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The ShadowLittle baby Luke was put to bed in his cot, much the same as he was every night. His mother lovingly said goodnight and set his hanging mobile off playing its sleepy lullaby. Once she had left the room, Luke opened his eyes and waited.
He didn't have to wait long. The shadow that would often visit him appeared on the wall opposite his cot. Pulling himself up using the bars, he stood up and looked across at his familiar visitor.
It wasn't long before the giggles and laughter started. The shadow had begun changing shape into recognisable images of Luke's teddies and toys, whilst it seemed to respond more and more to his outwardly signs of joy.
Curious as to why her son was now wide awake and seemingly playing rather than sleeping, again, his mother turned on the light to his room. From the periphery of her view she thought she saw a dark shadow suddenly disappear from view, but with nothing there when she looked it was dismissed as nothing.
She put her baby back down to sleep and again set the mobile away playing its lullaby. Before she turned out the light again, another glance to where she thought she'd seen something was given and then back to her baby boy.
The visitor didn't return that night, but waited instead for sleep time the following evening to return and make baby Luke laugh again.
3:04Posted on April 6, 2014
1
A fictional short story by Robert M. Roberts
Laura Castle bolted up in bed. As her heart pounded and she gasped for air, she looked at the alarm clock at her bedside. It was 3:04. The alarm had not sounded. She had set if for 6:00 a.m. It was another horrific nightmare that had caused her to wake up, just one of many terrifying dreams that she had been having every night for several days in a row. Each dream was different, but always carried the same theme of her pending death. This time she had fallen through an ice-covered pond, and just before drowning she suddenly woke up. The other nights she was either being stabbed to death or was in a car crash, but she was always saved by waking up, and it was always at 3:04 a.m.
What in the hell is going on? she wondered. The lack of restful sleep was physically and mentally draining, and was starting to take its toll. This was the last thing she needed in her life right now. She was up for a big promotion in her job at Lone Star Life and Casualty Company in Dallas. She had worked hard to get ahead in the company, but her lethargy and forgetfulness was beginning to affect her daily job performance, and could jeopardize her chances for promotion.
When Laura arrived at work later that morning, her co-worker was the first to notice her dragged-out appearance. “Dang girl!� The outspoken Jasmine commented. “You got circles under your eyes like a raccoon. You party all night?�
Laura rolled her reddened eyes at Jasmine and shook her head. “No. I just can’t sleep these days.�
She began to tell the quizative Jasmine about her ongoing nightmares. After venting for several minutes, Jasmine said, “I think you should see a doctor.�
“Oh, my doctor would just give me some pills and that would make it worse,� Laura replied.
“No, I mean a head doctor,� Jasmine clarified.
“A shrink? No way! That would definitely kill my chances for a promotion. If the big shots found out I was seeing a psychiatrist. . .no, that’s out of the question! I’ve worked my butt off for that regional job, and I’m going to get it!�
Jasmine could see Laura’s determination. “Well, I tell you girl, you better take those nightmares as an omen and watch your step.�
“Do you really think it could be an omen about something?� Laura asked.
“Well, I’m from Louisiana. We take omens as serious as a heart attack,� said Jasmine.
“Thanks, now I will worry,� Laura frowned.
Laura’s phone started ringing. It was her boss, Gerald, wanting to see her in his office. As she reached his door, he motioned for her to come in and take a seat across from him at his desk. She felt uncomfortable as he stared at her, and wondered if he noticed the tiredness in her face.
“Laura, as you probably already know, we have been considering you for a promotion for quite some time now.� Her heart began to sink as she waited for him to tell her she was not going to be promoted. “I just want to tell you how pleased I have been with your hard work and dedication to the company. I have been in touch with the home office and a regional position has opened up in the Southwest. I have recommended you to fill that slot.�
Laura began to beam from ear to ear. “The Southwest? Oh my gosh! That would be wonderful!�
“I know this is short notice but could you fly out tonight to San Francisco and meet with the directors at the home office first thing in the morning?� he asked. “It’s just a formality. They like to personally meet new appointees, and welcome you aboard.�
“Oh sure. No problem. I can’t wait!� Laura replied.
“I’ll have my secretary make your travel arrangements, and congratulations. You deserve it!� Gerald shook Laura’s hand.
“Thank you, Gerald!�
Laura returned to her cubicle and told Jasmine the good news. They agreed to celebrate with a drink when she returned from San Francisco. With all the excitement, Laura forgot how tired she was as she finished up her afternoon at work. She was too excited to let sleepiness damper her elation. Before she left, Gerald’s secretary called and told her the travel arrangements were made for an 8:10 p.m. flight on Delta. She said she would send an e-mail to Laura with the specific flight information.
Laura arrived home to her apartment around 5:30 and began to pack an overnight bag for the trip. Later, she called her mother in Fayetteville, Arkansas and told her the good news. Not wanting to worry her elderly mother, she specifically didn’t mention anything about the nightmares to her. Her mother told her she was so proud of her and that she intended to notify her friend at the local newspaper, so she could write a piece about the promotion of her daughter.
After a quick shower, she drove to the airport and parked in the parking garage across from the terminal. As she rolled her carry-on bag across the street, she looked at her watch. It was 6:40. Perfect timing, she thought.
The line at the Delta counter was fairly short. Laura handed her driver’s license to the ticket agent. “Yes, I have it right here, Ms. Castle. Round trip to San Francisco, departing Dallas at 8:10 p.m., Delta flight #304, arriving San Francisco at 11:32 p.m.�
“Flight #304?� Laura blurted out.
“Yes, that’s correct. Is something wrong?�
Laura started sweating and could barely speak. She was having a panic attack. “I can’t take this flight,� she uttered. “Is there another one?�
The bewildered agent typed on the keyboard. “The only one is the redeye departing at 12:15 and arriving at 3:37.�
“What’s the flight number?� Laura asked.
�#512,� the agent replied with a perplexed expression on his face.
“I’ll take that flight. Change my ticket please.�
The agent made the ticket change and didn’t ask any questions, but it was obvious to him that this strange passenger had a problem with the flight number for some reason. Another weirdo, he thought. It must be a full moon out tonight.
With the new boarding pass in hand, Laura took a seat in the terminal area to gather her thoughts. Jasmine’s voice echoed through her mind. . . “We take omens as serious as a heart attack.� Well, I took this one serious too, Laura thought. What was the odds of the flight number being #304? Better safe than sorry, she assured herself.
She had so much time to kill before her flight, so she decided to get her car and go out for a bite to eat on the way to Wal-Mart just down the road. She made a list that included lip gloss, Visine, Tylenol, and a magazine. She stuffed the scribbled list into her purse and grabbed her rolling carry-on and headed for the exit door of the airport. Her cell phone beeped with a text message as she walked. She reached into her purse to check the text. It was from Jasmine and said to have a great flight. Laura stepped off the curb. Tires screeched and a horn blared as the vehicle impacted her. Laura became airborne. Her body smashed the windshield and was thrown over the top of the car and landed on the trunk lid. She slowly rolled off onto the pavement. Blood was pooling from her head. A shaken cabby exited his vehicle. Bystanders screamed in horror and ran to the scene to try to help the stricken Laura, as faces of strangers gawked from the terminal windows. Sirens screamed in the distance as Laura drew her last breath.
The coroner arrived and pronounced her dead and the police officer began his report. Eyewitnesses stated that Laura was looking at her phone as she walked straight into the path of the oncoming taxicab.
An investigation at the scene was conducted and the tragedy was ruled an accident. No charges were filed against United Cab Company or the driver of cab #304.
Chris � thanks for sharing your short piece. I enjoyed it. I felt like I was momentarily privy to the mind and world of an infant. You got a lot in such a short piece.
Michael � if “The Twilight Zone� was still on TV, I would urge you to submit your story to Rod Serling. I mean that in the best way as I am a fan of him and the show. The ominous tone and pace made for a very compelling read. I even got a rush of chills when I read the cab number.
Piper, I'm glad you liked 3:04. Rod Serling was my favorite writer and just about all my short stories are similar in nature of Twilight Zone. Thanks, and the name is Robert.
Piper,Many thanks for your kind words. I try hard to convey a sense of a complete tale within a few lines.
Robert wrote: "Piper, I'm glad you liked 3:04. Rod Serling was my favorite writer and just about all my short stories are similar in nature of Twilight Zone. Thanks, and the name is Robert."So sorry I called you "Michael." I don't know what I was thinking, Robert!
Mod
Mod
Mildred’s MakeoverA fictional short story by Robert M. Roberts
Ivan Borisheski and his young bride, Mildred, immigrated to America from Poland in 1955. After living in the slums of Brooklyn for a few years, they finally scraped up enough savings to move to Wisconsin. They purchased a small hog farm on the outskirts of Sheboygan.
Ivan worked tirelessly over the years and farm life had taken a toll on him. His long, jet black hair became short white stubble, and his hands were cracked and calloused. He rarely left the farm except for needed supplies, which always included a quart of cheap bourbon. Mildred referred to it as “Satan in a bottle.� On the other hand, Mildred had never been to town, and in fact, had never left the house since they moved there. A definite recluse, I guess you would call her.
Ivan came through the door after another hard day of work, and breathed in a whiff of beans and salt pork he had put in the slow cooker that morning. Mildred sat at the kitchen table where she always sat. Ivan dished up the beans, placed a bowl in front of her, and then took his place at the other end of the table and began digging in.
After a few bites, he looked up and told Mildred that Rosey, his prize sow, had gotten her head caught in the fence trying to fetch a stray cob. “She’s a feisty ol� gal,� he said, as he began to laugh. “Reminds me of you, back in the day.�
Mildred didn’t respond.
“You know, I’ve been thinking,� he paused to take another bite of beans. “I think you need one of those makeovers that all the women are getting now days, and maybe a new dress too.� He shoveled in another spoonful of beans. “Now don’t try to thank me. It’s the least I can do,� he added, and lifted up his hand. He retrieved a newspaper from the kitchen counter and placed it in front of her.
“What ya think? Ain’t she a beauty?� he asked. The paper was opened to the obituary section and displayed the picture of a lovely young female with flowing hair around her shoulders. The young woman had recently died and was buried in Clossen Cemetery, just down the road from the farm.
Mildred said nothing. As a matter of fact, she hadn’t uttered a word for decades. On occasion, a shrill high-pitched voice could be heard throughout the house, but it was just Ivan mimicking her after he’d had too much whiskey, and was in the mood for an argument. Of course, that was what led to her demise years ago, but it had been so long that he didn’t even remember what they had argued about.
Mildred just sat and said nothing, her hollowed eye sockets seemed fixated on Ivan’s every word. His calloused bear-like hands had choked the very life out of her years ago. Now, she just sat at the table, day in and day out. The small amount of remaining flesh on her face and hands had dried like leather across her skeleton.
Ivan assured her that removing the young woman’s face that was buried down the road would be no trouble whatsoever. After all, he had butchered so many hogs in his time that he had the skills of a surgeon.
As he reached across the table to finish off her supper, he whispered, “You’ll look stunning, my dear…absolutely stunning!�
Robert - Now that's creepy. But I like creepy things. Great job! It's really really good.
She started to read what he’d put in this message and instantly her skin began to crawl. She remembered what he looked like and the very thought of the things he’d written, the things he suggested made her close the message immediately. But she didn’t delete it.Later that morning, for no explainable reason her mind drifted back to the words he’d written and it brought a sigh from her that was as inexplicable as her mind re-reading his words. It wasn’t the kind of sigh that comes from the inevitability of having to do something you’d rather not, but a one born from a brief wisp of excitement. Returning to the computer, she reopened the message and began re-reading.
The words were provocative, sensual. They made her feel as though this person actually wanted to do the things he’d written and with passion. This was no smutty come on, but a beautifully written admission of a man’s feelings towards a woman he felt he could never approach. The more she read, the more the desire fired inside her soul as her body ached for the written actions to be performed.
She’d read the message a couple more times and allowed her mind to fantasise about him being there with her acting out all that he’d written, all the while enjoying some of the most pleasurable self satisfying foreplay she’d experienced. Once finished, and suitable composed, she closed the message and sat in a state of euphoric bliss upon the sofa.
Meanwhile, several miles away a man limply hung from a makeshift noose hanging from a bedroom ceiling. Upon a computer screen to the side of him a message simply read, “Message Sent�.
DigiWriter encouraged me to make a contribution here. And so, I'll shoot out with a topic -- and invite rebuttal.I think O. Henry was -- and remains -- the greatest short story writer in (American) English literature.
Three stories come immediately to mind: (1) "The Gift of the Magi"; (2) "The Last Leaf"; and (3) "Springtime à la Carte."
Given that this is the third day of fall, you might want to take advantage of the mood to read "The Last Leaf" and decide for yourself:
Russell
Good for you, Deirdre!You won't be disappointed.
Russell
Hi Russell. O.Henry was certainly a master of the form. There is a wonderful compactness or economy to his writing. And, as William James remarked years ago, "Easy reading is damn hard writing."
Still, in my view O.Henry is far from the greatest writer of all. To begin, I don't believe it's possible to select a greatest of anything. There are too many variables of time and place etc. Also, there is a practiced sameness to many of O. Henry's stories, and his endings are oftentimestimes forced or melodramatic.
Finally,, I believe a truly great writer must concern himself with great issues... what Faulkner termed the verities.
Were I to use an analogy from the world of fine wine, O.Henry would be a pleasant,little summer wine,to be enjoyed with good friends amidst innocent chatter. Faulkner, on the other hand, reminds me of a Grand Cru... maybe a noble Barolo. Weighty and demanding, one might better sip slowly and ponder deeply.
Great to have you.
Joseph,Thanks for commenting! And yes, I agree: it's virtually impossible to "select a greatest of anything."
In any case, de gustibus non est disputandum -- as the olde Romans liked to say.
If the "practiced sameness" you suggest (as characteristic of O. Henry's stories)is his use of the surprise ending, I would nevertheless have to object to your analogy of that sameness as "a pleasant,little summer wine." Finding and writing a really convincing surprise ending is no easy task. Both de Maupassant, in his time, and T. C. Boyle, in ours, do it occasionally -- and do it well.
As for the hallowed Faulkner, I must confess that I haven't read him since college -- and frankly found much of his prose downright impenetrable back then. For my money, both Carson McCullers and Flannery O'Connor were better (Southern) short story writers, while Faulkner and Eudora Welty were more like a Barolo gone bad.
But hey...as the olde Romans liked to say, "there's no accounting for taste."
Russell
Russell, Or lack thereof. At any rate, I suspect over the course of the however many years since college, as your experiences led to a no doubt broadened world view, you probably would have found Faulkner less impenetrable and joined the majority of writers like myself, who view him as one of the greatest American authors.
Joseph
Actually, no, Joseph.I read Light in August just the summer before last and thought What's the point?
Maybe he's just over my head. After all, although I've had three Pushcart Prize nominations for my stuff, I've never actually won the prize.
Russell
I've been working on a novel revision for so long, I almost forgot what it felt like to get a new idea. That is, until this story slapped me in the forehead. I've struggled greatly with the ending (my wife doesn't like it) and with the appropriate point of view. I'd appreciate some feedback.
(Hm, I have just encountered the complication that the story is too long for this comment box, so what I have done is include the first few pages below, and then here is the link to my dashboard where the rest of the story is posted under Kenneth's Writing. This is the link: /author/show....)
A Paper Koan
Kenneth D. Reimer
Usually, I keep the envelope hidden within the desk in my den. I don’t know what’s in it, and storing it out of sight keeps the question of its contents from plaguing me too much. I also don’t want to get it dirty. A smudge of dirt will ruin its perfection and maybe diminish the power of its message—whatever that message is. There is one other thing, and maybe admitting this will help you understand the effect that small, paper rectangle has on my psyche. It seems to me that as long as the envelope remains sealed, then whatever message it contains is not yet complete; the pen is still writing—the words are still tumbling on the page. I envision a slot machine where the icons begin spinning once you pull the lever. To me, it’s like that—the words are still spinning inside the envelope. Until I open it, whenever I open it, the message inside has yet to be written. Maybe that’s a little flaky, but there it is.
The envelope was given to me a long time ago by a friend of my family. After my parents were gone, this woman became a surrogate mother to me, and I lovingly referred to her as my aunt. Initially, I thought that I had become her caregiver, but I came to realize that she helped me much more that I ever helped her. I cared for her health; I was at her side when she died, but she mended my battered spirit, and she cared for my soul. She gave me so much, and on top of it all, she gave me the envelope.
Of course, I remember the day it happened. It was only a week before she died. In hospice, at her bedside, she had handed me the sealed envelope with the enigmatic explanation that it was her final gift to me. It was one of those envelopes that you send greeting cards in. Almost square and coloured a pastel blue, years ago, it would have carried a letter to a friend.
She had lain her gnarled hand upon my own, and in a faltering voice said, “There is a message in this envelope that will teach you everything I have learned in my life.� She had held my gaze. “This is the most important thing I can offer you.�
I didn’t know if she expected me to open it right at that moment, but for some reason, her declaration terrified me. What kind of response could one possibly give to such a statement? When I think back on it, I believe it was the sudden sense of responsibility that overwhelmed me. What if I was unequal to her expectations? What if her message was beyond my comprehension? I was transfixed by the possibility of disappointing her.
I thanked her numbly and slipped the envelope into the pocket of my jacket.
I haven’t opened it in five years.
I can’t fully articulate why I’ve left it for so long, but there is a sense of finality to the act of opening it that is difficult to accept. As long as the envelope stays closed, and the pen keeps writing, some part of her remains alive. She still holds a last breath. Once I break the seal and look inside, everything stops, and her final words have been spoken.
Yet how long can I hold her suspended in such a state? When does aversion become perversion?
So…usually I keep the envelope hidden within the desk in my den.
But today is going to be different.
It’s Saturday morning. I sit with a coffee; music whispers around the kitchen, and I look out on a world of cold and snow. In my back yard, hoarfrost makes the edges of the trees indistinct, as if they have either not yet fully defined themselves, or are beginning a strange metamorphosis. A haze hovers just past the back fence, masking the world beyond. I frown and turn away from the window, focusing my attention once more upon the issue of the envelope.
Yes, the envelope.
Resolution takes hold. I walk to my den, withdraw the envelope from its maple shrine and carry it back into the kitchen. I have avoided this long enough; it is time to let her go, let my aunt’s final words be spoken. I read my name written in her spidery script on the front of the envelope, then I select a sharp knife from the drawer and insert its tip into a tiny opening at the edge of the glued flap. I draw the knife across the top, careful not to cut what is inside.
The words cease to tumble.
I regard the envelope and read my name a second time—a thousandth time. I run my fingers across its surface, feeling the smooth texture of the paper. Emotion wells, and I fight to suppress it. My vision blurs.
After gathering myself, I squeeze the opposite ends of the envelope and blow into the narrow opening. There is a small, rectangular card inside. I swipe the countertop with my palm, making sure it’s clean, then I tilt the envelope so that the card falls out. It spins once, then lands flat. There is nothing written on its surface. I lift it and turn it over.
(Hm, I have just encountered the complication that the story is too long for this comment box, so what I have done is include the first few pages below, and then here is the link to my dashboard where the rest of the story is posted under Kenneth's Writing. This is the link: /author/show....)
A Paper Koan
Kenneth D. Reimer
Usually, I keep the envelope hidden within the desk in my den. I don’t know what’s in it, and storing it out of sight keeps the question of its contents from plaguing me too much. I also don’t want to get it dirty. A smudge of dirt will ruin its perfection and maybe diminish the power of its message—whatever that message is. There is one other thing, and maybe admitting this will help you understand the effect that small, paper rectangle has on my psyche. It seems to me that as long as the envelope remains sealed, then whatever message it contains is not yet complete; the pen is still writing—the words are still tumbling on the page. I envision a slot machine where the icons begin spinning once you pull the lever. To me, it’s like that—the words are still spinning inside the envelope. Until I open it, whenever I open it, the message inside has yet to be written. Maybe that’s a little flaky, but there it is.
The envelope was given to me a long time ago by a friend of my family. After my parents were gone, this woman became a surrogate mother to me, and I lovingly referred to her as my aunt. Initially, I thought that I had become her caregiver, but I came to realize that she helped me much more that I ever helped her. I cared for her health; I was at her side when she died, but she mended my battered spirit, and she cared for my soul. She gave me so much, and on top of it all, she gave me the envelope.
Of course, I remember the day it happened. It was only a week before she died. In hospice, at her bedside, she had handed me the sealed envelope with the enigmatic explanation that it was her final gift to me. It was one of those envelopes that you send greeting cards in. Almost square and coloured a pastel blue, years ago, it would have carried a letter to a friend.
She had lain her gnarled hand upon my own, and in a faltering voice said, “There is a message in this envelope that will teach you everything I have learned in my life.� She had held my gaze. “This is the most important thing I can offer you.�
I didn’t know if she expected me to open it right at that moment, but for some reason, her declaration terrified me. What kind of response could one possibly give to such a statement? When I think back on it, I believe it was the sudden sense of responsibility that overwhelmed me. What if I was unequal to her expectations? What if her message was beyond my comprehension? I was transfixed by the possibility of disappointing her.
I thanked her numbly and slipped the envelope into the pocket of my jacket.
I haven’t opened it in five years.
I can’t fully articulate why I’ve left it for so long, but there is a sense of finality to the act of opening it that is difficult to accept. As long as the envelope stays closed, and the pen keeps writing, some part of her remains alive. She still holds a last breath. Once I break the seal and look inside, everything stops, and her final words have been spoken.
Yet how long can I hold her suspended in such a state? When does aversion become perversion?
So…usually I keep the envelope hidden within the desk in my den.
But today is going to be different.
It’s Saturday morning. I sit with a coffee; music whispers around the kitchen, and I look out on a world of cold and snow. In my back yard, hoarfrost makes the edges of the trees indistinct, as if they have either not yet fully defined themselves, or are beginning a strange metamorphosis. A haze hovers just past the back fence, masking the world beyond. I frown and turn away from the window, focusing my attention once more upon the issue of the envelope.
Yes, the envelope.
Resolution takes hold. I walk to my den, withdraw the envelope from its maple shrine and carry it back into the kitchen. I have avoided this long enough; it is time to let her go, let my aunt’s final words be spoken. I read my name written in her spidery script on the front of the envelope, then I select a sharp knife from the drawer and insert its tip into a tiny opening at the edge of the glued flap. I draw the knife across the top, careful not to cut what is inside.
The words cease to tumble.
I regard the envelope and read my name a second time—a thousandth time. I run my fingers across its surface, feeling the smooth texture of the paper. Emotion wells, and I fight to suppress it. My vision blurs.
After gathering myself, I squeeze the opposite ends of the envelope and blow into the narrow opening. There is a small, rectangular card inside. I swipe the countertop with my palm, making sure it’s clean, then I tilt the envelope so that the card falls out. It spins once, then lands flat. There is nothing written on its surface. I lift it and turn it over.
Hi Kenneth,I've finally found some time to browse and read here in my favorite ŷ group. I left a comment on your blog regarding your story. I'll post that comment here as well:
This story intrigued me from the start; I just had to know what was inside that envelope. Then the mystery took a back seat to the images and mood -- the blank slate as symbolized by the blanket of snow on the landscape, the reflections of the narrator in his friend's glasses and in the train window. It's a compelling story with a lot of depth.
Hi, Piper.
I'm glad that you enjoyed "A Paper Koan." I've spent the last fews years working on a science fiction novel, so it was totally refreshing to let my imagination run in a different direction. I especially appreciate your observations regarding the symbolism in the story. It's nice when such details are recognized.
I'm glad that you enjoyed "A Paper Koan." I've spent the last fews years working on a science fiction novel, so it was totally refreshing to let my imagination run in a different direction. I especially appreciate your observations regarding the symbolism in the story. It's nice when such details are recognized.
Hello all;
I've just created my first work of fan fiction, and I'm curious how people will react. The summary is posted below, and I have posted as much of the story as space allows. If all this piques your interest, you can read the rest of the rest of the story on my ŷ page or on my website (). I'd appreciate some feedback.
Kenneth D. Reimer
"In the ashen streets of a post-apocalyptic society, one man has a chance encounter with a ghost from his past.
This piece of fan-fiction was inspired by William Golding's Lord of the Flies. In that classic novel, a group of boys are evacuated from England due to a nuclear war. Their plane is shot down over the Indian Ocean, and they are stranded on a tropical island. Over the next few months, they suffer through a horrific experience. I wondered how the main characters of the novel would deal with the resulting emotional and philosophical repercussions. "Child in the Garden" is an attempt to satisfy my own curiosity. This is the story of Ralph, fifteen years after he is rescued from the island."
Child in the Garden
“It’s just a nightmare.�
“Perhaps that’s true, but things are rarely just things. Sometimes a cigar is not a cigar.�
Ralph looked up sharply, more irritated than he should have been. “What?�
“Nothing. A psychologist joke.�
“I thought you were just a counsellor, not a psychologist. Isn’t that what you said that first day?�
“Yes, that is what I said.� A chill entered the woman’s voice. “Now, may we return to the matter at hand? You were describing your nightmare.�
Ralph shrugged, “What’s the point? It’s always the same. It’s been the same since before I started seeing you. Nothing ever changes.�
“You can’t believe that, or there’s no hope for these sessions.�
“No, I didn’t mean�.� Ralph paused, momentarily confused. “I said the nightmare never changes; that doesn’t mean�. Oh, forget it.� God damn it. The sessions had begun to upset him as much as the nightmares did.
The counsellor waved her skinny hand. “Okay, never mind the dream.� She placed a strange emphasis on the word dream. “How are you functioning in your regular life? Have you experienced any flashbacks since last we spoke?�
“No. Things have been good.� Good, of course, is a relative term.
“How is your son?�
Ralph tensed. “I told you: He will not enter into these conversations.�
She shrugged in an unprofessional gesture of frustration. “And how do you expect progress when you place limitations on these discussions? You cannot compartmentalize your life and hope for reintegration.�
“Lady, if I didn’t put up barriers, I wouldn’t function at all. That’s how I survive. Jesus, have you looked around lately?�
Her eyes grew as frosty as her voice. She glanced perfunctorily at her watch then chilled him with an icicle stare. “I believe that’s quite enough for today. I trust you can see yourself out.�
Ralph chuckled as he got up to leave. At some level, he realized that his behaviour was self-destructive, but it always amused him to get under her skin. Had he reflected on it, he would have also realized that his jabs were a puerile, but successful attempt at avoidance. There were places that Ralph simply did not want her to take him. Whenever she probed too deeply, he twisted like a pig stuck with a spear.
Ralph stepped from the makeshift office building into the twilight city. The streets were charcoaled grey under a thin layer of ash, and he felt the immediate, familiar assault on his lungs. He wanted to turn back inside just to breathe the conditioned air, but Peterkin would be home already, and Ralph knew he should return to the projects. He also knew, however, that there was an occasional midweek rations shipment that came to the central city distribution depot, and he was desperately short on provisions. The centre was only a few blocks away, so he turned and set off in that direction.
The damp ash made the concrete slick, and Ralph adopted the walk/shuffle that had become ubiquitous on the city streets. Had there been any humour left in the world, people might have smiled thinly at the unlikely comedic-tragic succession of dead-eyed figures acting out the choreography of a macabre dance—zombies on Soho. Except, of course, there was no Soho anymore, and the new medium of dance was brimstone and fire. The falling curtain was ash. The encore would be lung cancer.
Not the South Pacific paradise I read about as a kid, Ralph thought, and a cascade of remembrances rained darkly in his mind. He shook his head, trying to dispel the destructive images. They plagued him so frequently, they had taken on the aspect of a ritual. Thank god he had Peterkin.
“Hi, chief,� the man at the distribution centre greeted Ralph. He did not know Ralph’s name, nor did Ralph know his. Hardly anyone used names anymore. Humanity had become an indistinct smudge of misery, and names rang false—no more than echoes of everything that had been traded away. So Ralph was always either “captain� or “chief,� two cheerful, non-specific monikers unwittingly applied by a man happy to have a work placement that allowed him to bring relief to others. The therapist helped Ralph wrestle with the demons of his mind; this man appeased the demon of his belly. That demon always returned, but at least when it was fed its silence was absolute. Ralph could almost forgive the man the use of the word “chief,� but that simple appellation negated the half-hour Ralph had just spent with his therapist.
The man knew why Ralph was there, why anyone came there; however, he followed the protocol of his own ritual—something only he understood. He smiled and waited for Ralph to ask.
“Anything come in?�
“Sorry, cap. The cupboard’s bare.� Yet there was a conspiratorial glint in his eyes, and Ralph understood that the cupboard wasn’t completely bare—there was food to be had, only it had not been issued by the provisional government. Occasionally, there was a certain black market meat that could be obtained provided one was willing to sell one’s soul.
Ralph disregarded the silent invitation, nodded and turned to leave, then he paused and glanced back. “Thanks.�
The man’s face brightened, “Maybe next time.� The smile was infectious, and despite his earlier machinations, Ralph found his lips tracing a grin as he walked away.
He had walked a block towards Peterkin when he heard a nightmare voice from behind him. “Ralph, is that you?� At first, he thought he was suffering another of his episodes, but no, this was real—still the realm of nightmare but real none-the-less.
Once he recognized the voice and discounted the possibility of delusion, Ralph’s first impulse was to walk faster—to flee. The ash underfoot, however, made that impossible, and he did not welcome the humiliation of falling.
Falling�. Not like…no, not like that. Ralph shivered.
He stopped and turned.
“It is you.� The man stopped as well. He was thin, emaciated. Not so tall. A far cry from the boy that Ralph had known, yet there was still something familiar in the eyes.
“Yes, it’s me,� Ralph said. “Where’s your other half?� Pain etched sudden, dramatic lines on the other’s face. Ralph let the question drop.
“How are you?� The absurdity of the question made Ralph laugh. How am I? He was alive; they were all alive—almost all. Satan had shaken loose the bond of atoms, but he had failed in his final retribution. For the present, he had failed. And there was Peterkin. At the end of it, at the beginning of it, there was Peterkin.
The man on the street smiled uncertainly at Ralph’s response, so incongruous with his expectations.
Ralph extended his hand, and they shook. “All things considered,� he said, “I’m fine. I have a son.� Perhaps it was an odd thing to say, so suddenly, devoid of context, but Ralph knew why he had said it. His conversation with this man had to be predicated upon that declaration.
And, he reminded himself, the person before him was a man, not the boy he’d known so long ago. The sins of the child should not be laid upon the adult, even when the opposite was so terribly true.
“Do you have time for a coffee?�
Ralph was startled, but quickly recognized the anachronism. Obviously, neither one of them could afford a coffee. “Steamed weed?�
This time they both laughed. “Good for�,� the man began to reply, then paused as if waiting for someone to complete the common expression.
“…what mists you,� Ralph finished.
They found a nearby shop, ordered drinks then sat facing one another across a worn tabletop.
For a while, they rallied with small talk—news of the shattered world that struggled to rebuild itself and inevitably fell into the same instinctual modes of self-immolation. The Sydney Doctrine had been ratified, essentially outlawing the use of thermo-nuclear weapons, but everyone knew that genie would not be forced back into the bottle. The wars in Central America continued. The word of the week was that a fish had been caught off the coast of Refuge City, but no one really believed that story. Rumours upon rumours. All they knew for truth was how the ash continued to fall, and the sun had little warmth in it.
Soon, though, that shallow well of topics ran dry, and the two sat in uncomfortable silence. Into that emptiness, the past began to flow, seeping through the porous walls of memory.
Finally, Ralph asked a second time, “Where’s your twin?�
That same flash of pain. “He’s dead.�
“Oh. I’m sorry.� Ralph knew it was wrong to ask, but the niceties no longer seemed that important. “How’d he die?�
“Suicide.� The single word fell heavily between them.
Of course it was suicide. Ralph had become accustomed to the idea. But for Peterkin, he would have gone that route himself. He wondered how many of them from the island had taken that way out.
As if reading his thoughts, the single twin asked, “Have you heard of any of the others?�
Ralph grimaced. “Why would�?� he began and then caught himself. He had been asked “of� not “from.� Ralph sighed; he knew he had to let that anger go. That’s what the therapy was all about, but before he could surrender the anger, he had to identify its source: he needed someone to blame.
At first, it had been easy to hate the other boys from the island, but the more time pulled him from the tragedy, the more difficult it became to place blame on a group of children. He grew to pity them, and himself not most of all, for he had not been driven to do all that they had done. Not all.
He shook his head, “No.�
The twin leaned forward. “I’ve heard things. Here and there.� Ralph nodded, feeling numb. “The chief was murdered a few years ago. At least, that’s what I was told: stabbed to death in a bar. He got what he deserved.�
The chief. The image of a child laying broken in the surf rose unbidden to Ralph’s mind. He gasped. No one deserves that, or if one does then we all do. He glanced down at his hands. “What about…Roger?� he heard himself rasp.
I've just created my first work of fan fiction, and I'm curious how people will react. The summary is posted below, and I have posted as much of the story as space allows. If all this piques your interest, you can read the rest of the rest of the story on my ŷ page or on my website (). I'd appreciate some feedback.
Kenneth D. Reimer
"In the ashen streets of a post-apocalyptic society, one man has a chance encounter with a ghost from his past.
This piece of fan-fiction was inspired by William Golding's Lord of the Flies. In that classic novel, a group of boys are evacuated from England due to a nuclear war. Their plane is shot down over the Indian Ocean, and they are stranded on a tropical island. Over the next few months, they suffer through a horrific experience. I wondered how the main characters of the novel would deal with the resulting emotional and philosophical repercussions. "Child in the Garden" is an attempt to satisfy my own curiosity. This is the story of Ralph, fifteen years after he is rescued from the island."
Child in the Garden
“It’s just a nightmare.�
“Perhaps that’s true, but things are rarely just things. Sometimes a cigar is not a cigar.�
Ralph looked up sharply, more irritated than he should have been. “What?�
“Nothing. A psychologist joke.�
“I thought you were just a counsellor, not a psychologist. Isn’t that what you said that first day?�
“Yes, that is what I said.� A chill entered the woman’s voice. “Now, may we return to the matter at hand? You were describing your nightmare.�
Ralph shrugged, “What’s the point? It’s always the same. It’s been the same since before I started seeing you. Nothing ever changes.�
“You can’t believe that, or there’s no hope for these sessions.�
“No, I didn’t mean�.� Ralph paused, momentarily confused. “I said the nightmare never changes; that doesn’t mean�. Oh, forget it.� God damn it. The sessions had begun to upset him as much as the nightmares did.
The counsellor waved her skinny hand. “Okay, never mind the dream.� She placed a strange emphasis on the word dream. “How are you functioning in your regular life? Have you experienced any flashbacks since last we spoke?�
“No. Things have been good.� Good, of course, is a relative term.
“How is your son?�
Ralph tensed. “I told you: He will not enter into these conversations.�
She shrugged in an unprofessional gesture of frustration. “And how do you expect progress when you place limitations on these discussions? You cannot compartmentalize your life and hope for reintegration.�
“Lady, if I didn’t put up barriers, I wouldn’t function at all. That’s how I survive. Jesus, have you looked around lately?�
Her eyes grew as frosty as her voice. She glanced perfunctorily at her watch then chilled him with an icicle stare. “I believe that’s quite enough for today. I trust you can see yourself out.�
Ralph chuckled as he got up to leave. At some level, he realized that his behaviour was self-destructive, but it always amused him to get under her skin. Had he reflected on it, he would have also realized that his jabs were a puerile, but successful attempt at avoidance. There were places that Ralph simply did not want her to take him. Whenever she probed too deeply, he twisted like a pig stuck with a spear.
Ralph stepped from the makeshift office building into the twilight city. The streets were charcoaled grey under a thin layer of ash, and he felt the immediate, familiar assault on his lungs. He wanted to turn back inside just to breathe the conditioned air, but Peterkin would be home already, and Ralph knew he should return to the projects. He also knew, however, that there was an occasional midweek rations shipment that came to the central city distribution depot, and he was desperately short on provisions. The centre was only a few blocks away, so he turned and set off in that direction.
The damp ash made the concrete slick, and Ralph adopted the walk/shuffle that had become ubiquitous on the city streets. Had there been any humour left in the world, people might have smiled thinly at the unlikely comedic-tragic succession of dead-eyed figures acting out the choreography of a macabre dance—zombies on Soho. Except, of course, there was no Soho anymore, and the new medium of dance was brimstone and fire. The falling curtain was ash. The encore would be lung cancer.
Not the South Pacific paradise I read about as a kid, Ralph thought, and a cascade of remembrances rained darkly in his mind. He shook his head, trying to dispel the destructive images. They plagued him so frequently, they had taken on the aspect of a ritual. Thank god he had Peterkin.
“Hi, chief,� the man at the distribution centre greeted Ralph. He did not know Ralph’s name, nor did Ralph know his. Hardly anyone used names anymore. Humanity had become an indistinct smudge of misery, and names rang false—no more than echoes of everything that had been traded away. So Ralph was always either “captain� or “chief,� two cheerful, non-specific monikers unwittingly applied by a man happy to have a work placement that allowed him to bring relief to others. The therapist helped Ralph wrestle with the demons of his mind; this man appeased the demon of his belly. That demon always returned, but at least when it was fed its silence was absolute. Ralph could almost forgive the man the use of the word “chief,� but that simple appellation negated the half-hour Ralph had just spent with his therapist.
The man knew why Ralph was there, why anyone came there; however, he followed the protocol of his own ritual—something only he understood. He smiled and waited for Ralph to ask.
“Anything come in?�
“Sorry, cap. The cupboard’s bare.� Yet there was a conspiratorial glint in his eyes, and Ralph understood that the cupboard wasn’t completely bare—there was food to be had, only it had not been issued by the provisional government. Occasionally, there was a certain black market meat that could be obtained provided one was willing to sell one’s soul.
Ralph disregarded the silent invitation, nodded and turned to leave, then he paused and glanced back. “Thanks.�
The man’s face brightened, “Maybe next time.� The smile was infectious, and despite his earlier machinations, Ralph found his lips tracing a grin as he walked away.
He had walked a block towards Peterkin when he heard a nightmare voice from behind him. “Ralph, is that you?� At first, he thought he was suffering another of his episodes, but no, this was real—still the realm of nightmare but real none-the-less.
Once he recognized the voice and discounted the possibility of delusion, Ralph’s first impulse was to walk faster—to flee. The ash underfoot, however, made that impossible, and he did not welcome the humiliation of falling.
Falling�. Not like…no, not like that. Ralph shivered.
He stopped and turned.
“It is you.� The man stopped as well. He was thin, emaciated. Not so tall. A far cry from the boy that Ralph had known, yet there was still something familiar in the eyes.
“Yes, it’s me,� Ralph said. “Where’s your other half?� Pain etched sudden, dramatic lines on the other’s face. Ralph let the question drop.
“How are you?� The absurdity of the question made Ralph laugh. How am I? He was alive; they were all alive—almost all. Satan had shaken loose the bond of atoms, but he had failed in his final retribution. For the present, he had failed. And there was Peterkin. At the end of it, at the beginning of it, there was Peterkin.
The man on the street smiled uncertainly at Ralph’s response, so incongruous with his expectations.
Ralph extended his hand, and they shook. “All things considered,� he said, “I’m fine. I have a son.� Perhaps it was an odd thing to say, so suddenly, devoid of context, but Ralph knew why he had said it. His conversation with this man had to be predicated upon that declaration.
And, he reminded himself, the person before him was a man, not the boy he’d known so long ago. The sins of the child should not be laid upon the adult, even when the opposite was so terribly true.
“Do you have time for a coffee?�
Ralph was startled, but quickly recognized the anachronism. Obviously, neither one of them could afford a coffee. “Steamed weed?�
This time they both laughed. “Good for�,� the man began to reply, then paused as if waiting for someone to complete the common expression.
“…what mists you,� Ralph finished.
They found a nearby shop, ordered drinks then sat facing one another across a worn tabletop.
For a while, they rallied with small talk—news of the shattered world that struggled to rebuild itself and inevitably fell into the same instinctual modes of self-immolation. The Sydney Doctrine had been ratified, essentially outlawing the use of thermo-nuclear weapons, but everyone knew that genie would not be forced back into the bottle. The wars in Central America continued. The word of the week was that a fish had been caught off the coast of Refuge City, but no one really believed that story. Rumours upon rumours. All they knew for truth was how the ash continued to fall, and the sun had little warmth in it.
Soon, though, that shallow well of topics ran dry, and the two sat in uncomfortable silence. Into that emptiness, the past began to flow, seeping through the porous walls of memory.
Finally, Ralph asked a second time, “Where’s your twin?�
That same flash of pain. “He’s dead.�
“Oh. I’m sorry.� Ralph knew it was wrong to ask, but the niceties no longer seemed that important. “How’d he die?�
“Suicide.� The single word fell heavily between them.
Of course it was suicide. Ralph had become accustomed to the idea. But for Peterkin, he would have gone that route himself. He wondered how many of them from the island had taken that way out.
As if reading his thoughts, the single twin asked, “Have you heard of any of the others?�
Ralph grimaced. “Why would�?� he began and then caught himself. He had been asked “of� not “from.� Ralph sighed; he knew he had to let that anger go. That’s what the therapy was all about, but before he could surrender the anger, he had to identify its source: he needed someone to blame.
At first, it had been easy to hate the other boys from the island, but the more time pulled him from the tragedy, the more difficult it became to place blame on a group of children. He grew to pity them, and himself not most of all, for he had not been driven to do all that they had done. Not all.
He shook his head, “No.�
The twin leaned forward. “I’ve heard things. Here and there.� Ralph nodded, feeling numb. “The chief was murdered a few years ago. At least, that’s what I was told: stabbed to death in a bar. He got what he deserved.�
The chief. The image of a child laying broken in the surf rose unbidden to Ralph’s mind. He gasped. No one deserves that, or if one does then we all do. He glanced down at his hands. “What about…Roger?� he heard himself rasp.
That is a lot of story in a little presentation! Good work! (Chris's The Shadow)Also's Ruth's short story "No Matter What" is a good read :)
I'd love to get some feedback on "The End."
It would be great if I could get feedback on some of my work here:heirofinkandpaper.wordpress.com
Thank you in advance!
Folks in the Northern Hemisphere:If you don't already know it, O. Henry's "The Last Leaf" -- a perfect (and perfectly short) read for this time of year -- is (IMHO) one of his most brilliant short stories:
And, it's FREE.
Russell
I have recently finished my rough draft of Skrap, a Kafkaesque short story of a guy that turns into a raccoon. It's in the editing stage and will soon be a part of an anthology. Proceeds will go to charity.If you check it out, please leave a comment about how it made you feel, what it made you think, or if you think it would stand out amongst other short stories. I could really use some feedback.
/story/show/...
Prologue:
“Don’t!� the boy warned, but it was too late.
The spitting and thrashing creature had broken skin. Up to that day, he hadn’t seen anything act in such a way. It burned a hole in his memories, a broken record playing his sisters unbearable wails in the background. He grabbed her by the unscathed arm and dragged her as fast as her nubby little legs could stumble. Trees flew past them like they were heading in the opposite direction. He wished they could all line up and form a wall around the rabid animal behind them.
It wasn’t too far to their house. However, no one was home yet. Mama had gone to get groceries and Papa was at work for another hour. The kids knew this would be their only time to adventure. Had they ever been read Red Riding Hood, they might’ve thought twice.
When they got back, the boy climbed on top of the counter and pulled out the first aid kit. He had seen his mother wrap their fathers wounds after a bar fight had gotten out of hand as well as when the boy had fallen off his bike. His sisters injury was a bit different though. Once he tried to apply the bandages, she started drooling.
At first, he thought maybe she was having an allergic reaction. She had had one before in a restaurant and had to be taken to the hospital. He realized how wrong he was when she fell over, her body twisting every which way, bandages rolling around her body. He stood immobilized and stared as the shock set in.
Eventually, his sister ceased her involuntary dance and he placed her head on his lap. He called her name but nothing came of it. So, he sat there confused with his sisters jello-like yet statuesque body on him, her drool leaking through his shorts. That was how his mother found them.
Ariel,A couple of minor nits on this prologue:
"His sisters injury was a bit different though." I believe you're missing an apostrophe in "sisters."
"So, he sat there confused with his sisters jello-like yet statuesque body on him...". Same as above.
And now, to your story.
Russell
A short story about two lovers and the journey they took from one song to another.As always, your feedback and social media shares (!!) are eternally appreciated.
I would like some feedback on my short story. Its told through two different perspectives. Which are broken in to two blog post. First perspective - Sarah
Second perspective - Dustin
Hello future potential friends. It looks like activity jas slowed on this thread.I'm a newcomer here, and I wanted to share some of my stories, inspired by dreams and night terrors.
I'm hoping to get some traction with my writing. I just don't know where to start. Please enjoy, and let me know what you think.
We'd love to see more of this, so we have created Fiction Feedback wherein members can post pieces from their short stories, flash fiction, etc. and receive feedback from other group members.
Whether you are looking for feedback on plot, character development, or simply need help conveying an idea, just post any of your work for members to offer feedback! Sometimes, it's the feedback from others that can propel us into our next great idea :)