Sci-Fi/ Fantasty Friday – The Library

INTRODUCTION

The Library is one of my first short stories. It was originally to be the first in a series of modern fairy tales (The majority of which can be found here) as the “catalyst piece”; the how this all began piece. I have the first draft posted here and if you search you’ll find it. Well, after a workshop and some tinkering, this is what I’m presenting to you today. I’ve added to it, attempted to fix my grammatical errors, and may have set it up to be the first chapter of a novel. I guess I am now at a fork in the road myself.

The Library

     In legend, there is a library somewhere in the galaxy that houses every piece of knowledge in existence. This is not true, as Young Goodman found upon receiving his employment invitation; the library was in a different galaxy completely. Being a bookish Philosophy and Literature major from Boston, you’d have thought receiving a letter from a one “Master Curio of The Library, Black Hole in Galaxy Eyo” would have been thought preposterous by Goodman, but he was quite rational about it. As he lay in his dorm room the evening of receiving the letter, he opened it and read with the utmost curiosity:

Dear Mr. Goodman,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been chosen among the billions of human beings, both on Earth and throughout the Universe to become my apprentice. I am Master Curio, Librarian and Keeper of the Documentation of Human lives. You will be met on your home planet by a caller and will be brought to the Library in three days’ time. Here you shall remain in training for a duration of time ranging from 6 months to two decades as an apprentice. Naturally, I must be sure of your skill before I can take leave. When I do feel that you are ready, you will resume my work – all of which will be described to you in great detail soon enough. Training will begin promptly upon your arrival. You are to tell no one, bring nothing, except your most prized possession and meet your caller at the empty lot exactly 2.1 miles from your dormitory. The self-same lot that sits across from the pub you often sit at during lunch.

With high hopes,

Curio.

Goodman placed the letter on his nightstand, lay his head back and closed his eyes. In his minds eye he could see himself as a very little boy. He was sitting with his Grandfather on a camping trip. They were alone, by a fire and his Grandfather was telling him a story as a meteor shower took place above them. Packing nothing, as the letter requested, he set off to an empty lot blocks from his dormitory and stood in the middle awaiting “the call” that was to come for him. He’d read and re-read the letter in the days between his receiving it and his call date. If he had felt silly standing there in an empty lot, grasping a letter from an elliptical galaxy he had only studied during his brief fascination with physics, it did not last because the moment he planted his feet and looked into the night sky, there was a man standing just behind him.

“Hello Goodman. We’re so glad you came” and without so much as allowing the boy to turn and see who was speaking to him there was a hand on his shoulder, a haze of light and the world around him began to fade. Dizzy and slightly blinded by the foggy atmosphere Goodman could see the patchy grass below his feet give way to marble and brick walls on either side faded into a cloudless sky and he was standing before what appeared to be a massive mahogany doorway.

The hand was no longer on his shoulder and standing before him was a man of small stature, and a friendly face.

“Welcome,” said the caller as he pulled the door open for Goodman, “to The Library.”

As they entered, Goodman could see many things he could not quite believe. It was a indeed a library. Though much larger and more extravagant than he would have imagined. There were many men, and creatures that looked nothing like he’d seen before. But from their manner, their countenance, Goodman could tell they were of races of similar position in the social hierarchy as humans.

The caller led Goodman to a small table with two chairs, all elaborately carved and bearing script Goodman had never seen before.

“You don’t seem too surprised to be here” the caller spoke sitting on one seat gesturing for Goodman to join him.

“My grandpa told me stories about this place.” Goodman surveyed his surroundings, his eyes hungry for understanding. “But he never said it was anything like this.”

“What did he tell you?” a sort of raspy whisper came from nearby. An old man, ancient nearly,  stood cloaked and solemn faced had approached them.

“Well,” Goodman answered as he assessed this man, “not nearly as much as I’ve learned just sitting here. He’d told me that here housed all of the World’s knowledge. That the librarians were keepers of stories,  knowledge, any fact anything that is true can be found here. This is the house of knowledge.”

“Ah,” the old man smiled. “The house of knowledge. Well, my dear boy, this is true and not so true. You see, you will be working under me, and I am Curio, Master of Documenting and Recording Human Lives, keeper of profit, business venture, war, lust, love, kind acts, and all that beauty human lives are comprised of; and you, you are my apprentice. Come now, let me explain,” and with that he beckoned Goodman, waved Goodbye to the man who’d brought Goodman and set off to a section that looked very much like a library one would find on earth. It wasn’t as bright as some of the other sections appeared to be, there was less technology and far fewer librarians pacing, re-shelving, and reading.

“There are, of course, two types of books for the humans yet to be born. Look here,” the Curio said, handing Young Goodman a hefty volume with Emelie Belle Martin written on it. Inside, other than her birth date, July 1, 3000, was completely blank. “She,” the old Master continued, ” is one of those free spirited ones. Someone who will write their destiny. We know what choices may befall her, but naturally each choice she makes will lead to another choice, another life, and ultimately, another universe. Where there will be another you, learning from another me. But let’s not complicate things so, not this early, anyway.”

He strode over to another section and took a slightly thinner volume from the shelves. “Ivana Bazin,” he handed the volume to Goodman, who could see the entire book was filled.” Born in February of 2069. She marries once, becomes a lesbian for some spell, but eventually dies alone. She has three children, Michael, Angela and Monique. Her favorite sport is tennis and her favorite song is by an artist named Sherri Fils-Aime, ‘Beauty like the Night.’ You see, I know all of this about our still unborn Ivana because she is one who will accept her fate as it happens. She believes in destiny, and destiny alone and this belief is so strong it will not allow her to fight for what she loves. She will have no fight whatsoever, no fire.” He chuckled, sadly. “But it does make our lives easier, I daresay sometimes I wish more were like her. I’d have less to do. Now, you will join Francisco,” the man who’d brought Young Goodman reappeared, “and be fed, and kept in a manner that is usual to you. Tonight, you will talk to me, I want to know all about Earth, from your eyes. It has been many, many years since I was home. Though, I tell you, with the knowledge you gain here I cannot say I miss it. See you, then.” And he walked off, over to a non-human librarian and began to engage in a discussion in a language Goodman had never heard.

Staring after his new Master, Goodman had man burning questions, but he’d wait. It seemed, he’d be here for quite a while.

His room was rather larger and much more luxurious than he’d expected. It reminded him of the rooms in towers princesses were confined to until their prince charmings came along. The bed was immense, and Goodman remembered his twin bed back in his dorm room. The expanse of spring and foam and cotton before him could have housed four, no five, of his old bed. The walls were sparsely gilded with gold, and when Goodman ran his fingers over it tiny gold dust particles glittered on his hand like Midas. But what was most inviting, most unfathomable was the archway that led to a balcony. Before him the clouds, if there were in fact clouds, towered and cascaded like a metropolis. Above him was a sight he couldn’t have fathomed in his wildest dreams. There were three suns, but so far off he could feel no warmth from the beams that fell. Each was a darker shade of orange, the color of a setting sun on Earth, not the bright yellow of a sun halfway through it’s daily journey. The sky behind and around them a deep plum but so freckled with stars the golds and reds and blues that shone from them nearly blocked the plum entirely.

In the closet were shirts,  trousers and loafers that had to be from American somewhere in the 1930’s. Goodman carefully changed from his SpaceBalls shirt – yes he wore it for effect- and jeans and dressed as he expected his great grandfather had dressed at his age. It was as he was buttoning his tweed vest that there came a hasty knock on his door.

“Come in,”  he called out.

The door opened and Francisco hastened into the room followed by Curio, clad in his robe and relying heavily on his walking stick as he strode in.

“Thank you, Francisco, that will be all.”  Curio gave a curt nod as Francisco bowed deeply and left the room.

The two men stared at one another. The ancient, tired face of Curio’s bore into Goodman’s youthful anxious one. Slowly, purposefully, Curio pulled a book from inside his robes.

“This,” he wheezed, “is yours. Naturally, you would be curious as to what’s in it, what the future holds. But, like me, your pages are empty past this moment. Or past any moment when you peer into it.”

Goodman cautiously approached Curio and took the book from him. “Have a seat,” he gestured at the armchair nearest his Master.

“No, m’boy I really must be off. I have come here to give you information I feel you may find useful before your official apprenticeship begins. You see, we are record keepers. The entire library is full of records,” he seemed to spit this out with the utmost distaste, “save for one book. It can be found easily enough, but none dare read from it. It does,” he hesitated,  “strange things to one’s home planet. Set a complete restart for Glavisks planet, he disappeared on the spot.” To this Curio chuckled for quite sometime. “But,” he continued more seriously, “for Earth what it would do is release something that hasn’t been on the planet for a millennia, or more. It would make our presence here quite unnecessary. The affect would be so great that even those lives already set in stone on our shelves would be wiped clean. Unpredictable futures, a manifold of possibilities for the lot of them. So. My official advice is to steer clear of the book.”

“How would I know it?” Goodman questioned. “I mean, I could just pick it up without knowing what it is and ruin everyone’s lives.”

The old man smiled. “What a harsh word, ruin.” He looked at Goodman as if he were assessing him.  “You would be able to identify the book easy enough. It’s from Earth and it’s precious. So, naturally, it’s covered in gold. We humans do love our gold.”

Goodman plopped into the seat he’d offered Curio and turn the leather bond book with his name inscribed on the cover. He caressed it absentmindedly as he took in all that his Master was saying.

“But,” Curio continued, “there are other things I must warn you about. We are allowed a viewing of our homes as often as we wish. Your parents are dead, I know. But should you wish to view anyone you love, I’d do it quickly. Time here doesn’t pass the same as it does on Earth and before you blink an eye, all those you cared for would be dead and buried. Their children and their children’s children would be a memory.”

“There’s no one I want to see,” the boy responded flatly.

“I had thought as much,” Curio turned to leave. “But those Zombie movies you love so much won’t be as fashionable after a while and would cease to exist. Perhaps…perhaps…” And he was out the door.

Goodman fell asleep with the weight of the world on his scrawny shoulders. The dreams came to him quickly, and in such succession he could not distinguish one from the other. They begane with his mother. She was singing a lullaby to him, as she did when she was alive. This lullaby was one he had never heard in school, and he was certain it was passed on only within his family. As she sang the world, no, the dream, began to change. The sky was no longer a brilliant blue but rather a kaleidoscope of colors. The streets were no longer gravel, but cobblestone. He walked along them, alone, and watched as people lay about the streets in what was unmistakably misery. The further he walked through this village the clearer his mother’s lullaby came torang out to him. He was following her voice. Siren-like melody rang out from the outskirts of the village and Goodman followed the sound to the edge of a wood.  His mother stood before a fork in the road, as beautiful and effervescent as she was in life. The path on his left was the hallway of his dormitory, a place that seemed so very far away now. He could see himself at the end, with his messenger bag struggling to open a door that, in life, his roommate had jammed shut so that he could have the pleasure of watching Goodman suffer. The path to his right was formless and at the end he could see a glint of gold. His mother started down the right, and as she continued to sing he couldn’t refuse following her. She was his piper.

As they neared the gold it was quite evident to Goodman that this was Curio’s book. His mother reached for the book and passed it to her son.

“This was always your book. Your very own. Read it, you’ll love the ending.” And with that he awoke to find himself standing in a circular room with a domed ceiling that showed him the stars. There, in his hands, were two books, one was his from the shelves that it would now be his job to tend, the other book he was sure was the one Curio spoke of.

Without pause he flipped through the pages of his life to the last sentence. It was filling in as   he read it:

And so Young Goodman has a dream about his mother that leads him to the book that could bring magic back into his world. Magic he had only known in Faerie stories as a child. He stood in a room he had never before seen and was faced with a decision that would change everything. Including his new position, his Master and all Universes. Magic has the ability to do that, you know.

Young Goodman felt a complete sense of lackluster for his position now. Who would settle for record keeper when one could count himself among the four horsemen? Goodman pictured himself among those biblical beings, the fifth horseman, lavender perhaps.

He felt Curio watching him from his sleep, whispering for him to “go on, read it”. There had been no mistake, Goodman thought. Master Curio wanted me to seek this out, else he’d never had mentioned the book. He’d never had chosen me as his apprentice. He had to have known what I would do, even if my pages are blank.

Feeling the weight of the ancient pages in his hands, Goodman paced the room a few times over wondering what the consequence or rather the effects would be. Magic? Really? He wondered. What would become of law and order? He thought of the criminals he’d seen on the news in his time. A nanny who took the lives of two of her charges. A multi-millionaire who bamboozled hard working middle class families out of their savings. And then there were your run of the mill axe murderers, sexual predators and socio-paths. How infinite their power to do evil, once magic returned, seemed to him.

But, he turned and paced the room counter-clockwise this time…What if the good magic…is white magic politically correct? What if magic was given to the right people, too? He’d never had experience with money troubles, but he knew personal tragedy. He thought of all who had ever or would ever lose their families.

What if he just helped them out a little? Hell, he thought, even Pandora was able to hold off the worst of it.

And without a second thought, he opened the book to page one.

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STORYTIME SUNDAY – WALTER

The Christmas Eve Walter Holdenfield left his pregnant wife he drank so much the owner of the jook-joint had to take him to Dothan Regional for alcohol poisoning. When he awoke in the hospital the next day he was still stubbornly angry with her and decided to teach her a lesson by staying at the local Y. It wasn’t until four days later when he felt his underwear sticking to the backs of his thighs that he finally decided to go home.

But she wasn’t there. Loretta had decided that enough was enough and she had meticulously packed everything that was hers and left all of Walter’s belongings behind. She was so careful in her packing that the home looked as though it had ever only housed Walter himself. He ravaged the drawers and boxes but there was no photo, no piece of jewelry, no memento whatsoever of her anywhere to be found.

Walter searched everywhere for his wife. If there was no reconciliation to be had between the two he still hoped for some news of his child. But there is no finding a woman once she truly wishes to never see you again. There is a force that protects them so vigilantly that you could pass them on them on the street and never see them beside you. This happens because their hearts are not yet ready to face you again. Often the hearts heal-up and you can find them just as simple as finding your own nose, but by then most men have given up the search.

Five years later Walter had given up the search. Ten years later and he’d forgotten that he ever did search and by fifteen years he’d forgotten himself. Isn’t that what happens when you immerse yourself so deep into finding something? You forget what it was you were looking for in the first place, and then you have to fight to remember yourself in all of the forgetting.

And so, fifteen years later, Walter was still in the house, and he was still a denizen of the jook-joints on the outskirts of Dothan. It was in one of these dirt-road social pillars on a particularly cold and dry night in December that Walter happened to engage in a conversation with a woman he presumed was from Louisiana named Evangeline.

He had been in the bar for perhaps a full day. He had wondered in sometime after breakfast under the pretense that he’d be out by noon. This fooled no one, of course. By the time Evangeline walked in his vision and speech were so blurred it was lucky he still sat upright in his seat. She strode up to the bar and pulled up a seat two over from Walter. Because there really wasn’t much need to impress customers to keep them returning the owner hadn’t bothered using stools that matched for over a decade. This made Walter, who really was a rather large fellow, an entire head lower than Evangeline. When she spoke for the first time and ordered a glass of Southern Comfort in a heavy accent from the Bayou it awoke in him a memory of a face, youthful and lovely. You northern boy’s don’t know nothin bout takin care of us southern girls Loretta had said to him. They were in high school and Walter was the new boy. Fresh from Chicago. He’d wanted to tell her that Chicago was in fact the Mid-West but she was so pretty he didn’t want to argue with her. After all she was fresh from New Orleans and was also the new girl and that meant he was in competition with all the other boys. How young they were then. How in love he knew himself to be.

This memory sobered him a little and he glanced up at Evangeline. “I loved a girl with a voice like yours once. I married her too. Then I left her.” He chuckled to himself.

“She must have had a smoking problem to have the voice of a sixty-year old lady,” Evangeline replied incredulously.

“You know what I mean,” he smiled at his reflection in his cup. “Sweet. She had a sweet voice.”

Evangeline didn’t respond but she turned her entire body to face Walter. She assessed him as a prospector would a piece of land. A man in his late forties he looked much older with his gray hair and downtrodden face. He wore the pale blue top and navy blue trouser uniform of a Janitor. What one presumed was once an athletic frame now drooped in all the places liquor makes you droop; eyes, belly, heart.

“So,” Evangeline smiled, “ Walter tell me what done happened to this sweet voice.”

“Me.”

“How you?”

“Good”

She pursed her lips and shifted in her chair. “You sholl’ don’t know nothing bout no southern girls. How you affected that girl walter? What you did to her?”

“Nothing,” he sighed  not looking up from the glass before him. “Everything. I asked her to marry me right out of high school. But she wouldn’t. We went to Alabama state together, but I couldn’t survive school like she could. I dropped out halfway through my first semester. And I made her feel guilty for it. I begged her to come back to Dothan and marry me. Said I’d move mountains to make sure we had a good life. Turns out I wouldn’t move a muscle for it.”

“But she ain’t leave you did she?”

“No. She married me in her last year. I got her pregnant the night she graduated. I didn’t mean to. Lord knows I didn’t want a child just yet.” He paused. The conversation with Evangeline seemed to be sobering him up greatly but he still needed time getting his message across. He shook his head slowly. “No, I did. I meant to do it. If she had my baby, I thought I’d be able to keep her.”

“I don’t get it,” Evangeline cut in. “If you was so hard up on keeping the girl, why did you leave her.”

“I walked out on pride. I didn’t ever mean to leave her. Not really.” His fingers slipped from the counter top to his lap. He seemed to be deep in thought and it was a few minutes before he continued, “She was always the smart one. How you think I felt having her unable to work cause I got her pregnant. Then I couldn’t work, not really, not enough. We just kept fighting about money. Don’t know man ever wanna fight about money with his woman. Times might change. But men don’t. We the same hunter type we been since cave man days. Your woman can’t throw your spear for you. She can cook your mammoth but she can’t kill him; not without killing you too.”

“And that’s when you started drinkin?”

“The thing about it is I miss her. I thought she’d be home when I got there. She wasn’t. My baby wasn’t. And I looked everywhere. I know she ain’t coming back to me, but I just wanted to know if she and the baby alright. I loved her. Love her.”

His look of a child who had misbehaved was amplified as Evaingeline looked down on him from her seat.

“So what you been doin since?”

“Working anything I can. I never been a day without a job since she left me.” He looked up for the first time and glanced over at Evangeline’s drink. She never seemed to pick it up but the glass was growing steadily emptier as their conversation progressed.

“Type of work you do?”

“I’ve been a farm hand, a stock man at different places. A bus driver, a truck driver, a rich folk driver. Now I’m a custodian and,” he smiled brightly, “a drunk.”

“Well honey it seems you been that for quite some time now.”

“You are no fool lady” they laughed.

“Listen,” she said tenderly. “I usually have a driver take me when I have long ways to go. My arthritis is starting to get the best of me. How bout I pay you to take me down to Florida. I got a, a god-daughter down there I need to see. I’ll pay for your own hotel room and I’ll take care of your eatin’. If you can get a couple of days off I can pay you twice what you woulda made workin’.”

“Now?”

“No fool not now you drunk. We can leave in the morning. You’ll be home fo’ Sunday evening come.”

They met, as arranged, the next morning at the same jook-joint as the night before. Walter was pacing out front in a white dress shirt and black pants and his ‘church’ shoes. Evangeline pulled up in a 1979 Lincoln Mark IV. She stopped the car and put it in park but kept it running. She got out and the sunshine from behind her gave her an ethereal look. Like she had some purpose in the world. Some journey she needed to complete.

“The hell you got on?” she called out to Walter.

“Well, you rich folk. This my rich folk drivin clothes.”

They stared at each other for a moment. She was trying to suppress her laughter, he was trying to look like a gentleman.

The road from Dothan, Alabama to Miami, Florida has a way of luring you from your original path. Before you know it you’ve spent an hour in some small town looking at Alligator skulls and wondering why there were Palm Tree keepsakes in what looked like any other land locked southern town. The landscape had the magic of Disney, the swamp, and the ocean all in one.

They were about 5 miles out of Leesburg when Evangeline called out from the back. “Lord lord, we have to stop here. I need a piece of pie.”

They were passing a small wooden building that seemed to serve both as a bakery and a family home. The aroma of pecans and butter and peaches brought forth another confidence from Walter.

“My wife,” he smiled at the memory, “used to make the best Sweet Potato Pie this side of the Mississippi.”

They pulled into the dusty driveway and parked between two other patrons.

“Can you get my slice for me? My legs starting to act up in this moist air” Evangeline called sweetly from the back.

“Sure, what kind you want?”

“Well if it’s that good, course I want some sweet potato pie.”

“I dunno if this person gone make it like Loretta.”

“I’ll take my chances”

Walter hoisted himself from the drivers seat, happy to stretch his legs. The misty Florida air clung to him like a lover relieved at his return. The dusty ground threatened to clump to his best shoes and he treaded carefully to the door of the establishment. It was a screened wooden door, to a screened wooden patio. It was through here the business was run but glancing through the window behind the bar turned serving window Walter could see that this was someone’s home.

“Hi,” a young man spoke to Walter from behind the bar. “Can I get you?”

“Let me get two slices of potato pie.”

“Ok, two-fifty. But I’ll tell you, my ma makes a pretty good Pecan Pie too.”

“Walter laughed at the young mans business savy. “Ok then, let me get a slice of that, too.”

Walter looked at the young man and saw himself at that age. Lean, handsome, hungry for success. He wondered what happened to himself. Wondered if he’d had too much faith in fate. He had waited for something great to happen to him. Waited for Loretta to come back, and now what? Was he waiting to die?

The boy handed him the slices of pie in small Styrofoam boxes along with a fork. Then he looked Walter in his face. Tilting his head this way and that.

“Thank you,” Walter walked out.

Before he made it to the car a woman about his age came strolling up to the house carrying a bagful of fresh pecans. He knew her walk. There was Loretta coming towards him like he had dreamed so many nights. Of course she was no longer a wobbling pregnant 22 year old, but he wasn’t the same handsome steadfast young man he had once been.

“Loretta?,” he choked. He cleared his throat and spoke again, “Loretta?”.

The woman looked at Walter and stopped in her tracks. Her eyes grew very very wide. Then slowly they went very very narrow.

“Walter what the hell you doing here?” she hissed.

“I-“ he fumbled and held up the pie, stupidly.

“How did you find us?

“I didn’t. I –“

“I thought sure I was rid of you.”

“Loretta?” She tried to march past him but he sat the pie on the hood of the nearest car and grabbed her, not unkindly. “Is that you?”

And without restraint he embraced her. She fought her way out of his arms.

“I can’t BELIEVE you came here!” Loretta yelled.

“I can’t neither.”

“Who told you I was here? Did you google me? What did you say to your son?

“My-“ and it dawned on him why the boy had stared at him so. “My boy.”

“He your son. Not your boy. You can’t love him now. You don’t have the right.”

“I looked for you.”

She stopped fighting and looked as though she was seeing him for the first time. “I know” she said matter-of-factly. “I didn’t want you to find us. So stop avoiding it, how the hell did you find us?”

For an answer Walter pointed at the car to Evangeline, but she had gone. Assuming that she’d gone inside Walter went back into the patio, but Evangeline wasn’t there either. He looked at the boy.

“You know me?” Walter asked in a hushed voice.

“Yes sir, I do.”

Overcome with emotion, but entirely too afraid of Loretta Walter stared at his son, his baby, his boy and soaked up every detail of him. When Lorettaentered the Patio Walter went to a corner by the bar and gestured for her to come over. She did.

“I dunno how none of this happened. I got drunk. I came back you were gone.”

“You left before I did Walter. I’m just the first to move out”

“Listen, I know I don’t deserve a thing from you. But that’s my boy. I can call him what I want, love him all I need. And now I found you. I ain’t losing you no more.”

Something about Walter’s tone eased Loretta’s fire even more.

“What’s his name?”

“Junior. So you stayin here now?” she asked. “We got a guest house. You welcome to it if you pay rent.”

Walter looked at his son who was staring back. “I have to go to Miami to drop this lady. Then I gotta pack up and take care of stuff in Dothan. I’ll be back in a week.”

“What lady?” his son asked.

“The one I came here with.”

Walter walked out into what was now a gentle rain. He peered into the backseat, thinking perhaps she’d stretched out in the back and to his surprise he found a note.

Walter,

Now I told you you’d be home by Sunday, didn’t I? Car in Junior’s name now.

Love,

Evangeline.

STORYTIME SUNDAY- A Generous Theft

Mr. and Mrs. Olliver owned a tiny antique shop off of the main highway. It marked the change in scenery between the bustling new shopping district and what was once a bustling middle class neighborhood. But that was when they opened nearly forty years ago. Now the neighborhood that had typically been the home to teachers, small business owners and the like was nothing as it was before. Like the shop itself, the street seemed to have become dusty and rusted with time.  There were shabby convenient stores in lieu of the family owned soda-pop shops. The Peruvian-owned Chinese restaurant took the place of a Hal’s Diner.  When Mr. Olliver looked out of the window of his shop to check on things he still chuckled, thinking about the summer of 1972 when Hal, in an ethnocentric rage, refused service to white people not from the neighborhood.. A taste of your own medicine he’d laugh as his daughter served their food in Styrofoam boxes. No one’d ever seen anything like it. They still came though, white folk, because nobody this side of the Mason-Dixon line could cook like Hal. But no one on this street knew any of those things today.

Except for a few families who were able to hold onto their homes, everyone was new; no one ever stayed for long. And no one who lived here hardly ever went into Olliver’s. Though the tiny shop possessed many items they knew full well to be of great value, people were no longer interested in anything of value at all. No. People today wanted flash. Especially those lower on the socioeconomic scale. New money and no money have one thing in common: they see little value in anything that doesn’t showcase it’s worth. The only reason no one ever robbed the store was out of great respect for Mr. Olliver. He could be seen carrying groceries for anyone he saw who needed help. He gave jobs to people who were on hard times for as long as he could afford it. Actions like this, though seemingly insignificant, can hold great value in the eyes of people you didn’t even know were watching.

But things were not so pleasant within the Olliver home. In its heyday the shop brought in customers from all over the city. Mr. and Mrs. Olliver would dress each day as though they were dressing for a formal dinner. Mrs. Olliver could be seen shopping at all of the finest department stores. Each week she’d sport a new hair style and freshly manicured nails. They had been everywhere from Lisbon to Johannesburg to Bali.

If you’d asked Mr. Olliver he would tell you that he had lived a full life. Even as the shop declined, Mr. Olliver was happy for the year’s he’d seen, the places he’d been and the people he’d known. This would not be true if you asked his wife, who’s lust for money was nothing short of insatiable. She’d decided that the singular cause of their financial stagnation was her husband’s inability to attract attention to the store.

“Oh my, look at all these people,” she’d say theatrically to her husband as they sat together behind the counter in the empty shop. Then she’d sigh, as though she were tired from a great deal of work and then stroll around with her arms spread wide to show the empty business. “My God Henry, some sort of advertisement would get more people in here and we could be rich again!” She’d rub her finger along whatever shelf she was nearest and add, “And clean this dump up. This is an antique shop not your grandmothers attic.”

But Mr. Olliver would shake his head, careful not to rouse the beast within his wife, and respond with “Honey, if we had the money for advertisements, we wouldn’t need them.”

Aggravated by her husband’s cyclical reasoning, she’d storm off to their even tinier apartment above their shop and could be heard cursing him for miles around. Eventually, she became so distressed she refused to even leave their apartment. “I’m sorry, but I can’t afford fresh air”, she’d say when he asked if she would take a stroll around the park with him.  When he suggested they take a drive to the ocean she didn’t even look up from her Soap Opera before she responded, “Sorry hun, I can’t afford sunshine.”

She hadn’t always been this way, but then again they’d typically had more to live off of. So, every day now , Mr. Olliver manned the shop on his own, knowing that he’d no longer be able to coax his wife out of bed without sufficient funds.

One morning as he climbed down the rickety wooden stairs that led to the dusty back room of the pawn shop he had an unusual feeling. It was that feeling you get when you know someone’s coming around the corner or down the hall, even when you don’t hear them or see a shadow.  He checked the shop over three times, but could not for his life rid himself of this awkward feeling. Finally, he realized that a small golden watch had been removed from the jewelry case and in its stead was a note.

“I apologize for taking the watch. I will pay you back it’s value a hundred times over if only if only you don’t report this to anyone.”

But it wasn’t because of the note that knew he that he would not be speaking to anyone about the theft. The cops would file a report, but there were no camera’s, they had no witnesses and the case would collect as much dust as the shop itself. He did not tell his friends and family because he didn’t have any and he dared not tell his wife.  What would she say after she’d discovered that they’d lost one of the items that had the greatest value? What would become of him in her wrath?

So, Mr. Olliver pocketed the note, and went about his day as usual. Wondering who had broken in was not important. The issue was how. They had one window and one door, and both had steel bars. The window had been glued shut for twenty years now. Before retiring upstairs, Mr. Olliver made sure to double check every aspect of the door and window. Though he could not see how anyone got in. He shuffled upstairs to his wife and went to sleep.

The next morning, Mr. Olliver rushed down stairs as fast as his feet could take him hoping, though he did not admit it to himself, to see a pile of money on the counter. The note did say 100 times the value of the watch. Perhaps now his wife would be happy. But there was no pile of money. And after  a once over of the shop Mr. Olliver noticed that there was another note in the place of where a shelf full of antique books were placed. The note was written in the same hand as the one before.

“Please forgive me for taking of these books. If you please don’t tell anyone, I will pay you back 1,000 time’s their value.

My. Olliver felt slighted. He had not reported the first theft, and here was the thief requesting once again that he not reveal the situation to anyone. Begrudgingly he took the note, folded it with the first and once again placed them in his pocket and went about his day as usual. He glanced out of the window and wondered if the thief, whoever it may be, was watching him at that very moment. Perhaps he was sitting across the street in the bar/liquor store having a laugh at old Mr. Olliver’s expense. Perhaps he was one of the customers to whom Mrs. Olliver had refused to bargain with for these items and was now making a fool of the both of them.

Still, Mr. Olliver was more understanding than he’d wanted to be. Perhaps the young fellow or young lady was on hard times. It was, after all, a mere two days before Christmas. The books and the watch were extremely valuable, true enough, but who’d been in to buy either of them lately? Damn it all, Mr. Olliver thought, my wife complains about what it is we don’t have, but we’ve never been hungry, or cold. Not one day in our life together have we had to do without. I’ve taken her all over the world, there’s hardly any soil she’s yet to set foot on and she complains because now we can’t afford those things? So what if the shop isn’t what it once was. Neither is her body, but I still love her the same. What do I have to do to keep this woman happy? It was his wife who was dissatisfied with life, not he. And though their shop was dusty, they had many loyal customers who had come in for many years. Mrs. Langly,  for one,had been coming in the shop for nearly thirty years now. Mr. and Mrs. Olliver knew her as well as they’d known their closest relatives. They were saddened to hear about the death of her daughter, and delighted to see how close she and her granddaughter had become over the past few weeks. Though Mrs. Langly never had much money with which to purchase items, her family had a great many collectible items, things they had procured over quite a few centuries, it seemed. It was many of those things that lay on the Olliver’s shelves now, and those that attracted the truest collectors of the city. Well, thought Mr. Olliver, come to think of it, both the watch and the books had come from Mrs. Langly. Perhaps it was her who had come in the night. But no. It couldn’t be. Even if the window had not been glued shut, it was entirely too small for the old woman to fit through. Mr Olliver let his imagination wander over to the granddaughter, perhaps she…but the little girl could not possibly have been strong enough to force her way in. Even if someone had come through the window, though, it would not have been resealed in the same fashion, especially without a lack of disturbance on the dust.

Lost in contemplation about how content he really was and how to get his wife to feel the same, he didn’t notice that the sun had completely set. He walked over to the door to switch on the light outside and smiled to himself as he saw Mrs. Langly’s granddaughter. She was walking with a little boy about her age and they were carrying grocery bags and were having what seemed to be a very passionate, but elated discussion. Neither of them could stop smiling. Mr. Olliver was elated to see them in such a wonderful state. Both had lost their parents, the boy to prison, the girl to death. How they could manage with such frail guardians and meager means and still be this happy made him feel appreciative that at least some people in the world were grateful for what they had. If his wife was any proof, this world was full of people who were never satisfied.

In the heat of his affection for the children he opened the door and called them over. The children stopped and looked at one another. The little girl was shocked, clearly she’d thought they were going to be chastised by the old scary man in the doorway. But the boy shrugged his shoulders and gave her a look that seemed to say “He’s alright, let’s go.”

“Hi Mr. Olliver,” the little boy sounded slightly uneasy.

“Hi Brandon,” Mr. Olliver said as he gestured for the kids to come inside. “I have something for the two of you.”

With Brandon at his heels, Mr. Olliver trotted over to the register. He went around the counter and pulled from inside a cabinet beneath the register a small porcelain jewelry box. As he placed the box on the counter he noticed that the little girl was still standing in the doorway. She had not ever come into the shop with her grandmother and Mr. Olliver felt slightly abashed at the idea that he may have been making the little girl feel uncomfortable. But he wanted to give them both a gift. Brandon, who was standing just in front of the box looked at it curiously and turned to the little girl.

“It’s ok Emily,” he spoke softly. “This is Mr. Olliver, he lets me sweep the shop sometimes for a job.”

“And due to your fine work young man,” Mr. Olliver beamed, “I’d like to present a gift to both you and your little friend.”

Like one handling a scroll that may turn to dust any moment , Mr. Olliver pulled out two golden rings. One was set with what were, unmistakably, emeralds, the other with rubies. They were simple and elegant, befitting of royalty.

“These”, Mr. Olliver said in a voice filled with awe, “are said to be the true rings that the Magician’s nephew found.”

Brandon looked quizzically into Mr. Olliver’s eyes but Emily had taken a few steps forward, her eyes set on the rings.

“The rings that take you to other worlds?” she said in a near whisper.

“The very same.”

Emily took a few more cautious steps forward. She had been a child who had read and who had been read to. She knew the story very well. These were the rings that brought the White Witch from her world into our’s and then, in turn, into Narnia itself. These were the rings that were said to have been destroyed.

“I know most people don’t believe In things like this-”

“I do.” Emily said to no one in particular.

Mr. Olliver knew that he had chosen the perfect gift for the children.

“Well,” he sighed, “then they are yours. One for each of you. In the spirit of Christmas of course.”

“Thank you Mr. Olliver Brandon said taking the ruby ring.

Emily seemed to be speechless. As she and Brandon headed out the door she turned and said “You’re very kind Mister. I won’t ever forget this.”

Mr. Olliver feeling eerily complete decided to close shop for the night. It had been fairly busy and the children brought a perfect end to one of his most, relatively, lucrative days. But after he locked the door and turned on the spot his wife emerged from the shadows of the storage room.

“Well,” she said in a biting voice. “How quaint. You give away what could have been our biggest sale to two poor, filthy children. You’re too complacent Henry. Don’t you want a bigger house? Look at our clothes! The boy doesn’t even clean well when you let him come. But how can he clean up anything with filth falling from every part of him. And that little brat of Langley’s daughter is no different. They keep bringing us things to sell but haven’t bought a thing for years! You’re fool. A damned fool.”

Mr. Olliver took her venomous words with a grain of salt. He was used to this. He did wish she hadn’t seen what he’d done though, and was grateful even more that he hadn’t told her about the thefts. Once Christmas was over, he’d have enough money to take her out somewhere up to her standards and to buy her more jewelry and clothes than he thought necessary. Then she’d be appeased. With this comforting thought, he followed his wife upstairs and with little Emily’s words playing over and over again in his mind he fell asleep with a smile on his face.

When he went down to the shop the next day he’d forgotten all about the thefts. That was until he noticed that one of the teddy bears he kept propped in the window to attract holiday shoppers was missing. And once again, in it’s stead was a note.

“I am sorry for taking this bear. I will pay back it’s worth a million times over but only if you don’t whisper word of this to anyone.”

Not giving it another thought Mr. Olliver took the note, put it with the other two in his pocket and replaced the teddy bear with a monkey he personally favored. As the next day was Christmas eve, he was so busy that he’d forgotten all about anything except that he was near making enough money to satisfy his wife. Mrs. Olliver, for her part, must have smelled the money coming in. She was downstairs right after lunch and stayed with him until it was time to close. After the last customer of the day had gone, they locked the door and together went up the dusty old stairs. Mrs. Olliver was so HAPPY about the money they had made she offered to cook dinner for Mr. Olliver for the first time in months. What’s more she would wash their clothes together and not make him do it alone again. As Mr. Olliver sat reading a novel in his chair, Mrs. Olliver stormed into the room.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?” her voice rang out.

Before he looked up from his page Mr. Olliver already knew what it was his wife was clutching and he hurriedly looked for an excuse.

“Someone has been stealing from us and you’ve kept it from me? And worse they stole that watch that lady said she’d come in and buy with the new year. She promised us a thousand for it and it’s gone. I’m calling the police!”

“Susan,” Mr. Olliver said smoothly. “I wrote those notes. I plan on reporting the items missing after new year’s and we can get an insurance claim on them. The rings I gave the kids too.”

Mrs. Olliver’s cold countenance melted away. She beamed at him.

“Good. It’s well time you put that brain of yours to use.”

She went back to her laundry, he back to his novel and not an unkind word was spoken again that night.

As the sun rose the following morning, which happened to be Christmas Eve, Mr. Olliver lay in bed wondering if he’d done the right thing, lying to his wife. She wasn’t the most genteel lady, but wasn’t her aspiration to be one what prompted her to behave in such a foul manner?  Just look, he thought, at how she’s behaving. Up early this morning cooking breakfast for us. She hasn’t made me breakfast in months. He climbed out of bed, not knowing which creaked more – the bed or himself, and yawned his way to the kitchen table.

“Coffee?” a soft, sweet voice said as a plate of sausage and biscuits and eggs was placed before him.

“Who the hell are you?” Henry choked. Standing before him, smiling and stirring coffee was not his wife.

“Darling,” this new woman looked at Henry with pity, “I think you ought not carry out your plan.”

“Where’s my wife?” Mr. Olliver asked, not angrily.

“Are you feeling alight Henry?” she seemed to have misread the confusion on his face and she continued: “If anyone sees those children with the rings they’d think they did it. Especially Brandon. We know how he takes…risks. And anyway I don’t think it’s in your nature and for some reason I don’t feel too keen on it either.”

They looked at one another solemnly. Henry Olliver could not believe his eyes and ears. This strange woman spoke to him as though she really was his wife. Or maybe it was him. I’m going senile, he thought. This must be the onset of dimentia.

“Okay,” he coughed. “I won’t do it. Burn the notes.”

“Good.”

An hour later Mr. Olliver sat in the stool behind the counter. He was quite alone in the shop as he’d put the CLOSED sign up and convinced the woman who thought she was his wife that she’d be of more service to him if she’d made his favorite meal. He needed time to think. To adjust. He couldn’t understand it. So consumed by his thoughts he didn’t hear the bell over the door jingle as Emily walked in and peered at him over the counter.

“Oh. I’m sorry Emily, but we’re closed. I’m sure the sign is up there I guess I forgot to lock the door.”

“I guess you did forget,” she replied. “I brought you this cake from my grandma. And me and Brandon made you cards. Merry Christmas!”

Singing a tune that reminded him of his childhood, Emily made to exit the shop. She paused at the door, however and looking Mr. Olliver square in the face said, “You ought to read mine first” and she picked back up her tune and was gone. The jingling of the bells after she’d walked out hadn’t even slowed their pace before he tore the cake box open. Munching on a chunk he looked through the basket and found the card marked “Mr. Olliver” in such dainty writing it could only be the little girl’s.

I know it was wrong to take those things especially since my grandmother gave them to you.. I just wanted to get presents for Brandon and his family. Since you kept your word, I’m keeping mine. I took the qualities of the stuff I took and found a wife for you who had them all. Patience for the watch, wisdom for the books, and you could use some kindness so I gave her some from the bear. I’m still learning, so my grandma made this cake to make sure everything stays this way. She says  if you share this cake with your new wife, and make sure she has three bites she’ll be kind forever. She’s not really new, and I didn’t really find her…we, well, we sort of changed your old wife. Alot. Merry Christmas. And thank you for the rings.”

Mr. Olliver looked at the door Emily had just left through. It was bolted. He looked back at the note, but it was blank. As swiftly as he could he carried the cake and the cards from the children upstairs and shared them both with his wife. With whom he shared a happy, appreciative life.

Fantasy Friday – “Renji and the Man on the Moon”

Renji and his father sat on the roof of their townhouse eating mochi one evening as his mother lay inebriated in the dining room below. They sat in silence, broken only by slurping noises and the constant hum of late evening Tokyo traffic. Renji was recalling a dream he’d had. It was about the man on the moon.

Perhaps it was because his father, quite the Neil Young fan, had played “Harvest Moon” for the boy as a lullaby. Or maybe it was because the family would stop at the Ginkakuji Temple whenever they visited Renji’s paternal grandparents in Kyoto. Whatever the reason, Renji became preoccupied with the moon. But more importantly, Renji knew, he just knew there was a man up there. He’d heard it somewhere that the man on the moon was always watching, alone, and Renji felt bad for him. He thought he’d found someone as lonely as he was.

Though Renji loved his father very much, the man was too weak, emotionally and physically, to be of any use. A slave to his job, Mr. Tottori was at his office for so many hours it would be a month before he put in a full day’s work at home. His presence made little difference in the atmosphere of the home, though. The three members of the little family tiptoed around one another, each consumed in their own opiate. Mr. Tottori in his work and sculptures, Mrs. Tottori in her booze and Renji in his dreams.

The choking, humid quiet of the home was broken only by yelling. Always his mother. She had married Renji’s father  extremely young; believed they’d live their entire lives partying the way they did when they first met. It was difficult to keep her from smoking and drinking during her pregnancy with Renji. Miraculously the boy was born healthy and had proven to be quite the little genius. She went back to parties while her husband tended to the boy the only way he knew how: financially.

Renji’s mother hadn’t noticed her son was a genius. People don’t usually see whats right in front of them. Especially when that something is in the way of their next drink. She treated her only son like a lap dog. Beckoning and dismissing him on whims, she took more notice in his clothes than she did the boy’s interests. It was this that spurred the boy into loneliness. It seemed the more she drank, the longer his father remained at work. Like the boy Mr. Tottori was a bit afraid of his wife so he’d find peace at work, leaving Renji to fend for himself on those nights she was incapable of distinguishing her son from a stranger on the street.

In his dreams Renji and the man on the moon would go everywhere together. He imagined the man to be just like Professor Manhatten from Watchmen, able to stop space and time, to change the universe to his liking. Or, if he did not like it any way, to destroy it.

As Tokyo bustled around them, the man and his son ate to comfort themselves. To feel the soft, cool cream ease the burning inside of them. Mr. Tottori wasn’t a man who knew how to communicate (and this would have made all the difference).

Renji saw it first, but he’d thought he was simply remembering his dream.

A dark figure paced the surface of the moon. Though it was millions of miles away, the silhouette of a man was clearly visible. The noise of the city died down. It was as if they had all noticed it at the same time. Even the wind slowed and fell still. Everyone, everything, was waiting to see what was coming next. As clouds passed the moon Renji strained his eyes, eager to not miss a thing.

As Renji’s father followed the pointed fingers to see what was causing all the commotion the figure on the moon leapt onto a nearby passing cloud.  Renji stood up, dropping his dessert. His mouth, covered with ice cream and sweet rice, fell open. His eyes grew wide with excitement. Looking at the people below he delighted in their fear. He was beside himself with glee as the figure leapt from his current cloud to one much lower. Ignoring his father’s suggestions that they go inside, Renji knew that his father was too curious to make any move.

“Over here,” he called waving his arms jumping up and down.

The man from the moon leapt, finally from this second cloud onto a building miles from where Renji and his father sat. But the figure was nearly 20 feet high. And yes, he looked just like the boy had imagined; glowing, vacant eyes and a strong, sturdy body with not a stitch of clothes. He leapt from the building top onto the street below and began to make his way to where Renji sat, his father now so amazed he stood.

KOKO! I’M HERE!” Renji screached.

The figure moved steadily towards them as people ran like insects in all directions, crawling over one another, rats looking for a way out. The glow set off by the giant’s porcelain skin illuminated Renji’s face and his father was, for an instant, frightened of the little boy. Within in minutes Renji and his father felt the ground below their home shake. Then he was just below them. Eye to eye with Renji he spoke in a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

“Hello Renji, are you ready to go?”

And with glee Renji, face still sodden with mochi, stepped off of the roof, leaving his father, and climbed onto the shoulders of the man from the moon.

“Ready”.

Storytime! – Lydia – Part 3

By Christmas Eve, her eye had healed completely and she was in high spirits. It was now three days before their wedding, counseling was doing them good and this was her and Alan’s sixth Christmas together. Each year they spent Christmas Eve with his family, and Christmas day with hers. Though she was used to the rural Christmas’ her Mothers family hosted at their farmhouse in Homestead, the 23rd was typically held in Sunny Isles at his father’s condominium. It was all champagne glasses, heavy Cuban accents and women who saved their sexiest outfits for this holy-day.  Christmas day, with Lydia’s family, was a stark contrast. Her mother’s family had moved to Homestead from Alabama to expand their farming business a few years before her parents met, and their Christmas celebrations still held onto those warm Southern ideals. The accents here were country, the dresses were loose and festive and the drink of choice was eggnog. Unspiked.

Perhaps this was why it never failed that Lydia was alone more often than not at these soirees. This Christmas was particularly uncomfortable for her because she wasn’t one who loved to be the center of attention. By the time she could escape the “Ayye Que Divina tu pelo”, and the “are you ready for your big day?” and the “despues la wedding, it’s time for a baby” the moon was so lost in the sky the stars took center stage. She listened to the waves

Alan had drunk himself into a stupor well before midnight. Lydia attempted to calm him down, as he was beginning to embarrass himself, but her attempts were futile. The more she tried to quell him, the more enraged he became. Until finally, in front of everyone he yelled “Get out, you bitch! No one wants you here but ME and you’re pushing it.”

She called a cab but while she was waiting outside Alan came out.

“That’s right, run. Everytime someone hurts your little feelings you go cry in the corner. Well WAHH WAHH WAHH”.

Alans sister and a few of his cousins followed Alan out. Some of the men were able to sit Alan down. His sister approached the cab as Lydia climbed in.

“I’m sorry Lyd,” she said.

“Me too.” And with that Lydia took off into the cab.

Utterly embarrassed Lydia allowed the door to be closed and sat facing forward as though she were a race horse, Versace blinders and all. The tears began falling slowly, heavily down her Givenchy powdered face. She felt flattened, as though Atlas had, indeed, shrugged. Trying to get her wits about her, she rummaged in her purse as the taxi pulled off, looking for her cell so that she could send another “How dare you” text to Alan.  When the driver asked “where to” for the second time, Lydia cleared her throat, but before she could answer a heavy Creole accent replied “ENTER ADDRESS IN SUNNY ISLES”

Turning and nearly getting whiplash Lydia noticed that there was another passenger in the cab. A middle-aged woman who emitted grace in every movement. Not looking at Lydia she opened her Chanel clutch, and daintily removed an old-fashioned cigarette holder, cigarette and lighter.

“I hope you don’t mind Lydia, but it’s high time I introduced myself. Thought this ride home could best be put to use if I explained it all to you.”

“How do you know my name?” Lydia was curious, not frightened.

“I know everything about you. Including the fact that you are going to be married in three days’ time, but for now, you’re miserable, and you need my help to get you and this young man out of a rut.”

“I’m sorry. Who –“

“Baby girl I thought you watched all those Disney movies when you were a child. I know you did. Now, you tell me what you need, your deepest desire, and *poof* just like that it’s yours. Who else could give you that?”

“Some stalker, a lunatic, this ain’t no Disney movie darling.” She sighed. Though she thought this stranger to be crazy, her emotional frustration was at it’s peak and she felt no need to cause any commotion with this woman, She was always taught to respect her elders. “I’m sorry,” she repeated with a mild coldness in her voice, “I really don’t mean to be rude, but it’s kind of creepy that you know all this about me and I don’t even know you’re name.”

“I’m Evangeline”.

Sarcastically, Lydia responded “Please to make your-“

“Your Godmother”

“I don’t have a-”

“Your fairy godmother.”Lydia glanced at the driver.

“Don’t worry about him” Evangeline chuckled, “He doesn’t even speak English.”

The statistics ran through Lydia’s mind. The chances of her running into someone who knew her name and that she was about to be married weren’t very high. True enough Alan came from an extremely social family, and yes their wedding announcement was in the papers, but this was Miami. She was no celebrity. And there was something in Evangeline’s eyes that said purely and simply: I’m telling the truth.

“Here,” Evangeline said as she smiled softly at Lydia. “A Christmas gift”.

And there it was. As they rode down Colins back to the hotel Lydia was staying in in preparation for the wedding, snow began to fall. It was a miracle. As the raindrops fell they seemed to have decided that they weren’t raindrops at all, but snowflakes. They fell on Palm trees and as far as she could see in the dark, they blended with the sand. Hazy lights from Art Deco signs poured through the snowfall.

Lydia was speechless. She rolled down her window and let a few flakes fall onto the palm of her hand. They weren’t as cold as she’d always imagined them to be. When she turned back to speak to Evangeline, there was no one there. The cab pulled up to her hotel, she got out, paid the driver and as she turned, her phone notified her of a new text message.

“What is it you really want, honey? – Evangeline”

Lydia took a shower and climbed into bed. As she lay there she stared at her wedding gown placed on a mannequin until it was time for the big show. She wondered what had happened to her and Alan. Wondered why he was so angry now. She took out her phone and saw a log of twenty missed calls from Alan. And another “I’m sorry” text. Then she went back to the message from Evangeline.

“Well,” Lydia said aloud to the empty room. “If you are it. Really it. I want a happy, peaceful, marriage. I want love, true unconditional love and I want Alan to be a the best man he can be”.

And with that, she fell asleep.

Evangeline stood for a moment watching the woman breathe softly. “Tomorrow,” she whispered into her ear. And she pulled the covers up to tuck Lydia in properly.

When Lydia awoke there was a huge breakfast with all of her favorites being carried in by room service. Along with a rather grotesquely large flower arrangement.

“Lyd, I am a changed man. Please do whatever you need to do to clear your head. I’ll be waiting on your call. No more drinking, I promise. Please, please forgive me. –Alan”

Lydia smiled to herself. She wondered if this was the magic that was meant to be hers. The magic she’d waited for her entire life. Was it true? Was Alan born again in the night?

As she pondered she reached for the mimosa glass and noticed a small note tied to it. “Drink with caution Lydia. Should you prove to love someone truly in three day’s time, you will get the love you deserve. The true love you wish for. If you drink and do not show love, then honey, you will be miserable. But, if you don’t drink, you will have the life you would have had, had I not come along. –Evangeline

Lydia thought of last nights snow. She drank the potion without pause.

STORYTIME! Lydia – Part 2

Click the link below for Part One of “Lydia”

http://thelastmuse.com/2013/05/14/storytime-lydia-part-1/

 

PART TWO

Alan attended the funeral with his father and in the weeks past he and Lydia began to grow close. They were such a gorgeous couple and when they announced their wedding engagement they became the darlings of anyone who was anyone in Miami’s social scene.

Lydia, for her part believed that all people had the ability to better themselves. Maybe this is the belief that allowed her to continue on in a relationship that most people would have abandoned. Perhaps abandoned is too soft a thought. Most people would have taken off like Lot from Sodom and Gomorrah without the slightest glance back. But not Lydia, she felt that true love was the ability to see past someone’s flaws and to endure with them through whatever struggles they faced.

Alan was flawed. Lydia endured. But the only struggle was Lydia’s every time she tried to find a suitable cover story. As she stood before the mirror dabbing her Givenchy concealer to no avail she had decided that the best way shield her black eye from her students was simply not to go to work at all. She had convinced them that her broken nose last month was the result of a car accident. It worked fairly well considering what happened to her car in her effort to drive from the home in which her enraged fiancé was still wreaking havoc.

Alan had unexpectedly, and quite talentedly, leapt from the balcony of their second floor apartment onto the hood of her car as she pulled out of the garage below. Though he had broken her nose because she refused to hand over her phone quickly enough, he was “overcome with grief” at the thought of her leaving and rampaged like a madman to keep her from leaving. He blocked the exit from the alleyway, and refused to move from the car. Seeing no other way out of the situation Lydia snatched her keys out of the ignition, took off towards their apartment flung herself inside and bolted the doors behind her. Alan could be heard calling her name and apologizing over and over for hours. Most of the time it was a quiet meowing, with soft sobs, then he’d have spurts of energy and would stand up on the white-washed brick wall below and yell to no one in particular how much he loved Lydia Monroe. It was to all of this that Lydia drank herself to sleep.

When she awoke at three a.m. Alan was sprawled on top of her car, asleep, shirtless and barefoot. She looked down at him from their bedroom and remembered the boy he was. Once, when Lydia was scared for her mother and couldn’t sleep What it was inside of her that made her retrieve him isn’t something that can be explained. It wasn’t maternal, attachment, pity, but understanding. So, anyway, between the unexpected blow to her face and the totally unexpected blows to her car Lydia was in a horrific position. But she had developed a story that worked in both damages: A car accident. One need only notice the lack of scratches that usually occurred when a moving vehicle hit something else, or that the dents each fit a size 13 mens shoe exactly, but no one noticed.

Her story, laughed off with the talent of years of drama class, needed only be explained to a class of questioning teenagers who noticed her new crooked nose, and a few coworkers. She neither had money nor desire to see a doctor and she easily avoided her mother and sisters, claiming she was swamped with work. But that was less than a month ago. A brand new shiny black eye would, indeed, raise suspicion. And so, she decided to call out sick Thursday and Friday before Christmas break. This would give her time to heal properly before she had occasion to show her face to anyone who would be concerned. Or anyone at the wedding, for that matter.

It’s not that she didn’t realize Alan’s actions were wrong. She knew them to be dead wrong. But she believed them the side effects of a seriously troubled youth that she’d only discovered after they were engaged. Alan’s father, the prominent doctor and member of his Miami Beach Community, was a horribly violent man. He had beaten Alan’s mother until she went mad and then beat Alan until the boy was big enough to hit back. And hit he did. The young Alan was arrested for violent crimes on sixteen different occasions before he lived as many years. He had been a gang member, a drug dealer, and as everyone who swore that they saw him shoot Lucky that night on the park, a murderer.

Knowing she had fallen in love with a man with a troubled past, she was patient, and loving. She shrugged off his cockiness and condescending tone to others as remnants of a father’s influence still to be purged. And she would purge him, until he became the man she knew he could be. And he returned her kindness in every way. When he asked for her hand in marriage all Lydia knew of him was weekly flowers, promises of forever, what she believed to be genuine kindness.

He had showered her with gifts, and made her feel every bit the princess from tales of long ago. With a handsome prince by her side. They bought a new home, and lived quite comfortably. Until three months before the wedding. Alan had become distant, and cold. Lydia believed it was due to stress at work. And he gave her every reassurance that things were ok. But one day, after a heated argument in which he disrespected Lydia horrifically, she slapped him. With no warning he was upon her like a lion on his prey. He grabbed her by the throat and threw her against the wall and spit in her face. Then with a roar he let loose his grip and they both fell to the floor, weeping.

That was the first violent incident. The second was the nose, and now, third, her black eye. Because he had shown no sign of violence towards her before, Lydia thought that making him agree to counseling would suffice. He was sick in the head, she thought, but not permanently. It’s stress.

They started counseling once a week.

Storytime! – Lydia – (Part 1)

There was a very wealthy lawyer who had three beautiful daughters. He loved each of them very much and in their best interest he began to find suitors for each when they came of age so that they would be well taken care of once their father was no longer in this world. The first was married off to a man in the father’s firm long before she was legally able to take her first sip of wine. The second daughter married a civil engineer days after graduating from her preparatory school. But the third daughter, being the lawyer’s favorite and most prized child was allowed to finish college before her father began to look for appropriate suitors for her. This youngest daughter was named Lydia.

One day as she and her father sat in a coffee shop, Lydia knew that he would be announcing his choice for a suitor over their latte’s.

“Lydia,” the old lawyer spoke with tenderness. “You are quite a bit more independent than your sisters, I know, but I still worry about your future once I’m gone.”

“I know papa,” Lydia smiled.

“And I know you alone of my children would have the most to argue when it comes to being married. But I am not asking you to get married. Just meet with the boy, get to know him. And, who knows? It could be a real fairytale.”

Lydia stirred her coffee absent mindedly. She knew her family was very much into tradition. Knew that to break from her father’s wishes would break his heart. But she didn’t want to marry just anyone. She wanted that poison and antidote, love. Although her sisters were both quite fond of their husbands, and their lives, Lydia wasn’t sure her father would be able to find a proper prince for her.

“Who?” Lydia asked.

“Do you remember,” her father began to reminisce, “the family who lived across the street from us when we lived in the home we lived in when your mother was alive? They had a little boy-“

“Alan” Lydia brightened. She did remember. Alan was the Pepe to her Madeline. As children they played together. They built forts and camped out in each other’s backyard. But Lydia’s mother got sick with Cancer, and her father moved the whole family closer to the hospital where she was receiving treatment. The last time she saw Alan he was standing in his mother’s arms waving goodbye to Lydia and her family.

“Well, his father came into my office about a month ago. Some lawsuit issue with one of his patients. Anyway, he said that Alan has finished his Masters of Business at NYU and had returned. I invited him to Thanksgiving. That way, I’m not putting my nose too far into this. But I do want to say, he comes from a good family. He’ll be comfortable even if he never works a day in his life. I only want the best for my daughters.”

The old lawyer smiled sheepishly. He was growing more tired with each passing day and it showed in his greying eyes. Entering his later years he wondered, as most do, about his legacy. With no male child, he had ensured that his daughters were married and well matched. And they were happy, weren’t they? Now, only Lydia was left. She’d have her portion of the inheritance, and she was very self-sufficient, but still, he wanted his youngest daughter to have a happy marriage. He did not live to Thanksgiving.

Continue to Part Two of “Lydia”:  http://thelastmuse.com/2013/05/20/storytime-lydia-part-2/

DAYS AND DATES

ok setforth before you is a schedule I will adhere to for your own reading pleasure:

(From Now until September 2013)

SCI-FI Fridays – The last Friday of every month I’ll post a science fiction piece. Some will be shorter than others, and better, but hey, I’m just a writer writin’.

Top-Ten Tuesday – Every Tuesday I’ll post my top ten lists. As in TOP TEN ZOMBIE MOVIES or TOP TEN SAKESPEAREAN CHARACTERS.

Storytime Sunday – Yup, again, every sunday EVERY SUNDAY i’ll post a story. (yikes, ok every sunday i’ll post a whole or parts of a story…just to keep you hooked like Scheherazade)

And I’ll try to keep up with poetry and other general blogging as well. But there it is in writing. Hold me to it.

The Little Witch – Excerpt

Once upon our time, in a small dilapidated building lived a little old witch with her little witch granddaughter. The only problem was that neither of them truly knew this. Long ago, before magic was removed from the world, their ancestors had been kindly witches, healers and extensions of those loving hands of our creator.  When it was decided that people were becoming too demanding, too possessive, too angry for the beauty of magic, the family was to put their powers to sleep; those powers would lay dormant until the day the magic would return to the world. And the magic would only return when one of two things happened: when people truly deserved magic once more, or when people could no longer survive without it. Over the centuries, from generation to generation, the family passed down spells and incantations in the forms of song, and recipe’s. And they would whisper to each other: “Someday, surely, we will return stronger, wiser. When they need us, we will know. When we need them, they will know, too.”.

But by the time the little witch was born, in a suburban home with a minivan, a computer, cable, cell phones, and bake sales and soccer practices, these whispers were thought to be the creation of a lonely and sickly grandmother. That was until the little witch’s parents died in a horrific home invasion. One sunny Tuesday morning both parents decided to have a family day off. Each parent and the child shirked responsibility: no school no work, and they sat around the kitchen table in pajamas eating whatever it was their hearts most desired. It was upon this most joyous moment that everything the little witch had ever loved was taken from her. Men dressed in the same clothes her gardeners often wore were upon the family before anyone realized what was happening. They stole everything of material value and when there was nothing left, they stole everything of value in the little witch’s heart. They slit the throats of both her parents. The little girl was shipped off to the city to live with her grandmother; the whispers grew louder and clearer with each passing day.

Longing for the cozy home she knew, the little witch would often curl up in the armchair in the living room and sing herself to sleep with the lullabies her mother used to sing. Upon hearing the words to what she knew not to be a lullaby at all, the grandmother began to sing along one night. Quite startled the child walked into the kitchen, sat at the counter across from her grandmother and asked, quite rudely

“How do you know my mom’s song?”

Without looking up from her pie, the grandmother said “It is not your mother’s song. It is our’s. I’ve known those words my entire life, as did my mother before me, and her mother before her. And for the record it is no song at all, but a spell for comfort and rest. Why else,” she added when she saw the look of disbelief on the girls face, “do you think you fall asleep so soundly in the lumpy old armchair?”

“Right,” the little witch responded. Quite haughtily the little witch hopped off of the stool, returned to the living room and turned on a SpongeBob Squarepants re-run.

Her grandmother marched behind her, turned the television off and sat facing the child.

“Honey, I know your mother told you I was a loony old bat. She stopped believing in magic even before you were born. But you? You’re a child. How can you not believe in magic? When you see those fireflies, you never wonder if they’re escorting some fairy to her wondrous destination. Has your mother never mentioned- ”

 

“It’s not real.” The child responded sympathetically, “all that witch stuff your mom told you. And if it were, Mommy would still be here.”

The grandmother looked into her granddaughter’s vacant eyes and felt a great cloud of despair fall over herself. How could it be that a child believed that this was all there was to the world? It was one thing for adults to not believe; what with bills, and traffic, and heartbreak and sickness and death – though let’s not forget that each of these are in their own right, quite magical. But children are supposed to be our last reserve, our last hold onto a world that ceased to exist alongside ours so very long ago. They were supposed to be more pure, more open to things that required so much faith. But somehow, our children have become dull, gray canvases of their once colorful selves. When they do show traces of wonderful sentience we stamp it out with rules, stereotypes, mandates. Now, the only color that remains within them is what is reflected in their eyes from Angry Birds and Adventure Time and other spoon-feed imagination tools. Their own color lost. Long before they have time to dwell in dreams, they wake to the nightmare we have landed ourselves in.

Before turning in to bed that night, the grandmother decided she would teach the child all of the songs she knew, she would teach her to cook with the age old recipe’s and she would not go on in life without finding some hope that magic would return one day, even if it is long after she or even her young granddaughter were gone.

It was hard going in the beginning. The little witch would mope about, and claim she’d forgotten lyrics to the new songs; the ones not taught to her by her mother. But as time passed, the little witch began to love her grandmother with as much fervor as she had loved her mother; she would joyfully sing them both to bed at night as they gazed at the stars from their tiny bedroom.

Mind, the grandmother not only taught the child the words, but most importantly the magical effect each was said to possess. One day, as the little witch was leaving the dilapidated building headed for school, she was quite rudely knocked down by a little boy with an extremely handsome face. Without so much as an “excuse me” or an apology he made the little witch fall into the gutter as he hurried past her, and disappeared up the stairs. Books were lying askew about her, and her ankle had already begun to turn a light chartreuse. Her eyes, wet with tears followed him as she whispered the incantation she so desperately wished would work.

“Let it reflect in your eyes,

should your heart be kind and your soul be wise,

but as so much, let it turn your smile

if greed and rage be your true style,

let the beauty without reflect the beauty within

and now go, your transformation begins.”

It was a spell that made people as attractive outwardly as they were inwardly. That is, every time a person is rude, their physical appearance becomes more haggard, disheveled. But, when a person is kind, compassionate their beauty increases tenfold.

For the next few weeks the little witch watched the boy every day, like a lion cub in training, as he came and went from his apartment, hoping to see a trace of her magic.

 

*WILL POST THE REST AFTER IT IS POLISHED UP FOR A COMPETITION, IF INTERESTED EMAIL ME :    WRITE.EMMIE@GMAIL.COM    AND I WILL EMAIL YOU THE COMPLETE STORY*

The Mourning After

I didn’t think this through, admittedly. But I was hurt. Wouldn’t you have done the same? I mean, who’d have thought?  Childish though it was, it was cathartic in my mind and well, I put into play all that she deserved.

Evana awoke with a headache she had never known the likes of before. She attempted to sit up, but all she could manage for the time was to roll onto her back. Gazing around the room lazily,her mind still fuzzy from the night before she smiled to herself. What an amazing twelve hours, she thought. After a few minutes, she was able to stand and walk to the window. The view of the ocean was impeccable, and though it was mid-August in Miami, there was hardly a cloud in the sky. This is what life was supposed to be, this was what she deserved.

All I had to do was call in a favor. One of the spring breaks I’d spent at home while at FSU, I made a connection for him. I also allowed the 5 lbs of ecstasy pills to ride in my trunk with me all the way back. He’d made a nice profit, and I’d asked nothing of him. We went our separate ways, but always kept in touch. He was just what I needed, a man with cash to burn and the morals of Loki. All I had to do was ring him up, tell him what I needed, and boom, just like that he agreed to take her out. That’s what friends are for, right?

After she’d had her fill of the sights below, she turned her attention to the reflection of her naked self in the mirror. True her face looked more and more tired, and her once athletic, statuesque frame was bordering on hefty, even masculine; nevertheless, she felt sexier than she had in the past few months since her breakup. And feeling sexy shows. It showed in the way she wore her same old blue dress with a dazzling smile, and tits bigger than Texas. The few pounds she put on recently had her closet staple fitting snug in all the right places. She thought of the previous night with relish. Her latest client, a handsome A&R, had wined and dined her twice now. They got along well. He seemed to know what she liked, and didn’t like on her plate as well as in her bed. And it made her work much easier. She felt his hungry eyes on her all evening. Even if he hadn’t paid for anything but the food, she’d have treated him like a king, just as she advertised.

This time a year ago she didn’t imagine herself in this position. But, she thought, this time one year ago she was in an unhappy relationship, and a dead-end job. Her neighbor and closest confidant had been in the business for years and it took little for her to convince Evana that this was a power move. She’d told Evana how she made her own hours, worked just a few days out of the week and was now ready to put a down payment on a new home at just 25 years old. That, thought Evana, is an ambitious woman. And so casting aside all common ideals of morality, knowing them to be beneath her, she took up this new career. And she was happy, and making money, and that’s all she’d ever wanted, right?

All I asked of her was to leave me alone. To leave us alone. I never lied to her, disrespected her or taunted her. This girl was a master of manipulation and all I wanted was payback. To laugh. She sent me an old sex tape of her and my soon to be husband and told him how she missed him, how she wanted to see him in private, how she loved him still. And all this after she told me she would leave us alone. But it wasn’t until she gave her word she’d let us be that she started her real harassment. 4 am phone calls, coming to our home unannounced. Questioning our friends and planting rumors. I handled it like a lady. But when the opportunity present itself. I did what I felt needed to be done. At least, what I needed to feel closure.

Rather than allowing her to park on her own and walk the blocks from the lot to the hotels entrance, Malik paid for her car to be valet parked along with his. When the valet boy brought the 10 year old, rusty and dented Honda, it seemed rather out of place perched between the 2012 Camaro and the all black Bently. But head held high, Evana climbed into the drivers seat like the princess she was. It was, after all, her very first car, and she was proud. The fact that she hadn’t actually worked for the car did nothing to dampen her pride. It came to her like most things, as a gift. But it was hers, her own, and that was something to be proud of wasn’t it? This time last year, she thought bitterly, she was sitting passenger seat to her unemployed boyfriend’s Chevy. She was the one who paid for his gas and her rent on her check from the beauty shop. How shocked and angry she became when she found that he not only had one, but two jobs now. And was paying for his new fiance’s car with his money, because she, his fiance, was unemployed. Fine, Evana thought, he can have that unemployed bitch. Her degree obviously didn’t count for nothing, and she definitely wasn’t sexy. Her little skinny ass.

But the idea of it being “fine” didn’t occur until she met Lawerence. An ex-marine who appeared in all lights to be her knight in shining armour. He proved even easier to manipulate than her last boyfriend. At the beginning of their affair, while Evana still pined over her ex and continued to text him requesting secret hookups, texts that were only responded to with phone calls from his faince, Evana thought it was time to stir things up. After a morning of taunting the new girl, Evana was thrown off course by the threat of her sex tape going viral should she continue to harass them. She quickly thought to have Lawerence drive her to confront the bitch. She’d sent the tape not thinking it could possibly… no, it could never. She’d go and convince her ex that she was too innocent to have herself slandered like that for all her friends to see. With one call Lawerence did what he felt was the chivalrous thing to do. Nothing was settled, of course, except it was now out Evana was seeking extracurricular attention. After the encounter, however, Lawerence convinced Evana to move on, and the sex was so amazing, she did. So when anyone asked why she kept insisting she meet with her ex she stated, plain and simple, she’d simply wanted closure.

Oh, she’d call all times of the night. I was nice to her, at first, I made a real attempt to be understanding and to speak with her respectfully. When I, in tears, asked her why she chose to disrespect me when I had done nothing of the sort, she laughed. Cold and calculating. Then she replied “We’re not friends, doll. I don’t need to respect you. I don’t need to give you any type of courtesy, you do nothing for me.” She’d told me that it didn’t matter that he and I had only been romantic after their breakup, she’d never stop until he left me. So, when I found out she was selling herself, I concocted a plan. Malik would take her out, tape their time in the room, and email it to every contact in her phone, including her mother back in Trinidad. Childish? yes, very. But who ever thinks of reason when they are given but a moment to hurt someone whose hurt them? It is only after time we think with maturity, and oftentimes, that is too late.

Stopped at a light before she got on 95 south Evana hastily checked her bag for her phone. But something else in there made her skin crawl. Fuck it, she thought, it’s too late.

And so it was when Malik had told me the exact extent to which he went. To which I went. Not only had he succeeded in wining and dining her. Not only had he gotten it all on tape and was currently putting it on the internet. He had also succeeded in consummating their business deal condom-less.

There nudged between her I-phone and her knock-off Michael Kors wallet was the wrapper to the Magnum. Unopened. DAMN. She’d been so drunk they made love condomn-less.

None of us knew then, not until months later that Evana or Malik, or both, were HIV positive. Truth be told we can’t even say they gave it to one another. This is, after all, a great big world.  I could hardly blame myself.

As the light turned and she took off, she adjusted her rear-view and thought, I just had the time of my life. Take extra care not to get too messed up next time. I mean, I can’t blame myself.