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"I saw some lads hoisting a girl up onto their shoulders, the lot of them clambering onto the stage – the place also hosted gigs, weeknights only, and in Victorian times was a music hall – and I felt an overwhelming urge to join in the light-hearted posing in front of the crowd below. So I did. And that’s when I saw him. Well, not straightaway – I danced my way through a number of tracks before that happened – but when I did register his presence I felt something unique to the moment that I’d never felt before, the zap and pop and crackle of the first-ever connection between us." Click to read the rest! http://spicycauldron.com/2012/09/17/short-story-no-talking-animals-guaranteed/
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I find myself hiding inside my bedroom, behind an unfamiliar massive wooden dresser, kneeling on the floor and peeking out as terror crawls inside of me. My heart is beating fast, my palms are sweating and my throat is dry and hurting. I swallow hard, but careful not to make any noise. I look around without moving, searching for an answer, trying to make sense out of this situation. I noticed everything is in place with the exception of this dresser. A dresser that looks like a piece of furniture my grandma would own. On the other hand, it doesn't really matter where it came from. For now, it's serving a great purpose and shielding me from danger. I am confused. I have no memory of how I got here. I know I am afraid, but not sure of what though. It is daylight, but looks brighter than ever. Maybe it's the sun filtering through the window. I look up, trying to see past the glass frame, but my eyes squint in the glare. I turn my head to avoid the pain. While my eyes are fixed on the wide-open bedroom door, my body is still and my ears alert, listening for a clue, waiting for something to happen. A sudden ringing breaks my concentration, making me jump, raising my heartbeat and scaring the hell out of me. I follow the sound and find a telephone on the floor besides me. This is no ordinary phone, at least not in the 21st Century. In all my eighteen years of life, I have only seen this in pictures. An antique, bulky, black, rotary dial phone complete with a cord connected to the heavy handset, is pleading to be answered. With no caller ID, I am hesitant to pick it up, but my curiosity proves greater than my caution. Besides, I want the ringing to stop; it's attracting too much attention. Slowly, I pick up the receiver, feeling it's weight. I hear nothing on the other end. I stop breathing for a moment, lingering in silence, anticipating the caller's voice. FREE download at: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/219280. His real name was Axalottle Geshempher but as kids, we were hard pushed to get our tongues around the shortened version of Uncle Axle. So we generally called him 'The Book'. He had a chequered history, did Uncle Axle, as he more often than not disclosed by reciting this bit of past information or that little anecdote. No one quite knew exactly where he came from or what religion he might be. I say religion because many thought of him as of Jewish extract on account of his name sounding so much like many of the other unpronounceable Jewish names in the area. That was one piece of knowledge never bestowed on us. But then another school of thought felt he was from South America. I cannot think why they would imagine that now, but he had a swarthy look and he did like to dance to Latin American music when it came on the radio. Sometimes we used to watch him through the window when we first got out of school of an afternoon. We rushed home for tea, (which took us all of ten minutes) looking in again before we knocked on the door of his two up, two down dwelling. It was one of those dingy streets where the pavement was a bare yard from doorstep to curb stone. He loved the Tango and he could Samba with the best of them, he said, (if only he had a partner). There were some camps who said his name was derived from an ancient fish, or an old mountain and they could have been right, for all we knew. Not a fish like a herring mind you, we were used to that name; or cod and tuppence worth at the local fish shop. All we kids knew was that 'The Book' was the greatest man we could be around at the time. He literally seemed to enjoy our company. Most grown ups then had little knowledge or care of what we kids did with our time. In school we were controlled by the teachers. Most days we would rush home after school, grab our tea and come back to Uncle Axle's house as the rest of the day was ours until bedtime, which in the light Summer evenings was usually ten pm or just after. It was way before television. We had no money to speak of and had to make our own enjoyment. Cricket in the street with the bat made from a strip of orange box and chalk for the stumps. Or hoops with an old bicycle wheel. Fag cards flung against one of the many walls and marbles (if someone could treat us because they cost real money, one half-penny for three). But 'The Book' relished our company late afternoon and early evening during the week. Said it taught him never to forget that we were people too, just that we had to wait a while to get there. Very wise was Uncle Axle. More than we knew then. We were called to visit real Uncles, Aunts and Cousins and attend Church on Sunday, not to mention Sunday School so we never saw Uncle Axle until Monday afternoon when he would come to his little blue door, beckon his finger with one hand whilst waving a new book in the other. He had discovered all kinds of things (information we would say today) that you only got out of books. He must have read sixteen hours a day to acquire so much knowledge. There were lots of books in his room but he often went down to the Library, spent his days pouring over the printed page. That is what he told us at any rate, and we believed him for how else could he know so much? We thought he was brilliant, the most well-read man on the planet. Not that we even knew much about planets then but 'The Book' knew all there was to know about the Universe. He could pinpoint a particular star and tell you how far away it was supposed to be (distances were somewhat imprecise at that time) and show you the spot in the sky where the planet Mars was, or Jupiter or some other stellar body. We loved to be with him on Winter evenings when it got dark early and the sky was crisp black and thick with stars and planets, and the bright twinkling lights of the Universe. He would stand in the street and recite facts and figures we would never dispute. In Summer we were not allowed out past our bed time. Long Summer evenings, when the 'canyon' streets held the day's heat like a sheepskin blanket, meant that darkness came too late for us to indulge Uncle Axle's knowledge of the summer skies. During the summer though he had other wonders for us to learn. Our knowledge of the world we were a part of came from 'The Book'. Strange sounding places like darkest Africa, Taj Mahal, Rotarua and names like Samarkand, Bali and Ethiopia were like magical jewels to us kids. We rolled them around on our tongues, repeating them the next day as if they were some huge gobstopper we sucked to see the change in colour. We were told of people whose skins were so black they shone like glass and of others who wore blue robes and rode a 'ship of the desert'. Said he had seen them himself. We asked "what was a desert?" and of course 'The Book' satisfied our curiosity. Every day we added to our growing awareness of all things written, enlarged upon by Uncle Axle's copious ideas on each and every subject. We were the most well-read (second hand) kids north of the River, not that any of the others outside our little group were interested. We got called names many a time and not a few fist fights broke out as we defended 'The Book' and his teachings (all unbeknown to him). Our school teacher became curious when we voiced opinions on subjects he decided should not have been known to us. "Who told you that?" was often hurled at us until finally Uncle Axle was called to book. He must stop it! Children should be taught in school. He was giving them ideas above their station. Learning was for the school curriculum to decide, not some old man whose dubious contact was unwelcome. So that was the end of 'The Book' for us. Parents got involved and he was hounded out of the area. Police came and asked us questions, but it was all so innocent then. We never saw Axalottle Geshempher again. But I often wondered whatever became of this quiet old professor who wanted nothing better than to instil in us some learning of subjects wider than our comprehension. © Copyright Evelyn J. Steward October 2001. (Edited April, 2012) Words 1262 One of the reasons,Doctor Leo, I remembered this episode so vividly was because there were children involved. As I said, it was a dark and stormy night: “You’d think after three days, this storm would go on. I’ve never seen so much snow down in this area, upstate, yes... But here, no way. I can’t even see the sky, forget the stars,” I whined. The only listener to my complaining was my younger sister, lounging, one leg thrown over the recliner chair armrest. She attempted to force a smoke ring in my direction, laughing, as I dodged it. “You know Evie, there are times, you need a good smack, and I’m willing to do it.” Scowling, I plopped in the partner chair. “Come on, Sis. I’m just trying to get you out of this foul mood. Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, holding up her hand in the classic speak to the hand gesture. “I get it. It was a bloody long seventeen hours with two kids in the back seat, but as you said it was three days ago. Besides, you and Hal brought this with you... You rolled in with, close on your tire tracks.” “Sigh. You’re right, Evie. But, I’m also in a foul mood because of Perry being ill. That damn cold spot that seems to hover over the bassinet, no matter where I put it in that room. Where did Mom get this home to rent for the winter? It’s in the middle of nowhere. Okay, uncock the eyebrow - so it’s on the highway, but there’s nothing for... What...? A mile on either side and nothing but woods behind and across the way. You heard her, when she first took me upstairs to see our sleeping quarters. Quite a large area, sunny, but I knew the moment I stepped over the threshold, there was something majorly hinky about that room. The hair on the back of my head lifted - Mom finally admitting someone had died in that area. Jeesh!” “Got it in one. You always were a quick study.” Looking at her watch, she said, “It almost is time. I’ll take the candles. The board is over with the rest of the games - get it, would you?” Evie motioned to the sideboard as she left to get drinks. She had already plunked the candles down on the table with matches. She was a terrible one for tone. Answers, she said. Yeah, right. Ouija. I’d heard of this before. We called it the yes and no board, but the name is yes, yes. Figured I’d let her have her way... but when she got caught moving that pointer.... My thought was interrupted by her return. “Here, we go... A Scotch for you and a Rye and Coke for me. Brought the bottles too. Don’t want to stop the flow of the evening,” she said, as she slipped the bottles from where she had tucked them under her arms. “Okay. This is your show, Evie. I’m not crazy about talking to ghosts or spirits or whatever you want to call them, but I’ll play along... For now.” The pointer, the planchette it’s called, started moving. I looked at Evie. “Quit that,” I hissed. “It’s not me! Look, no hands,” she said, as she raised her arms up, her cigarette dangling from her left hand. The planchette continued to move. “Quick, use that pad over there. Dad left a pen with it too.” We had been playing Pinochle that evening before Dad and Mom and then Hal and the boys had headed off to bed. I grabbed it out of her hand and started writing the letters it was swiftly hitting on. I had kept my eye on it from the start of movement, so I saw all It spelled out: MYWIFEWASKILLEDBYANINTRUDERINTHATROOMANDSHELOSTHERBABY - the hair again went up on my neck as I broke it into a sentence: My wife was killed by an intruder in that room and she lost her baby. “That’s it, Evie. Enough for me. This is no game. Either you have pulled some kind of stunt that I cannot figure out how, yet, or this is real. I’m going to bed.” “Don’t you want to say something back to the spirit? You’ll need to use the pointer.” “Not a chance. If that thing can move like that without help, it can understand me.” I stared intently at the board and forcefully said, “Stay away from me and my family. Leave my baby alone, for God’s sake.” I took my drink and started out of the room. Evie yelled, “Hey, wait for me. Don’t want to be down here, alone.” She quickly blew out the candles, and assured me all the way up the stairs, she had nothing to do with the movement. In fact, she said, it scared her more than it did me. She would never yell back at it. When I got to the bedroom, I flipped on the light, to check for the cold spot. It was gone, but when I pulled down the blind, went and turned down the covers, I glanced back at the shade. There was an evil face imprinted on that shade. I sat up all night, arms crossed and glared at the impression. I fell into a light sleep towards the morning as dawn broke. The following night the face was not there, and I never saw it again. I had my mother look into the history of the house. The house was quite a new one, less than twenty years old, and no one had died in the building. But Mom was not satisfied with that answer since the incident had spooked her too, hearing about it. She kept digging and finally found the evidence, the one that made sense. When the house was built, the owners were told they were building on unholy ground. It had been land where squatters lived, and one of the pregnant woman had been murdered by her jealous lover who had accused her of infidelity. The reason the house was rented was because no one lived in it more than one year. “So, Doctor Leo, I still get chills from thinking about that encounter - but I was not going to allow fear to overwhelm me and have my child continue to be harmed. Mom told me that they didn’t have any more problems with that room. She and Dad continued to rent it for the wintertime when they came off the beach from their seasonal managership situation except I refused to sleep in that room again. Eric stumbled upon the cabin by accident. He’d been searching for the perfect, secluded spot to stargaze. The night sky was devoid of clouds and the unpolluted air did not create a haze. Instead of gazing upward, he was looking slightly downward, his thin mouth open, his lean body too stunned to move while the full, white-yellow moon cast its silver light over the mostly barren, sand covered landscape; mostly barren, except for the empty shell of a long-ago deserted cabin. Stark, black shadows fell to the northwest, creating a double image of a timbered box with a slanted roof waiting for its inhabitants to return and restore the mostly missing white, siding planks. He stood still as the cabin called to him, whispered his name, and drew him ever closer. He had to examine this embodiment of broken dreams and defiant courage. Two empty window frames flanked the black pocket of a missing door that provided access to the debris strewn interior. It shouted, “Look, look, I’m still here. Once I provided warmth and comfort, but now I am empty of all that is meaningful.” It was a structure determined to remain, defying the sun, the blasting sand storms, and torrential desert rains until its rightful owner reappeared. It proudly flaunted the intact two by four timbers and the roof framing firmly in place. Eric knew the cabin was waiting for him. It’s a shell like me. Everything that once made it pulse with life is gone. All it needs is someone inside to give it life again. Quickly he ran his slender fingers through his brown hair; a gesture since a long ago childhood. Would it be safe to sleep out here? Would he need a guard? He knew so little about Wonder Valley other than the deserted lightless streets provided a magnificent view of the stars. He would need to go online to discover who owned this particular five acres or even if they were alive. Perhaps he could find someone willing to work by day and respond to him by night, but first he needed nourishment. It was impossible to knock all of the sand off his tennis shoes when he climbed into his SUV and sand sprinkled the floor. The vehicle responded at the touch of his key and he headed towards the small town of Twentynine Palms, California. He securely locked his vehicle and skirted the back alleys. Surely someone would appear from the numerous bars. Eric knew better than to select someone too drunk. The alcohol effect could transfer to his system. It was nearly dawn when he saw a middle-aged, non-descript dumpy woman walking toward him. She was checking the dumpsters behind the smaller eateries. Her backpack was bulging and she set a canvas bag stuffed with her life’s possessions beside the dumpster. Swiftly he ran the distance separating them and clapped his hand over her mouth and drew her back under the darkened overhang. He bent his head and sank his enlarged eyeteeth into her neck to draw her life into his. When she slumped, a whitened mass into his arms, he slipped one of her arms over his left shoulder and supported her dead weight into a position for the morning sun to dispose of her body. She was like the cabin: an empty shell. Unlike the cabin she would dissipate with the rising sun. All that would remain were her empty clothes and backpack. No one would care. She had given him life for another few days and he could devote his waking hours to acquiring his cabin. Later he could think about finding an assistant. Clearly, he would need one if he remained here. He drove to the RV Park for his day of sleep. The moon rose heavy and full again, beckoning him to return to his cabin. Would it hold the same beauty and fascination this time? Eric had to know. It was well after midnight when he left his computer and headed for his SUV. The RV Park was quiet and few lights were on. No one cared if he went or stayed. The desert air was soft, almost like the whisper of velvet upon his skin. It was one of the elements that continued to draw him to this corner of the world. His RV made it possible to hide away during the day and emerge at the earlier darkened hours. Late fall, winter, and early spring were his long nights. The earlier setting and later rising sun gave him an opportunity to examine the stars unhidden by the lights of the fear-the-darkness living. Eric thought he had driven to the correct position, but the desert was empty. He turned off the motor, secured the SUV, and walked to the top of the dune to survey the surrounding desert. One look and he dropped behind the dune. His cabin was just to the right, but someone had parked a pickup truck with a camper there and a fire was burning inside his cabin. Were they insane? Didn’t they realize the fragile beauty of that timbered symbol of man’s dreams? Eric raised his head over the dune and saw two skinny men sitting in front of the cabin. He would need to approach them and extinguish the fire. A derelict car with a dented side set to the side of the cabin. He sniffed the air. A strange odor floated out over this section of the desert, but the smell of the two mortals was all he recognized. Should he drive around or walk the distance? The two men looked like they were holding cans of something, probably beer, and both were smoking. Two drunks, Eric decided. They would be easy enough for him to overpower. Quietly he walked down the dune and approached the cabin from the backside. Both men faced the cabin, watching that container. Eric could see through the broken boards that they had improvised a stove by placing a metal plate over the fire. Both were staring intently at it, not even touching their cans. Eric ran to the front of his cabin. One man pulled a revolver to aim at him when he threw himself through the air, pulling the man down and sinking his fangs into his neck, the warm, blood gushing out filling his being, intensifying his feelings. “The crank,” yelled the second man. “It aint done. I’ll get him.” Eric looked up at the second man coming at him with one of the broken timbers. With a snarl he rose to his knees and pulled the man down to feast at his neck. He continued drinking until both were dead. He emptied all the beer cans on the fire and stirred it to make sure it was out. Then he picked up the pot with rags made from their shirts, and staggered outside. What was wrong with him? There had been too much alcohol in their blood, but there was something else, something he’d merely sampled once before that had heightened his senses. He sat the pot down and ran his fingers through his hair. The fumes coming up from the pot seemed to increase the fuzziness in his head and he looked up at the sky. It was enthralling. Little, dazzling points of lights danced in unison and a wispy cloud was trying to catch them in an embrace. Eric sank down. I need to rest just a moment and his eyes closed. Slowly consciousness returned and he looked down at the sand and then upward. Strange, he had never noticed that before. The entire eastern horizon had become a work of abstract art. Dark blue pin-points of skylights began changing into grey. Rose-red was forming at the bottom of the gray. The rose gradually turned to the color of red blood: red blood pushing upward, straining to get out. He decided a few seconds more before trying to stand could not hurt. He had never seen anything so seductive. Soft, voluptuous clouds gradually becoming softening reds, then corals before breaking into a blinding eruption of intense gold against a soft blue sky shielding a landscape of distant purple mountains. He staggered toward the cabin, his eyes widening at the sight of purple mountains turning rose-pink under the spreading sunlight. He paused, hating to end this beauty. He never knew the morning could bring forth such emotion. It was a sight worth dying for. Suddenly, the burning sensation started. He turned towards the doorway and its darkened interior. Darkness, he needed darkness. He tried to sprint and fell face down, his hand reaching out for something, anything to pull himself inward. The wind ruffled the empty clothing and sent it sailing into the desert. The piles of ash like residue were soon lifted and flung into the air. A dog carried off one of the shoes. At night a coyote came by and snuffed at the finger bones inside the darkened cabin; a stark empty cabin waiting in the darkness for the return of someone who never came. The church of St Andrew’s which overlooks the harbour at Clevedon goes back to early Saxon times, and in those days, the village was a thriving fishing village. It is known locally as Old Church, and from here, you can see up the channel to Bristol, down to Weston-Super-Mare and across to the Welsh coastal area of Cardiff to Swansea. Birds were still in their nests and the hedgerows covered with a harsh coat of white as I walked along the path that runs by the old church, and along the edge of the steep rock face below. This was the warmest day we had had for many weeks, so I decided to take a walk down to the beach. Walking along what had once been the old river and was now a footpath, I ventured to the playing fields where as a teen my friends and I had watched Clevedon Sports FC play many a game. The memories were still vivid of the players running the fields, and on the next pitches the rugby team played, the field so big it held two rugby pitches and the football pitch side by side. Passing these fields, I headed to Wordsworth Road where my friend Mike used to live, many is the night in all weathers I had walked this route to see him. We had been friends since school days, and only parted when I was married and moved to Bristol, some 20 years after our first meeting. The route I had chosen took me to bottom edge of Church Hill. As I walked through the gate used to stop traffic from entering, I could see the path up to the hilltop ahead and to the right of me. It is quite steep and from this side manageable but coming down from the old pillbox on top, can be treacherous even in the driest of weathers as the path is overgrown and narrow. I stopped to look at the old harbour, looking just the same as it had done for many years, like a muddy inlet left to the elements. There were some boats rocking with the sway of the passing tide, and the chill winter’s air fair took your breath away as you turned to the inlet, the wind of the channel drawing on the cold water, and chilling to the bone. There is nowhere to sit down here, as tired as I was; it was a walk up the hill before I could rest awhile. I did get there finally, and was so grateful for the chance to sit on the bench. The seat overlooks the sea, and has a beautiful view of the Welsh coastline opposite, the inlet to your left and the Church of St. Andrew behind you, with its graveyard looking sadder than usual in the drab grey of winter. Sometimes if you sit and watch you can see ships heading both ways in the channel, but today the waters were calm and silent, except for the waves smashing on the rocks below me. The air was still and calm as I made my way back up the hill to where the pillbox once stood. Now just a concrete base, and down the hill a few yards were the remains of what used to be an anti-aircraft position—something that always intrigued me as it is of no strategic value, being too far from anywhere, and so easy to just leave alone. After a while, I got up and was walking around the church. As I got to the corner to turn to take the path down through the brambles, a strange mist appeared from the channel. Being of a seafaring family sea mists did not usually bother me, they were something coastal peoples lived with in the early spring, or late autumn—but here we were in mid-winter and not acting like normal sea mist. This one was hugging the coast, not moving inland, or out to sea. And, I thought I could hear noises far off in the fog, like metal on wood. From my vantage point, I could clearly see the edges of the bank—it was moving inland then swirling out to the coast, but avoiding the sea. The bank was still many miles away, but as it moved, it seemed to be gaining speed. The area around here is flat and boggy, crossed by the rivulets of the Yeo, with only about six or seven miles between the three—it was as if the fog was gaining power from contact with these rivulets, yet strangely avoiding the sea. As I stood transfixed, it was some time before I noticed that not only was the mist a lot closer now, but it was moving over the marshland below me. The old port area was now in the mist, as it swirled around below my feet, it was as if I was inviting me to go down, but my feet were frozen to this spot, and wouldn’t move. I just watched as the mist started to creep along the sides of the hill around me, the boats that had been moored there, now were shrouded in mist, and those noises, there they were again, definitely I could hear metal on wood, and the heavy splashes of oars in the water, then a silence. Then the screaming began. I could hear the screams of women and children, men shouting at them to get the weapons… what was going on? There were no signs of the boats as I went down the path, and although terrified of what I would find, I was not afraid of the people in the mist. I was more afraid for the mist itself, as it had brought them to me, or had it taken me back in time? As I ventured down the path, I sensed changes around me, the boats were replaced by fishing boats, and the men were working hard pulling in the nets as the ladies gutted and skinned the fish. This was a scene I had witnessed at many coastal ports, only this time I was actively involved, and we were in Saxon clothing. All was calm as the nets were pulled on board save for the calling that had gone with fisher folk for generations to help get the nets in. I was the first to hear the muffled splash of oars. I stopped dead in my work, the men saw me, and wondered what was happening to me as I looked to the sea, now covered in a grey mist, which a few minutes ago, had not been far out of sight. As I turned to look for the noises, I saw a flaming arrow land close to my feet. Being simple fisher folk, we had left our weapons of defence in the homesteads when we went out to fish and here we were stranded on the flat with homes far behind. As the boats sped inland, arrows spewing everywhere, men falling all around, I ran to the nearest house and grabbed a spear, then turning to stand my ground, and await what this raid brought. I was standing there in this battle with all going around me, and swords and maces crashing and breaking skulls open and yet nobody saw me, nobody tried to call for my help. One sword attacker ran to me, and swinging his weapon, he hit the man beside me, and yet totally ignored me, another passed so close I could see his hair flecked with the blood of the slain, and yet never did one attack me. I could touch and move objects, and yet could not interact in this time with anything. I could reach out for something, and yet nothing could reach in. This was frightening to me, as I could see people dying, and so wanted to help them defend their homes, and yet now I knew I was helpless, all I could do was watch and feel their loss as they were burned to the ground. Then the strangest thing started to happen. The mist started to solidify, and it was as if it was physically pushing out to the church above. I could feel the urgency of the mist, as it pushed and shoved me along the path, and at times, I had difficulty keeping apace with its rushing forces. As I came to what had previously been the near edge, the mist thinned and as if not allowed to enter, I was released with a feeling that I should go to check the church. Slowly I walked up the path, flooded with worries as to what lay ahead for me. As I got to the door, I found it open and could feel the chill winter winds going through me. Standing there at the door and not wanting to go in, the father came from the vestry to see me. "Can I help you my son?" "Father, this will sound weird to you I know, but please hear me before you judge me mad I beg." "Go on my son." "I stand hear at the door to your church, having been caught in a mist, which either took me back to Saxon times, or brought memories of the dead and dying to me over the centuries. This mist had a purpose of which I do not know, only that I feel I was sent to you." "I wont judge you, son, save to say the only mist hereabouts was the haw frost common in these parts this time of the year, and that has long since gone off. As for having the feeling you have been brought here for a purpose, we are an old church filled with spirits of the past, so it IS possible you had an encounter from the past. We do have a mystery though. Since this was built, there has always been a piece of stained glass missing. If you look at the bottom left of the window, you can clearly see one piece doesn’t fit, we just put that in to fill the gap, and stop the cold, but it is clear it wasn’t meant to go.’ I stood looking—the father was right, if you look hard enough you can see it is missing a piece. Then, as I looked at the floor by the window, I thought I felt something in my hand and when I looked, I saw a piece of stained glass. Looking closely I could see it was close to fitting the missing shape. I took a stool from the vestry and held the piece to the window—it was an exact fit, and with a little jiggling, it went in. Then, even though it was dark and cold outside, a warm autumnal glow spread through the church, and as it lit up the nave, a shape emerging from behind the window. It was me, in Saxon clothing, as I had been in the mists, and around me was a bubble to shield from harm as I walked out of the door and stood looking back at the church. I went on to look for the grave of a friend who died too young. There she was, Judith Gray, died aged 24. "What a loss", I thought. As I went to the archway leading out, and walked back up the hill to have a sit and look out to sea. It was then, as I was sitting, that I noticed a young lady standing smiling at me. It was Judy. "Hi Alan," she said. "Why didn’t you ask me out?" "Firstly, Judy, I never knew you were interested in me, and just as important to me, at the time you were Steve’s girlfriend, and I would never come between you. It was only years later I heard that Sarah wanted to go out with me as well, but I was so shy and introverted I didn’t realise it." "It was the shy, introverted Alan that intrigued us; we often discussed who you might ask out, and how we would react." "I did like both of you Judy, but was just so unsure of myself that if you had made the first move, I would probably have been too shy to take it seriously, and probably done something stupid and hurt your feelings." Then as if she had the answer she had wished for, and like the mist, Judy vanished. Mmmm, the last bite of Beef Lo Mein slid gracefully down my throat. I relished the flavors still fresh on my tongue. Looking down, I saw the remnants of what was a huge plate of noodles beef, and sauce, only moments before. I leaned back and sighed. This was my once a week treat to myself, I loved the food here. While I let my dinner settle, I looked out the window beside me. Nice neighborhood, I lived within walking distance. It was always a nice, quiet place to live for an inner city area. My attention returned to the table I sat at. The waitress had cleared my plate away and left my bill in a dish with a fortune cookie. I usually passed on the cookie but I couldn’t resist looking at the fortune. I broke the cookie in half and the rectangle paper inside escaped the opening I made. It fell to the table. Picking it up I could see this one was different. It was hand written. What in the world? I had to read it several times before my eyes could be pulled away long enough to quickly scan the restaurant. It said, in very masculine handwriting; Date me? 555-5555. I guess it really wasn’t a secret I was going through a ‘dry spell’. This was kind of a cruel joke though. How in the heck did they pull it off? The following week I returned to the Ming-Ming’s, like clockwork. Sitting in my favorite booth, I looked over the menu. It never changed and by now I have had most of the things on the menu I would consider eating. I decided on the Sesame Chicken. As I waited, I dug through my purse for lip-gloss. I ran across the rectangle piece of paper from the fortune cookie. I scoffed and crumpling it up. I tossed it on the table. My meal came and I again enjoyed every morsel. While waiting for my bill I noticed a man sitting in the opposite corner of the restaurant. He was intent on something in front of him on the table. I tried to see what he was doing but from this far away, it was impossible. The waitress came with my bill and the inevitable fortune cookie. I couldn’t help myself I had to see if this would be a normal fortune inside. Cracking the cookie in half, I scrambled for the paper inside. It was hand written again, I love you, please call me 555-5555. Well this was just silly! I tossed the paper on the table. I quickly paid my bill and left. I stayed away from Ming-Ming’s for several weeks. I met a girlfriend at Tony’s Pizza Emporium, sure, the pizza is good, but I missed the Asian fare. My friend, Donna, was telling me about events in the neighborhood that were coming up. “Chinese New Year! I don’t know what animal it is this year but they ALWAYS have a great street party! We so have to go, Karen.” I hold up my hand and shake my head while I tell her about the fortune cookies at Ming-Ming's. “So, no thank you, I won’t be going to that.” Donna laughs at me and wants to know more about the handwritten fortunes. I tell her that’s all there is to it. I even tell her I think the odd guy in the corner has something to do with it, “Maybe he’s writing them.” “So he’s your secret admirer?” She teased. “I don’t know!” I punched her in the shoulder lightly. “I sure hope not, I mean, I don’t even know what he looks like!” We have a good laugh then talked about her new job. Soon it was time to go and we parted ways. Donna called me a week later, insisting we meet some friends at the Chinese New Year street party. Since it was within walking distance I could hardly refuse, and I hoped it would fun. Donna arrived at my apartment and we walked the few blocks to the festival. Then we began looking for our other friends. We could hear the firecrackers before we got there, but nothing could prepare you for the pageantry of the fest. The colors were brilliant and flowing, the movements mesmerizing. The welcoming of the deities of the heavens and earth was a breathtaking sight. The Lion Dance started, he not only ushered in the New Year, but evicted evil spirits from the premises. The music was intoxicating, making you want to dance. Donna ran over to some friends that had just arrived. My attention was drawn back to the Lion Dance as the Lion chased the Evil Spirits. One particularly Evil Spirit was headed right for me! As he passed by me, he swooped down and lifted me up. He lifted me to his lips and kissed me. He quickly placed me back on the ground. “Why didn’t you call me?” He asked. The Lion was hot on his tail and before I could answer, he was chased away. I couldn’t believe my ears! Was this the author of the fortune in the cookies? My friends were all laughing after seeing what happened to me. I told Donna what the Evil Spirit said. She thought he might be the author of the notes as well. We planned to go to Ming-Ming’s the following day. After work, Donna stopped at my apartment and we walked to the restaurant. We ordered and then looked around the restaurant at the other people there. There was just a couple one table over from us, and two young girls in a booth on the other side of the room. The man in the far corner seemed very intent on whatever it was he was hunched over. “Donna, I’m going over there to see what he’s doing.” I said rising from the table. Donna said nothing. As I got closer, I could see he was an older gentleman. He was indeed writing on small rectangles of paper. I knew this couldn’t be the man who kissed me, but I was sure he would know the man who did. I sat down on the other side of the booth and the old man’s head came up in surprise. He looked at me questioningly. “Do you speak English?” asked. He stared blankly at me. I looked down at the fortunes spread on the table. “What’s this?” Again, he just looked at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement and I looked to the side of the old man. A man had stepped from hallway and stood next to the old man. Our eyes meet briefly and I looked away, but not before I noticed his attractive face. “It was me…I’m sorry. I wrote the notes to you…,” the man said. I look up at him again. “Really?” He sits in the booth next to the old man. “My name is Bolin, I see you come here all the time. I cook for you every time. I take extra care when I prepare your food.” He pauses and looks down. “I’m shy and I’m only bold when I am an Evil Spirit.” I reached across the table and touched his hand. “You kissed me?” Bolin nodded his head. Donna had approached the booth we were in and said, “I think you owe this man a date!” Bolin looked up smiling and I nodded my head. (Please see the post before this to see how your story can be next!) I'm going to try something new here. I'm going to start a section of short stories. I will post some of my own, but I would also like to add stories from others. If you contact me with a submission, I will gladly post it. No prizes, just exposure. Your name and the story title will be the post title. I would like them to stay close to 2000 words but its not a strict rule, I hate those. The point is not to send in a novel, I'm pretty sure there is a limit to how many characters can be posted in one post. If you want to post an excerpt and give the URL to where it can be bought, that's okay, too. I will be starting this off with one of my own, please feel free contact me with your gems. |
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