Outtakes
By Gabrielle Blue
Copyright 2011 Gabrielle Blue
Smashwords Edition
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Author's Note
Gabrielle Blue is a pen name for Cheryll (Gabby) Ganzel and Tessa Blue Jones. Outtakes is a collection of short stories, revealing our rather twisted, sometimes grim, sometimes playful mental meanderings. We hope you enjoy them!
Outtakes
Table of Contents
The Weaver
A Leap in Time
Cemetery Girl, with Goggles
Pike Place Peril
Soldiers and Dandelions
Second Honeymoon
Xavier
The Men's Room
Threads
All that Glitters
Snowdrift
Purr-fect
The Devil is in the Details
The Weaver
by Tessa Blue Jones
Rosalind was edgy. Rosalind was tired.
Rosalind punched her card in the time clock with a vengeance. As she thundered down the hallway, her co-workers, bunched up in threes and fours at the water fountain, parted like the red sea.
She swept by them to her cubicle, plunking down the thermos at her work station. No one welcomed her back. Not that she blamed them. Her temper was notorious. Still, it would have been nice if someone had at least said good morning. Well, no time to dwell on it now. Time to get back to work.
She hated the first few days after a long vacation. So much to do to catch up. Things would be out of place. The rhythm would be lost. It would take time to get it back.
A smiling face startled her.
"Hello, Rosalind. Welcome back."
Initially, Rosalind was shocked that someone had actually spoken to her. Then shock turned to disapproval, her lips thinning, turning downward. It was that... that... bohemian weaver... what was her name? Faith, or Joy, or something equally nauseous. 'Trouble' would have been a more appropriate name. Rosalind tried to ignore her and her platitudes.
But the woman would have none of it. "How was your vacation?" she asked, voice bright, grating on Rosalind's nerves.
Rosalind grunted, pouring a cup of coffee from her thermos.
"I don't know if you remember me, Rosalind." She sat with easy familiarity in a vacant chair, swinging her legs back and forth, like a child. "I'm Hope. I drew your name at the last Christmas party."
Oh yeah. That was it. Hope. Hope with the gift of rainbow colored socks. Imagine that! She took as sip of her coffee, trying to get into the right frame of mind to start weaving. Humanity depended on her weaving. She wouldn't let them down.
"That was a long vacation you took, Rosalind. Did you do anything exciting?"
"No." Trying to discourage chit-chat, she was short, abrupt. Then she felt bad. Hope was trying to be nice. Never mind that she didn't have a shred of common sense in that too-pretty head of hers. Rosalind fished around, dredging up more than a one-word response. "Anyway, it was only 52 years. That's not so long, Hope. I've had longer."
"Well, it seems long to me. I wouldn't want to be away from my weaving that long."
"I left in 1960, Hope. A quiet time. I left enough Threads to continue."
Hope shook her bright blonde curls. "Not according to Boss. Early 60s he left a memo, asking for volunteers to pick up your weaving."
Rosalind felt a faint stirring of alarm. Her stomach began to burn. No one messed with her Tapestry. No one. Not ever.
"Volunteers? Whatever for? Everything was going smoothly. There was no need. I saw to that before I left. Boss knew it was under control."
Hope shrugged. "Well, after you left, he must've changed his mind." She grinned at Rosalind. "But don't worry, Rosalind. I took care of it for you."
The burning in her stomach became a three-alarm fire. No. It can't be. Say it isn't so. Not Hope. Anybody but Hope.
Rosalind scrambled for her Tapestry, heart sinking as she found it. She picked it up, mind whirling as she saw the chaotic colors woven at the end of her neat Threads.
"Hope, what have you done?" she whispered, fingers trembling as she held the Tapestry.
"What do you mean, Rosalind? I think it looks much better. More vibrant, alive." Her big blue eyes held honest bewilderment.
Idiot, thought Rosalind. She really had no clue, did she? Now what was she going to do? How could she fix this mess and get back to her original pattern?
She drew in a couple of deep breaths. She wouldn't lose it. She wouldn't. She would remain calm. She would...
She lost it.
"You idiot," Rosalind roared. "You have ruined Humanity. What were you thinking, Hope? What could you have possibly been thinking?"
Cubicle walls rattled at the decibel level. Heads popped over the short walls, the neighboring weavers looking like prairie dogs popping out of their holes.
Hope glanced around, big blue eyes round and teary. Her lip trembled.
"But I fixed it, Rosalind. I thought you'd be happy. Why are you being so mean to me?"
"Fixed it? Fixed it? You've ruined it, Hope. Look at this mess! It's chaotic and jumbled. Humanity can't live like that!"
"Sure they can," Hope said, tears drying immediately, never sad for long. A bright grin etched across her face. "Go ahead, take a look. It's wonderful, Rosalind. Go on. Look."
Rosalind picked up the Tapestry, laid it on the work table, squinted her eyes and peered into the Threads.
And groaned.
It was even worse than she'd anticipated.
"Hope," she said, trying to keep the edge out of her voice as she pointed to one of the Threads. "What is this? A woman with three children. Where's the father?"
"Oh, that. The nuclear family age is over, Rosalind. That whole June Cleaver thing was just too much. So... limiting. I gave women choices. Options. There doesn't have to be a man, you know."
"How do they survive? The man is necessary to work, to provide for their families. Stability." Really, this woman was dense.
"Not anymore. The women work now. They can be anything they want to be."
Rosalind looked at Hope, aghast. "Then who takes care of the children?"
"Why, babysitters, of course."
"Of course." Rosalind rubbed a weary hand over her eyes. She looked at another Thread. "And what's this?" She held up a hand in disgust. "No, don't tell me. Two of the same sex together?"
"Boss said you wouldn't like that one," Hope said, swinging her legs even harder, the grin turning into a laugh. "He said you were a prude. I guess he was right."
"It's not that I'm a prude," Rosalind said stiffly. "It's just that there are formulas in weaving that work better, Hope. Humans need stability. They need organization and structure." She pointed to a group of bunched Threads. "Take these adolescents. They're all grouped together. That's trouble. See what they're doing? They're hurting each other. I remember when adolescents went to the drive-in or malt shops for entertainment. Now..." she stopped in mid-sentence, shook her head sadly.
"Um... those are gangs. I know. I messed up a little on that one. If you look further down, though, you'll see where I'm trying to phase them out. The drugs, too. I dunno where that came from."
"It came from up here... in the sixties, Hope. Right after I left," Rosalind said with a meaningful look. She pointed out an area on the Tapestry. "And what are these?"
"Oh. Those are computers. I made everything computerized so the Humans could have more time to explore other things."
"Well, now they have too much time on their hands. Everything is automated. And look at the state of the environment. How are the Humans supposed to live in that mess?"
Hope quit smiling and started to pout.
"Look, Rosalind. You can't blame that on my weaving. That was your doing. You and your nuclear power. Bombs and war and stuff. Gas powered vehicles, belching fumes in the atmosphere, poisoning everything. Your doing, not mine."
Rosalind's cheeks were red. Her breath came quick and hard. That naive, stupid twit. She ought to just throw the Tapestry in Hope's face. She'd made a mess of it. Let her deal with it.
"Now look here. My Tapestry was neat and tidy. Orderly. Structured. The Threads were properly muted, coordinated."
"You mean boring."
"Not boring. There was a pattern."
"Boring. Dull. Uninspiring. And downright ugly." Hope pointed at the end she'd woven. "My part has excitement. It breathes. It's colorful... it's..."
"It's wrong. It's utter chaos. That's what it is."
"And yours is so right?" Hope pointed to a few Threads just before Rosalind's vacation. "How about these black ones having to sit at the back of the bus? Separate water fountains, separate schools, separate everything. Like they're not real Humans or something. What's up with that?"
Rosalind glared at Hope. "I was fixing that. I was. It was just a few loose Threads, that's all. I was going to fix it just as soon as I got back from vacation." She pointed to the sticky on the wall of her cubie, which read, 'Fix loose Threads when back.' She stared bleakly at the Tapestry she'd worked on for thousands of years. It had been so perfect. And now, thanks to a tiny vacation and a maverick weaver, all was lost.
Wasn't it?
Rosalind stared at it. Hard. Picked up her Needle and Thread. Maybe. Maybe she could fix it. After all, it was only 52 years' worth. There were thousands of Tapestry before it. There would be thousands of years after it. This was just a small... blip... in the Threads of Time. Maybe... yes, that's it. December 21, 2012. Humans were fearful of that date, anyway. Hadn't she woven in that whole Mayan calendar thing, just in case her Threads had become unmanageable? This was the perfect time to square everything away. Make everything tidy again.
She bent carefully to her task, picking up the brightly colored Threads, weaving them in with her more muted ones, toning it down.
Hope just shook her had and hopped out of the chair. "Well, if you're gonna ruin all my good work, I'm outta here. Got my own world to weave, yanno."
"I'm not ruining it. I'm repairing it."
Hope sighed. It was a losing battle, for sure. And she'd made it such a kaleidoscope of a world. Bright, colorful, so... here and now. But Rosalind would never be able to appreciate it.
Hope shrugged. Then grinned and said, "See ya later. Have a good day." She left, only to pop her head in again through the open doorway, a puzzled expression on her pixie face.
"Hey, Ros... do ya think there's someone, somewhere, weaving our Tapestry?" She actually thought about it for an entire millisecond, then shrugged, face clearing. She waved and bounced out the door.
"Don't be stupid, Hope," Rosalind called after the few weaver. "No one is weaving our lives." She shook her head, then thought about it. Really thought about it. The realization hit her suddenly, and she actually dropped a Stitch, fingers going quiet and still for a moment. And in that moment, Humanity faltered.
No. It couldn't be. Rosalind tried to laugh it off, but the laugh got caught somewhere deep inside, coming out more like a strangled cough.
No. It couldn't be.
Could it?
A Leap in Time
by Cheryll (Gabby) Ganzel
Rebecca stood in front of the narrow window and gazed longingly at the distant waves. She took a slow, deep breath, filling her lungs with salty air. A slight breeze lifted the curly blonde tendrils that had escaped her white cap. She imagined herself cradled by the cool water, losing sight of the dreary cottage as she was carried out by the gentle tide.
With a heartfelt sigh, Rebecca turned from the window and crossed the few steps to the other side of the kitchen. Poppa said absolutely no strolls on the beach, no swimming, no reading, no anything until the ironing was finished. Mrs. Martin wouldn’t pay if the ironing wasn’t returned by this afternoon.
Although it was July, the warmest time of the year, a fire burned white hot in the fireplace. A metal rack hung a few inches over the flames. Rebecca grabbed the flat iron off the metal rack and set it down on the board that laid across the back of two chairs. She pulled another pair of pants from the pile of laundry.
What strange material, she thought. These can’t be Mr. Martin’s pants. They’re much too long. They must belong to their new boarder.
Rebecca laid the pants on the board. Perspiration dripped down her face, stinging her eyes. She used the hem of her apron to wipe her face.
She glided the flat iron back and forth across the pants. Ah, what I wouldn’t give to unlace these boots, run down to the shore, strip off these stupid petticoats and dive in, head first!
A seagull’s cry yanked Rebecca from her reverie. The flat iron halted its movement as it struggled across a hard lump in the pocket of the pants. Rebecca set the iron carefully on its side and reached into the pocket. She withdrew a round gold object about the size of a pocket watch but much flatter. It even had a small gold chain attached to it like a pocket watch, but on the other end of the chain was a miniature gold key.
How curious, she thought. She ran her fingers over the beautiful markings engraved on the disk and then flipped the disk over in her hand. Both sides looked exactly the same. She turned the disk on its edge and examined the rim. About half way around, she found a tiny slot.
Curiouser and curiouser. Rebecca giggled. Oooh! Maybe it’s a locket. She took the key and tried to insert it into the slot. It didn’t fit. She turned the key around and tried again. She felt it click as it settled into place. Holding the disk with the tips of her fingers, she turned the key. She heard another click as the disk sprang open.
All the air felt as if it had been sucked out of the room, replaced by a brilliant white light. Rebecca gasped and blinked rapidly several times. As quickly as the blinding whiteness had come, it was gone. Rebecca wasn’t in the kitchen anymore. She wasn’t even in the cottage. She had no idea where she was.
Rebecca stood in the middle of a street paved with black stone. She could still smell the saltiness in the air and hear the sound of the waves as they broke against the shore. On either side of the street were rows of buildings. Flags hung outside each storefront. She crossed the street and peered through the window of one of the shops.
Rebecca entered Sally’s Corner and stood just inside the store. There was a woman sitting on a stool behind the counter reading a newspaper. Rebecca waited a moment, but the woman didn’t look up. Rebecca cleared her throat and took a few tentative steps toward her.
“Well, don’t you look pretty,” Sally said and laughed, “that’s some costume you’ve got on, but the parade was yesterday. You’re a day late.”
Rebecca felt her body tremble and stumbled her way to the counter, leaning on it for support.
“Hey honey, are you okay?” Sally’s voice was full of concern now as she put the newspaper down on the counter.
“You must be burning up. Don’t you know you could have a heat stroke walking around with all that on? Let me get you some water. I have some in the storeroom in the back.”
As she disappeared into the storeroom, Rebecca looked down and saw the disk still open in her hand. She snapped it shut, leaving the key in the slot. A picture in the newspaper caught her eye. She set the disk on the counter and picked up the paper. There was a picture of a huge object in the middle of the street covered with flowers. Several women dressed much like Rebecca stood in the center of it. They appeared to be waving to the crowd that lined the street.
Rebecca glanced at the top of the page. Vineyard Gazette, July 4, 1975. What? It’s not 1975, it’s 1875!
Gunfire startled her. She dropped the paper and ran to the door. Sirens wailed. What on earth was that awful noise? A few people ran past the shop screaming. Good heavens, she thought, they’re naked – well, almost naked anyway.
In the distance she heard someone shouting, “Get out of the water! Everybody, get out of the water!”
“Sounds like the Sheriff’s gone and saw that shark again,” Sally said. “Don’t worry, probably just another false alarm. Here’s your water sweetie. Oh my! Look at this. Is this yours? It’s beautiful!”
Rebecca turned and saw Sally holding the disk in her hand. “NO!” Rebecca cried out and rushed toward the counter. Rebecca’s fingers brushed Sally’s hand as the disk sprang open.
All the air felt as if it had been sucked out of the room. Sally blinked rapidly in the blinding whiteness. Slowly her vision cleared…
Cemetery Girl, with Goggles
by Tessa Blue Jones
"She's weird, Charles." The words from my mother fell flat, dropped like stones down a deep well. I can still hear them, echoing in freefall. "A cemetery? At night? Wearing goggles? Whatever will the neighbors think?"
My shoulders hunched. Who cared what the neighbors thought? Sweat ran down my face, stinging my eyes as I gripped the thick cotton pad wrapped around the handle of a hot iron and pushed the wrinkles in the pin-striped pants into submission. They resisted, of course, but the iron was adamant. The iron reminded me of my mother, the pants, me. My dad, too. We were both garments to her iron.
She's weird.
Ironing was my penance. Before Mom and Dad left for their evening walk, she'd pointed to a distressingly large mound of rumpled clothes in the corner, then to three irons on the steel plate by the fire, one to use, two to keep hot. The trick was to alternate them before they either cooled off too much to do any good or stayed by the fire too long which scorched the clothes. I wasn't very good at it, but then, ironing was not my forte.
Hair stuck to my face and I could feel moisture gathering in my armpits, running down my ribcage, seeping into my petticoat. A soft movement of air from the open window had me lifting my sweaty face to it, begging for comfort. I wanted to climb right out that tiny window, wade through the salt marshes, and leap into the ocean, half-framed by sand dunes dotted with sea oats.
My right arm ached from the iron's drag. I pushed it forward once again and felt a bump against the pointed black tip. I set the iron on the warming plate, and fished in the pocket for the culprit.
It was a key.
Not just any key. I knew this key. It was to my father's workshop, a place to which I'd been forever banned. Tinkering around with Daddy's "inventions" was not ladylike, and above all, I must be ladylike, which forbade me from wearing goggles while sitting in cemeteries, or helping to build Daddy's steam-powered dish cleaner.
The key dug into my palm as I considered possibilities and ramifications. It didn't take long - I am my father's daughter, after all.
In the workshop, I touched the flywheel and boiler of the dish cleaner. It didn't look like he'd gotten any farther with it. The dials were still missing, for one thing. I'd had an idea for that, but… I sighed and moved on, running my hands over the gears of a non-working cuckoo clock, the bird stuck in mid-journey, shiny copper eyes connected to a brass head aged to a rich patina.
Oh. Wait, what was this?
Wings?
I hadn't seen this before. The entire contraption was fitted onto a tailor's mannequin. The shoulder harness was fashioned from thickly tooled leather, the small hydrogen tank mounted on a solid brass back piece. Copper tubing ran from tank to steam thrusters and riveted to wide wristbands. A thinner tube ran from wristband to handheld trigger mechanism. The wings themselves were massive, tips of the long white feathers brushing the floor.
Strapping on the contraption in awkward haste, I trembled and pushed my hair back from my sweaty face. Did I dare? I looked back through the opened doorway and into the tiny kitchen. The irons waited.
Right. Of course I dared. A groping hand under the mattress of my bed yielded my beloved goggles and I was out the door.
Figuring I needed a bit of height to get started, I climbed the old wood trellis to the roof. The wind tugged at the feathers as I tread carefully on tarred shingles. I slipped the goggles over my eyes, spread my arms wide and stepped off the roof.
The air whooshed under my wings and sent me flying, barely missing the old oak at the edge of the yard. I banked, squeezing the hand trigger and shot across the salt marsh. The ocean beckoned, whitecaps rolling onto shore. I frolicked in the air currents, riding the thermals, soaring with the wheeling gulls.
I sighed, remembering the ironing and turned back reluctantly, leaving the ocean and salt marsh, flying above the old gravel road leading home.
It was there I saw them; three men and my parents. I climbed higher, not wanting them to see me, gliding in large concentric circles, watching.
Wait! What were they doing? They were… attacking? The men leapt upon my father and he went down, while mother beat at their backs ineffectually.
No!
A squeeze on the trigger mechanism and steam hissed through the thrusters, lending speed to my dive. I shot toward the group, wind tearing the scream from my mouth. I can only imagine what I must have looked like coming from high above, goggled, white wings flattened against my side as I bulleted toward them, hair streaming out wildly behind. A monstrously-feathered, avenging angel.
The men looked up, wild-eyed and slack-jawed as I swooped by. I banked, wheeled and dove again, chasing them through the salt marsh until they were well and truly lost.
I hovered a moment, hydrogen and steam releasing slowly, sun-kissed wings spread wide to stay aloft. Satisfied, I whirled and glided away.
My parents knew where to find me, of course - alone in the cemetery, perched on a gravestone, winged, with goggles. It earned me more rumpled laundry to iron. The lock was changed on the workroom.
I didn't care. My mom didn't know about my latest invention - a tiny brass lock-picker. I smiled. I am my father's daughter, after all.
Pike Place Peril
by Cheryll (Gabby) Ganzel
Ellie wandered down the cobblestone street of Pike Place, absorbing as many of the sights and sounds she could. She had been coming here daily for as long as she could remember, yet she never grew tired of it.
She passed booth after booth of fruits and veggies, fresh flowers, handmade jewelry, and canvas masterpieces painted by local artists. Although it was still early in the morning, the marketplace bustled with activity, crowded by both locals and tourists just as it had been everyday for the last hundred years. No wonder they called Pike Place “the soul of Seattle,” she thought.
Ellie jumped, startled by an obnoxious, blaring car horn. She stepped sideways and watched as the white knuckled driver inched the silver SUV through the crowd. Must be a tourist, she thought, and not a very bright one. Vehicles were allowed on this street but nobody with any sense ever tried it.
Ellie’s heart rate was just returning to normal as she approached the first of her only two stops.
“Mornin’ Sam.”
Sam smiled at her through sightless eyes. “Morning Ellie!”
She loved talking to Sam. He seemed to remember the smallest details, even ones she couldn’t remember sharing with him in the past.
“How about an apple today?” Sam asked.
“Sounds good.”
“Do you want a plastic bag or are you just going to put it in your book bag?”
“A bag please. And throw in some of my favorite cheese. I’ll take it to the park and finish reading my book.”
“Still reading Fragments?”
“Nope, finished that one. Now I’m reading Children of the Lost Moon.”
“Any good?”
“Yes! And scary too. Shapeshifters and werewolves!”
“Oh my!” Sam said and laughed.
She placed her hand in his and squeezed gently. “See you tomorrow, my friend.”
Sam gripped her hand tightly, his smile faded. “No, you won’t.”
Ellie tried to pull her hand away, but Sam held on. “What are you talking about? Let go Sam, you’re hurting me.”
He relaxed his grip. “I’m so sorry, Ellie. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m just an old fool. Forgive me?”
“No worries. I’m okay. There’s nothing to forgive. Have a good day, Sam.”
A little more rattled than she would like to admit, Ellie walked the last half block of the cobblestone street and entered her other daily stop, Starbuck’s. She inhaled deeply, loving the smell of roasted coffee. She headed for her favorite table at the back of the shop. Perched at the small round bistro table, she had a clear view of everyone inside the store. A large tinted picture window diffused the sun’s rays, casting a warm glow on both the store’s patrons and the passersby outside.
“Hey Ellie, what can I get you this morning?”
“Just coffee please, Jerry.”
“Tall French roast, cream and sugar, to go, as usual?”
“Yeah, except I want a cup here first. This is turning out to be a two-cup day.”
“I hear that!” He stood there a moment, then turned and walked away.
Ellie sighed as she watched Jerry leave. She had been hoping he would ask her out sometime. There were times when she was sure he was about to ask, but instead he would just smile and say have a nice day or like now, just run off.
She put her book bag on the table, pulled out her book and began reading. She was so engrossed in her book, she didn’t notice when Jerry brought her coffee until the rich aroma filled her nostrils. Wanting to savor every sip of the strong hot liquid without distraction, she marked her spot with a bookmarker. She hated it when people bent the corners of the pages, or opened the book too wide and broke the back. Each book was a treasure and except for a slight yellowing of the pages, even her oldest books looked brand new.
Screams and screeching tires caused Ellie to drop her coffee. Without warning, the glass window exploded. Walls, tables, and people rushed toward her. The last thing she saw was a white panel van, half in, half out of the now glassless window.
Firemen dug through the debris. Teams of paramedics handled the injured both inside and outside the shop.
“Is she alive? Is she all right?” Jerry asked the paramedic.
“What’s your name?”
“Jerry. Is Ellie going to be okay?”
“I’m Bill. That looks like a nasty cut on your forehead. DAVID!” Bill yelled.
“Jerry, David’s going to take you out to one of the ambulances and have you checked out. We’ll let you know about Ellie as soon as we can.”
Ellie felt the heavy weight lift as the firemen dug her out of the rubble. She opened her eyes, but her vision was blurred by the bright light. Slowly Sam’s face came into focus.
“I’m so sorry Ellie. I saw me, but I didn’t see you.”
“Blood pressure’s dropping, 60/40.”
“Sam? Sam, what are you talking about?”
“She’s going into V-fib.”
“I should never have said anything. If I hadn’t said anything, you wouldn’t have been here. You would have been at the park, having lunch, reading your book. It’s my fault you’re here.”
“CLEAR!” Ellie’s body jerked violently.
Sam held out a gnarled hand.
“Flat line. Again, CLEAR!”
Ellie took Sam’s hand. “Where are we going?”
“You’re not going anywhere. Not yet anyway. Come on Ellie, breathe!”
Outside of Starbucks looked as chaotic as inside. Shattered booths, paintings, flowers, fruits and vegetables, lay scattered in the street. Most of the injured had already been transported to the hospital. A few people milled about, dazed and confused, trying to salvage what was left of their booths.
Bill found Jerry sitting on the back of the ambulance.
“How is Ellie? Is she going to be okay?”
“Is she a close friend of yours?” Bill asked.
“Not really, but I’ve seen her every day for forever. I’ve been meaning to ask her out, I just never got around to it.”
“Well it looks like she’s going to be fine. And what are you waiting for? You should ask her out. You never know what’s going to happen or when.”
“Yeah, who could have seen this coming? What did happen here anyway?”
“From what I hear,” Bill replied, “some drunk decided to play Death Race 2000. It’s a miracle there was only one fatality.”
“One person died? Who?”
“The old blind man who owned the fruit stand. He was crossing the street and was hit by the van. Died instantly. Come on, I’ll ride with you to the hospital.”
Bill closed the back doors. “Okay David, let’s go.”
“Are we going to the same hospital they took Ellie to?”
“Yes, we are,” Bill said.
Jerry smiled. “Good!”
Soldiers and Dandelions
by Tessa Blue Jones
The sun rides high, at its pinnacle, shining down bright and hot on a cloudless, windy day. I keep my head down low, stepping off the sidewalk into a sea of sand surrounding the lone bus bench. The brisk wind whips the grains of sand into a stinging fury, attacking arms and the backs of legs. Eyes half close against the onslaught, each grain finding its way through my eyelashes feeling like a boulder, massive and heavy. My hair tosses in the stiff breeze, becomes a careless tangle.
I sit down on the weathered wooden planks of the bus bench and wait. Another blast of wind and I bow my head against it, tasting grit in my mouth.
My slit eyes catch yellow movement at the juncture of bus-bench leg and ridged-up sand. It’s a dandelion, nestled amongst fluttering jagged leaves, yellow head bobbing on a skinny green stem. Dent de lion. Lion’s tooth. Noxious weed, according to some. To me, a beautiful flower. Hardy, too, growing in the middle of well-kept lawns, seas of sand, the sides of roadways, even in the cracks of sidewalks. Or at the feet of bus benches.
I slide off the bench, crouch down and touch a thin yellow petal. My fingers tremble. My mind skitters backward, whirling, to a younger time, and the fingers touching the dandelion become chubby and soft and clumsy.
The sun disappears and the wide, little-kid smile turns to an O of terror as a man looms over me. Daddy. I feel him jerk me to my feet, and as he drags away my struggling body, he flattens my beautiful dandelion with a careless foot. Cringing, I stare up at him. Fear. So much fear. And after the fear, pain. He whispers to me in a thundering voice. (Be a good soldier.)
My heart drums in my chest as I return to the present. It’s hard to breathe. Tears trickle slowly down my face. Glancing around, I see that no one else is at the stop, and none of the speeding cars seem to have noticed me crouching in the dirt, touching a dandelion wedged at the concrete base of an old bus bench.
I sigh with relief, and start to get up, but another blast of wind sends the yellow flower twitching and bobbing. A shift in the mind, and I’m nine years old, staring out the bedroom window, tummy growling, oh so hungry. Legs heavy, feeling like dead wood nailed to my hips. Day 24 without food. A test from God, Daddy says, to see if we are good soldiers. And in the unkempt back yard, dandelions spring up in riotous clumps of jagged green leaves, bright yellow flowers, and white puff-balls ready to explode in the springtime breeze.
A giggle brings me back to the bus stop, and I see a tangle of white and green and blue. A little girl in green shorts and tee-shirt, her hair a cloud of short blonde curls, clinging to her mother’s jeans. The little girl is staring at me, amused (look at the funny lady, mommy.) The mother, I can tell, is not so amused.
I try to get up, so I can dust myself off and appear somewhat normal, but I just don’t have the energy. I sink back down on my heels, squatting there, yet another slide of my past slipping into my viewer brain. Click.
Daddy going through his “dark time.” Again. His broken mind dips into the pit of hell. Reads a sign from God, written in veins across his own forehead. God gives him his instructions. He reaches for me, and I cry out. (Be a good soldier.) When the fear consumes me, and I can’t breathe anymore, Tracker comes. Tracker, a strong, tough, young man. Grim. Tracker reads signs, too. He sees Daddy tracks. Tracker never smiles, but he knows how to get through the things that Daddy does to us. He’s brave. Fearless. He plucks a dandelion and puts it in my tiny hand, and sends me off to sit on StoryTeller’s knee. The fear and pain ebb away to nothing as I bury my nose into velvety-soft petals and listen to a story of long ago and far away and once upon a time. When the story ends and I come back, I wonder at the soreness, the smell, the bruises. And where’s Tracker? I look for him but he’s nowhere to be found. I miss my friend. Even if he doesn’t smile.
Two sharp blasts from a car horn and I’m back at the bus stop. My knees are stiff from crouching in the sand. The blonde, curly-headed child, still with her mother. The mother looks at me strangely, and shields the child from me with her body, as if afraid that I might hurt her. I laugh at the thought, but it turns to a sob somehow, strangling in the back of my throat.
Hurtling back through time, I’m hiding behind my mother’s legs, wanting to disappear while the monster-daddy hunts for me. He is close. I can smell him. I hear the belt slide whisper-soft through the loops of his pants, and mother steps away, giving me to him. No, mommy, please. (Be a good soldier.)
Suddenly I’m the deep end of a pool. I can’t swim, and terror washes over me as a large daddy hand grabs the top of my head, pushing me under. I thrash my chubby legs and my tiny hands try to push the weight off the top of my head. My lungs burn for air. As he yanks me up by my hair, I hear his maniacal laughter, and the words, “baptism.” I do not understand. I gasp and choke. (Be a good soldier.)
Again at the bus stop. I take several deep breaths, as if to reassure myself that I can indeed breathe. The little girl cries at the sand blowing in her eyes. I look up and whisper, “Be a good soldier.” Mother and child move to the far end of the patchy sand, close enough to run to the bus when it arrives, far enough away to be out of reach of the wild-eyed, tangled-hair woman squatting at the base of the concrete bus bench, muttering while she fondles the petals of a many-bladed flower.
(Be a good soldier. Be a good soldier. Be a good soldier.) It echoes through my head and I wonder - a good soldier? What is that? A soldier kills or is killed. What’s so good about that? Why did Daddy always insist upon it? I shiver in the hot sun, and watch idly as the wind blows and a dandelion seed from a puff-ball floats in from somewhere far away, a tiny parachute delivering a seed of life to this dusty Texas town.
It lands close by my dandelion, and I push a few grains of sand over it to hold it still. A partner, I tell the flower at my feet. It nods its yellow head in gratitude.
A squeal of brakes startles me, and as I look up, I see that the bus has come. The little girl and her mother are already boarding. I rush to get on. One single backward glance reveals the dandelion, standing tall and tough in its blustery, sandy world. I climb the steps, slip some change into the slot of the metal box. As I make my way to the back of the bus, I stare at my lone dandelion through graffiti-scratched windows.
As the bus pulls away, I’m sad for a moment at the loss of my dandelion. But then a voice whispers to me (Tracker, is that you?) and says, “Don’t you get it? You are the dandelion.”
Me? I am the dandelion? The understanding ebbs and flows for a moment, my mind a tidal pool. Then I grin. I stomp my feet. I throw my head back and laugh. Me. Yes. I am the dandelion. I am strong. I am tough. I am even pretty to some.
Then I get mad. I yell in a fit of rage, “Daddy! Can you hear me? Listen up! You can try to destroy me. But you can’t kill me. My soul runs as strong and tough and deep as the roots of the dandelion. I will survive. I have survived.”
I laugh again, and pound hard on the vinyl seats of the bus. I notice that everyone has shifted, moving to the front, vacating the entire back of the bus (look at that funny lady, mommy.) Oh, dear.
Off the bus, and into a tall building, all glass and steel and fluorescent lights. It’s dim and cool and quiet inside. I ride the elevator to the third floor, fidgeting until the doors whoosh open. I run down the hall, burst into the office and blurt out, “I may not be a good soldier, but I’m a damn good dandelion.”
My shrink, with his carefully schooled, blank face, just nods his head and says, “I see.”
Second Honeymoon
by Cheryll (Gabby) Ganzel
Sara joined Matt on the fur throw rug in front of the fireplace. Matt laughed and poured her a glass of wine.
“I can tell this is our second honeymoon and not our first. Blue fleece footy pj’s? The penguins are cute, but not exactly sexy.”
“It was a lot warmer on our first honeymoon,” Sara replied. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into coming here. We could be halfway to Jamaica by now and I could be wearing my blue bikini instead.”
“But then I wouldn’t have you all to myself. Besides, I really needed to get away. It’s been hell at work. Never knowing from one day to the next if you still have a job.”
“Okay, make you a deal. You build a bigger fire and I’ll go change.”
“Hmmmm that’s the spirit. We’re going to need a lot more firewood. I’ll brave the elements. In no time at all it will be even hotter in here than in Jamaica, I promise. Be right back.”
Sara hugged her knees to her chest. The wine and the warmth of the fire made her drowsy. A howling brought Sara to her feet. What was that? Was that the wind? An animal? A scream rose above the howling.
“Sara! Help me! Sara!”
Sara rushed out of the cabin. She had barely left the porch when the lights in the cabin went out. Blackness surrounded her. No moonlight reflected against the snow. She could see nothing. Driving wind and snow pushed Sara forward. She strained to hear Matt’s voice above the screeching wind.
It was snowing harder now. Sara struggled through the drifts. Her feet were numb. Shouldn’t she have reached the shed by now, she thought? Matt was a walking compass but she had no sense of direction at all. Still, how hard could it be to find the shed? If she remembered correctly, it was only about 50 yards from the cabin. If she remembered correctly. That was the key.
“Sara!”
“Matt?” Where are you?
“Over here! Help me!”
Sara turned toward the sound. She plowed through the snow until her legs felt as numb as her feet. Wind whipped the snow, pelting her face and hands. Sara pulled up her hoodie and tucked her head down. Wait, what was that? A flicker of light? From the cabin? It seemed to move.
“Sara, where are you? Help me!”
“I’m here Matt. I’m coming.”
Sara stumbled, landing face down in the snow. She was exhausted. I’ll get up in a minute she thought. I just need to rest for a minute.
A gentle warmth spread through her, cradling her against the cold. She heard Matt’s voice, growing more distant, calling her. For a moment she thought she could see the cabin. It was right there, and then it was gone. From somewhere in the night, she heard the whistle of a train. A lonesome sound. It was the last thing she heard.
It had been a long morning. The paramedics and the coroner had left about an hour ago, but the Sheriff remained.
“Let’s go over your statement one more time. I’ll record it and then get it in writing later today. You can stop by the station and sign the papers. You say you have no idea when or why Sara left the cabin?”
“No. We both had several glasses of wine by the fireplace. Sara complained that she was cold and wanted a bigger fire, but there wasn’t any more firewood. I told her it was too dark and cold to go get more last night. I’d get more first thing in the morning. I was tired and wanted to go to bed. Sara said she was going to take a hot bath first. I fell asleep right away. I woke up this morning and she wasn’t in bed. I got dressed so I could get the firewood and that’s when I found her. Just laying there. In the snow. Ten feet from the porch.” Matt’s voice wavered.
“Were you and Sara having any marital problems?”
“No, in fact this was kind of like a second honeymoon for us. It was Sara’s idea to come here. She said she wanted to spend a lot of time together, just the two of us. Get away from it all. She said she needed to unwind. She had been under a lot of stress at work.”
“I guess that’s all I need for now. Make sure you stop by the station. You’ll have to wait for the autopsy results before you can get a death certificate. Shouldn’t take but a couple of days.”
“Thanks Sheriff. I’ll be there as soon as I finish packing up here.”
Matt watched until the Sheriff’s car was out of sight. He reached in his pocket for his cell phone, checked the number of bars and dialed.
“Good morning, National Life Insurance. How may I help you?”
“This is Matthew Parker. I’d like to speak to my agent, please.”
“Who’s your agent?”
“Morgan, Elizabeth Morgan.”
“One moment please.”
“Elizabeth Morgan.”
“Hey, it’s me, Matt.”
“Success?”
He grinned. “How does Jamaica sound?”
Xavier
by Tessa Blue Jones
The wind howls through chinks between the heavy timbers of the tiny log cabin. Xavier presses a face up close, ignoring the freezing needles of cold against his right cheek. Peering through the crack, he watches as red and yellow leaves, tiny whirling dervishes, skitter through dying stalks of corn.
"Xavier - sweetie? Come see what I'm making!" says the voice from across the room.
Mommy.
He doesn't really need to see what she's making. He can smell it as it cooks, filling the room with a slightly scorched, syrupy sweetness: butter, milk, sugar. His tummy growls and he turns from the crack in the logs and goes to watch as mommy pours the thick golden liquid into a pale yellow bowl. Apples line up along the length of the table like fat red soldiers ready to march.
"I'll do this part. It's still hot. You can decorate, okay, my little man?" Mommy spears one of the waiting apples with a popsicle stick and swipes it inside the bowl. Gold covers red as she gives the stick an expert twirl. She puts the apple on a cookie sheet lined with wax paper. She picks up another apple and repeats the process, spear, swipe, twirl… spear, swipe, twirl. Soon all the red soldiers are now gold, glistening in long lines, ready for new orders.
Xavier wanders back to the rear of the cabin and peers once again through the crack in the wall. The day begins to fade, the sun an orange ball slipping behind the cornfield, turning dead stalks into spears of crimson. He watches between those spears, waiting. Where are they?
A startled squeak escapes as mommy picks him up and carts him back to the table, plunking him atop a booster chair. Candies crouch in little bowls on the table in front of him, nonpareils, candy corn, Runts, Skittles, chocolate chips. Mommy hands him one of the caramel apples.
"Time to make monster faces, Xavier. The caramel is still soft; just push in the candy." She shows him how on one of the apples, yellow banana Runt for a mouth, nonpareils for eyes, candy corn ears. "See? You try it."
Xavier accepts a gooey apple and holds it gingerly by the stick. Obligingly, he presses bits of candy into the caramel. His monster face is unrecognizable, mouths where ears should be, eyes on chins. He smiles and puts it on the wax paper, picks up another blank canvas, awaiting its turn for a face.
"Now what kind of a monster is that?" Mommy asks later as he works on his third apple. "Here, let me help you."
Xavier yanks his apple back as Mommy begins to rearrange the face.
"Okay, okay, have it your way, but that is one ugly critter, young man. Remember who these are for! Oh, no matter, we have plenty," Mommy mutters as she picks up an apple and begins to design a classic monster face, leaving Xavier to restore nonpareil eyes on the chin.
"All done! Now don't these look pretty," Mommy says later. "We'll be sure to have lots of little friends come by for these. I did promise, right? They won't be able to resist monsters like these. And then… and then when the perfect child comes along… oh, Xavier, you'll have a brother or sister! Won't that be exciting?" She laughs and touches Xavier's nose with one long finger, gives it a little wiggle before lifting him out of the booster chair. She gives him a big hug and puts him down.
Immediately Xavier goes to the chink in the cabin wall and resumes his watch. The remaining sun slides away and night overtakes the corn. Shadows weave within shadows as he waits, and watches.
There. Two points of light coming from the field. Xavier shifts his eyes, looks to the right as two more wink on. Minutes later, the dead corn is alive with lights in sets of two, all lined up between the rows of neatly planted stalks, looking like tiny headlights of miniature cars caught up in a traffic jam.
Xavier smiles and nods his head.
A sudden scrabble, a knock at the door. Mommy squeals, and says as she rushes to open the door, "I hope you're ready, Xavier, the children are here!"
Xavier is almost ready. He grips the log wall and grunts as a sudden, ripping sound signals the change. He turns toward her as she flings open the door.
She gasps and her eyes go wide as dinner plates as her guests rush in through the door and crowd around her, their monster faces unrecognizable, mouths where ears should be, eyes on chins. They stare at her, unblinking.
"Xavier! Run! You must get…" Mommy trails off as she whirls around to face him.
He feels the teeth from his dual mouths elongate, razor sharp and ready. His tummy growls.
Mommy.
The Men’s Room
by Cheryll (Gabby) Ganzel
Nag, nag, nag. Now I know what happened to her other two husbands. She said Calvin died of a heart attack at 40, and Tom died in an auto accident. He drove right smack into a tree. I think she nagged them to death. We’ve been married less than a year and I’m ready to jump off a tall building somewhere.
I set the toolbox and wood shelves down on the floor. Okay, actually I threw it all down so that it made as much noise as possible. She slammed the guest room door shut. She had the cell phone pressed up against her ear and she wore that “you’re on my last nerve look” I love so much. I chuckled. Good. Serves her right. This is Sunday for God’s sake. I’m supposed to be meeting the guys at Duffy’s for a couple of beers and watch the Dolphin game on the big screen, NOT putting up shelves in the guest room closet. What’s so critical about the guest room closet that can’t wait I ask you.
If I hurry, maybe I can get to Duffy’s by half time. I took the clothes, leaving them on the hangers, and threw them down on the bed. I grabbed the measuring tape and stepped inside the closet. What the hell? There’s a door here. Why is there a door inside a closet? I turned the knob and pushed the door outward then stepped inside another room.
The room was windowless except for a small skylight in the ceiling. The only other light came from a huge, flat-screen television mounted on the far wall. Facing the big screen were three high-backed leather recliners. Between each recliner was a small table. A pitcher of beer, a mug, and a bowl of peanuts sat on each table.
Oh man, did I ever feel like shit or what? I had her all wrong. She wasn’t just a nagging bitch after all. She just wanted to surprise me!
Wow, look at the size of that screen! I feel like I’m out on the field. Hey, it’s the Dolphin game! Shit! Chad just threw the ball. Damn, who’s out there? Marshall? Is he clear? I rushed around and sat in the closest recliner, never taking my eyes off the screen. YES! Marshall caught the ball, go Marshall go! Touchdown! Woohoo! I poured some beer in the mug. Damn, she’s good. The beer is still cold.
I gotta call the guys. They’re not going to believe this. Maybe I should call the florist or something too. Nah, I’ll thank her later. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and flipped it open. No bars. Shit! They missed the kick. Dolphins - 13, Bills – 7. Halftime. I’ll go through the closet and call the guys. I laughed. Sounds funny, going through the closet to call the guys.
I jumped out of the recliner, almost knocking over the table. I wasn’t alone in the room. There were guys sitting in the other two recliners. I hadn’t noticed them before. They just sat there like rocks. They didn’t even twitch. I took a couple of steps toward the chair closest to mine and leaned forward. He looked familiar. Calvin? I had seen a couple of pictures of Sandra and Calvin. This was definitely Calvin. I poked him in the shoulder. He not only sat like a rock, he felt like a rock too. I looked at the other guy. I hadn’t seen any pictures of Tom, but I had an awful feeling it was him.
That’s enough for me. I’m outta here. Hey, where’s the door? It should be right here! Where’s the damn door? I slid my hands along the wall, running around and around and around the room until I was dizzy. I couldn’t breathe. My heart pounded in my ears. My chest felt like it was going to explode.
I sank back down into the recliner, gulping more of the beer. I had to calm down. I had to think. Damn! Two seconds left in the game. Bills – 17, Dolphins – 13. How the hell did that happen? My legs felt like lead. My whole body felt heavy. There was no way I could lift myself out of the chair. Now I really did know what happened to Tom and Calvin. Game over.
Threads
by Tessa Blue Jones
The pill. Tiny and hard and smooth. A pale pink football. Billy rolled it around with thumb and forefinger, then popped it into his mouth, swallowing it with a sip of water from a flimsy paper cup.
Billy clenched his hand, crumpling the cup, and with a backward snap of the wrist he tossed it into the garbage. Two points. He looked at the techs and grinned.
"Let's suit up."
"Are you sure you want to use your equipment?" The tech looked at Billy's stuff. "Ours was designed just for this study. Why don't you give it a try?"
"No way. I'm using mine. The main guy at the Campbell Center said I could. What's his name... Robert... Robert something or other. Anyway, it's calibrated to your specs. And it'll work better. So what's the prob?"
"The 'prob', Billy, is that we haven't tested your equipment. All we have is your word that it will work. And I for one have better things to do than..."
"Can it, Starke." A man almost as wide as he was tall, huffed and puffed his way across the room, hand outstretched. "Billy, it's good to meet you in person. I'm Dr. Robert Hanson."
Billy took the proffered hand. "Hi, Dr. Hanson."
"Are you ready to begin the test? Have you already taken the pill?" At Billy's nod, Dr. Hanson looked over at the technician. "Starke, is everything a go?"
"Yes, Dr. Hanson, but I still don't see why we're using Billy's equipment. We know ours works. There are too many variables to chance it on untested V.R. equipment."
Billy rolled his eyes. "C'mon, doc... can't we get started? I wanna get done before five. I'm the reigning champion on Devil's Dust, and someone is challenging my title."
"Devil's Dust?"
"Yeah, you know, the video game. V.R. Isn't that why I'm here? 'Cause I'm the best virtual reality gamer around? Well, I won't be the best if I don't get back to it. So let's get going."
Billy grabbed his virtual reality equipment and sat in the test chair, wriggled around, getting comfortable.
A nice chair. It reclined just right. The angle was perfect. If I do a good job, maybe they'll give me the chair, Billy thought. I could sit in this chair all day.
The techs hooked him up to various monitors. Then helped him hook up the V.R. equipment.
Billy slid the goggles over his eyes with a sigh. Pulled on the gloves with practiced ease. This was his world. Here he could escape the "real" world, could forget that he couldn't hold down a job or make it with girls. That he was 24 and still lived with his mom. Here he was king. And virtual reality was his kingdom. He was the best.
"Okay, Billy, the drug should be taking effect in just a few minutes. Let's go over a few things while we're waiting."
"Again? You guys already went over everything. Twice. I know it's dangerous. I know I only have 20 minutes to get in and get out. I know what to look for. I signed the paper, didn't I?"
"The release form. Yes, Billy, you did. But I just want to be sure that you understand all of the ramifications." Dr. Hanson leaned over and whispered in Billy's ear. "I promised your mother, Billy."
"You didn't go through all those possible dangers like you did with me, did you?" Geez, what an idiot. "Ah, man... now she'll be way worried. What'd you go and do that for?"
Billy remembered the parting scene this morning. He'd loaded his gear into the waiting car. Turned around to wave to his mom in the doorway. She was standing there, face lined and worried. God, she was wrinkled. When had she gotten so old?
"Come on, Billy. She's your mother. She had a right to know."
"Whatever." Billy didn't want to care. Think about the game. It's all about the game. The room suddenly felt hot, seemed to expand. Contract. Expand again. Jesus, the room was breathing. No, not the room. It was his own breathing. He was a part of the room. He was the room.
"He's going under," the tech said to Dr. Hanson.
Dr. Hanson bent down, spoke softly to Billy. "Now don't forget, Billy, you only have 20 minutes. You need to find the right neural pathway immediately."
Billy tried to say he knew that, but his tongue was thick and fuzzy. It filled his mouth, pushed up against his teeth. He knew a moment of panic. Relaxed his throat, concentrated on breathing. His V.R. goggles felt like they were embedded in the skin around his eyes. He was slipping away, out of the room, right into the brain of another human being.
No, not human. A serial killer. A different species entirely. Some guy who got his rocks off by slicing up beautiful girls into cuts of meat. Wrapped each piece in pristine white butcher paper. Froze it. Everything was neatly labeled. Flank. Rump roast. Liver. And he was supposed to fix him with his V.R. equipment? With a push of a few buttons? Blow out that pathway, create a decent human being?
Not likely.
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