One Last Tea

One Last Tea:

It's been a while since I've posted anything here, but I just got in the mood for some writing that wasn't for a Medieval fantasy website I write for. I remember being told a while back that my writing is cathartic. Can't say I disagree.

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One morning, North awoke to find a small brown envelope sealed with blue wax sitting on the ugly red rug just underneath the ugly brass mail slot on his ugly redwood door. There wasn’t anything special about the flat that he had taken residence in, but it was loaded with character, and character was always a massive draw for North. Character was the thing of stories. But that is not what is important right now. Opening the letter, North found inside the letter he always received at the beginning of the month. It was an invitation to High Tea with South, West and East. These days, however, the invitations had been stacking up on the dinning room table, tucked against the wall in the lounge (where it had no place being). If his flat had a fireplace in it, the stacks of unanswered invitations and junk mail would no doubt have been making a permanent residence in it.

The note said the same thing it always said and was written in the same ink that never looked the same colour every time you looked at it:

“There is a forest that is made up entirely of birch trees in a land where the four seasons converge on one another and live in a rotating harmony. With each step one takes, another time of the year passes in front of them like a kaleidoscope of different weather and colours.

If you take a left at the iron bench with the old man reading tomorrow’s newspaper beside the stone bridge with the gold doorknob in the centre, both seemingly placed with no purpose whatsoever, you’ll find a set of cliffs that overlook a wooded valley.

Follow the pathway through the cliffs until you find a lake underneath stars in a dark blue sky, each one twinkling in colours beyond imagining. If you can’t see the stars, you’re at the wrong lake. Feel free to wait around or splash about until the stars do show, when they do, you’ll have found the right lake.

Once you have reached the lake, walk around it until you reach the hill on the other side. Be sure to walk around the lake using the right path. If you don’t you won’t reach the hill. You’ll know you’ve taken the correct route when it doesn’t start to feel like you’re wasting your time.

You’ll meet Rain along the way, and that’s fine. Be sure to take her up on her offer for tea. It isn’t fancy but North certainly seems to enjoy it. Try not to let Night distract you though. He is always up to something no good. No doubt bolstered by his belief that nobody can see what he is doing during his favourite hours.

When you’ve reached the top of the hill, you’ll find a cast iron table made up of swirling floral patterns with a compass in the centre, surrounded by four chairs. If the table and chairs are not there, you’ve probably arrived on the wrong day, as high tea is but once a month and it is often difficult to peg anyone down with their busy schedules. If you’ve timed everything just right though, make sure you’ve got a large mug, as they are the best kinds, and take a seat, cards and stories will begin shortly.

Please be ready to share a new story.

Forgetting that you’ve already told a story does not count as new.”

It had been a year since North had seen his friends and part of him wondered if they still met for tea. He had asked the same question before, but it never seemed enough to get him to leave and join them. Things were a bit more complicated those days.

The few times that West had gotten a hold of North, the conversations had done nothing but pester North to the point utter frustration. Father Time goes about his work with little concern for what we might like frozen outside of his task and as a result, things change, and people change. Those that we used to find ourselves so easy to relate to, often become people we dread meeting. West and North just didn’t have a great deal to talk about anymore and North just wanted to continue doing his thing without it being interrupted. South was another story. North had not spoken to her in a year and the last time he had, it was not as sweet a parting as some may like.

As one might expect, North and South, despite their differences, loved each other a great deal. Not romantic love, I wouldn’t disgrace a word like love so much as to limit it to just romance. If you were to listen to North prattle on about the times he had spent with South, one might think that the two were romantically inclined to one another, but their relationship was so much more than that.

North tossed the invitation onto the table, another for the collection of discarded letters. Making his way to the front door, North tossed a grey hoody over himself and pulled the hood over his shaggy black hair and made his way outside and toward the nearest park. Lost in the forest of his thoughts, he didn’t know notice when he had stopped walking in the park and started walking through the birch forest. It was only when one wasn’t paying attention that they would find themselves walking in a place they didn’t recognize until they were able to grab their bearings. North continued walking, being sure to follow the directions to the cast iron chairs and table to the letter. It wasn’t long before he found himself at the top of the hill.

Waiting for him there was his seat among the four at their private table. Three of the chairs, North’s, West’s and East’s, were covered in dirt and overridden with a creeping ivy. They almost didn’t look like chairs anymore and if anyone was to happen by them, they would look like just another piece of the landscape, save for a piece of the table that was very much clean, and the chair that looked as though it was still used. North wasn’t surprised. Even with himself and the others showing up, South would no doubt continue to visit. Heaven knew that woman needed a place where she could be by herself.

“Didn’t think I would see you here.”

Her voice rang out into the empty hill from behind North. He turned around to see the friend he had not seen in just over a year. Not much had changed about the way she looked. North tended to look more relaxed, verging on the realm of scruffy while South could look relaxed, but there was order to her, everything about her worked well. North always believed that South was the very definition of together, even if she didn’t like him thinking so. She was wearing her knitted cap over her long, light brown hair and a blue jacket. She stood there with a blank expression on her face and a portable coffee mug, no doubt filled with some different and sweet tasting tea.

“Didn’t think I would be here. Had to show at some point and I suppose I was curious to know you or the others still showed up.”

“I just come here to get away these days.”

South was always busy with something. At least this was North’s evaluation of her schedule. He was a bit biased about it though. South was someone that he could always hang out with on a moments notice. The two always seemed to have time for one another…until the months leading up to North’s departure east. The two just seemed to drift and North found himself loathing her and getting more and more annoyed by the fact. When he finally did leave, North was thrilled to have left the drama, including South, behind. He hadn’t given her much thought in the year he had been away. It wasn’t until North had gone to hang out with an old friend, that he started to think about South.

“It’s been a while friend.” South walked over toward North and gave him a big hug. It felt awkward, but North eventually eased into it and gave his old friend a hug to match.

“Yes it has.”

There was so much running through his mind. When he had started to think about South again, North had worked hard to bring up only negative memories of her in order to keep his feelings in check, to keep their relationship in check. It didn’t seem to matter though. For every piss poor reason he could find to keep her at a distance, he found a shed load of amazing memories to combat them. He remembered the time they first danced; the time he drove her and her car home when she was feeling sick; the time he drove her around in a golf cart, which coincidentally was the first time he swore in front of her. North pulled the creeping ivy off his chair and wiped the dust off the seat and sat down at the table. He waved his hand and offered a seat to South.

“I half expected to find West here.”

“He stopped following me around and pining after me when he started taking interest in East.”

“No way.” North was wide eyed and shocked, “West and East have been seeing each other?”

South laughed and shook her head, “No, West likes East, but East is off doing her own thing.”

“You’ve got to feel better about that. It only took three years, but that no finally stopped meaning maybe. Could you ever imagine?”

“That would just leave you and me to eventually fall for one another.”

North smiled, but deep down the comment annoyed the hell out of him. He and South loved each other, it couldn’t be denied. That love extended into a kind of friendship that was enviable, it just never seemed to extend into that place beyond. Not romance; romance tends to be about two people living off the small spark that starts the process of love. Sacrifice, the kind of love the requires to people to give over themselves to the other, placing all regard on the other and not themselves. Perhaps the two of them were afraid that whatever incompatibility existed between the two of them was enough to make that sacrificial kind of love a frightening place.

South’s comment was empty and it was just the kind of thing that pushed North away; made him secretly wish he had more about South that he didn’t like. Not enough to push him to that place though. Not enough to stop him from talking to her through the night and to catch up with what she was doing. Not enough to stop him from enjoying their time together and eventually leave for his house, pouring over his thoughts, frustrated and angry.

It has been a while since I wrote about these characters.

I am told that I am a cathartic writer, and this point does not ring more true than in this story. Be gentle, haha!


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Transposed
Joshua Albers – 2011-09-03

            This is not the place I grew up in.

            England is different from home in a lot of ways, many ways really, but not so much as to be strange; at least not yet. People have been telling me that they are here for me when the culture shock sets in. The by-product of having never really been anywhere different for any length of time is that you aren’t really sure what culture shock is. Truth told, I like to think that a heavy European upbringing helps to make a transfer to a place like England all the easier, but I haven’t been here long enough to really say that with any certainty.

            I still haven’t gotten over the fact that I am here to begin with. Everywhere I go I walk around like I am caught up in some place between fiction and reality, it is surreal. I will be walking down the street out front of my new home and it seems normal enough, I mean the architecture is different sure, but what really nails home the idea that I am not in Canada anymore is when you see potholes in the road, but they aren’t really potholes because you can see the old cobblestone streets underneath. There is a history underneath the pavement that you just don’t get back home. Still though, none of this really has fazed me yet. Get back to me in a month or mores time and I might tell you something very different. Right now though, I am just enjoying where I am. I go to bars, I go to diners for breakfast, I go to the mall or I just walk around and try to make this place a part of my everyday life. Take breakfast for instance. I can assure you that the breakfast you can get at just about any café here is not the kind of breakfast you will find back home. Back home you can get several kinds of things for breakfast, but here you can only seem to get a varying set of combinations of the same dish, the fullest of which involves black pudding, two sausages, two pieces of bacon, an egg, a fried tomato, toast, and beans.

            Black pudding by the way is better known as blood pudding and is rarely ever served back home, and by rarely I mean never. Though it is rarely served, you will no doubt recognize the flavour once you have had it but you will never be able to fully place it. In short, it isn’t as scary as it seems.

            I think the only thing that is really getting to me is the idea that I am sort of here in this place alone. That is the one thing that constantly reminds me I am in some new and different place. My friends and my family are back home. It isn’t that I am unable to make friends here, I have met awesome people, and it is just that the friend-making thing is different here. I am a stranger to this place who is sort of jumping into people’s lives after they have made friends and developed relationship over the course of years. I feel out of place, like a blip on a radar. Maybe this is what everyone who has ever been new to my home country has felt like; in which case I hope I was inviting towards them and available to them. The whole thing is made all the more odd feeling when the friends I have back home rarely talk to me through e-mail. I both enjoy this and resent it at the same time. On the one hand I am excited to be in a new place and meeting new people and going new places; on the other I feel left behind in a way. The odd message here and there is greatly received and yet when I become engaged too much I get annoyed and want to be left alone. Perhaps I am enduring the result of my own fickleness.

            The other day I went to a pub that has sort of become my new local watering hole. My brother would give me a hard time calling a pub a local pub, stating that every pub is a local pub. If he knew how many there were in my vicinity though, he might understand why I call it my local watering hole. Anyway, I was in a local pub called The Whitworth, a quiet place where you can grab a beer and play darts, or watch the latest match or just be left alone to think. It is the less popular choice compared to the modern looking Ford Maddox Brown, which serves various kinds of steaks and is more of a trendy place to go. It was inside the old walls of The Whitworth that I met the unfamiliar faces of a couple long time friends as I had sat down at a table to myself and had taken a sip from a pint of my San Miguel, a bit more expensive but well worth it. An old man sat down at my table with a pint of bitter and a familiar twinkle in his eye. The old man had a familiar feel about him, like I had seen him someplace before but I couldn’t place him. He sat across from me wearing a thick, knitted brown sweater, unbuttoned, over a blue, nearly grey, shirt. His hair was thick and windblown and white and his face was clean-shaven. To tell you the truth, he reminded me a little bit of JRR Tolkien, or at least the picture of him I used to see on the back of The Hobbit.

“How are you liking it here across the pond?” He asked me.

            The question had thrown me off guard a little bit. How could this man know I wasn’t from England? I hadn’t spoken except to the bartender when I ordered my drink. I wondered if I really stood out that much but answered him none the less.

“Feels a bit like a dream if I am being honest.”

He had taken a sip from his pint and smacked his lips, “Blessings do tend to feel that way.”

“Do I know you?” I asked, the curiosity and that familiar feeling had finally gotten the best of me.

“You’ve changed over the years Josh, but you are no less odd. I to change as things progress, your view of the world has changed and I with it I suppose.” The old man smiled a smile that I could all of a sudden place again.

“Father Time, what are you doing here?”

            He laughed a little bit, he was no doubt proud of himself and his wit, “You can always find me in a pub.”

            You can always find Time in a pub. I suppose that is a true statement. He put his drink down on the tabletop and pointed behind me.

“You remember Fall?”

            I had looked in the direction that Time pointed in and the person I saw was not the Fall that I had always remembered. Though her clothes still very much pointed at her season; she was dressed in a long P Coat that went down to her knees, brown in colour with faint rusty red patterns sown into it. Around her neck was a scarf, brown and gold and she was wearing brown stockings and brown suede buckled riding boots. Her wardrobe seemed to reflect the city I was in now and her physical appearance had changed as well. Her hair was no longer red, but was thick and golden brown, her skin was olive coloured but her golden eyes remained the same.

“You have changed a lot since I last saw you at the park back home.” I said to her.

“You don’t look much like the annoyed 22 year old I met that day either.” She sat down next to Time with a glass of cider and a smile.

“What brings you to England?” At the time it seemed a good enough question, though now it just seems silly, a reach for conversation.

“You do.” She said, still smiling. She and Time were not going to make this easy.

            Moments passed between the three of us where nothing was said; there was just the sound of glasses being placed as they went up and down from mouths and back down to the tables. It felt awkward, it was like meeting new people again, and a shyness set in that I hadn’t felt in some time. Perhaps it was a good thing though, it was another growing opportunity, another chance to further step two feet out of my comfort zone, even if it was with familiar people. Fall had changed a lot, she wasn’t as shy as the first time I met her, in fact she had grown into a person I least expected her to become. She was serious, but loving; she was reserved, but open. She seemed to fit a stereotype I have yet to fully discover. No, I didn’t glean these conclusions off of a few seconds of conversation. We did talk much longer, the three of us; it just seems so distant now. We talked about what we had been up to in the last four years and we talked about all the things that had changed. It is amazing the kind of growth you can find in what is really a short amount of time. I have a theory that life works in two-year periods of idiocy.

“Every two years you look back and discover what an idiot you were for thinking that you had it all figured out, only to discover the same thing in another two years.” I laughed a little bit as I said it. It was just my way of saying that I understood that I will believe to have it all figured out but I may never truly. It was my way of saying that I understood I still had growing to do.

Fall looked at me with an eyebrow raised and her lips pursed in a smile, “Sounds like you have it all figured out.” Her voice was very distinct, it sounded as though she carefully considered every word she said in a matter of moments.

“No Fall, what I am saying is that I don’t.” I had smiled as I said it.

“You recognize that much.” Time had pointed out to me. “You still seem to find loneliness all to easily and have yet to discover you are never truly alone.”

            Part of me in that moment wanted to give a sarcastic remark about talking with figments of my imagination but I bit my tongue. The truth is I knew what Time was talking about. He had been referring to God. And God continues to try and tell me that same message every time I start to feel like just a spec travelling through a place.

“Put Him in front of you Josh and you will be taken to amazing places. Another Joshua used to do just that. You never know what you are going to find, but you can trust it is Him taking you there. Stop with all the self pity and just go for it!”

            This wasn’t the first time I had heard those words before. I had experienced a great deal of encouragement a couple times with those very same words and I continue to be encouraged by them now. Time gave me another one of those familiar smiles over his pint glass and almost spoke into his cup.

“Besides, Fall is here. Maybe the two of you can go to Arndale or take a walk around Platt. She still fancies you, you know.”

“Dad!” Fall blushed, that all to recognizable shyness setting in once more. Perhaps we don’t change as quickly as we think we do! “You are constantly meddling about!”

“I’m Time…I meddle, it’s what I do.” He got up and left the table, I don’t know where he went, probably to play darts, but he had left Fall and I alone to catch up.

            To give a bit of history, I suppose. Back home I had been a friend with the Ravens who brought the seasons. It had all began when I met Winter on a train leaving the downtown area. Winter had always been my favourite of the seasons, I had always had a rocky relationship with Summer and Spring slept most of the year. Fall had always had a special place in my heart though. She was never around that long back home, but when she was, she brought with her magnificent colours and days that were bright and sunny but with a wind just cold enough to need a jumper. Fall brought with her inspiration and I had always felt that she was my muse. She had admitted that knowing that she inspired me made her shy towards me.

“So how about it? Would you want to go for a walk some place?” I asked.

“Why not.” She replied.
            This is not the same place I grew up in.

Change is a good thing.

For Another Day

For Another Day

I close the door to my cabin behind me, and turn around to the wind blowing gently through the emerald green hills that surround my home, and the soft bleating of several hundred head of sheep. I live in a quiet stone cabin tucked into the natural cul-de-sac that the hills make. Hills that could pass for small mountains, etched with grey stone protruding like natures own age lines; these are what makes the area I live in so famous. There isn’t a soul for miles around and I am left to myself. I am perhaps the worst kind of person in the minds of some; a writer looking to understand something he doesn’t for the sake of a book. The way I see it; if Peter Mayle can do it in France, why can’t I do the same thing here? The only difference between he and I seems to be that I may have lied about my intentions in coming here in the first place. I have been here for well over a year now and I have no intention of stopping what I am doing. You can call me a coward if it makes you feel better. I think the only reason I stay is because I don’t miss what I had at home. Back home it was deadlines, facebook, e-mail, advertising that would not cease until I defined my life by their products; I jumped at this chance. My desire to get away from all of the noise of back home was the leading reason behind this new adventure, and I do not regret it. I know what you might be thinking; “Oh great, another self righteous bohemian.” And maybe you’re right; your conclusion does not bother me in the slightest though. I have learned a new level of responsibility I have never known in my life. I am not a parent, I do not have children; what I do have, and in abundance now, is sheep; and my dog, a lappinonian herder named Eli. I have never cared for lives so small, so fragile, and at the same time so stupid.

Sheep are by no means the brightest animal I have ever encountered, but there is something to caring for them that seems to resonate with me. The other shepherds in the area think I have a tinge of lunacy for feeling so, but perhaps it is because all of this is so new to me. I cannot help but love these animals, and the level of responsibility that comes with them. I feel ever ounce of joy those little lambs feel as they jump about and play with one another. I feel every ounce of sorrow and pain that the ones who stray from the flock do; and even more so for the ones who do not return. The whole thing makes a stewardship for this planet and its creatures, which we are all born with, become so much more alive than before I came into this work. The truth is I have no book that I am working on, I only have a journal. And as I continue to read my journal from its first entry to its last, I begin to like the main character more and more.

It had been raining all day and the clouds, in their own majesty were every shade of grey that could be offered; merely adding to the vast expanse of the place I now call home. Eli comes bounding up to me, tail wagging happily; tongue hanging out in a smile that only a dog could have. Eli has a black coat with white hair around his paws and a small white tuft of hair on his chest; normally it would have an incredible sheen coming off of it, but given the state of the weather, his hair was to remain matte. I scratch Eli under his chin and pick up a small tennis ball and throw it off into the distance. With incredible speed Eli was off, the ball bouncing up and down the soft earth, dirt kicking up after each of Eli’s strides. I can’t help but laugh slightly as the bleating of the sheep increases and the sounds of small feet thumping across the soft earth all around me as Eli tackles his ball amidst the flock. Trotting back, Eli places the ball at my feet and sits down with a look of accomplishment across his panting face; I give him a pet on his head and with a sharp whistle and hand signal, I send him on his way.

The grass pathway that leads from my land has now faded into a dirt road, and crunching of gravel underfoot lulls me into a tiny sense of rhythm. I am heading into town to meet with the many people that I have come into contact with during my time here, though there is one person in particular that I am interested in seeing. She is a young woman who has been visiting a relative in the village. I know her from back home, though she is not from there either. The two of us worked together for the same paper, she was our receptionist, spending a year in our country before heading off to another part of the world that called to her. I would be lying to you if I said we had gotten on with one another almost immediately. It wasn’t that either of us couldn’t stand to be in one another’s presence or anything like that, it was more that she just didn’t jump out at me. I said hello every now and then to her when the occasion called for being more social than normal, but that was about it. It wasn’t until her going away party that I knew I had made some sort of mistake, that I had missed out on something. She was getting a drink and was wearing a beautiful red dress and she had her hair done in a way I had never seen it before. I had walked over to get myself a drink; I was behaving the same way I always do in those kinds of social situations. My friends went and spoke with their friends and I was left to listen to their conversations, or at least look like I was while my mind wandered. Often there were times were I initiated conversations with people, though most times I would wait for them to do so.

“Thanks for coming out tonight.” She said as she poured herself a drink.

“Don’t mention it. I am always one for being social.” That was a lie; I hadn’t talked to anyone for more than five minutes that night. At least I knew her name; that was bound to make a conversation with a person I had not taken the time to really get to know better.

“So Elise, what new adventure is pulling you away from us?”

She smiled over her drink and ran a hand through her hair, “Well, first I am going to visit a relative of mine then I thought I might look into some work more directly related to what I studied in Uni.”

“Back home then?”

“Work or visiting?”

“Both I suppose.”

“Neither; I don’t think I am ready to go back home just yet.” I remember her mentioning that she was going someplace that had nothing to do with home. One of the many pieces of information I had forgotten while sitting upon the fringe of the office social network.

“So what are you hoping to for work while away from home?” Because I had absolutely no idea what she took in school to know what field of work she was looking for. She smiles at me; she knows I know nothing about her. Is she enjoying this?

“I want to work with children!”

The conversation continued onward from there. Elise didn’t seem to mind that I hadn’t paid her any attention during her time with the paper and that I was scamming free food and drink at her going away party. No; the two of us just spent the majority of our evening chatting with one another and that all too familiar feeling of regret came creeping up. Why hadn’t I gotten to know this person when I had the chance? Well, as things would have it, I had another opportunity. Or at least another missed one.

The sun is setting lower now as I crest over the hill just above the town. I can see a few lights scattered about the valley. There is a larger one in the center of the town that interests me more though. It is the pub. Now contrary to what you might believe, this establishment, like all real pubs, does not serve food. It is home to, however, many good drinks, local music, and many, many, long nights. This is the epicentre of social activity for this town. Every night is alive with friends sharing the stories of their day over a drink or two. Tonight however is special. It is the anniversary of the town and they are hosting a night filled with music and dancing. Everyone partakes in this event, in one form or another. This is my debut with the penny whistle. I am not that great with it, but that fact won’t stop me from trying. It doesn’t really matter anyway, these towns folk just want to know you are enjoying yourself. As I walk down this hill I start remembering when I ran into Elise in this very same pub.

I had just landed and was now taking a train to the first small town that would then connect me to another small town by bus, which would then have a person waiting for me to give me a ride to the sheep farm I now call my home. As I was riding the train; first class no less, I began to check my Facebook account, for what was to be the last time I can assure you. I had let everyone know where I was going to be, and Elise, who was now my “Facebook Friend” due to our small exchange at her going away party, had sent me a message.

I am going to be in your small town in your small new patch of the world this weekend, let’s catch up! Meet me at the Ram Horn pub in the center of the town this Friday night.

In a new country for a couple of hours and already a familiar face to meet up with, who would say no to that? The small stone cabin looked as though it had been there for millennia, and maybe it had been. Most of the places in this country had homes and buildings that were older than my country. I was past the point of no return now, and as soon as I stepped over the threshold of my new home, I was committed to at the very least, one year of a new life in this strange place. This was the first moment I stepped foot into the cabin. The old man who picked me up from the bus station was the man who was to give me a tour of my new property. As the old man continued to show me around the cabin, he told me a little bit about its history and its previous owner. It appeared its last owner died with no heirs and that it was a stroke of fortune that I had come looking. At least that is what I gathered from it. In two days time, I was going to the center of that town and I was going to meet up with a friend. I just needed to get through this tour first.

The room was dark, illuminated by small lights in distant places of the establishment and the two small windows and wide open door that made up the front wall of the pub. When this town had gotten electricity, this must have been the first place to get it, the lights look about as old as the establishment itself. Elise and I were tucked into a small corner of the place, a table to ourselves, and our voices lifted a little higher than the soft murmur of the pubs more long serving patrons.

“You’ve taken up shepherding? That is a step back isn’t it?” Elise smiled with her arms crossed on the table, her drink in front of her.

“It’s for the paper, a fluffy piece to take people away to a place they think they want to be a part of.” I took a deep sip of my drink and wiped the foam off my moustache.

“That is a serious amount of dedication to an article; I don’t think I could do that.”

“Maybe this is the piece that earns me a book deal, fame and fortune.”

“Nobody wants to read a story about a North American going over sea to be a shepherd. Though, you may do well with the blue haired reading demographic.” Her laughter was beautiful, as was her smile. Her whole face became alive with the joy of laughter. I felt lost a little bit in that moment. And like the last time we met and talked, it was to be for but a few hours. The night grew old and we both needed to go our way.

“Well, it was good seeing you again Elise.”

“Likewise Brett, we’ll have to keep in touch.”

“I would like that...send a post to me here in town. I am afraid I will be out of touch with the world for the next while.”

“Of course, I’ll see you later.”

“See you around Elise.”

The next moment was awkward to say the least. We were both standing there looking at one another in silence, neither of us moving, as though something were supposed to happen. Finally when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I moved in and gave her a strong hug goodbye. When she left, I felt as though I had missed out on something again. Over the course of the year, we sent a couple letters, but not many. She had given up on work for a bit and went home, and then traveled around a little bit more. I didn’t hear from her much, and eventually just succumbed to my routine. That was until just a few days ago when I received a letter from her in town saying she was passing through and wanted to see me. And now hear I am, on my way to see Elise in the same pub that we hung out in, roughly one year ago.

The dull and muffled sounds of fiddles and whistles become a roaring cacophony of rhythm and livelihood as I open the door to the Ram Horn pub. I am greeted by cheers from various people in the pub, all of them excited to see me and all of them offering me a place to sit during the nights festivities. I politely decline their offers and explain to them about how I am meeting a friend of mine that I have not seen for some time. I briefly describe her to them in the hopes that maybe they have seen her.

“Ah, yes we have, she was the one sitting all on her lonesome, and well, that does not happen long here as you are no doubt aware friend. You have stiff competition tonight!”

Normally this would be off-putting if my stiff competition wasn’t old men, long attached to wives, in their never ending flattery towards young women. Sure enough, my ears perk at the sound of all too familiar laughter emanating from an all too familiar corner of the pub. Sure enough, among a score of old men whose dearest wish is to never see a beautiful young lady go unattended at such an esteemed social occasion were doting on Elise with tall tales often reserved for whatever tourist may be tromping through this county.

“Gentleman, may interrupt you and speak with the lady?”

“No.” The small man with the round face and impish grin laughed and patted me on the back. “Of course boyo, go right ahead. Miss, if this young upstart gives you any trouble, we are a here a waiting!”

“Young upstart? You’ve made a name for yourself in this town!”

“No, Finnegan just knows how to push my buttons. Rather, he knows how to push anyone’s buttons. I believe he has spent a life time devoted to his craft. It is so good to see you again Elise!”

“Ai, yes, and it is great to see you again Brett!”

“Let me grab you a drink!”

I return from the bar and we get to catching up with what one another has been doing, things that can never be properly communicated in a letter, lest you end up wasting the readers time. It is great to hear about all of her adventures out there in the world, and I love watching her eyes react to the many stories I have developed during my time out here. After sharing our stories with one another, exchanges of what exciting new things are going on in our lives, we begin to talk about anything we can think of; silly names, what God has been doing in our own lives, how we have been growing, and then finally we just sit in silence. We are almost oblivious to the sounds of music playing around the bar, until someone grabbing at my shoulder pulls me out of my moment and the events around me come swirling back in.

“Let’s have a dance Brett!”

It is the old woman whose husband owned the pub. I, of course, oblige her request and begin to dance about the pub in tune with the music, as do many other people. The wooden floor is alive with the sounds of running feet and brilliant laughter. I can tell you something; if you are not sweating by the end of your first dance at one of these parties, then you have not been dancing. All of the dances have some sort of step to them, an order, but often these go ignored for the sake of enjoyment! When I finally do get back to my seat with Elise, I am sweating like a cat in a dog pound.

“You’re quite good, I didn’t know you could dance!”

“Well, I could brag and say it was something I’ve always been gifted with, but I am afraid any skill in this area I may have is owed to the fine folks of this town.”

“So when will you show me a dance?”

“How about right now?” I extend my hand to Elise and begin to pull her to the floor. The moment we get ready for our dance, the band changes the tune to a slower song.

“Oh come on!” I shout, more than a little embarrassed and the band laughs at me before striking something a little faster. They have all seen me for the last year, and in that time, they have seen me as a single man and it has been the butt of more than one joke. Our dance is a fast one, but an enjoyable one and when it finishes, she goes back to her table, but I join the band to play a song that I had learned on my penny whistle. The crowd all laughs and cheers me on, ignoring my mistakes but instead continuing to praise my effort. Finished I return to my table with Elise.

“Where in town are you staying?”

“Just outside of town, actually, with a relative of mine.”

“Would you like to go for a walk? Maybe you can come see the old homestead I call home.”

She smiles and nods, “I’d love to see your sheep!”

It isn’t a short walk back to my place from town, and it is already late as we begin the hike back. The sky is pitch black, but I know that as we start to get nearer to my home, that it will transition to a cool purple and dark grey clouds. The silence around us on the lonesome pathway home is almost crushing. The shrill notes of a happy ceilidh band that cut into the night’s sky from the Rams Horn Pub had long vanished in the distance. There are moments when things are quiet, and I mean truly quiet, crushingly so; where silence sits so heavy it is as if it were around you like a physical blanket. Most of our walk back to the hills and the stone cottage is like this. I love moments like this; there is an intensity about them that I cannot fully explain, perhaps it is because in silent moments like this one, I expect some great revelation; I can hear the still small voice in these moments. I look over at Elise and smile a little bit.

“Do you ever have regrets?”

“I suppose,” She doesn’t even look at me; instead she looks ahead in silent contemplation. “I suppose we all do, but I think there are times where we misunderstand what regrets are.”

“What do you think they are?”

“I don’t think regrets are moments that we wish we could go back and relive. That would suggest that we lost opportunities to live, and I don’t think those opportunities just go away. I believe that we certainly have the tendency to fuddle those kinds of moments, but until we’ve died, we just push them to a later date. Regret should not be about a missed chance, a missed opportunity; rather regret should be the realization that we must now take a longer route to a chance, an opportunity.”

“That is profound.” I grab hold of Elise’s hand as I continue. “And it makes a great deal of sense to me. I am only sorry it took so long to see what was right there for a whole year.”

Elise smiles at me and pushes a stray lock of hair out the way of her face. She doesn’t say anything. I don’t know if this is something she expected or if it is just something she welcomed. Either way is fine with me, it just feels nice to finally be doing something instead of sitting on the fringe wondering about what I could be doing.

North Only Jokes, South Only Smiles, East and West Are Late

Once a month they gather.

Call it a tea party if you will.

Once a month, West meets with East, and South meets with North, and the four of them get together to chat with one another, play cards over tea in big mugs, because those are the best mugs to hold on to.

Fall is about her work, dancing and changing the colors of the leaves, preparing the world for her sister Winter, and this leaves North, South, West and East in need of warmer clothing. North arrives at a small clearing, with a carpet of red leaves and a gentle, warm wind with the slightest hint of chill rolls around, forever moving the crimson, gold, copper, brass, orange and yellow carpet. There in the middle of this clearing sits a stump, with four wrought iron chairs with what must be the plushest looking seats one could hope for. It has been a while since East, West, South and North have gotten together for tea, and rest assured there is much to catch up on, and they will be doing much sitting down. As I was saying though. North arrives, his hair black, with faint hues of blue, much like one might find in a ravens feather, tussled and unkempt, a losing battle with the wind he often puts up with. Around his neck a warm, knitted grey scarf, an open blue P-Coat with the jersey of his favourite rugby team underneath. His trousers bunch at the bottom near his untied shoes and he kicks at the leaves on the ground as he makes his way to the chair of his choice. He sits in West's spot today, you know, for a change of pace. One of his feet bounces in place and his fingers move to a tune that only he seems to know, or perhaps only he can hear, either way, the world around him is one giant orchestra, constantly providing him with music. The sound of humming in the distance, perhaps there was at least one more person who could hear the music.

From up over the hill, making her way towards the stump and three unoccupied chairs, came South. She was a polar opposite to North, in a more literal sense, in reality, the two often got along quite well and were able to laugh with one another rather easily despite their differences. While North, a bit on the rough side, not to say that he was an ugly chap, but perhaps a little on the disorganized side, South was the definition of together, though she might scold you if you ever told her that. The truth was, everything about her had it's place and was intentional. A great word I think, intentional. Something perhaps we could all use a bit more, and luckily for North, his friends would see that he got just that, even if it was just the tiniest smidgen. She wore a hat, knitted of course, over top of light brown hair that was just past shoulder length, a hat that was worn just so, in such a way that no other could emulate and nor do I ask them to try. A knitted sweater, knitted I should tell you, not store bought, because everyone is wearing those and it just wouldn't mean as much if it wasn't home made, even if she was not the one who knitted it. The sleeves of a white shirt move past the sleeves of her sweater and drape over her hands just past the knuckles. She hums along in her jeans and hiking shoes to complete the ensemble and still add a hint of class that most people could only dream of. She takes a seat in North's regular chair.

"You think you can handle that seat?"

A smile, a head tilt, and a look in her eyes that suggested there were words coming but they got bunched up at the end of her tongue and never made their way out of her mouth. North smiles now.

"I mean it is great to see you again South."

"You to, North. East and West are late again eh?"

"What do you expect? What with the sun rising and setting on them all day long it has got to be more than a little confusing."

A squint in her eye, mouth open and a breath caught in an uncertain smile. Clearly South doesn't entirely agree with North's assessment, but is willing to laugh anyway, you know, for his sake.

"One can only imagine what that must be like. What kind of tea have you brought today North?"

North removes a small baggy from his pocket. Of course it would just be so like North to keep his tea bags inside of sandwich wrap. The very image was North to the core. Why go through the hassle of putting the tea in a proper case when he could use one of the many sandwich wrap bags that come in those wonderful over sized bundles. The kind that come in packs of 200 and never seem to leave your cling wrap drawer because you never end up packing a sandwich. South lets out a small giggle, and covers her mouth with her hands just a little bit. Which doesn't really matter because her eyes tend express themselves as much as her mouth might.

"Glad this amuses you. Today, we have Scottish Blend, straight from the exotic and far away place of your nearest Tesco's shop, or Ex Pat Store, or whatever else specializes in tea that most tea aficionados would not consider a specialty. To which I say, and with all kindness and respect, get a life."

"Hmmm, I can hardly wait."

Eyes and mouth smile in unison. North, is not oblivious to the sarcasm, nor is he oblivious to the genuine nature of South's response. Truth be told, she will support any good thing that makes a person feel great. An odd statement, but if you knew South, you would get it. A slight rustle in the leaves, and West has sashayed his way to the tea party. Hair tightly cropped, dusty blonde, sitting on top of sturdy shoulders, a black jacket with a black t-shirt to match, jeans that have been hemmed to mathematical perfection, a pair of black all purpose dress shoes, all of these things are home to the intellect and Renaissance tastes of dear, dear West. Everything he does is done with purpose!

"Good day people! How are you doing?"

Hands on knees, leaning forward in his seat, of course after the briefest moment of lounging, staring intently at his friends North and South. You will never meet a person more straight forward, more comfortable with themselves, and more ready to abandon the bland for the exotic. The perfect friend. Out from a side bag comes a French press, a small tin of green macha powder, and a tin of loose rooibos tea leaves. West, is a tea aficionado.

"South, did you bring any lemons? I was going to pick some up along the way but wasn't sure if I needed to or not."

North smiles, there is a reason why he was bypassed in that particular question, and it was bunched up in a sandwich bag on the stump where the tea party seemed to already be growing.

"Sorry West, didn't occur to me to bring any with me."

"Well, if you both must know..."

North pulls a lemon from his pocket, as well as some honey; and a couple packets of sugar he nicked from a fast food joint, for himself.

"Ah! Most excellent!"

"Look at you! All prepared!"

"We had this talk the last time we met, and heaven help us all if I am going to fit into that mold again."

"Did North bring the lemon? He has been telling me for months he was going to, supposed to be a big shocker to you two."

East has sat down at the table.

East is has brown skin, made a tad darker from her time in the sun, and wavy chocolate hair with eyes that some might call green, if they so wished to use such simple nomenclature. Green was certainly present in those eyes, but so were a healthy array of many other colors. She was dressed in a dark pink sweater, complete with khaki shorts that went just past her knees, with tennis shoes. She had ridden her bike and laid it down to rest near her seat, in South's seat. East un-slung a backpack from her shoulders and took out some tea biscuits and a kettle. That backpack said it all, East was busy, always on the go and seeing new things, the four of them were lucky to ever have moments like this, but they relished them none the less. East placed the kettle down in the center of the stump and almost at the same time, everyone sank a little bit more into their seats.

"North...that baggy of tea looks like a bag of drugs."

Everyone laughed, and it was no doubt something that was on everyone's mind. Even North had to laugh.

"Your telling me. This was a gift from Rain. Old man Time had a double take when he was visiting me not to long ago."

"How is Rain?"

"She is doing well West, sent me a post card of a dude in a canoe, thought it seemed appropriate. I have it sitting on the mantle."

"If by mantle you mean that stack of comics and video games you call a desk."

"Funny South, your on fire today."

"South, do you want to try this rooibos with some macha?"

South clenches her teeth together and lets an inward hiss pull between her teeth.

"Sorry West, North wanted to treat me to his tea."

"Well, you don't have to. I mean if you want a fancier tea you can have it."

South smiles and declines her escape. This is the part that would be all the more easy to understand if you knew South.

"I wouldn't mind trying some of that rooibos West, though I may skip on the macha and opt for lemon and honey instead."

"Did anyone bring milk? I'll not be having my Scottish Blend with out it."

"It's never stopped you before."

"I was wrong before."

A long pause.

"Only counts when I admit to being wrong, nobody else can accuse me of it."

A few smiles break and the kettle whistles during all of the preparation. Steaming hot water is passed around from giant mug to giant mug. North's is actually a ceramic beer glass but figures he can use it anyway. East pulls a pack of playing cards out from her backpack, Dutch Blitz.

"I love this game."

"I could never figure out why they called it Dutch Blitz though."

"Mennonites used them in substitute of actual playing cards."

"And it is called Dutch Blitz because? Why not call it Mennonite Madness or something."

"You can call it whatever you like North."

Everyone at the table shuffles their cards like pros, everyone but North. Long has his inability to shuffle cards with any real aptitude been the joke of his circle of friends. Even as the game play starts, his handling is clumsy, and his play is slow. Dutch Blitz, for North at least, this is not. The way North plays is more of a Dutch Gentle Saunter, or perhaps a Mennonite Sit and Ponder. His frustration is then transfered into the audio when he grunts, or growls at every missed chance, which South wastes not time in poking fun at.

"You sound like an angry pterodactyl!"

"I do?"

"It's cute."

"If by cute you mean rugged and manly, then yes, I suppose it is."

That tilt of the head again, humorous acceptance of the fact. North is stubborn, and perhaps a bit shy.

"Blitz"

North brings his arm down in a sweeping motion and points at West with a slight snap in his wrist.

"Nope."

The table laughs again as North smiles and begins to count the cards left in his pile verses the cards he managed to actually play.

"Well, I am off to a roaring start, 2 points."

"Did you count the cards against you as double?"

"...I thought we didn't keep count."

"Then why are you?"

"Because."

And that settled the matter. Besides, it is a well known fact that even if you are not keeping score, you must tally your points anyway. Especially around North.

"Well...since we aren't keeping score...I suppose that puts me in the lead then."

"Really? I got 21 points that round."

North raised his eyes at South.

"Well known fact. Even when one isn't keeping score you need to tally your points regardless."

Told you.

And so the meeting continued onward. It could have been a few minutes longer, or a few hours, or days even. But the four friends continued to sit around the table, sipping their tea, sharing their jokes and playing their card game. That was until West became restless and decided he needed to go and do something, as is usually the case for West. And then East had some place to be, urgently and was on her way. And South decided that she had brought herself down enough that she would head back home and take it easy before once again returning to her busy schedule. And North was left alone with his thoughts before he finally went back home, sat in a chair and decided to write a story about the nights events.

Reawken the soul with the Midnight Sun.

Greetings and welcome. This is just a short piece of fiction I wrote. The theme is...well I'm not quite sure. It's all about self discovery and inner demons. The theme challenges will begin again shortly, our short hiatus was unexpected but we are back into the swing of things now. Expect new things from me at least every second week from now own. So please sit back and enjoy The Midnight Sun.

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Midnight Sun
By William Evans
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I sit in the empty, devoid room staring at the pale green walls. They give off an aura of disgust, their presence a sin against nature and god. I hate them. I hold the instrument of pain in my hands, the weight and feel of it giving me pleasure. The balance of it, the feel of the grip and I run my fingers along it, everything about it makes me smile my wicked smile. The sense of untouchableness that flows through me is unmistakeable. I feel like a god, I feel like I am invincible. I could crush the things that bring me such hatred, the pale green walls in this room, I could even end her. The glint of the steel edge catches in the low light, the edge is deadly. I feel so untouchable.

I stand from where I sit, my legs popping from the extended disuse. I hold the instrument in my hand, my grip loose, letting it hang by my side. Then I swing, attacking the shadows, the invisibles, myself. My mind is lost to imagination as I bring physical form to my hatred, my disgust, my loathing. I move about the room attacking what is not there, what I see in my mind. Twisting shapes of featureless design. Then as I turn to the wall I lunge and stab. The pale green walls my true target, the thud of the blade stabbing into the wood echoes through the room. I stab and stab and stab again, my rage consuming me, filling me up inside until I can hold it no more. I back away, knife once again hanging at my side. Nothing has changed. The wall still stands still pale green. Nothing has changed. I turn from the wall as I drop the knife to the carpet below, vile building on my tongue as I move towards the window.

The window, my one escape, my view to the outside. The world of the midnight sun. A place where the world is covered in snow, its flaky white substance protecting and preserving the land, protecting it from itself. I gaze out to see a barren field, a single tree, leaves gone long ago, trunk shriveled and dying. The midnight sun above shining down on me, calling me. I yearn to be with it again.

My hand presses against the cold glass, it feels so nice. The moisture, the heat escaping from my palm. My breath clouds the window; it prevents me from seeing my beautiful midnight sun. I react badly. My hand lashes back and then forward, the fist forming mid swing. Shattering glass flies everywhere, cold freezing wind filling the room. I feel so alive in that moment.

The midnight sun shines on me in happiness, its warmth flowing over me. The cold freezing wind fighting the sun’s warmth, shifting me between a constant cold and warm feeling, making me numb. My hand hangs limply at my side, blood flowing freely, glass littered through the flesh. I feel no pain, just disgust. I turn back to the room, to the walls. The walls, they laugh at me, I can feel it, their silent laughter lulling me into insanity. These walls, these pale green walls, I hate them so.

My head swoons from the blood loss, I stumble towards the wall opposite of me, its silent laughter drawing me towards it. My rage boils over once again, it takes me, overwhelms me. I scream and curse at it, all sense of place or time or direction is gone. I step out of the anger briefly, forgetting what I was doing, stepping back to look around me. The wall is covered in blood, no longer the rancid pale green that I despise so. Then, suddenly, inspiration. I reach down to the carpet and retrieve the knife. A devilish grin sprouting on my face, a grin of someone who had finally solved all of their problems, this madness will end soon. I place the knife to my wrist, the place slides into flesh with ease, the pain is severe. Then, the freedom of release comes. Blood pours from the wound, uninhibited. I threaten to lose myself in the blood loss. I stumbled back towards the wall and begin to paint the wall red, covering the green for all time.

The blood flows and I paint away the horror that once was, I feel at peace for once. I fall slumped to the ground, unable to stand for anymore. The other walls glare at me for what I have done. My laughter fills the room for their sorrow at the loss of their brother, a dark melody that echoes long after it has escaped my lungs. The others must suffer. I slowly stand, my legs weak and my arms all by useless. Taking the knife into my glass covered appendage I grip it tight and lift it high to the ceiling. The knife dangles in my grip as my strength quickly drains from me. Then before I drop the instrument of pain I thrust it down into myself with all of my might. I feel it puncture me; I take the metal blade into me and feel its steeling kiss. I drag it down my body, my skin and muscle ripping apart in its wake. My body cut apart like a filet, organs exposed for all to see. Then with the last of my failing life I push off the wall and stumble to the other walls, smearing my blood, my organs, and my life across them, covering the putrid greed color forever. Then I fall to the floor, my final deed done. The last images I see are of the midnight sun through the window shining down on me, calling me back to it. Then blackness surrounds me and I see nothing, I feel nothing, I am nothing, complete and utter darkness. How I love it.

Strings at Dusk

Hey there, its been a while I know, but yes, I've decided to post something up, something I've just written. No theme, no challenges, just something I felt like writing.

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I walked by them about a thousand times, maybe more. They played in front of an alley entrance on a busy street. You ever see one of those streets that are closed off to motor traffic, but instead have several small shops, privately owned, nothing corporate? Those kinds of streets tend to be the home to all kinds of street buskers. You of course have your Jack Johnson wannabe crooners, playing all the soft rock hits, singing them out in a raspy whisper of a voice. They don't shave, they don't cut their hair, and they pay hundreds of dollars to buy clothes that look retro or vintage, its all a part of their image. Next to them you have your balloon artists, running around in make up making balloon animals for children and pretty women they don't have a whisper's chance in a choir with. Magicians, of course fall into this same category. The street is home to several artists, selling pictures of your inflated head driving a sports car, or paintings of pretty sunsets, hand crafted knick knacks and brick-a-brack are available in all forms. It looks like something out of a J.K. Rowling novel. That being said, one would think it hard for anyone in particular to stand out in such a crowd, but these two...I don't know, it's hard to explain, but they just did.
The old guy with his torn top hat and blue checkered collared shirt, poking out of a gray vest, was playing on a piano, the kind one might find in a pub. A lot of work, one can assume, to get that thing out onto the street. And the girl, she gently tapped away at a small drum set, her brown hair hanging out from underneath a winter cap, bundled in a brown, off orange, p-coat. I walked by them everyday, sometimes I would stop to listen. I must have been the only one, or at least that is how it felt, everyone seemed to continue on their way, paying these two musicians no mind at all. An odd thing, since their music was perhaps some of the most captivating I had ever heard. They never sang, the girl just seemed to hum a long to the songs that she and the old man in the torn top hat played. Finally, I had to ask, a momentary lull in the music, as if waiting for me to ask (the girl continued a soft beat on the drums).

"Why don't you ever sing?"

The old man turned on his seat to look at me, "Never had much a talent for it, can't seem to find the words for it."

The girl smiled a small smile from her drum set, and the old man chuckled a little bit. It must have been written all over my face. How could such music not have lyrics to it? How could music that seemed to conjure up images, stories before my eyes, not themselves have an actual story to tell?

"We improvise." The old man pointed to an acoustic guitar leaning against the piano. "Been looking for a third, why don't you join in? I'd bet my last dollar that you have those lyrics you're looking for."

"What? No, I couldn't possibly."

"You mean you won't." The girl was looking up from her drums, and eyebrow lifted in mock inquisition, unable to mask the faintest smile at the edges of her lips.

"Well, I can't...tried the guitar once, never been all that..."

"Good at it?" The girl finished my sentence for me. "I know you've tried to learn, and you gave up, a bunch of excuses, come on, give it a shot, what have you got to lose?"

I wish I could say that I picked up the guitar right there and began to let loose a flurry of chords, but I hesitated instead.

"I know a guy, and He told a bunch of people once, people that needed to hear what He had to say, that they could move mountains, uproot them and cast them into the sea. All it took was a little faith, a little heart." The old man smiled.

"Wasn't that Jesus?"

"Oh? You know Him to then? Look, pick up the guitar, and give it all you've got. Have a little faith in yourself? Play the first thing that comes to your mind, stop letting fear get in the way of faith, take heart in the fact that you would never be lead into a place that you could not be carried away from."

Reaching down, pulling the guitar into my hands, I looked at it for a but a moment as I slung it around my shoulder, the only sound I could hear was the light rasping of a snare drum, and the gentle hum of a symbol. The sounds of guitar strings as my fingers ran along them looking for chords, the piano chiming in, a bouncing, soft melody, accompanied by the drums, awaiting my guitar to strum into its place:

" Far away, so far away now
Dancing dreams that went with her
Are so far away.

Pools of blue, deeply swimming
Sparkling vortex have me spinning
Framed in chocolate rivers flowing
Ivory lines, all brightly shining

Dancing in white birch corridors
That paint roads copper and gold
Never seems to touch the road
It where my dreams do go

Far Away, so far away now
Ripples in the water now
Just so far away

Quickly moving, every chasing
Point me in the right direction
Never Stopping, ever running
A worthy desire upon reflection

Grant me courage
Remove my fear
I seek wisdom
I seek things made clear

Far Away, so far away
I am getting closer now
Not so far away."

We played for hours, I had never felt like that before, it was freedom, there was no doubt about it. It was well into the evening, perhaps even morning by the time we had finished, and my bloody fingers wouldn't let me play anymore. One song, maybe more, nobody stopped to listen, it didn't really matter.

"I'd say that about does it for today." The old man began to rise up from his chair, and he placed a hand on my shoulder. "But before we go, I am wanting to tell you something. You've experienced what it is to let go of fear. Fear, is the opposite of love, most would think it's hate, but to be true, hatred stems from fear. It is fear that stops you from living the life given to you. It stops you from making the choices you want to make. Fear of getting hurt, fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of embarrassment, fear of inadequacy, fear of self. Fear is what stops you from using the gifts you've been given, the life you aught to be living. I'd say whatever that song was about is worth the risk of a few scrapes."

I walk by that same alley way every single day, I've never seen the old man and his, presumably, daughter. No one seems to know who I am talking about whenever I ask, not even the other buskers. I still walk by the alley, I still hum the tune to a song that had no lyrics, but was given some. I still remember what the old man in the torn top hat told me, and it's not easy, but I am getting by.

The Boy in the Rain

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Challenge: The story starts during a police investigation. The story takes place a year into the future. A character will drink something alchoholic. A character is deceptive throughout most of the story. During the story, a character gets a promotion.

Theme: Fiction, Mystery
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Rain is dropping down, no sign of relenting, the streets aglow in the sheen of the watery surface in the night time lights and signs. Water falling from the sky, water falling from the suspended clothes lines, water falling from the rusted steel fire escapes, water falling off the hats of the investigating officers. The alley was filled with the alternating blue and red lights of a few police cars, a fire engine and two ambulances. I lite a cigarette, a terrible habit, I picked it up after my promotion, probably a few months afterward. I was a bright and eager young man, just made detective, thought I could be a real sleuth. Could not have been further from the truth. Its not all Sherlock Holmes, detective work. Now days its all murder, gang violence, informing families of dead kin, filling out paperwork. There was no evil villain with a dastardly plan to over throw a regime with their wealth and power and influence, just the next punk with a pistol. There was no picking up even the smallest piece of evidence and concocting an elaborate scheme with pin point detail, that was crime scene investigations job. I don’t think I can tell you about a single case where I actually had to go out and follow leads, do any actual investigation. Except for now. Opening the small flask I carry with me, I take a large swig of the burning rum inside of it. Its not a crutch, its not like I need the stuff, it just helps deal with situations like this one.

There is small boy in front of me, his blonde hair was mousey, although at this point it is matted to his head by the rain. He looks up at me with near dead eyes. Eyes that were ready to cry at any moment, and yet wouldn’t, they carry a heavy sadness in them. I can’t look at them, not my job, I gotta get this kid to tell me what he saw, C.S.I and the others first on scene told me that he was blank, wasn’t talking. This kid, who was mere moments from growing up all at once was my only lead to this slaying. I don’t need to ask him yet, I’ll check out the scene first, see the bodies, get a hold of the situation, so I can get as much of an idea as I can before I talk to the sprat. Before I go though, I take my fedora and place it on the wet child’s head, and wrap him in up in my coat. Never had kids before, never been married, but it was time to act like I knew what I was doing, like I was some sort of parental figure. I don’t smile, I don’t nod, I just tap him on the shoulder and walk away.

I walk towards the bodies, five in total, it was the most brutal slaying to take place this year, and we were not even halfway through it yet. The crime and murder rates have shot through the roof from 2009 to 2010. Some of them are emerging cults, all prepping the world for 2012. Bunch of psychopaths who think these next few years they can do whatever they like, cults performing ceremonies in accordance to their fiction writers doctrine. I’m a piss poor protestant myself, piss poor in the fact that I find it hard to love or forgive, maybe would have made a better catholic. I flick my cigarette onto the ground and turn into the direction of a gruff and groan coming from a investigator.

“Piss off Vance, you’ve had a bloody hour and a half with this scene, that’s time enough to get what you want.”

I lift the sheets on the first body, then the next, and the rest consecutively. Probably the strangest things I had seen yet, most brutal to be sure. It was definitely the work of some kind of cult, symbols scratched into the heads and arms, single stab wounds in the middle of the throat. Not sure how the kid managed to get away, baby sister managed to get the same treatment as the others, maybe he hid. Either way, I give a nod to the E.M.S and begin to make my way back to the kid. I place a hand on his back and begin to lead him out of the alley. Its odd, he doesn’t fight, doesn’t run back to his parents, he just walks away, never looking back.

Cut to a small P.O.S diner, and a eight dollar milk shake, and I am sitting across from a kid that has not eaten a bloody thing, and hasn’t spoken a damn word. But I keep the façade, I remain patient…looking. I dip my fry into ketchup, start to play with my food a little, hope I can get a laugh from this kid. But all he does is hold that deep, heavy sadness. I could slam my fist on the counter. You get impatient thanks to monotony after a while. You get used to the same in and outs and if something disrupts that, it makes you impatient, even if its something you want.

“You ain’t touched your food. Come on kid, even you gotta eat, they serve a pretty good milkshake here.”

There crap actually.
“I gotta ask you some questions, its important that you answer them. Otherwise we’ll never catch the bad people who hurt your family…”

Even with the details, I doubt we could catch them, this whole thing is just another file for the basement archives. The kid looks at his milkshake and just pushes it away and lowers his head to the table, burying it into folded arms. Small muffled sobs vibrate off the table, and I put a comforting hand out, or at least I try to. He probably knew it wasn’t sincere, or real. He just looked up at me, his face stained with tears and dirt. I found myself hoping he didn’t ask about what was going to happen with him, it would be more lies, end up in a boys home or something like it, can’t tell him that its all “going to be alright” or that he will be “well taken care of ”. Instead he just sits there, with those muffled breaths you get when you cry and your breathing can’t quite catch up.

“Its ok son, your safe with me. I need you to tell me who the bad men were.”

He wipes his face on his sleeve and begins to retell what happened. Talk of old men, dressed nicely, playing cruel games with his family, leaving him alive to watch, to witness and to tell people of the cruelty he witnessed. He was told what to tell people, to say it was the activity of some kind of pagan cult, to spread discord and confusion. Maybe its true, its hard to tell anymore, so many wacko’s out there. I sit and I listen and I lose more things to say until it finally goes a little quiet and I can only say the one lie I have left in me.

“Don’t worry son, its going to be alright, your going someplace where you’ll be well taken care of.”

I pay the tab and I usher him out the door, back into the rain and uncertainty of a world going to chaos.