Tag: Fiction

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Rows and rows of white townhouses were like steps beneath the hanging quarter moon and dotted stars. Dorman Knott elbowed through people in suits, cashiers with name tags pinned to their shirts, and others in blue jeans, hard hats, and boots. He weaved his way around parents who clung to children’s hands with the odd child in a baseball cap. Why the child wore a baseball cap, he didn’t know. After all, there wasn’t any sun on the streets as the town clock banged eight beats. The children were most likely going to the School of Ebony Shells—or some other school that started at nine o’clock in the evening. The parents would then be off to work.

“Dorman! Old man, how are you this night?” John Neck clapped his back, and whether it was the smack or his voice, Dorman gulped in the air as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

“Fine, fine.”

“It’s a beautiful night, don’t ya think?” John Neck’s muscles bulged under his tight leather jacket. His lips curled into a grin, and his yellow teeth stuck out. Neck’s breath had a hint of tobacco, coffee, and garlic. “Remember those days? Running after school to the arcade? And sometimes we would play paintball before sunrise? Good times, don’t ya think?”

 “Yes, good times.” Dorman sighed. “Well, mostly . . .” There was that one time when a car careened down the road—the white-haired woman with the cane never had a chance.

“It’s been good chatting with you, but I need to push off. Work and all that . . .”

Neck grabbed Dorman’s elbow and pulled him close. “Dorman, I need Rachel Sooter’s address. If you give it to me, you wouldn’t need to go to your shitty job. I might even be able to put in a request for a shift change?”

“I’ve never heard that name before in my life . . . and I like where I work, and when I work.”

Neck, let go of Dorman, and stuck his hands on his hips. His chest ballooned up. It reminded Dorman of the Zeppelin from history books.  

Firestarter. Highly explosive. Deadly.

“Listen . . .” Neck placed a hand on Dorman’s collarbone, and he sank under John’s hand. “I need her address.”

Dorman straightened. “And I’ve told you, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Fine,” Neck said as he slapped Dorman on the back. He walked backward down the checkered sidewalk. “If you can’t help me, you can’t help me.” Neck shrugged. “But if you’re lying to me, I’ll find out.”

John Neck was far enough away that Dorman could only make out the shine of his eyes and the outline of his build. “I’m not lying.”

John snapped his fingers. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about!”

***

Dorman stood over his desk and pressed the button on his phone. “Marcus, send in Rachel Sooter.”

“Yes, right away, Dr. Knott.”

The door opened, and Rachel stood in the doorway and dabbed a tissue to her nose. “Rachel, please, come in . . .” Dr. Knott walked across the room and ushered Rachel to the couch. Marcus closed his door.

“Dr. Knott . . . I can’t do this anymore. I’ve never been happy—and now with my report—” Dr. Knott slid into his chair and opened his book. “The head of the Committee said I should never have been put in charge of the research because I was biased . . .”

“Do you believe that?”

“A little.” Her voice quivered.

“But the Twilight Economic Development Committee funded your research.” Dr. Knott flipped back a couple of pages in his book. “You told me that your findings’ showed depression was higher with the cohort that worked at night and with the children who attended school in the evening and early morning hours . . .” he turned a couple of pages forward, “and costs of policing had tripled with more accidents, robberies, and petty thefts . . . and an outreach report showed homelessness on the rise.” Dr. Knott reclined in his chair. “I know those weren’t the results the Committee wanted. But the data was pulled from other sources. So, tell me, how your work is biased?”

“Because of me . . . I must have somehow skewed the results.”

“You told me the junior researchers conducted the interviews when required. The other data, you stated, was gathered from pre-existing hospital, police, and outreach worker reports.”

“The head of the Committee said I had acknowledged at the start of the report that I struggled with living and working at night. So, right there—it proves the report is flawed.”

Dr. Knott shifted in his chair. “Yes, but you’re supposed to reveal any pre-existing biases when you write a report. We all have them.”

“I know. But Rutherford Little said our numbers were too small, and I deliberately hunted for data that showed the day/night split economy was too costly to maintain. He said I dismissed any evidence that showed the model was profitable for the city.”

Dr. Knott clicked his pen. “Again, you told me much of the data was gathered from hospital and police reports. Also, you said junior researchers gathered data from businesses, and the information was submitted anonymously—from my perspective, you did everything you could to ensure the integrity of the data.”

“Yes, but . . .” Dr. Knott stared at Rachel, his pen poised to add to his notebook. Rachel cleared her throat. “They won’t release it to the public.”

“They spent several million dollars on it. The public will demand something for money spent at taxpayers’ expense.”

“They said they’ll claim the report was never finished.”

“Is the report finished?”

“Yes! One hundred percent! Sorry, but I hate being accused of not completing a project.”

“Let’s say the report is flawed . . .” Rachel’s eyes widened. Dr. Knott lifted his hand and shook his head, “I’m not saying it is. But I think the report needs to be released and the findings shared with the public. Let the people decide. And that way, more studies can be done, if needed.”

“There’s been a reporter who contacted me about it—they wanted to know the status. I didn’t tell them anything.”

“Rutherford Little—who is he?”

“He’s the head of the Committee.”

“So, maybe let a few other members of the Committee know the report is done.”

“Shouldn’t I give the report to Rutherford Little to distribute?”

“He didn’t pay for it out of his own pocket. Taxpayers did.”

Rachel nodded. “Dr. Knott?” She glanced up. “I never asked you, but between the two of us, what do you think of the split economy?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is you and your well-being. And you don’t strike me as someone who would set out to fabricate report findings—under any circumstances.”

“No, of course not. I stated my biases in the opening remarks. Then, I outlined the testing methods used to compensate for biases—both my own and those of my team. I brought in researchers who struggle with the evening shift. And those who enjoy the late and early morning hours. Both types of researchers reviewed the data. I tried to be transparent.”

Dr. Knott sat in his chair—still.

“Is there something the matter?”

“No, of course not.” He checked his watch. “It looks like our time’s up.” He sighed. “So, I’ll see you next week?”

Rachel stood up and clasped her purse and coat. “Dr. Knott, are you okay? You look a little pale?”

Dr. Knott glanced at his leather couch, his lamps with the yellow light that glowed in the room. Books were stacked on shelves, lightly coated with dust. “Rachel, how many people do you have on your team?”

“About twenty? Why?”

“I had a man approach me tonight. He knew your name and wanted your address. He threatened me . . .”

Rachel covered her mouth. “Am I at risk?”

“I don’t know—I hope not. He didn’t get your name or any information from me. But tonight, when you mentioned Rutherford Little saw the report and how he’s trying to bury it—I had thought the whole Committee saw it—well, it occurred to me the man I’ve spoken with, and Little may be connected.” Dr. Knott tapped his pen on his notebook. “Given that you’ve been working with the same team over the last few years, it seems unlikely any of them are responsible for sending the man my way.”  

“How do you know the man you saw tonight?”

“A friend from school. I’ve said a quick ‘Hello’ when I’ve seen him around over the years. But that’s been about it. Until tonight . . .” Dorman ran his fingers through his thin hair. “I suggest you send it to the other Committee members as soon as possible. I wan to notify the police, if it’s okay? I would need to give them your information.”

“Yes, that’s fine.” Rachel’s lower lip trembled. “I’ve placed you in danger.”

Dr. Knott stood and clutched his notebook to his chest. “Our conversations are not the most dangerous ones I’ve had.” He walked over and rested his hand on the doorknob. “And it’s ridiculous. They’re going after you when someone else could have pulled the same numbers. And for what? Is it easier to recruit criminals with more people out at night? Does Rutherford Little have stock in light bulbs?” Rachel smiled. “I’ll call the police and ensure they have the details of the man who made the threats. You need to distribute your findings to the other committee members tonight. Once it’s out there, there’s not much anyone can do about it.”

“I’ll send it tonight. And also, to the Reporter . . .”

“Good. And please, make sure you’re not alone after work.”

***

The sun broke at the horizon as Dorman closed his office door, turned the key, and locked it. He glanced at Marcus’ empty desk and the dimly lit pot lights that cast light on the empty chairs in the waiting room. Dr. Knott craned his neck and caught some shadow on a wall. “Hello?” He shook his head and rubbed his face. “My mind’s playing tricks on me.”

He opened the door to the stairs, stepped down one step, and then another. When he rounded the corner, he looked at the number on the door—only six flights to go, and he would cross the road to the parking lot, and he’d be in his car, and then it was a short drive home. 

He clutched his briefcase in one hand as his coat hugged his knees with each step. There were five flights to go. Dorman quickened his pace, his heart thudded, and his breath became laboured. He was almost there. One more flight and he—

“Hello, Dorman,” John Neck said. He leaned against the door with the red exit sign above. “I told you not to lie to me, didn’t I?”

Dorman wiped the sweat that trickled down his brow. “What are you talking about?” he said, annoyed.

“Rachel Sooter—I had a couple of my guys follow her to your office. But then we never saw her leave . . . we lost her.”

Dorman doesn’t know how Marcus did it. The man’s a bit of an enigma and rarely talks about his military experience. Clearly, though, after he told Marcus to make sure Rachel left the building without being seen, he’d done it.

Dorman sighed. “You can’t stop the report from being released. You know that. It was a publicly funded report.”

John’s lips curled into a sneer. “I don’t understand it. When we were kids, we loved going to school at night and running free after class. Why the hell would you want the report to be released? The night economy is good for your business, isn’t it?”

“Business isn’t bad. But it’s not just about me. It’s about how the city is doing overall . . .”

“You’re going to make me do something I don’t want to do.”

“Do what you must.”

Neck poked Dorman in the chest. “You’re an idiot!” He spun around and shoved Dorman. He swayed. John stretched out his hands. “Why?”

Dorman laughed, quietly. “The data is out there. It’s everywhere. We know this experiment hasn’t worked. We’ve known it for years. Anyone paying attention and reading the papers knows it’s failed.”

Dorman saw the calloused, thick hand form a fist, and then it came down hard across his jaw and knocked him to the ground. Somehow, he still clutched his briefcase. So, when the Zeppelin’s foot was up and aimed at his head, he lifted his case, swung it hard, and Neck fell backward against the wall and slumped to the floor.  

Neck wiped the trickle of blood that dripped along the side of his ear. “You fucker!” he roared.

“Huh?” Dorman lifted the brown case and stared at it. John grunted. “Shit!” Dorman hissed. He scrambled to his feet, swung the door open, and raced into the hallway. Dorman’s heart pounded as bullets punched through walls, ricocheted off the copier, and a glass window shattered. Then, silence was everywhere except for the clicking of bullets that Neck reloaded into his gun. Dorman tried to move his feet, but for some reason, they wouldn’t budge. It was as if he’d fallen into quicksand, and he was anchored to this bullet-holed, riddled brown building. The gun was raised again at him. “Fight or flight,” he whispered and shook his head. He threw the door open as a bang rang out, and a bullet punctured the door.

Dorman, on the street now, saw some pedestrians, wide-eyed and crouched close to the ground. Others, further away, stood still. Other people skittered away in a zig-zag as they looked over their shoulders.    

A woman, hands over her head and face contorted, asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Dorman hurried down the sidewalk and to the parking lot across the road.

“Dorman, it’s time to go to sleep . . .” Neck shouted. John’s gun was aimed at him. Someone screamed. Other people scattered nearby, like orange-red leaves in the fall after the wind has blown them from a tree.

Dorman raised his chin. His normally slumped forward shoulders straightened. “Do what you must.” He watched Neck as he pulled back the trigger—

It was another scream Dorman heard first. John turned his attention from Dorman, and a garbage can lid banged against the Zeppelin’s head. Neck collapsed to the ground and shook his head. Marcus, in a plaid t-shirt and a toque, pushed Neck into the sidewalk and held him down. Rachel stood close to the wall of a nearby building out of view. Several other people piled onto the Zeppelin’s hands and legs.   

“Get off of me!” Neck roared.

“Shut up!” Dorman shouted. He held John’s gun now and pointed it at his old school friend. Sirens sounded. Red lights flashed from cruisers.

“You wouldn’t?”

“Under the right circumstances, anyone would. Now, stay down.”

The Bachelor’s House

Just in time for Halloween, a little witch and ghost story…

***

I place a hand on the stone, and I see snow on the roof while a girl with a bow in her hair runs on the hardwood floor. In the dining room, a family is gathered at a set table with candles, and there’s the scent of oregano, roast beef, potatoes, and fresh bread everywhere.

Imagination is a beautiful thing, filling up a cold house with warm memories that may never have been. 

Turning the handle, the door creaks, and I peer inside. A fireplace from a nearby room sheds some light into the hallway. Yellow-stained curtains are hung, and there are light switches, a coat hook, and nothing else. There’s warmth, but it escapes through the open door. So, I close the door.   

“Elizabeth,” Helen says in a red dress with a two-foot train—the same one she wore last time I was here. The fire in the hearth hisses as she passes, and dampness drips from somewhere. Helen leans in, touches my elbows, and kisses me on the cheek. “Are you ready to start?”

“Yes,” I say, hanging my coat and purse on the coat hook. Before I leave, I remember I need my hard hat and dig into my handbag to find it. Helen places a hand on my elbow as we walk through the hallway. I look up the stairs and into several rooms and ask, “Where’s Paul?”

“I’m here,” he says, leaning against a doorway. Paul wears brown trousers and a white shirt. His thumbs are hooked under his suspenders.

“I will wait here,” Helen says.

I nod. “Are you still coming with me?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, straightening.     

I turn the knob on the door to the basement. There’s no railing, so I place my hand along the brick to guide me and carefully take a step down the stairs. Paul’s cool breath is in the back of my neck and stays there until I reach the bottom step. 

***

Tucking my hair under my hat, I flip the switch on. Light spreads out, and a rat runs across my boots and squeezes into a hole.

I stare at the beams with webs where spiders cling to them and touch one spider called Eve, who apologizes that she wasn’t here the last time I visited. Eve tells me about dishes that were thrown, a child who couldn’t sleep without a light on, and how a waiter ran out of the house one night and never returned. Eve’s eight legs tap the beam, and she says, “The man who built this house, he drank gin nearly every night. Poor thing, he was in love. But he never told anyone. Not even his best friend . . .”

I see. 

Paul slouches nearby and looks around, bored. Ghosts can’t speak Spider, thank goodness. 

I nod to Eve, and she returns to her artwork. “Where are you?” I say. My fingers fumble over the switch on my hat, and it clicks.

“You still can’t see them?”

“Like I told you the last time—I’m a witch exorcist, not a clairvoyant.” Paul shakes his head. “Hey, you’re a ghost that can’t get rid of a ghost.” Paul doesn’t say anything.

Annoyed, I take the cap off and move the knob to another setting. Sure, it’s great that I can see in the dark. But I need to see everything.

I flick the switch with my finger and shake my head. Witches aren’t allowed to use their magic to pay for their day-to-day living expenses. It’s part of the rules. So, I’ve got a nine-to-five job to pay for rent and such, but I have to work these jobs to pay for Mom and Dad’s costs in Trolls Thumping Residence.

“What?” Paul asks.

“Nothing,” I whisper. The knob clicks. “Ha! Now we’re in business!” I cheer. I place the hat on my head and tighten the chin strap. And now I see everything.

***

Stepping forward, five large snake-lizards are wrapped around the beams.

Paul leans forward, bumping into me. His hand slips through my back and comes out of my stomach.

“Gross,” I say. Some ghosts are good at making themselves flesh-like. Paul is not.  

Weaving through the room, the snake-lizards hiss as we pass by them. I’ve seen these creatures before—they belong to light and shadow and can kill the flesh and devour souls. I suspect Paul might know this, too, based on his raspy breathing.

There’s a flash. I scan the room, looking around the snakes-lizards and the—

“Oh no,” I hiss. Air rushes around as I fly up, hit the wall, slide down, and fall to the dirt floor. “Ow,” I mutter. 

Paul shakes and looks around. Then running toward me, he stumbles. Paul hits the ground, and a snake-lizard unravels itself from a beam like lightning strikes and hisses. It snaps when it’s within reach of Paul. “No,” Paul says. The snake-lizard’s head rises, and Paul and the creature stare at each other.     

I’m eye to eye with a snake-lizard, too. “Did you get the memo? I’m a witch exorcist. I can destroy you.”

The snake’s head bobs back. His black eyes blink. I’m sure I see his head tilt, and then, he vanishes.     

“Paul!” There are heels on the stairs, and a translucent red hem appears.

“Stay there!” I yell.

Helen crouches down and covers her mouth. “Oh, Paul!” she cries.

“I love you, Helen. I always will.” Paul’s voice is steady, and his eyes are misty. But he keeps both eyes on the snake-lizard.  

I smack my hands together, and bits of scales and leathery skin fly up and explode in the air and onto the dirt floor.

I’m not sorry about killing the four remaining snake-lizards. They heard what I said to the other one and knew Paul and I were traveling together. Paul drops his head to the floor. I raise one finger, Paul rises from the ground, and I place him beside Helen.

“Is the ghost gone?” Paul asks.

“No,” I say. “But I don’t think he’ll come out with both of you here. So, go upstairs and stay there.”

“How do you know?” Paul asks. 

“I got a message,” I say, pushing my hair back. “Besides, Paul, I don’t want you to get hurt. You and Helen couldn’t be together because of her hateful, controlling, abusive husband. Now, you can be. You’re only here because you think you should be. But those creatures could have taken your soul. And where would that leave Helen?” So there’s no doubt, I add, “I’ve got this.”

Helen and Paul glimpse down at me. Even though their ghosts, their eyes shine with some look of understanding. Nodding again, they turn and climb the stairs, and the door creaks closed.    

“Perfect,” a man with dark eyes says, holding a watch. “It’s Elizabeth?” he asks, snapping the timepiece closed and hooking it onto the vest of his suit.

“Yes—and you are?”

“Jeffrey Sackston the III’rd,” he says, bowing.

“You can probably drop the III’rd now.”

He spins his cane, grins, and says, “Yes, I suppose I can.”

“I thought it was you.”

“Most people did.”

“I thought you didn’t want anyone to live in your house.”

“Well, you were wrong,” he says.

“You scared the flesh.”

“Yes, unfortunate side-effect.”

“I’m to—”

“I know what you are to do, Elizabeth,” he says. His smile dips. Then he throws his cane up, catches it, and smiles brightly again. 

“You never wanted the house.”

“No.”

Looking up the stairs, I ask, “How long have Helen and Paul been here?”

Jeffrey’s eyes watch the stairs behind me. 

“You did it because of Paul and Helen?”

“Yes,” he says. “Paul’s insecurities about how he wished he had protected Helen better in life, plagued him in the afterlife, too. Certainly, their murders at the hands of Helen’s husband didn’t help,” he says, sighing. I had hoped it would be something Paul could overcome. I guess he did, somewhat. Still, Helen knows he’s not perfect, and she loves him just the same. Thanks to you, Paul knows that too, now.”

“You could have asked for help.”

“I did not have your number,” Jeffrey says, winking. “Besides, if anyone else knew, there was a risk it would be repeated to Paul, and my old friend would be embarrassed.” 

“You’re the bachelor who wanted ghosts to have love in the afterlife?”

“Don’t tell too many people. I wouldn’t want them to think Jeffrey Sackeston the third was a softy!” He smiles and leans into his cane. 

“How did you make yourself invisible to them?”

“I’m very good at hiding.”

I roll my eyes. “How did you get those creatures to cooperate without them taking your soul?”

“Ghost secrets,” Jeffrey says, arching an eyebrow. There’s something in his smile or his eyes, and it reminds me of a saying that I’d heard when I was young—

Ghosts who want something can ask the snake-lizards a favor. But they must trade their souls—and a willing soul is more delicious than one taken!

“No!”

There’s a snap—a snap from fangs that bite into skin and a mouth that can inhale wisps of air that are phantoms. 

It’s also the snap from my fingers. And the snake-lizard I allowed to leave is gone. Permanently. Well, except for the dust.

Meow?

I stare down at the yellow-eyed orange furball. “Jeffrey . . .” I say, “you almost died a second time.” I shake my head and gather him up in my arms. “You’ll live this life as a cat as this form protects you from those scavengers. And also, that way, no one can say I never did my job. It will be our secret,” I whisper, stroking his fur. “And maybe in your next life, you’ll come back and can find love, too.” I climb the stairs, cradling Jeffrey, and add, “Now, I need to get paid.”

Part I: The House of Cybill Langlert

Leaves swayed against the ebony sky. The front door rattled and creaked with the wind. The front light to the house pulsed with a white glow before it descended back into darkness.  At some point that night, the light would never return again.

Untrimmed hedges surrounded the house. It provided the perfect cover for an intruder. Except the intruder wasn’t outside now – he lived within it. This was his home. The new owner, Cybill Langlert – was the intruder!

Cybill fidgeted in her bed.  She was annoyed the light never stayed on. Her decision to purchase the house a few months ago seemed like a good idea in the daylight; it was a steal with a rock-faced exterior, four big bedrooms, three bathrooms, real hardwood floors, and with dark cherry wood kitchen cabinets that were beginning to peel. The house for sure, was a fixer upper. But most of the hardwood could be restored with a little hard work. But the outdated wallpaper would definitely have to go.

Thud!

Creak.

Cybill raised her shoulders up from the mattress. A stabbing pain ricocheted through her neck by the jarring motion at which she had raised it. She took one moment to rub it and then…

Creak…

Cybill leaped out of bed! She grabbed her baseball bat that she kept in the corner of her room and slowly opened the door. One eye peered around the corner into the darkness. Very slowly, she swung her whole head out to determine where the sound was coming from.

This house, since she purchased it, had done nothing but terrify her.  Originally, Cybill believed the house may need some work but it wouldn’t be that costly. She was handy with tools and had some knowledge of how to complete the renovations, thanks to her father and her ex-husband, who were both in construction.

But she soon realized it was a bargain for a reason. There were stories in town about the house. According to the town rumor mill a man once lived there by the name of Jocklyn Raydon who had committed some crimes: theft, robbery and murder.  But it wasn’t actually his house; he had simply moved in to the abandoned building and took up residence there. However, the police caught up with him on this land and Jocklyn refused to surrender.  A shoot-out in the house made a quick end to the miscreant.

The original building that stood here after Jocklyn’s death was torn down. The house Cybill lived in now, replaced it. But the new building was on the same land.  The home changed hands multiple times and there were rumors Jocklyn’s ghost, unwilling to surrender the home to the new owners, haunted it.

Stories told by the residents in town recounted common ghostly acts: a tossed dish across the room in the middle of the night, a doorknob that turned with no one on the other side of it, and lights that commonly flickered.

But it was the bigger things that he did. One man while on a ladder replacing a light bulb described how he felt it pushed. Some said it was just the wind. But others said it was Jocklyn’s ghost. The man suffered a broken leg. Hastily, he put the house on the market for sale after being tormented for months by other paranormal occurrences. The last owner who Cybill purchased the home from fell through a glass window. (Some in town said it was the ghost again.) The woman required multiple stitches to her face.

Oddly enough, if there were children in the house the ghost never harmed them. The ghost went to great lengths to ensure he never caused them distress. One child recalled how he woke one morning with earplugs in his ears. His mother deeply shaken by a night when windows were slammed every few hours, and framed photos along the staircase were knocked to the floor, didn’t understand how her son slept through it. That is – until the morning.

A compassionate ghost to children, he cared nothing for adults.

Cybill never believed the stories. An educated woman in law she belonged in the realm of reality, versus that of paranoid fantasy.

There was an explanation for everything.

Her feet wobbled along the uneven floorboards on the second level of her home. Just then, she glanced over. A window slowly was raised upwards. In front of the open window she made out the white outline of a figure with a malevolent grin who wore 1970’s bell bottom pants and a long-sleeved plaid shirt.

Cybill tightly clasped her baseball bat as sweat gathered on her temples. With it raised, she stood there, motionless.

The ghost’s eyebrows were bent downwards. His face twisted with rage. With a rush, he slammed the window down and shattered it. He screamed at Cybill, “Get out of my house!”

Glass sprayed everywhere across the hardwood floor! The wind blew the larger pieces and a clinking sound of it being dragged across the floorboards was heard.

Cybill stood there with her baseball bat raised and said, “No! This is my house! You leave!”

“Ahhhhhh!!!!” Jocklyn shouted as he charged at Cybill.

Cybill always stood her ground. She didn’t move. Some said it was because maybe she believed a ghost couldn’t harm her. Or, perhaps she believed mistakenly, Jocklyn couldn’t move her.

Cybill felt a rush of coldness. All of a sudden she was pushed backwards. She rolled at first easily down the steps of her home with bumps on her head and arm. But once on the bottom of the stairs, she lay there for a moment trying to make sense of what just happened.

A few seconds later, above her stood the white outline of a man in bell bottom pants and a plaid shirt. The baseball bat that she planned to use for protection, he raised it ever so slowly above her.

A cracking sound made her teeth grind together from the blow. Cybill’s eyes widened. She took long gasping breaths of air but it was never enough. Jocklyn’s ghost stood above her, smiling.

Like the light on her front porch that no longer flickered, Cybill descended into darkness.

But darkness does not remain forever.

And after some time, a light came on again.

The Hero Mouse, Brob-Ding

“My foot’s stuck! My foot’s stuck!” A little girl’s scream rushes over the water, across the green grass, and is heard as high as the treetops of the forest.

Brob-Ding the mouse, with his mouth full of sweet apple, pops his head up when he hears her cries.  He swallows his food and glances over at Jacob the fox, and Mittens the bunny. There’s no movement from either of them. Jacob is fast asleep on his back with his feet in the air. Mittens is too busy sitting there, wide-eyed in her frozen-bunny mode, pretending as she does that no one can see her.

Brob-Ding looks down at his enormous, half-eaten apple that stands as tall as he is, but is MUCH wider. There’s a lot of food to be eaten there. The apple will keep him fed for the next few meals.

He glances up and says, “Hey, Mittens! Did you hear that?”

“Hear, what?” Mittens’ eyes shift in the direction of Brob-Ding but the rest of her doesn’t move a muscle.

“Ah, the scream… It sounded like it might be a little human girl?” He asks wondering if his mousy ears are playing tricks on him.

“I didn’t hear anything.” She says with annoyance as she maintains her frozen pose.

At that moment, Jacob swings his head in the direction of Brob-Ding while his four feet remain in the air and says, “Not our problem, kid. She’s a human. They would never help us. Why should we help her?” His two black eyes stare at him as if he really is waiting for Brob-Ding to answer.

“Help me!” A desperate scream echoes through the forest again.

Then, it’s quiet.

It’s an unsettling quiet for Brob-Ding because with his super-mouse ears he now hears muffled crying. It sounds like it’s coming from Stoney Stream.

Brob-Ding peers up at upside-down slumbering Jacob, and frozen-bunny Mittens. He blinks a couple of times at them and turns and swings his tail around and quickly scampers over thick grass, over huge black rocks, and occasionally stumbles over tree roots.

But Brob-Ding NEVER stops as he races in the direction of the faint sounds of a little girl weeping.   

Once he is at Stoney Stream he pokes his head around the corner of a rock so the human can’t see him. There, in front of him, is a little blonde-haired girl in a green dress. Her hands are held over her eyes. Brob-Ding has seen this before in humans – it’s a sign of panic, of desperation – when someone doesn’t know what to do.

Brob-Ding bends his body as close to the ground as he can. He slowly creeps closer to the small girl’s leg that’s in the water and is wedged between two rocks. He doesn’t want to scare her in case she removes her hands from her eyes and sees him. She may scream, because humans are afraid of him. Or, just don’t like him. It could be either one.

Or, she may swat at him like so many other humans have done! It’s a terrifying ordeal. Brob-Ding wonders why he’s helping. There’s a perfectly good apple that he left back there where Jacob was sleeping, and Mittens was –

Well, doing whatever Mittens does. The apple will probably be gone by the time he returns.

Sounds of whimpering come from the small human. She rolls over and now has her face in the dirt. Brob-Ding pauses. The fur on his forehead wrinkles with concern. He hates watching anyone cry; whether it’s a bird, a fox, a rabbit, a deer, a bear, another mouse – and even if it’s a human.

Brob-Ding stands before the swirling water of Stoney Stream. He hates swimming and he’s not very good at it, but no one else is around to help the girl. He pauses for only a second. Then he takes his two front feet and places them together, as he dives into the deep water! His eyes open, he pushes with all front and back legs as well as his tail, as he swims towards the large trapped foot.

The foot is wedged between two rocks. He heaves, and pushes, and pulls at it and then he notices he can squeeze his tiny fingers between the rocks. With determination he chips away and loosens the dirt around it. He gives the HUMONGOUS stuck foot a final push while wiggling the rock. Finally, after great effort by a very tiny mouse, the foot kicks free!

And then, it wallops Brob-Ding!

He begins to spin out of control from the force of the kick. His mouth opens from the pain causing him to accidentally swallow cold water. Brob-Ding’s feet and tail spin out of control, his eyes are wide. Just then he remembers the words fox said to him before he left: they would never help us. Why should we help them?

Brob-Ding realizes he made a mistake.

Then out of nowhere, a human’s hand reaches up and scoops him from the water and places Brob-Ding on the grass.

“Thank you, mouse, for helping me.” A child’s voice whispers to him. “Are you alright?” She asks with slanted eyebrows.

Brob-Ding can’t speak as he lies there for a moment, frozen with fear, like Mittens.  So, instead he nods his head up and down.

“You understand me?” She asks as her large eyes get a little wider. It’s as if her eyes could swallow him up.

Brob-Ding says, “Yes.”

“Wow!” The child says. “You can talk! I’m Kayla. What’s your name?” She says as a small crinkle forms in her nose and dimples appear in her cheeks.

“Brob-Ding,” he says.

“That’s an unusual name.” Kayla says.

Brob-Ding begins to lick his feet to clean them, while cautiously keeping one eye on her. You can’t trust humans. He doesn’t really want to provide an explanation about his name; the grooming session is a stall tactic. But her blue inquisitive eyes blink at him and there’s something in those eyes; a certain kindness he’s never seen before.

He peers up at her and says, “Its short form for Brobdingnagian. It means giant. My parents, they liked to read.”

Kayla erupts in giggles. “You’re so small! Why would they give you that name? Are you bigger than other mice?”

Brob-Ding’s eyes get glossy. She’s not the first one to make fun of him about his name, and his size. At school the other kids would tease him too. Once Brob-Ding was old enough he could have changed his name. But he didn’t, because his parents named him. Brob-Ding hasn’t seen them in a long time because they got tired of reading about all those places in the world like the Eiffel Tower, and Stonehenge so they left to travel around the world once Brob-Ding was able to take care of himself.

He misses them…

“No, I’m smaller than most other mice. They said they named me Brobdingnagian because I was small, but I had a big heart.” His eyes shift back and forth along the grass that surrounds him. He won’t look at Kayla. “My friends call me Brob-Ding for short.”

Kayla gently places a finger on the top of his head. He raises his eyes, and notices Kayla’s head is slanted to the right side and she says, “I LOVE YOUR NAME! It fits you.” She says as she nods her head at him.

“Can I call you Brob-Ding?” Kayla asks as she wipes the mud from her face.

“Yes!” Brob-Ding enthusiastically shouts.

Diamonds in Space

“We’re going to the South of France.” Gwen states it with a red lipstick smile and eyes that sparkle like the diamonds that hang around her neck.

“That sounds wonderful. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.” Rebekah says it casually as her stomach drops as if she’s on a turbulent flight. It’s probably her imagination. Or, maybe it’s that other thing…

“We have a summer home there. We can’t wait to go! Sipping cosmopolitans in Nice…there’s nothing better!” She squeaks at Rebekah. Gwen waves a hand dismissively at Rebekah and continues with, “You should do it one day.”

“Maybe, one day.” Rebekah concurs with a catch in her voice. It’s like someone is suddenly strangling her and she can’t breathe. But she agrees with Gwen because agreeing with someone is the best form of flattery. Or, it’s something like that. Rebekah can’t remember right now. There are other things on her mind.

“Did you hear my daughter, Nancy, will be attending Harvard?”

She can’t keep it up. “Harvard? Really?” Rebekah tries her best to sound intrigued and cheerful –instead, it comes across as if she’s doubtful.

“Yes.” Gwen’s chin punches out as she stares up at Rebekah with eyes that flicker. “You shouldn’t be surprised. Nancy takes after me, of course.”

Rebekah twists her face and says, “I have no doubt.” With that she tilts her half-filled glass of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon back to her mouth, and hastily swallows the remaining wine. When she’s done she says, “Oh-oh! I’m empty! I’ll be right back. I just got to get a refill.”

As she walks away with a small smile across her face, shoulders pushed back, she’s pleased with herself.

Also, there’s absolutely no way she’ll be returning to that conversation.

“No, you won’t.” Gwen announces.

Rebekah stops. She typically avoids confrontation. But at this moment, on this day, she spins on her heel and says, “You’re right. I won’t.”

Rebekah’s heels clip-clop across the marble floor as she makes her way to the bar. Her head begins to spin with dizziness from the alcohol that she heaved back into her gullet. When she approaches the counter she says, “Could I get another of the Australian Cabernet Sauvignon?”

A brawny bartender (because they’re always brawny that way they can do double duty as a bouncer and can toss a belligerent drunk to the curb, if needed) with black hair, light brown eyes, and a five o’clock shadow says, “Sure.” His eyes sweep across Rebekah as if he’s assessing whether she’s already too drunk to have another glass.

“Rebekah!” An enthusiastic, cheerful voice shouts at her from across the room.

Rebekah’s face brightens and her mood is suddenly calmer. Her best friend, Stacey, wraps her arms around her and gives her a big hug. They wobble together in their heels and nearly crash to the ground.

“What do you think of the venue?” Stacey asks cautiously.

“It’s beautiful. It’s a great spot for a Christmas party! The food is delicious. It must have been so much work. But everything is fantastic!”

“Thanks, Rebekah.” Stacey says as she bends her head forward, blushes, and lowers her eyes to her friend.

Rebekah is such a great friend to Stacey. When Stacey’s grandmother who raised her a few years ago died, Becky took her out for drinks, called her all the time, and they bolted from work several times to have an emergency chat session when Stacey started to become unglued at work. For that reason, she tells Rebekah the next thing.

“Mr. Bracklen, said I did a good job too. He also said because I helped set up several conferences that brought in new sales, and did a good job supporting the Sales Team, he’s giving me a promotion! Can you believe it? Becky – a promotion!”

“Stacey…” Rebekah clears her throat, shifts from one foot to the other as her face reddens, and says in a whisper with words that break apart, “th-that’s won-nder-ful.”

Stacey stares at her friend and wonders, is she jealous? How can she be? She’s an Executive Assistant and has always been at a higher level than me?

Defensively, Stacey continues in a pleading voice, “Becky, I worked really hard for it.”

“Oh, I know!” Rebekah says in a voice that sounds too ecstatic. It’s as if she’s suddenly become a salesperson who in desperation to make a sale, says and does everything with just a little too much energy. She sounds insincere, and she knows it.

Although, technically, Rebekah is trying to sell something – she’s trying to sell the fact that she’s deliciously, joyful this holiday season.

“I’m really happy for you.” Rebekah continues. “I’m sorry. I just need a little food. I’m tired tonight.”

Stacey grabs her by the elbow and says, “Ok. Let’s go chase down some of those chicken satay things! They’re SUPER YUMMY!”

“Good idea!” Rebekah straightens her back and attempts to stand taller. Everyone knows that if you slouch you look defeated. Slouching is not the way to communicate how ridiculously, brilliantly, happy you are.

In her mind, Rebekah begins to break apart as she thinks, it’s all soooo much work.

“Rebekah, Stacey!” Kyle cheers at them as they approach. He’s standing beside the table with the hors d’oeuvres with his hand poised in the direction of the appetizers.

“These things are delicious.” Kyle continues as he grabs the end of a chicken satay skewer, and casually dips it into the peanut butter sauce. Then he proceeds to nibble on the meat attached to the stick.

“Well, we’ll decide that for ourselves.” Stacey says with one of her sunny smiles and a wink at Kyle so he knows she’s kidding.

Rebekah reaches for one too and the taste of garlic mixed with smooth, delicious peanut butter dances in her mouth.

Rebekah glances around at the high ceilings where a painting is drawn on it reminiscent of the renaissance age. A ten foot Christmas tree, positioned in the middle of the room, greets each guest. Beneath the branches are presents wrapped in a mix of red, blue, green, gold, white wrapping paper and each one looks to have been carefully placed in its position under the tree. White linens are draped over chairs and tables. There are large red poinsettias in glass bowls on each table. Beside the plants are candles that sit inside golden holders.

“Where’s your wife?” Stacey asks.

“Oh, she’s not feeling well tonight.” Kyle says. “She’s in her first trimester.” He says with a bashful smile.

“What? OH MY GOD!!! THAT’S SO WONDERFUL! I didn’t know you guys were expecting!” Stacey squeals at Kyle.

Oh my god, there’s too much good news here tonight.

Brave face. Must wear brave face.

“Rebekah, isn’t that wonderful?” Stacey prods her friend.

“Absolutely! Fantastic news, Kyle! I didn’t know either.” Rebekah says as she reaches in to give Kyle a congratulatory hug.

After the hug, Rebekah eyes her glass of red wine. It’s too full. She can’t possibly drink it all in one shot (again) without making a fool of herself at the company Christmas party.

There’s only one other way out.  

“You know what?” Rebekah says. “I’m really not feeling well. I think I need to go home.” She says as she places her wine glass down on a nearby table.

“Oh.” Stacey says as her face falls.

“I’ll be alright,” Rebekah giggles resassuringly at her friend. “It’s just been a long day.” She says as she wraps her arms around Stacey and gives her a hug for a few seconds too long.

Within a few minutes Rebekah has crossed the floor, grabbed her coat, pushed the button for the elevator, and now she waits for it to arrive. A time management skill that she’s honed after years of working, Rebekah pushes the button to turn her phone on and unlocks it to see if she’s missed anything.

Missed Call. The display shows.

She flips through her text messages, Voicemail, it reads.

Rebekah clenches her jaw at the voicemail. She breathes out, enters her passcode, and raises the phone to her ear and hears…

Hello. This message is for Rebekah Standard. We’ve booked your appointment with Dr. Mertul who will be your oncologist on Friday, December 22nd at 3:45 PM. He’s located at…