The teaser below continues Raj’s story. Enjoy! (Don’t forget to follow link at end of this teaser to read the full chapter on Vocal.) Haven’t read first chapter? Click here.
Excerpt from “Any Port In a Storm”
Raj lay curled on one side, cradling his hand. Disbelief paralyzed him as the impossibility of what had happened gradually sunk in. The wound only appeared now as a bite from something non-poisonous, like a checkered keelback snake. He knew he shouldn’t feel better; a cobra’s bite always kills its victim without medicine. His mind reeled, seemingly poised to explode. He needed answers.
Raj sat up, and the effort made his head spin. Fighting back the bile at the back of his throat, he tucked his head between his knees, gulping for air, and waited for the nausea to end.
When his strength returned, he gazed about, looking for the mongoose. Finding the animal close, prone on the ground with labored breathing, shocked Raj.
“What’s wrong!?” the boy asked.
“I, too… change. You… have… given me… a part… of yourself.“
Feeling helpless but wanting to help, Raj crawled, weeping to the mongoose, and gently stroked its grey, grizzled fur.
He pleaded with the animal not to die. He cried harder, hyperventilating until passing out from sheer exhaustion.
Awakening alone, Raj feared the worst. He almost started crying again, but an excited chattering drew his attention to a moldering log where he saw Bullseye nosing about. Wiping the tears and snot from his face, Raj called to the mongoose.
“Hey! You okay?”
“I’m better than okay, I’m great!” Bullseye said as he bounded over.
Raj’s mouth dropped, noting the sheen of the little animal’s glossy, dark brown hair as it stretched and preened before him. Raj would have thought it was another mongoose but for the distinctive ring of lighter-colored fur about one eye.
“My youth returns! You must have given me some of your longevity when I saved you. I’ve never heard of such a thing happening, but then again, I’m no scholar,” Bullseye said.
Raj pondered this. He knew mongooses lived a fraction of the time a person might.
“Am I going to die now?”
“Hmm, let me get a good look at you.“
The mongoose bounced around, sniffing Raj before clambering up his shirt and peering into the boy’s eyes.
“You smell the same. Don’t worry. Humans live forever; at least, that’s how a creature like me sees it. Your gift will likely have little effect on you. No reason you won’t still grow old and gray someday, far off. Although you may have lost a couple years overall, it’s not a bad trade if you consider you would have died today without my help.“
Raj’s insides churned, listening to Bullesye’s nonchalant talk of death, even with the understanding he had gotten the better end of the trade. And yet, something else felt different to Raj. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Aha! Jackpot! Come to Papa, you delicious little morsel.“
Raj watched the mongoose tear into a giant beetle with its sharp canine teeth.
“Mmmm….yom….yom….tasty.“
“Hey! I can hear you still. How can I hear you?” Raj asked.
“Of course, you can hear me. You’re Virūpa now.“
“But… you’re speaking Hindi.”
The mongoose replied without stopping his struggle to choke down the beetle’s large hind legs.
“Uh-huh, yep. I’m Virūpa now, too. Funny, I never thought I’d do that willingly, but I suppose old age makes one generous.”
Raj’s eyes narrowed, “I don’t think your words are coming from your mouth.”
“Nope, animal Virūpa don’t speak that way. Look at me…no lips to speak of; I’d never be able to make the sounds needed to speak your language that way.”
“Am I the only one who you can talk to?” Raj asked. “What about my mom?”
“Just you.” The mongoose said, struggling to free a beetle leg wedged between its teeth.
“Like an imaginary friend?”
“Yes, except in this case, real.”
Raj wobbled to his feet.
“Careful. The venom makes us sick for some time.” Bullseye said.
“I’m feeling better. Thanks to you. Now come here you’re so cute!”
Raj scooped the mongoose into his arms and buried his face in the little animal’s fur.
“Ah! What are you doing? Boundaries!“
“Oh, Bullseye! You’re so fluffy and shiny and new!”
The mongoose growled, prompting Raj to put it down.
“I thought you were my friend,” Raj said.
“We’re Virūpa.”
“Is that like being friends?” Raj asked.
“I suppose…“
“Well, I hug my friends. They like it. Why’d you growl?”
“Instincts, Boy.“
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.“
“Don’t you like hugs?”
“I’m not sure; it’s the first one I’ve experienced.”
“Oh, don’t you have friends that hug you? Or…gosh…you don’t have any friends?”
“Look, Boy. Mongooses, don’t hug. We spar and wrestle.”
Raj pondered the information.
“If I ask first, can I pick you up?”
The mongoose blinked rapidly, seemingly nonplussed.
“Well…I….hmm….sounds reasonable. Yes, you may.”
Raj squealed, clapping his hands before snatching the little animal off the ground again.
“Ugh! That was your way of asking?”
“Come on, let’s go tell Mom the good news! She’s never going to believe this!”
“She might, and I don’t think she’ll like it.“
“What do you mean?”
“That story she told you by the fire before bed last night. You and I are those now.“
“Don’t be silly, Bullseye, you saved my life! And besides, we’re not bad men. We would never hurt anyone.” Raj said before adding, “How do you know she told me that story?”
“Oh, I hunt about your house every night. You aren’t the quietest, and your incessant questions caught my attention. Now listen, even the worst Virūpa started out young and innocent, but after years of being ostracized, they changed.“
“Mom says everyone’s good; some just forgot how. She’ll be fine. Come on, I can’t wait to see her face when she sees you.”
“Wait, you’re not listening,” Bullseye urged, but it was no good.
Please click the link to continue reading and discover just how difficult things get for Raj as he insists on telling the truth.
The teaser below comes from an extensive revision of a story that evolved from a response to a writing prompt from a long time ago. Over the years, I have returned to this character, Raj (initially Nakul), hoping to discover more of his story. Enjoy!
Excerpt From “Assuming Power”
Raj and his teammates waited, catching their breath, for the dust to settle on the dry, barren field where they were playing football. With over a month of no rain, even the slightest disturbance drew thick, golden clouds from the soil, necessitating an exorbitant amount of pauses in gameplay.
As they huddled impatiently, several boys complained of thirst and whined the game had gone too long. They argued for a timeout to get more water, but not Raj. He lived for the May school break with its steady string of hot, sunny days and didn’t feel like letting the game end in a tie. So, with a boisterous speech and an offer to give up the remaining water in his thermos, Raj convinced all but one teammate to continue playing.
With a semblance of visibility returned, everyone scurried off to their positions. But not Raj. He took his time, ignoring pleas to hurry up and throw the ball back into play.
Raj cherished the tense clarity of these moments right before the action resumed. So, he lingered, allowing the heat, sweat, and dirt to boy his focus as he ran the play through his head again.
CLINK.
Raj scowled, losing concentration.
CLINK.
Raj whirled about to yell at the kid they had left on the sidelines to rest and hydrate, but he was nowhere to be seen. Assuming his friend had drunk too much water and ran to the bathroom, Raj refocused and threw the ball back into play.
Raj’s spirits soared as his team worked together flawlessly, moving the ball down the field until it was passed to him in a perfect position to score. With tense concentration, Raj kicked.
CLINK. CLINK.
The sound distracted Raj, skewing the angle of his foot. He watched with horror as the ball clipped the goal frame and bounced back into play. Raj stood frozen with bewilderment as the other team took the ball downfield to score.
Devastated, Raj fell to his knees.
CLINK.
Furious, he searched unsuccessfully for the source of the offending clamor.
CLANK. CLANITY. CLANK.
* * *
Raj woke up.
He moaned and burrowed under the blanket, recognizing the dream for what it was.
“Was wondering when you’d wake up,” Raj’s mother said.
“You made me miss the goal. Why do you put the dishes away so loudly?” He asked.
“I’ve been tiptoeing around all morning. I’ve got things to do. It’s late. Time to get up.”
“I’ve decided to stay in bed until the rains stop.”
“Ha! You’ll be waiting a long time. The monsoons have just started. No use sulking about it. However, if it makes you feel any better, there appears to be a break this morning. It’s only drizzling. Best be up and enjoy the ‘dry’ weather while it lasts.”
Raj sat up, bleary-eyed, and yawned.
“Drizzle isn’t dry.”
“It is during the monsoons.”
“What time is it anyway?”
“Almost ten-thirty. You tossed and turned a lot last night. Was last night’s story too scary for you?”
“I wasn’t scared at all,” Raj said.
“You sure about that? I half expected you to climb in bed with me.”
“I wasn’t scared.”
“Well, anyways, I’ve decided it was a mistake letting you talk me into telling you stories about the Virūpa.”
“Mom, I said it didn’t scare me.”
“So you’ve said. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve changed my mind about it. You’re still too young.”
“Mom, how is it any different from the pirate stories or the story about the knight and the giant?”
“We don’t live on the high seas or in medieval Europe. Besides, giants aren’t real.”
“So you’re saying Virūpa are real?”
“No, I’m not saying that, although many people think they are.”
“So it’s like ghosts? Some people think they’re real, and some don’t.”
“I suppose.”
“But, if you and I know they’re not real…?”
“Look, those stories are old wives’ tales every grandma tells to keep unruly children in line. Mine did, and it scared me silly.”
Raj pondered what his mother said.
“You were unruly?”
“Not more than any normal child is.”
“So, why did she tell you the stories?” Raj asked.
“Because an ounce of prevention is worth more than a pound of cure, I guess.”
“Huh?” Raj’s face scrunched in confusion.
“Forget it,” His mother snorted, returning to the dishes.
Unwilling to let the matter drop, Raj insinuated himself between his mother and the pile of clean dishes to eye his mother suspiciously.
“So, you believed in them?”
His mother didn’t reply immediately. Raj recognized the face she wore when carefully considering her words.
“You do think they’re real.” He smirked.
“No. No. It’s all just stories. But I believed in them as a child, and after retelling one of them to you last night, I remember more clearly how they terrified me.”
“Mom… you’re being dramatic again.”
“I am not. Trust me, Raj, last night’s story is tame compared to all the others. It was cruel of my grandma to put those ideas into my head. No matter how unruly you may get, I won’t make the same mistake with you.”
“I’m a perfect angel. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Raj’s mother cupped her son’s chin affectionally.
“No one’s perfect, especially people who claim to be. What do I always say?”
“Progress, not perfection,” Raj rolled his eyes, “whatever that means.”
“One day, it will make sense.”
Raj turned the phrase over in his mind before trying another angle.
“Well…you don’t have to be a perfect mother. I’m okay with you telling me super scary stories.”
“Nice try. But I’m not telling you these stories about evil men and women doing horrible things to themselves and others, Raj.”
“But the giant was evil, and so were the pirates!”
His mother laughed.
“Evil? Selfish, immature, and comically stupid, but not evil.”
Raj giggled, recalling a scene where the pirate accidentally lit his beard on fire.
“Ridiculous, right?” His mother asked.
“Yeah, Captain Bluebeard’s pretty stupid.”
“I want to see you laugh, Raj. And yes, I know the pirates and giants are bad guys, but the humor and the fantastical settings make it all quite harmless. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, but I like the idea of having animal powers. It was a cool story. Change it so the bad guys are stupid, or make it happen long ago, or in the future, or somewhere far away from India.”
“I’m not that creative.”
“I’ll help you. I could help tell the story.”
“We’ll see. Now up. You’ve got chores to do, and I want to wash the bedding today. Come on. Up, up, up.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Raj rolled out of bed with a sigh, stretched, and stumbled over to wrap his arms around his mother.
“Aw. I need to remember to treasure these moments. You’re almost as tall as me. It won’t be long before you can’t be bothered to give your old mother a hug.”
“That’s right, Ma. No more hugs when I’m thirteen,” Raj said.
His mother tussled Raj’s hair before turning him about and shoving him toward the bathroom.
“Wash up and change those clothes. You’ve worn the same pair for two days now.”
As he prepared for the day, Raj plotted ways to persuade his mother to continue telling him the Varūpa stories. He knew from experience pushing too hard to get his way would backfire. His best chance lay in exhibiting behavior she deemed mature. So, Raj actually combed his hair and cleaned up after himself. He further calculated doing his chores without being reminded would be the surest way to get his mother to tell him more tales of the strange Virūpa, who increasingly lost their humanity as they robbed animals of their abilities.
Satisfied with his plan, Raj concentrated on a more immediate need: his grumbling stomach. He tucked into the breakfast his mother had set out hours ago.
“Slow down. There’s plenty, and it’s not going anywhere,” Raj’s mother said.
“I’m hungry.”
“Obviously. Feeding you is getting expensive.”
“I could get a job working in the mines. I’m finally old enough.”
“And leave me all alone like your father did? No. The mines may pay well, but they’re dangerous.”
“The forest is dangerous. The mines are dangerous. The city is dangerous. You don’t want me to go anywhere.” Raj said with his mouth full.
Raj’s mother’s face grew serious.
“I know. I can’t protect you forever. Simply living in this world is dangerous. Be patient with me, Raj. Losing Maya and your father changed me. I’ve become quite the coward.”
Silence lingered between mother and son.
“Tell me what Maya was like again.”
“I wish you had known her. It’s unnatural, having to live life without her. Siblings typically grow old together.” Raj’s mother smiled sadly. “But you and I keep her memory alive, don’t we?”
“That’s why I always ask.”
“You could probably tell me everything I know about her already.”
“I guess, but I feel like I learn something new when you talk about her…like there’s some secret Maya’s trying to tell me from Heaven.”
Raj’s mother looked sharply at her son.
“Secret? What do you mean, Raj? Maya was an open book, no secrets.”
“I like to imagine her and me driving you crazy like Hazan and his sister do their mother.”
Raj’s mother’s face softened.
“Ah. That sounds delightful. Yes, the two of you together certainly would have. I’d undoubtedly have more than these few gray hairs you’ve given me.”
The sudden sound of a ruckus outside interrupted their daydreaming. Raj recognized the distinct chirruping of an agitated mongoose. His mother jumped into action, grabbing a stout-looking stick, sharpened at one end, and peered through the mosquito netting-covered doorway.
Please click the link to continue reading and learn how Raj finds himself unexpectedly thrown into a world rife with unlooked-for possibilities and dangers.
Revisiting a story I wrote years ago always inspires and humbles me!
Despite cringing at the prose I constructed, I’ve fallen in love anew with my characters from the story “The Forging of Isaz.” Gobban, the Norse smith, and Kalda, the ice sprite, left too many leads unfollowed, and my imagination is whirling again.
As I recall, “The Forging of Isaz” was my attempt to experiment with leveraging research to drive a plot. I had recently garnered plenty of facts about the forging of steel swords (Not the most practical knowledge for a regular twenty-first-century guy!) while diving down a rabbit hole online. Ultimately, “The Forging of Isaz” evolved into a tale of love.
Flash forward to 2024, the year I chose to focus on entering contests and submitting works for review in hopes of being published; Vocal put forward a writing challenge calling for pieces of microfiction set in a snowy environment. Kalda, my plucky ice sprite, came immediately to mind.
It takes the reader back before the events of “The Forging of Isaz,” teasing at Kalda’s past, which is only just beginning to take shape in my head.
Additionally, despite seeing lots of changes I’d like to make to the original story (I hope to revise and repost sometime soon.), I encourage you to check out “The Forging of Isaz,” archived on my blog. Here’s the link.
A piece of writing is never definitively done, and often, the author feels uncomfortable letting a story out for publishing. But, alas, the deadline always wins!
Below is a reworking of my story “The Barbarian and the Dishwasher (Part One: An Artist’s Sketch)” recently posted on Vocal. Enjoy.
“A Dishwasher and a Barbarian”
Plates shattered everywhere as George had a robust, whimsical imagination, which was fortuitous since most of his life revolved around an endless routine of wash, rinse, dry, and repeat.
He was a dishwasher.
George worked at a restaurant called Rodeo Ribs for a quick-tempered, penny-pinching man named Mr. Witherson, who flew into a rage any time the supply of clean dishes ran low.
“George! What the devil are you doing down there? Plates! I need plates!”
Gee, Mr. Witherson, maybe, I don’t know, spend some money to get more plates so we don’t constantly run out, the overworked dishwasher hollered silently to himself.
“On it, Mr. Witherson! Plates coming right up, Sir!”
George knew his current job, the latest in a long line of menial gigs, would only last for a while. He invariably quit or found himself fired within the first month or two.
Why am I still working here? I’m drenched down to my underwear every night, constantly smell like an old sponge, and the waterlogged skin on my hands is practically rotting off, George thought.
Despite being intelligent, college proved disastrous for George. When a class disinterested him, he simply didn’t do the work. He dropped out after one semester. But he wasn’t completely devoid of ambition. George had two passions: art and role-playing.
George had tried every gaming system and actively participated in several role-playing groups. When not playing, he endlessly sketched the fantasy characters he played.
Recently, a friend had initiated George into the world of live-action-roleplaying. LARPing, as most called it, made George feel authentic and alive. All his current time and attention went into detailing every aspect of his chosen role.
George imagined his LARPing alter-ego, a courageous barbarian named Jockular, taunting his adversaries gleefully with horrific puns. George took pride in inventing Jockular’s name, confident its pronunciation cleverly suggested the character’s ubiquitous laughter and prodigious sense of humor. At the same time, George felt its spelling emphasized the barbarian’s athletic prowess.
“George! Where are those plates?!”
George paused to envision the barbarian issuing a sassy retort, liquefying Mr. Witherson’s bowels with threats to destroy the restauranter’s beloved crockery.
“Blast it all! Now, I’m out of plates! George!”
Sighing, George scrabbled upstairs, shouldering a rack of clean dishes upstairs, asking himself, as ever, why anyone would put a restaurant dish sink in the basement.
“Here, Mr. Witherson,” George said.
“That’s it? This won’t last five minutes! More, George! I need more!”
George sputtered, eyes wide, face red, before fleeing the hectic kitchen. He skidded to a halt at the top of the wet stairs.
I really need some non-slip shoes, or I’m going to kill myself, George thought.
He clutched the banister and rushed back to the pile of dirty dishes waiting for him.
Scrapping food into the slop sink, George returned to daydreaming about the upcoming weekend. His LARPing group had volunteered to host this month’s regional adventure.
George thought happily about having two whole days of LARPing. He couldn’t wait to show off the new armor he’d constructed. If he could deliver the jokes and taunts he’d been rehearsing, he felt sure he’d have a good chance of winning MVP.
Look at all these dishes! Jockulur would never spend hours scrubbing like some kitchen wench, George fumed.
“Hey, George. Do you have those plates yet? Mr. Witherson’s legit going to have a coronary,” a waitress called down.
“For crying out loud, tell him I’m coming!”
Shouldering a fresh load of plates, George sped up the stairs, two at a time, until one foot failed to connect with the last step.
George landed with a sickening pop on the basement floor.
“George?! Are you ok?” the waitress clamored down.
Click the link below to read the full story on Vocal.
I started following fantasy author Victoria Grefer who not only blogs many posts filled with great advice for novice writers but has also crafted an intriguing book series about the struggles to rescue the fantasy world of Herezoth from an evil magic-wielding despot.
I am fascinated by learning how other authors work through problems with their novels. Grefer recently shared how a long hiatus from her book ultimately led to discovering what changes she needed to make to bring her story to the level of success she hoped for.
Having put my own novel on the back burner, I have found her posts inspiring.
Never give up on an idea!
She is relaunching the story with a second edition starting this June and has asked her followers to share her launch website, so that’s what I’m doing now!
Kaitlin huffed, noting the time. She hated being late but couldn’t go to work covered in droppings. After watching safely indoors until the ambulance arrived, she raced upstairs to shower and change her scrubs.
Already unnerved by what had just happened, Kaitlin nearly fainted seeing her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“Oh, my God!”
A vicious scratch ran down one side of her face. Hastily tending the wound with topical antiseptic and a prayer, Kaitlin vowed to call Ms. Agnes’s family as soon as possible.
“The poor woman’s possessed. Lord, help us.”
Running to her car felt like the bravest thing the young woman had ever done. Forgetting to buckle up, Kaitlin revved the engine and tore out onto the road with a screech. Her hands shook as she called Ms. Agnes’s daughter. She nearly screamed as the call went to voicemail.
“Ah…hi, Emily. This is Kaitlin Jones. I’m sorry to say your mother’s had a fall, and I suddenly realize I have no idea what facility they took her to. But, something strange …ah…please call me back as soon as possible.”
Kaitlin prayed for safety and forgiveness as she sped to work. Her mind spun, replaying the bizarre circumstances surrounding Ms. Agnes’s accident, eventually concluding something diabolical lurked at her neighbor’s house.
With the parking lot unusually full, she struggled to find a space in the furthest row away. Grabbing her bag, she threw the door open, hitting the car aside hers.
“Just what I need.”
Slamming her door, Kaitlin looked to see who owned the car. A Support Farmers, Buy Local bumper sticker made the woman’s blood boil.
“Great! Michelle’s working! Could things get any worse? Ooh, if Jane’s called out again and switched shifts with Michelle, she’ll get a piece of my mind!”
Once on the floor, Kaitlin apologized for being late and turned her attention to taking over the shift. Any earlier trace of fear or apprehension vanished as she assumed a cold, calculating, professional demeanor. Management applauded her efficiency and impossibly high standards. But, her staff learned quickly to avoid igniting her infamous temper, known to reduce even seasoned employees to tears.
“Who’s Michelle covering for?” she asked.
“Jane called out. Some emergency with her dog.” The day charge CNA replied.
“Not even close to a fair trade,” Kaitlin said.
“If you ask me, you’re too tough on that girl. A little kindness goes a long way.”
“I have been. Besides, if little miss klutzy’s daddy wasn’t chief hospitalist, she’d have gotten the boot already.”
“Careful, Kaitlin. You’re management’s darling, but hurt one of their own, and you’ll regret it.”
“Everyone says I play too hard, but I’m fair.”
“Gosh, look at the time. Got to go. My kid needs a ride home from practice. Have a good night.”
A loud clamor echoed from down the hall. The women peered around the corner to see Michelle splayed out on the floor, surrounded by a mess of food from a tray for one of the residents.
“I’ll try. But I can’t promise Michelle will make it through the night.”
Michelle wrestled with a pit in her stomach as she slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor of Bassett Nursing Home. She didn’t like her job, hating how it made her feel utterly incompetent. After an extra month of training, Michelle struggled with even the simplest tasks. She longed to quit but feared the repercussions. This week began horribly and had only gotten worse. Her immediate supervisor, Ms. Jones, made it clear the time to shape up or ship out had come.
Michelle couldn’t help but notice an edge to Ms. Jones’s voice when she presented herself for duty. A new resident had moved in yesterday, upsetting the orderly routine her boss thrived on. An ominous feeling seized Michelle hearing her shift assignment.
“Sink or swim, Michelle. This is your last chance. Prove me wrong. Do you understand?” Ms. Jones smiled.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Barring a miracle, she’d be fired by the end of tonight. Michelle wanted to cry but refused to in front of Ms. Jones. Despite her humiliating ineptitude as a CNA, she hadn’t given her supervisor the satisfaction of seeing her break.
“Come along; I’ll introduce you.”
Michelle walked onto the floor and followed meekly as Ms. Jones led her down the hall to the furthest room on the left. A tower of smudged, crumbled boxes had been piled next to the door.
“I want these dealt with today.”
“What are they?”
Ms. Jones rolled her eyes.
“Plants.”
A quick rap on the door, and Ms. Jones barged in without waiting for a reply.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Agnes.”
“What’s good about it?” an elderly voice groused.
Michelle watched Ms. Jones’s body language change as she forced a laugh. She had never seen her boss act this way. Did this patient actually intimidate her supervisor? Michelle moved to get a clear view of this rare beast.
“Oh, goodness me, Ms. Agnes! I can’t thank you enough for finally agreeing to remove that horrible necklace!” Ms. Jones cried happily.
“I should think so! When she thought I was asleep, I caught one of yer little minions trying to take it from me.” The old woman said.
Michelle stared in wonder as a frail, wrinkly old woman with a pile of unruly steel grey hair atop her head held Ms. Jones captive in a withering look.
“Really? You must have been dreaming.”
“No, I was not.”
“Well, as a Christian, I appreciate not having to look at it.”
The old woman cackled.
“You know the problem with people like you, Kaitlin?”
“Whatever do you mean, Ms. Agnes?”
“You’re too narrow-minded. Jesus, don’t care a lick what I wear. With you, everything’s either Christian or not. The world doesn’t work like that, Kaitlin. I’ll have you know I’m mighty close to Jesus in my own way. And he tells me he ain’t got no time for yer gate-keeping foolishness.”
Ms. Jones’s mouth hung open, her clenched hands trembling. Michelle braced herself for a tirade. But instead, her boss turned and walked out the door.
“And who are you?”
“I… I’m supposed to…Ms. Jones asked me to… I’m your….”
“Yer name, girl. What’s yer name?”
“Michelle.”
The old woman tilted her head as if listening to something before grunting.
“You going to preach at me or try to steal my things?”
“No. No, I would never.”
“Good.”
“Ms. Jones told me to help you settle in. She said to start with the boxes. Unless you need something else?”
“Well, I’ve been waiting forever to use the toilet. Help me up. Then get the boxes. Not dignified to wet oneself.”
Michelle rushed to the old woman’s bedside. She struggled to lower the side rail.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you know how to work the bed?”
“Yes. Well, I should. Just a minute.”
“Dear, I can’t wait any longer.”
After shaking the bed several times, Michelle managed to lower the railing.
“Aren’t you going to help me up? I busted my leg.”
“Oh, yes.”
Michelle tried several ways to support the old woman before using the wheelchair. It took even longer to haul the woman onto the toilet.
“Now, put me back to my bed before I catch a cold.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
More confident reversing the process, Michelle relaxed, daring to enjoy the small victory. She felt a smile forming until the old woman hollered. Michelle jerked the wheelchair back.
“Careful, girl! This ain’t a bumper car!”
“Sorry! My depth perception’s horrible!”
“Don’t rush and watch my leg.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Disaster struck again as the foot of the bed started folding up, surprising Michelle as she fussed with the pillows.
“No, no! That’s no good at all, girl!”
“I’m sorry! Controls were on the floor, and I must have stepped on it.”
Frantically readjusting the bed, Michelle brought everything level again and slid the railing back in place with an audible sigh.
“Michelle.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m old, so forgive me for saying, but you’re awful at this. Look at you. You’re sweating like a pig.”
Michelle burst into tears.
“I know. I know. I’m sorry, ma’am. I do try, but I’m all thumbs with nursing stuff.”
The old woman clucked her tongue and shook her head.
“Then why are you here, honey?”
“It’s my parents, my whole family, really. Everyone’s a doctor, nurse, or works in medicine somehow. We even have Uncle Stan, who’s a pharmacist.”
“Oh, honey.”
“All my cousins, my brother…and then there’s me. I’m trying, but I’m just awful at this.”
“Do you want to be a CNA?”
“What?”
“What do you want to be?”
“I don’t understand…a CNA. I don’t think I’m smart enough to do anything else. I could never be a nurse or a….”
“Shush, girl! Smarts don’t have anything to do with it. You need to figure out what’s in yer guts.”
Michelle shook her head, frowning.
“I don’t….”
“Course you do. What puts a zip in yer step?”
“But, daddy says….”
“To hell with yer daddy and ma! It’s yer life, honey. What’re you passionate about?”
Michelle laughed, swiping tears away.
“Ma says if I had my way, I’d be barefoot, covered in dirt all day in the garden.”
“Got a green thumb, girl?”
“I’d say so.” Michelle giggled.
The old woman’s eyes grew bright.
“Hazard a guess at what’s in ’em boxes out there?”
“Ms. Jones said plants.”
“Some real beauties from my yard.”
“Really?”
The woman laughed wickedly.
“Bitched and cried ‘poor me’ until my daughter Emily agreed to dig ’em up.”
“Wow.”
“There’s one over there.”
Michelle noticed a potted plant and some garden tools on the window sill for the first time.
“Bluebells! They’re beautiful!”
“Should have seen ’em when Emily pulled ’em out of the box. My daughter’s knowledgeable. I taught her the best I could, but she’s a city girl. Damn near killed those bluebells! Can only imagine the state of the others.”
“But, look at them now. I can practically hear them sing. They’re quite content.”
“Would you help me get the others settled?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I’d love that.”
“Call me, Ms. Agnes.”
Michelle got to work hauling boxes in, squealing like a kid on Christmas morning as she opened them. Agnes marveled to see the transformation in Michelle. The young woman handled each potted plant expertly, knowing which needed extra attention.
“I told Emily to bring extra pots and a bag of soil. Did she?”
“Yep.”
“Shady here most of the day. Wood lily and corydalis should do well.”
“Oh, Agnes. Woodland phlox!”
Michelle surveyed everything thoughtfully.
“Can I split a few to combine in this big pot? The wood lily and bluebells would look lovely together. There are ferns outside. I can add a small one with some rocks….”
“I love it. Let’s do it.” Agnes said.
“Ms. Jones will question my going outside, but she did tell me to take care of the plants first.”
“Don’t tell. Sneak out. It will only take a bit of time. Leave Ms. Jones to me.”
The women giggled mischievously.
“Can I use your hand rake and trowel?”
“Of course, unless you want to use yer hands.” Agnes teased.
“Wouldn’t hesitate at home, but it’s a nursing home. People will frown at the dirt under my nails.
“I always say, eat a peck of dirt before you die.”
“Be right back.”
Michelle stopped in the doorway, tilting her head as if straining to hear something. She shook the hand rake.
“You hear that, Ms. Agnes?”
“Hmm?”
“That rattle. Sounds like a pebble or some gravel inside the handle.”
Michelle turned and jiggled it closer to her ear.
“Yeah. Something’s in there jangling about. A bell? Like the one my cat has on his collar.” Michelle said.
She waved it around again.
“Definitely, sounds like a bell. Hear it?” Michelle asked.
“I can. But you’re not supposed to.”
Confused, Michelle tried to read the expression on the old woman’s face.
“Why do you say that?”
“Look inside,” Agnes said.
Michelle flipped the tool over.
“The bottom screws off?”
“Yes.”
“What’s inside? Did you put a bell in there?”
“Look inside.”
Michelle twisted the end of the handle and pulled it off. A marble threaded on a leather cord tumbled into her hand. Holding it to the light, she saw a pattern marking it.
“This is a fairy stone. I forgot the name of this one, but it’s rare. People usually find the cross-shaped ones.”
“It’s called a Maltese cross. Quite rare.”
“Is this the necklace Ms. Jones mentioned?”
“Yes.”
“It’s stunning…in a natural kind of way. Why does she want you to take it off?”
“Ms. Jones’s afraid of its magic.”
Michelle snorted but stopped abruptly, seeing Agnes was serious.
“That’s just superstition and stuff.”
“Is it?”
“Well…yes.”
“Put it on.”
“What?”
“Do you have an imagination, girl?”
“Yeah? But, what’s that got to do with anything?”
“Humor an old woman. Please put my necklace on.”
“Why?”
“Because you heard the bell.”
“I don’t understand. Are you feeling ok, Ms. Agnes? Should I fetch a nurse?”
“No, no. Don’t do that. Just try the necklace on. I want to give it to you. That’s all. Don’t you like it?”
“Well, yes. But, I can’t take your necklace….”
“Go ahead, just try it on. It’s mine. I can give it to whoever I want to. None of my kids ever appreciated it.”
“Ok.”
Michelle slipped the leather cord over her head.
“There. How’s it look?”
The old woman smiled with a sigh, turning her head as if to address someone.
“Lovely. Don’t you agree, Gideon?”
“Yes, Agnes. Perfect. Michelle’s just perfect!”
“Oh! Oh! Look at that! I mean…him! Ms. Agnes, please tell me you can see too!”
“Yes, girl. This is Gideon.”
“Ah…hello?”
“Hello! I’m so happy! Agnes has been searching for someone like you!”
Agnes’s daughter waved goodbye, slowly backing her new BMW down the gravel drive. Its shiny tires crackled and popped, kicking up a dusty haze. Emily hadn’t stayed long, and Agnes hadn’t expected her to. The old woman knew neither could tolerate anything longer than an overnight together.
Agnes had grown fiercely independent with all but one of her children far from home. Her friends and neighbors felt sorry for her. Yet, after devoting most of her life to caring for her siblings, a husband, and seven children, Agnes preferred it this way. She kept her nose out of others’ business and expected everyone to stay out of hers. Meddling invariably spawned trouble, she thought.
“Ooh, the gall! Who does she think she is?” Agnes groused.
“Your daughter.”
“Don’t give her the right to barge in here, telling me what to do. Ooh, I could scream! I don’t need that ding-bat next door keeping an eye on me. I’ve worked hard cultivating a wall of rude silence, hoping to keep her out. Now, she’ll be here evangelizing and waving church bulletins in my face!
“She’s worried about you.”
“Kaitlin Jones? Nah! She’s just a nosy neighbor. I tell you, she’s on to us, Gideon. She must have seen something.”
“Not her.”
“Oh, you mean Emily? Ha! She’s worried her brothers and sister will blame her if crazy ol’ ma drops dead unattended. Suppose being the oldest, she feels it’s her duty. But there’s a right respectful way of helping, and then there’s bossy! Besides, I’m not alone. Though none of ’em believes me. Too much of their daddy in ’em. Loved him dearly, but not one lick of imagination in that man.”
“Agnes, you do grow frail.”
“Shut yer trap. What do you know of frailty?”
“I observe it.”
“Oh, shush, Gideon! Who’s side are you on?”
“Yours, Agnes.”
“Well, nothing wrong with withering and dying unless there’s more work to be done and no one to pass it on to. That’s my problem.”
“Pity none of them show any interest.”
“Bah! It’s these times, all these computers and gadgets steer ’em away from nature.”
“The forest went without before. It will do so again if need be. You push yourself needlessly.”
“There’s time. Maybe one of the great-grandchildren.”
“Hope springs eternal.”
Agnes threw her hands up, indicating the time for talk had ended, and turned with a grunt to survey a kaleidoscopic spread of primroses. A satisfied smile stretched across her face.
“Delightful. Little beauties really do thrive amongst the cedars, don’t they?”
“And, as promised, a wider array of colors.”
“Hmm…and I figured they were just angling for top billing closer to my side door.”
“They’re prone to vanity,” Gideon whispered.
“Well, I’ll reward ’em with some pickle juice.”
Agnes ambled toward her backyard, lips pursed in determination. She never surrendered to the pain before noon.
“Shame you can’t work yer magic on these here bones. Arthritis is a bitch.”
“Agnes, you know I’m not that kind of fairy.”
“So you’ve said.”
Agnes reached for a rusty chair that bounced and wobbled as she sat.
“Moment’s rest won’t hurt.”
Agnes scanned her yard, making mental notes.
“Forget-Me-Nots could use a pep talk; they’re becoming tattered. But, Gideon, the wood lilies and bluebells are really taking off. Never feels like spring until the bluebells pop.”
“Shh. The Helebores!”
“Ah, they’re plum tuckered out now. See, their color is all but gone. They sure did well this year.”
“Don’t go calling them winter flowers again. You scandalized the whole yard last time.” Gideon chided.
“Hmm? Oh…everyone got over it eventually. What do you think needs doing first?”
“Bloodroot’s spreading close to the lawn again.”
“Yes, and with Emily’s daughter expecting any day now, the last thing I need is poisonous flowers in the grass.”
“It’s decided then. We’ll work on coaxing the bloodroot to yield ground. It will surely take all morning and afternoon. Ornery vegetation.”
The following day Agnes ached from yesterday’s battle with the bloodroot. But she went to work anyways. But, after hauling a ladder out to investigate a window box with failing sea thrift and candytuft, she conceded her body needed a day off.
“Another cup of coffee and lazing out here in the sun sounds good.”
“What about the sea thrift? It looks water-logged.”
“Shouldn’t be. Lots of holes for drainage and full sun. The other box is fine. See.”
“I’ll go take a look if you can’t.”
“Thank you, Gideon.”
Agnes sat on a stone bench amongst a bed of rock cress, alyssum, and creeping phlox. She closed her eyes, savoring the warmth of the rising sun. The hum of honey bees amongst the surrounding blossoms threatened to lull her to sleep. She let herself drift off.
“AGNES?!”
The old woman started awake to find Kaitlin Jones inches from her face.
“Aargh!” Agnes yelped.
“Praise Almighty! I thought you were dead!” Kaitlin said.
“Dead!? Can’t an old woman rest unmolested in her own yard?!”
“I’m just doing what your family asked me to.”
“Spy and suss out a good reason to put me away, you mean.”
“How you talk, Ms. Agnes. I’m here to help a neighbor in need.”
Agnes harrumphed.
“I’m not as frail as I look.”
“No, shame in aging, Ms. Agnes. Happens to everyone. I enjoy helping the elderly. Did you know I’m a lead CNA at Bassett Nursing Home?”
“How marvelous for you.”
As irritated as Agnes felt, she laughed, seeing Gideon dance upon Kaitlin’s nose.
“Want me to round up some wasps?” he asked.
Agnes shook her head.
“Are you ok, Ms. Agnes?” Kaitlin asked.
“I’m fine, thank you. I don’t know yer arrangement with Emily, but consider it canceled. I don’t need no help.”
Kaitlin took a step back, putting her hands on her hips.
“I disagree, and I told your daughter as much.”
Agnes attempted to rise up and chase the woman off, but her knees betrayed her.
“Look, Ms. Agnes. I’m no snoop, but….”
“Oh, that’s rich! You don’t fool me. I know you eavesdrop on me.”
“Well, someone has to,” Kaitlin frowned knowingly before loudly whispering, “I hear you talking to invisible people.”
Despite the pain, Agnes hauled herself to glare directly into the young woman’s eyes.
“Nothing wrong with talking to yourself. It’s a mark of genius!”
Kaitlin shuddered, crossing herself.
“It’s not natural, Ms. Agnes. Are you dabbling in the occult?”
“What?!”
“Look at your yard. It’s not natural.”
“Because I’ve got a green thumb?”
“This is more than good gardening. What about your pagan statutes and altar?”
“Those are garden gnomes!”
“And your amulet?”
Agnes clutched her Maltese fairy stone necklace protectively. The woman merely guessed, Agnes told herself.
“My pastor gave a sermon recently on the legends surrounding the state park. Did you know godless people from around the world come to Fairy Stone Park to find stones like yours? Supposed to let you see fairies and whatnot. Work of the devil, I say.”
“It’s a rare geological specimen. Nothing else to it. Like it or not, these parts are one of the few places to find one. I wear it as a token of local pride.” Agnes lied.
“That’s it. I’m going to get more than wasps.” Gideon said.
“No, stop,” Agnes said.
“Stop what?” Kaitlin asked.
“I meant…now stop all this foolishness. If you wanted to tire out an old woman, then you’ve succeeded, Ms. Jones. I haven’t the strength at the moment to tend my garden. I think a nap is in order.”
Agnes pushed her way past her neighbor.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Agnes. Let me help.”
“No, thank you.”
“Perhaps, you’d like to come to church with me this Sunday?”
“No, I would not.”
“I’ll check in on you later if you don’t mind.”
“You aren’t very bright, are you, Ms. Jones. I’m trying to tell you off.”
“But, I promised your daughter….”
“That’s none of my business. You do what you need to appease yer conscience, and I’ll mind my own. Good day, Ms. Jones.”
“What’s the ladder for? Surely, you don’t mean to climb at your age!”
Agnes turned to sneer at her neighbor.
“Goodbye, Ms. Jones.”
A luxurious nap restored Agnes’s resolve to tackle the window box. Gideon had discovered standing water inside, meaning something clogged the drain holes.
“How are you going to clear the blockage?” Gideon asked.
Agnes brandished a couple tools garnered from her garage. Laying aside a plastic bucket, a trowel, and a hand rake, she clasped hold of the ladder with both hands and a weed puller clenched in her mouth.
“Be careful, Agnes.”
Mumbling something snarky, she climbed the ladder. Rung by rung, she proceeded slowly until she could reach the three holes on the underside of the box. Leveraging the weed puller in one hand, she probed a hole.
You should wait and have someone take it down.
“By the time I can get someone, I’ll have lost the sea thrift. Look at it. Awful.”
Agnes pierced the closest drain hole, only to be disappointed by the release of a trickle of water.
“You were right, Gideon. I can see the puddle.”
“Why wouldn’t I be right?”
Agnes took a moment to give the fairy a deadpan stare.
“I’m just making conversation. Helps me focus,” Agnes said.
“Oh.”
Her arm began to tremble as she stretched to reach the center hole. The weeder met with resistance. Peering closer, Agnes swore.
“I told Emily those river stones she bought were too small.”
Undetermined, she took the time to position the weeder to better lever the offending stone over. The effort made her sweat, but she didn’t give up.
“Ah! That did it!” she crowed, feeling water rush over her hand.”
“Well done, Agnes. Now get down from there before you fall.” Gideon said.
Agnes stood on tip-toes to watch the water drop in the flower box.
“Still sluggish. I’ll clear the last one just in case.”
She should have moved the ladder. But Agnes decided to try stretching further. She realized her mistake too late as the ladder slowly tipped.
On the ground, Agnes came to in a twisted heap with Kaitlin Jones above her, yelling frantically. Any harsh words deserted Agnes as an awful pain shot through her right leg as she rolled over.
“I told you to be careful, Ms. Agnes! Why didn’t you ask me for help? Now, look at you!” Kaitlin cried.
Agnes didn’t reply, instead focused on assessing her injuries.
“I told you. Nothing good comes to those who stray from Jesus. Are you ready to give that amulet up? It’s evil, I tell you, Ms. Agnes. Let me help you take it off while we wait for the ambulance.”
Agnes shoved Kaitlin away, but the fire erupting in her wrists made her instantly regret it. She must have broken them when she fell.
“Gideon!” she cried.
“On it!” he cried.
“Who are you talking to? Who’s Gideon? Lord Jesus, protect us!”
Agnes laughed through the pain, hearing the fairy muster his forces to attack.
“Only thing I need protection from is you, Ms. Jones! Now, I suggest you be off before it’s too late.”
The young woman crossed herself hurriedly, eyes darting about. Agnes had tried to warn her. She watched with a clear conscience as Kaitlin fled from the swarm of diving birds.
If you haven’t had a chance to read George and Jockular’s previous two stories, I suggest you click the links below to read those first. I think you’ll enjoy this piece more if you know their backstory.
The hilarity of watching Jockular try to wedge himself into the passenger seat had all but worn off. Worry ate at George now as he realized the barbarian’s presence at the restaurant would spark unwanted questions. He broke into a cold sweat, his heart pounding, and a tingling numbness spread across his face.
I’m such an idiot! His clothes alone are going to draw attention! Should I just say he’s a friend from LARPing?
With his mind racing, George failed to notice Jockular’s body tense up as the car stopped at a traffic light. The barbarian growled.
“Georgie!? What devilish magic is this?”
“Huh?”
“Yar wagon’s stopped, lad!”
“I know. Light’s red.”
Jockular snarled, raising his hand in a warding gesture.
“Georgie! That lone red eye’s castin’ some fell hex on yar wagon. I’ve heard of such things. Never faced one, though. Is it a hag or one of the fey folk? They can be quite treacherous when angry.”
“No, it’s a traffic light.”
“I’ve never heard tell of such a beast.”
“No, you don’t understand. It’s not alive.”
“But, yet this menace has halted yar wagon. How does this firelight burn with such power?”
“Electricity.”
“Bah! You’re talking magical gibberish as usual.”
“It’s a kind of lightning.”
Jockular stared uncomprehendingly.
“You know… the bright, booming flashes of light in the sky.”
George tried to make the sound of thunder.
“Oh… that’s formidable magic from the gods themselves, lad.”
“Now stop and listen to me! I’ll try to explain it in another way. See the road crossing this one? That traffic light keeps cars…er…wagons from crashing into each other. It’s not our turn to cross. It’s the other road’s turn.”
George could see only confused irritation in the barbarian’s eyes.
“Look, Jockular! We can’t cross while that light’s red!”
“But, we need to get to the tavern, lad! Don’t ya be thinkin’ I’ve forgotten ya promised ale! And ya’r forgetting Lady Stacey. It’s unwise to keep a noblewoman waitin’, Georgie.”
“I know. I know. Unfortunately, this is an annoyingly long light.”
“How long is long? We best be crossing now. Surely, a wizard of your stature must know some way to counter this enchantment.”
Tired of the incessant questions, George stopped trying to explain.
Fix it, Georgie! You’re a wizard, Georgie! What am I supposed to do? Does he expect me to draw a green light?
George decided it was easier to simply play the part. Mouth dropping open, he smacked his forehead in mock surprise.
“Yes, of course! How silly of me! You’re right. All this talk of Lady Stacey has addled my brain.”
“Aye, women will do that do a man.”
“Thank you for bringing me back to my senses, Jockular.”
“That’s what friends are for, laddie.”
“A wizard needn’t bow to the whims of a mere traffic light. I’ll dispatch the blasted thing straight away!”
George outstretched a trembling hand and began to chant nonsensically. The barbarian waited impatiently.
“Georgie?! Nothing’s happening!”
“Ok, ok! This is a tough one! But, fear not. I will overpower it.”
“Would it help if I tried to distract the fiend with my legendary battle cry?”
“No. Just tell me when the traffic light yields to my demands.”
George closed his eyes, feigning strenuous concentration, and chanted louder.
“But, how will I know?”
“The red fire will turn green.”
Feeling the light would never change, George stole a quick glance to see Jockular crouched forward, eyes wide as he peered out the windshield.
“Are you watching?”
“Aye! Aye, lad! Nothing yet!”
“Stay vigilant. I can feel it weakening.”
The car jolted as the barbarian startled with a surprised cry.
“Gods! Look at that!”
George opened his eyes and smirked.
“Phew! That was a tricky one!”
“But, you’ve done it, Georgie!”
“Yes, I have. Sometimes I surprise even myself.”
Jockular slapped George on the shoulder.
“On to ale and Lady Stacey then?”
“Yes, we can proceed safely, now.”
Jockular crowed triumphantly, breaking into song as George stomped on the gas pedal. The barbarian’s mood was contagious. George still didn’t know what would happen at the restaurant. But, the anxious pit in his stomach had fled. In its place, George felt a growing confidence. He suspected he could handle anything with the barbarian by his side.
Hello All! After weeks of diligent work, I am proud to announce I’ve submitted my first story for consideration with the magazine, Shoreline of Infinity. September’s themed issue will feature fairytales with a science fiction twist. Anyone involved in writing knows, competition is fierce and rejections are inevitable. I’m just happy I finally had the guts to throw my hat into the ring! One can never succeed without trying! I’ll keep you posted as to when and where you can read my story.
In the meantime, my focus has returned to practicing my skills with flash fiction!
Mythos Creative Writing 