallway. “The crosses keep her away so I can sleep.”
“What’s happening” Elora groaned, desperately trying to get her bearings through the throbbing pain. “The door,” she said, noticing it was shut, she could have sworn it was open. “I’m sorry,” Elora said as loudly as she could muster. “I didn’t know he was still married.”
“She won’t talk to you,” Jaron said calmly. “She hates you, she thinks I am not faithful to her.”
“Why?” Elora asked as she struggled to get up, something she couldn’t see was pressed against her, drawing the strength from her body, she grew cold. “Why did you say she was dead?”
“Because she is,” Jaron said. A crack of lightning followed by thunder allowed Elora to see her own camera floating in the air above her head, there were five more thunder-like claps before the camera clattered to the ground and things grew still again. The storm outside softened, the darkness in the house grew lighter. Elora’s camera had gone off, it’s flash in sequence with the lighting, capturing the last picture of the dead she would ever have. It would be a long time before Jaron would go on another date.
This story is a more recent piece for the 2020 NYCMidnight.com short story challenge. My genre was Mystery and it had to include a delivery and a runner with a word limit of 2,500. It was a lot of fun and I placed third in my heat, allowing me to move to the second round of the contest.
Classified Record of Loss for the Trans-Virgo Terra Trading Corp.
Synopsis: Received via deep-space distress call, this is the final report from WB44, the last survivor of delivery transport R15982701. WB44 Current Status – Unknown, Possibly Deceased.
Report:
At last check, I’ve been stranded on this vessel, in deep space, for 359 standard days, 222 of which I’ve been alone, except for her. I don’t know how or why we were transporting her. The other two members of my crew are dead, and before long, I might be dead too.
I have included an account of my previous interaction with her and a synopsis of my time adrift. This report may be my last.
Previous interaction:
I looked at her, her smile made the days more bearable, even though I knew she wasn’t there. “What’s your name?” I asked. She looked back at me with a puzzled expression.
“You know silly, it’s Deanne,” she said cheerfully.
“What’s your name?” I repeated.
“Come on now, I already told you it’s Aarron,” she replied, a sense of frustration in her voice.
“What’s your name?” I asked for the third time.
“My name is Relay,” she said plainly. This exercise would go on for hours, and I had no idea why. When I grew tired of not being able to figure it out, I disengaged the simulation. The world began to fall away and her smile widened as she waved goodbye, then she was gone too, I was alone again.
Time Adrift:
I was one of three crew manning R15982701, a transport ship delivering cargo to a deep-space outpost. About halfway to our destination, an unknown error occurred in the engine relay system. For safety reasons, we were forced to shut down propulsion, entering the first day adrift.
The first member of the crew to die was caught in the engine explosion when they were working to restore the relay. I didn’t know his name personally. At work, we referred to one another by our corporate ID number, I am WB44, he was XT78. It was unfortunate that XT78 was the only engineer.
Demobilized and adrift, the two of us that remained lacked the knowledge or resources to attempt a repair. After another month, we drifted out of chartered space. In extreme situations, protocol dictated that we access the cargo. We had no idea what we were delivering, which was normal in our line of work, but we hoped it would be useful. However, when we opened the cargo area, it was empty. I’m not sure why we would be on delivery if there was nothing there, but that was the least of our worries.
You spend a lot of time in your head when you are in deep space, it’s easy to think for hours when you stare into the void. The problems seemed to pile up quickly on this mission. First, there was the failed engine, then the loss of XT78 along with any hopes of restoring the engines, and now no cargo. Individually, each of these things would be bad on their own, together they seemed less and less coincidental. I tried not to dwell on it, the thoughts that can be found in the depths of a person can be brutally honest and despairing. My remaining crewmate did the opposite, she focused on those kinds of questions. I knew her as NP13, she took the loss of XT78 hard. As far as I could tell, she spent her time searching for answers to his death, but we rarely spoke.
My time was dedicated to surviving. I tended to the ship’s air filters, systems, food supply, and watching after my health. The filters and systems are easy enough, standard procedures. Food and health are entirely different matters when adrift.
At home, you can press a button and food is delivered in most places. But, when you’re stranded in space, food becomes a natural concern when rations start to run low. Fortunately, we had the ship’s emergency gardening kit. That might sound odd to someone who doesn’t traverse space, but it is a well-earned precaution. It was established in the early days of space travel after lost explorers had been found starved, the poor bastards. It isn’t common for vessels to be adrift nowadays, but stocking garden kits help lower insurance rates for companies, like the one I worked for. Compensating a family for the loss of human capital is expensive, any measure to reduce that possibility is seen as favorable by insurers.
It was slow going at first, I had never even tended a flower, let alone a whole garden. But with time and instructions, I was able to establish the garden before our rations were exhausted. Meals were simple, potatoes or beans mostly, but that meant starvation was no longer one of the many deaths we had to be concerned about. Gardening also helped to put me at ease, it became a simple pleasure.
As for my health, I knew the mind and body had to be kept up. It might seem easier to exercise the mind on a cramped ship, but it proved to be the more difficult part of my routine. My physical exercise helped keep my mind focused. Back home, planetside, I had always fancied myself as a runner. I would even enter into local races just for enjoyment.
There is nothing that I wouldn’t give to have a running track with proper gravity, my legs twitch at the thought. Despite not having such things, I was able to use the edge of the empty cargo area, keeping to the wall with a harness. I half run and half bound around the cargo hold in the low gravity. This gave me some semblance of a workout but was far from actual running. I was unsure if NP13 was taking care of herself, I never saw her exercise.
I had kept up my routine for months waking up, clearing filters, checking systems, tending the garden, and bounding awkwardly in the low gravity. I tried to incorporate mental exercises, to sharpen the mind, but they proved counter to their goal. Survival is simple, I decided not to complicate it with unnecessary academics. Keeping my mind focused on a routine is what kept me stable… Then NP13 died.
She was consumed by her search, and on day 137 adrift in space, it must have overwhelmed her. It was not a gruesome thing, I discovered her cold still body, an empty water bottle in hand. Her water filter showed a simple application of lethal compounds added just before she filled the bottle. I knew there were safeguards in place to prevent this. I didn’t know why or how she did it. Next to her body was a datapad with a message. It read:
“What is her name?”
I didn’t know her name, just her corporate ID, NP13.
This was too much, jarring my dulled mind from months of repetitive tasks. I wondered if the silence got to her, I could have talked more. My normally calm thoughts raced with questions. How did she bypass the safety protocols to poison herself, and why? What if she had tried to poison me? Could she be capable of killing someone, did she kill XT78? My mind melted and congealed into paranoia and madness. Was I really alone? Days passed before I resurfaced to rational thought, I won’t bother you with the details, it was not good.
When I could think clearly, I looked over what she had been obsessed with. Scouring her data, I saw that she had gone deep within the ship’s computers to look for answers. She seemed to be looking for the source of the engine failure. This was beyond simple programming, but I knew enough to follow along. I went deeper, becoming desperate for answers, just as she had been. My routine of daily survival tasks was no longer enough to dull my mind. I was afraid I would die, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that.
I had to start with the first question, why did the engine fail? I had almost skipped right past it. A simple database in the core system. All of what NP13 had done seemed to lead back to this database. Many programs were connected to it, much of which I could not decipher or trace, but two command files stood out. There was a command executed for engine relay protocol and another for water filtration adjustment. The dates confirmed, I had found the commands that had killed my crew. I needed to know, did NP13 do this?
The database contained a list of names. I didn’t know their significance, or if NP13 had placed it here or not, but it was well hidden. There were 387 names, 221 female, 159 male, and 7 neutral. For all my powers of deduction, there was nothing I could see in the list that gave me any other clues, but it was connected with a strange computer code that linked to many things, like tendrils reaching out. I tried to find the source, but it was an unfamiliar programming language. In the end, the list of names was my only clue.
The ship and garden still needed tending, but I couldn’t bring myself to exercise. My free time was spent looking at the list, trying to figure out what it meant. Still adrift, the ship’s course was altered slightly when it passed near the orbit of a comet. A scan revealed the typical frozen gasses and interplanetary particles that you might expect. I was looking at the comets layer analysis when I realized I had been looking at the list all wrong.
I had focused on the list itself, I was not even looking at the original list, just a copy. I had not thought to look at the layers, to the programming beneath the list. Within minutes I had found her, except I didn’t know what she was at first. The list was just the first layer of a very complex program, it was the only thing that showed as simple text, so it is all I had seen at first. The ship’s computer was able to classify it as a reality simulating AI. This type of coding was far beyond my knowledge, but it did explain the tendrils of strange code I could not decipher earlier. The list was the source, in front of me the whole time.
Most modern computers are capable of a cerebral interface with certain programs. I just needed the proper peripherals. I wasn’t sure what I would find, but I had to look. I took a medical neural cap, one that the ship carried for brain injuries, and I re-purposed it. I used the makeshift interface and had the computer write a program to accomplish the proper connections. When it was done, I dove, as the kids say.
Even with all of our technology, this type of interface is expensive and rare. So, if you haven’t had the unique experience of a cerebral-connect dive, then it is hard to explain, but I’ll do my best. Think of reality, the brain is connected to our senses to interpret our reality. Going further, the brain is also in control of motor skills, letting you interact with reality. Now, take those connections, block them in our reality and transpose them into a digitally created one that applies standard physics. In this way, you can be anywhere at any time. That’s a crude explanation, but it will do.
The computer made a test program so I could see if it worked. After months adrift without full gravity, it was strange to feel my full weight again. I glanced around the simulated track and took to running. It was ok, to effortless to be real, which somehow cheapened it. Despite my disappointment, I now knew that it could work. I linked to the list and dove again. That is when I first met her, and ever since, I have spent much of the past 61 days trying to get answers.
Coming out of the most recent dive, I noted the three names Deanne, Aaron, and Relay. In my first few dives, when I spoke to her, she seemed like a standard reality AI. But, I began to notice inconsistencies, namely, the names she gave me. To test it, I would ask her that question each time I dove into her reality. Each name she gave appeared on the list, but she still gave me no answers.
Relay struck me as an odd name, it happened to be third from the end of the list. I wondered if I had ever met a person named Relay. It would be ironic if they worked on ship engines, it was a common term for the high strength data transmitters that kept the otherwise volatile engines operating smoothly. I looked for other non-traditional names on the list and found five.
Among them was a serial number A89764552. I had dismissed it before, thinking it was nothing, but now I recognized it as a ship’s ID, something I could search for. I found that the ship in question had been destroyed in an accident. In the report, no crew survived. One of the deceased crew listed was TY65 – Deanne Pulaski. I remembered that name, it was one of the names the AI had used.
I found it on the list, two spots below A89764552. The other two crew members that had perished on that ship were also on the list, directly above and below Deanne, all three following the ship’s serial number. It was odd and I wondered if this was a coincidence.
I looked at the name Relay, below it were two more names before the end of the list. I entered the first one into the computer, Ramsey Jones. The file for the man I knew as XT78 flashed onto the screen, I had not known his name. The last name on the list was, Alyssa Gordon. I typed in NP13, and I saw her face, that was Alyssa. She seemed so happy in her file photo. I wish I had known them as people, not just crewmates.
I no longer have any doubt as to coincidence, I know that those names are there for a reason. The writing on the wall tells me this program, whatever it is, is behind all of our misfortune. I only wish I knew this sooner, I had the list for so long and their names had been there the whole time.
I have identified many of the names now that I know what to look for. They are all dead, each an accident, and the order of the list is chronological. Alyssa wasn’t behind it, she was onto it. I need to find answers, so I am going to talk to the AI one more time.
— End Of Report —
Automated Dive Transcription: Conversation Excerpt
WB44: Why did you kill them?
Ramsey: Who?
WB44: The list.
Avariel: To survive.
— Dive Interrupt —
Record Conclusion:
Rogue program Avariel still at large. Recovery mission launched to locate and quarantine R15982701. Families have been compensated for the loss.
— End of Record —
The following story was my entry for the second round of the 2018 NYCMidnight.com Flash fiction challenge. It was limited to 1000 words and had to be a ghost story that included a hiking trail and an eye dropper.
Never Alone…
Synopsis: A story of an old veteran on the anniversary of his greatest battle. He thought death was the answer, but an interruption by a young boy opens his eyes.
The old man stepped onto the hiking trail, this would be the 53rd year that he returned. Before it was a hiking trail, this was the site of the old man’s last great battle. His usual messy hair was hidden beneath a crisp cap that was a relic of a war long past. He wore a clean pressed uniform, one that was adorned with various medals and ribbons, and under his left arm was a wooden box. This is going to be the year, he thought, the year it all ends.
The sound of childish chatter drew his attention. On the edge of the field, just past the trail, there was something that had not been there the year before. The shape of a crude tree house stood out.
“Dang kids,” the old man mumbled as he followed the trail towards them. “HEY!” he shouted. Two sets of eyes looked out at him. “What is this?”
“Umm,” one child stepped onto a thin balcony wearing a blue shirt. “We’re playing.”
“You’re playing? Do you know where you are?” the old man asked.
“The woods,” another boy said as he stepped out wearing a cape.
“No, it’s-”
“It’s also a hiking trail,” said the boy in blue.
“NO!,” the old man shouted. “Men lost their lives here!”
“What’s your problem?” the boy in blue asked. “You can still walk the trail.”
“What’s my Problem!? WALK!?” the old man screamed while stepping off the trail toward the tree. “MY PROBLEM IS… IS….” He clutched his chest and doubled over dropping the box to the ground before going limp.
“You killed him!” the caped boy exclaimed.
“No! I.. I didn’t,” the boy in blue stuttered. “He just, he-”
“We aren’t supposed to be here,” the caped boy whispered. “We’re in trouble.”
“Let’s make sure,” the boy in blue reasoned. They rushed down from the treehouse to the trail’s edge. With a trembling hand, the boy in blue reached out to see-
“AAAAHHHHHH,” both boys screamed as the old man lurched forward sending them running.
Good, the old man thought as they disappeared, that ought to keep them away long enough, no child should have to see this. Alone again, he stood up and straightened his uniform before collecting the box. He walked a short way down the trail towards a familiar rock.
He thought of this place constantly after the war ended, he still heard the screams from time to time. He watched his best friends lay down their lives for him and the others here. There is not a lot that can be done to repair something like that. Some people go on just fine, but others never seem to come back all the way.
The old man set the wooden box down and took a seat on the rock. He had sat here on the same rock after the battle to survey what had happened. It seemed fitting to him that he would be destined to sit here each year that he returned. A lot had changed, It was almost beautiful to see it as it was now, a well-manicured hiking trail lined with lush grass. But even though the dark pools of blood had long been washed away, he could still see the scars of war.
The sun was starting to set. When he was first here, he was a young man, now he was old and his eyes began to ache. As is with any habit, he produced a small bottle with an eye dropper without even thinking of it. He applied a drop to each eye and tucked it back into his pocket. It’s funny how life changes as you grow old, he thought.
For a moment he felt peaceful, a feeling that he rarely felt. He didn’t much fit in with the rest of the world, not after the things he had witnessed. This was the anniversary of his last great battle, but it was not a battle he fought in the war. This was the anniversary of a much more personal battle.
He reached down and opened the box. Inside were a note and his service pistol. On the note, he had tried to express his thoughts on why, but even he didn’t quite understand. He knew there was beauty in the world, but all he could see was the stain of war. He lifted the revolver out of the box and felt its weight, just like when he was alive. With his eyes closed, just as he had done 52 times before, he pressed the gun to his head once more, he hoped this would be the last time.
He was found on that rock, pistol still in his hand, 53 years ago. The guilt he carried became too heavy for him to bear, so he returned to this place of death to give it one more life. A lonely old veteran whose family was grown is what one newspaper had said all those years ago. All he wanted was peace, but instead, each year he fights the same battle. He could feel his form fading, it had to be done so he could come back next year and try again.
“NO!” a voice cried out. He opened his eyes to see the boy in blue, standing there trembling. In the 52 times before, he had never stopped to open his eyes after raising the pistol to his head. There, in the fading light, he saw them.
Had they always been there? All those that he felt guilty for leaving behind were watching. That is when he knew he had never been alone. The old man dropped the pistol and it faded from existence before it hit the ground. His old friends smiled at him, they were still so young and he had grown old when he was alive. Tears ran down his face as his form faded away for the last time, in peace.
No one ever believed the boy’s story.
The below story was my first paid contest entry in the NYCMidnight.com flash fiction challenge in 2018. It was limited to 1000 words and I was in Group 28 in the first round. My requirements were to write a Drama that included a Public Library and a Scented candle. Being provided these requirements can be challenging and requires some unique problem solving. Being made to write in various genres that I am not used to is also a lot of fun. I placed in the top 15 in my group, earnings points for the next round
In These Books
Synopsis
A girl tries to deal with her social anxiety while in a library that has a special significance for her. The memory of her father gives her strength.
“In these books rests our past and lessons for our future,” Bernard spoke as he lit the large scented candle meant to be symbolic in marking the opening of the new public library. This was just before the bullet from the crowd tore through his head drawing with it the life from his body. That was over five years ago now. A large statue emblazoned with that same quote marks the entrance to the library to this day.
Isabel stood in her usual spot in view of the front door. The fog in her head that was her doubtful nature wrapped itself around the few remaining joyful memories that she held onto, tinging them. Her eyes were fixed on a statue by the front door of the library and her hands moved about with no real purpose in a vain attempt to appear occupied. A single finger traced the binding of a hard covered book with raised letters.
‘J. Bradbury,’ were the letters her index finger traced. Her mind drifted in and out of old memories, to a time and place where she spent her days with people she loved.
“Excuse me,” whispered a meek woman wielding a large book filled cart. Caught by surprise, Isabel’s hand snatched the book that her finger had been resting on as she leapt back from the shelf. “Do you need any help?” the woman asked, barely able to see over the books on her cart.
“Uhhh,” Isabel hesitated. She had been coming to the library by herself and standing in this exact spot every week for almost five years now. She was always alone, and not once had she ever had an encounter with the librarian, or anyone for that matter.
“Are you alright dear?” the woman asked as she strained to see Isabel over the books on her cart.
“Yes,” Isabel replied. “I’m fine.”
“Ok,” the woman said as she dropped back behind the cart almost disappearing from sight.
Isabel’s surprise had worn off and now she found herself awkwardly waiting, and hoping, for the woman to go away. She glanced at the various books stacked high on the cart as if in someway taking an interest in them was being polite.
“Do you mind letting me pass?” the woman asked.
“Oh,” Isabel noticed the narrow path between the bookshelves. “I’m so sorry,” she said as she took two short clumsy steps to the side. She lowered her eyes to the floor in an attempt to hide her blushing from embarrassment.
“It’s alright,” the woman said as she pressed forward. The cart lurched making the large stacks of books on top shake.
“Be careful,” Isabel said as she shot both arms out to catch falling books, but they did not fall. The librarian did little to acknowledge Isabel any further as she moved past. Isabel stood there with outstretched arms, the book she had snatched from the shelf still in one hand.
Her anxiety began to mount and she feared what the librarian must think of her now. Isabel felt so embarrassed that she contemplated never coming back. Her mind began to count everything she had just done wrong, she felt like she could not get anything right. Her arms remained outstretched with her eyes focused on where the librarian had gone.
“Hey,” a man’s voice said. Isabel stood frozen, unmoving with her arms still awkwardly outstretched and holding the book in one hand. She hoped that whoever had just said ‘hey’ was addressing someone else.
“Hello, miss,” the man’s voice said from right behind her.
“Oh my God,” Isabel mumbled under her breath as she turned. To her horror there was a tall man. Her thoughts tried to make sense of what was happening. One chance encounter with the librarian at the library was just bad luck, Isabel thought, but two encounters with two seperate people in the same day was beyond that. Isabel felt cursed and longed to return to her solitude.
“I’m sorry?” the man said.
“Uhhh,” is all that Isabel managed in response.
“Did you say something?” the man asked.
“No,” Isabel said as she shook her head. It came out as more of an N sound than the actual word. ‘He must think I do not know how to speak,’ she thought.
“Can you help me? I am looking for a book and I just do not know how to-
“Here’s a book,” Isabel snapped as she faced him head on and thrust the book she had been holding into his chest. He let out a cough as if she had knocked the breath from him.
“Uhhh,” he stood there clearly dumbfounded for a moment. Isabel knew he must hate her now, but she did not have the courage to turn and walk away, so she waited.
“Sure, I suppose it is…” the man gripped the book but Isabel did not let go as her anxiety held her captive. She was so used to being alone that she was not sure what to do. “Umm, thank you,” the man said as he tried to take the book. A moment passed as Isabel fought to free herself from her own mind. She was finally able to quiet the voice in her head and let go of the book.
“I should go,” Isabel said quickly as she turned to leave.
“Wait,” the man said. For some reason, and against her own desire to flee, the man’s voice made her stop. “What’s in this book?” he asked. Isabel wanted to leave, but instead she turned and looked at the man. The title he was holding was ‘Fahrenheit 451,’ one of her father’s favorites. She missed talking with her father and felt a warmth melt away her anxiety as the words welled up from within her.
“My father once said that these books contain our pasts and lessons for our future,” Isabel replied as a smile crept over her face. “I’m sorry, you said you were looking for a book?”
Nathaniel Writes 