Reedsy Submissions: Four Lights and Rave On

Check out my most recent stories at Reedsy:

https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/author/charlene-boyce/

Rave On is my favourite thing I have written thus far. 

I had submitted Four Lights, but I chose to remove it to edit a part I was not comfortable with. 

Four Lights is pasted below. 

****

Four Lights

Genevieve wondered how long it was before the people of Egypt felt okay having parties after all the firstborns died.

Now that the pandemic had receded sufficiently to allow gatherings of more than 10 people, a party was called for. Or so Iris said, and Iris had a way of making her ideas contagious. This time her idea was to make up for three Halloweens lost to the pandemic in the form of an Ostara gathering.

"No Ouija board. Crystal ball sure, but I draw the line at Ouija!" 

Iris rolled her eyes. She stashed the board under the tv cabinet and began dumping chips and party mix into various fancy serving bowls she had produced from the attic. 

"Did you dust those?"

"GEN - A - VIVE!" Iris punched her name out in staccato syllables. "I swear, you think I'm a plebe." Which was a very Iris response in that it didn't at all answer the question.

Genevieve was arranging her devilled eggs when the doorbell began. People arrived alone or in pairs. They crept in, trying to be inconspicuous. The effects of the long-time gathering limits and the culture of neighborhood-tattletale enforcers were fresh scars.

Mid-century lounge music swayed through the air.... was that Sammy Davis Jr? It seemed a bizarre contrast to the skulls-and-spiders decor Iris had chosen. Genevieve sighed. No matter how many times she explained Ostara was about balance, fertility and rebirth, Iris clung to this childhood image of witches. Surreptitiously tucking blooming flowers around the skulls and over the spiders, Genevieve made her way from the dining room to welcome the guests. 

Everyone had arrived. Thirteen people and one baby in one room felt uncomfortably crowded. Genevieve had to propel herself forward to embrace her guests, remind herself that it was okay now. Hattie and Han were unusually quiet. Tessa had ridden in with Belle and Zoe and complained vociferously about Zoe's inability to focus on the road. Terry was still sawdusty, hammer slung from his pants. Varain and Syl were in full dashiki splendor. Andrescu looked so tiny in his suit and tie, hunched over his snake-carved cane.  Lola and Jim bounced little Feria, their pandemic baby, the first in the coven. 

Iris jumped up, eyes sparkling. "Let's light the candles and prepare the space!" 

Genevieve caught Tessa's eyes rolling and repressed a smile. Iris was new to the craft and so bloody eager. Everyone was looking forward to a simple catch up visit... Iris wanted pomp, and circumstance, and action.

"Let's let folks catch their breath first, hm?"

Genevieve set Iris to getting cocktails while she prepared tea for Andrescu, Lola and Tessa. Conversations started rippling across the room, nearly always prefaced with, "I feel like I haven't done anything worth talking about..." 

Pent-up emotions spilled out. The pandemic had marked each. Belle and Zoe had wound up dog-sitting six large animals when three different neighbors went into hospital. They acted out various mishaps the giant beasts had caused. Varain and Syl had had to move after their landlord died. Sparks nearly flew from Syl as she described trying to pack and move with three day's notice during lockdown. 

Tessa had been forced to work six to seven days a week as nursing home staff quit. Her hips killed her, she sighed, but she had lost ten pounds!

Gentle Hattie, gray faced and fragile, had lost three aunts, her daughter and her mother in the Forest Acres outbreak just two months into the pandemic. Her voice quavered as she spoke her daughter Tamsyn's name. Han held her hand and hovered protectively.

Two hours later, the table was emptied of hummus, cheeses, eggs and chips, and the guests were emptied of stories. Everyone had heard about Tamsyn's final gasping breaths. Belle and Zoe had shared several recipes for fermenting things, and Feria had cooed, cried and pooped. Now Feria napped and the adults gathered at the table with a bit more solemnity. Iris tossed salt at the cardinal points, butterflied around the room with smoking sage.

Genevieve appeared with straws to choose the order of invocation. Iris laughed outright at this old-fashioned tradition, ready to somehow employ a random number generator, but Genevieve overrode her. With the four blessing openers chosen, they entered the circle.

Varain lighted the first candle, his dark fingers snapping the match alight. He smiled at Syl warmly. "A light for our love."

Andrescu lit the second, his wrinkled brow creased with focus. "A light for our path into the future." He softly patted Feria's head.

Iris had been chosen for third, which made Genevieve worry a little, but hers was not bad: "A light for the joy of being alive." 

Hattie was last. "A light..." she paused and tears rolled over her cheeks. Genevieve longed to squeeze her hand, but she was across the table. "A light for the DEAD." 

The last candle flared impossibly high, and the music cut off mid-note. 

Iris shrieked, jumped to her feet. 

"WE ARE HERE," her mouth shaped, and her voice sounded like a hellish choir. Wind filled the room but the candles did not blow out. Everyone froze... everyone except Andrescu. 

He rose from his seat, hands aloft, emanating power. His wrinkled hands worked furiously, tracing runes the rest were too young to remember. His 91 years now felt not like frailty, more like deep strength.

"I place my hold upon you!" he boomed, in a deep, loud voice. "Who comes to our summons, and what do you bring?"

Genevieve felt faint. She was not prepared for this. Goddess knows how long it was since this sort of thing had happened. Not in her 12 years with this coven, for sure. Thanks be to the good powers that they had Andrescu!

Iris stood very erect, stared, unblinking, still. 

"We who were lost at Forest Acres are come. Why were we invoked? Who are you to summon us?"

Hattie rose as if levitated. "Mother. I know you are there, I have felt you with me. It's Hattie."

Iris's face seemed to gently age, and her voice was now single. "Hattie, my love. You must let me go. I travel with all and they are not harmless. Release me. I love you."

Andrescu kept his hand aimed at Iris but turned his eyes to Hattie. "You are dragging these souls here. Hattie. You must let them go." 

Hattie was flushed. "Mom? Is Tamsyn there? Tamsyn?" 

Iris's voice was higher now. "Mother. I am so strong now. I can walk. I can run!" Iris hopped in place, seeming about to fly off.

"Tamsyn, my darling. Forgive me. The hospital had no space. I had no choice but to send you to Forest Acres."

"Mother!" Impatient now. Iris's foot stomped. "I am happier now! Father, help her understand!" She paused. 

"Wait. That isn't... you aren't guilty about that." She paused. Iris's blank eyes bore into Hattie who sunk back into her seat.

"That's not it at all, is it?"

Hattie cried softly "No, no no no no..."

Iris glided around Varain and Syl to Hattie's side, as Han tried to insert himself.

She looked into his eyes and her own widened. "You are not my father." 

Terry pushed away from the table at this. "You said--!" he blurted at Hattie, but Tamsyn-who-was continued, "But that isn't it, either is it, mother?"

"Tell them. Tell Grandmother and her sisters why they died. Tell them."

Hattie clutched Iris' hand, crying. 

"I was the carrier, wasn't I, mother? And you knew. I was sick when I went in... sick with the virus. And you sent me to a home full of old, susceptible people. YOU KNEW!"

Andrescu visibly paled. One of his oldest friends had died at Forest Acres. 

"Hattie, can this be so?"

Hattie wailed, ripped at her clothes. "I thought that she would be safer there! They could treat her!" 

Han had backed up. "Hattie...."

"I didn't think it would spread so fast! Mother, Aunties, forgive me!"

Iris shrieked again, with the chorus of voices, as wind rushed through the room. The candles blew out then. Iris fell back into a chair. 

Genevieve rushed to her side, felt her pulse. Belle and Zoe brought a cool cloth, while Han and Terry held a quiet, intense conversation. Jim checked on Hattie, who had fallen unconscious. Lola rocked Feria. Varain and Syl helped Andrescu to the sofa. Tessa brought a pitcher of exceptionally strong mojitos and everyone had a shot.

Iris eventually became coherent and was upset she remembered nothing. 

It was midnight, and as the clock "bonged" its first stroke, Andrescu rose and strode across the room to Hattie. With a voice not his own, he said, "Heather, my child. You are forgiven."

Hattie was wonderstruck.

"Ostara blesses you. This is the time for renewal." He took Han's hand and placed it on Hattie's, pressing them together.

"New beginnings." 

And Hattie, forty-five years old, touched her swelling belly in wonder.  

Devil's Tools

Nothing comes back from Lavery Road but the wind. Folks talk hushed about old Ma Lavery. Older’n dirt. Meaner’n badgers. Family all gone.  Fever? I ask. Nope. Disappeared. 

Pastor says visitin’s a Christian duty. He don’t, but I oughta.

Rotten apple doll rockin’ on the porch, shufflin’ cards.  “Playin’ cards is Devil’s tools.” 

Shiny black bean eyes. Clawed hand pokes out. “Cut.”  Shakes the deck. Afeared, I snatch a hot handful. 

“Queen,” she wheezes. 

“Miz Lavery…”  Card’s gettin' hotter.  

Ma laughs. Winks at the queen of diamonds. I stare back, burnin’, trapped. 

She fans the cards, checkin’ the family.  Shuffles. 

****

Written for the 100-word Microfiction Competition, NYCMidnight, May 2021.

Nothing to Fear But

Nothing to Fear But

Teddy is learning that working as a washroom attendant is an opportunity to face his fears. And then a man dies in his washroom and Teddy has to help his killer escape.

Written for NYC Midnight Short Story Competition, January 2021. Prompts were:

Genre: Thriller  Character: Washroom Attendant  Theme: Fear of Heights.

* * * * * *  

Cold sweat slid down the back of Teddy's pants. Knees almost level with his eyes, he was too tightly wedged to take a deep breath. He listened to a toilet flush, breathing shallowly as legs strobed past the grate and out the bathroom door. Didn’t stop to wash his hands. Teddy couldn't spare a thought to the germs because the dark, tight walls were crushing him.

What was Uncle Burns thinking when he got his anxious nephew this job?

He unclasped his hands and forced himself to stretch his left hand. Felt the cool beads against his wrist with his clammy palm. Drew a ragged breath. “I am calm. I am in control,” he muttered, sliding from bead to bead. “This is fine. I can breath.”

BEEP! He started, banging his head. Felt his heart crash against his quadriceps. Three minutes. He could get out. Dr. Hasslebeck would be happy. Exposure therapy -- day 12. Done.

Time to get back to the serious business of inhaling fecal germs and handing out towels to men who never touched soap or water. He shuddered, but was calmer as he started to pop the duct cover open while the washroom was empty.

Whoops, damn. Two men entered the room, one following the other. It was awkward to crawl out with others there. His heartbeat ramped up. Trapped.

He felt his ears stretch, listening. One man was mumbling, in a gravelly voice. The other was silent.

He clutched his bracelet, focussed on counting his exhales, listening, praying it was two quick number ones. TALK AT THE TABLES, he silently screamed.

Mumbles was getting louder. "I done the job, Gerry. That bitch is dead. No more senator, no more gun law. I done it for you. Cuz you asked me to." The ingratiating boastful voice dropped to a confiding tone. "Cuz you said you would PAY me. Where’s my money Gerry?" A clicking he recognized from movies.

Teddy tried holding his ragged breath to be silent. Did Mumbles just cock a gun? His companion uttered a soothing sound. Suddenly -- Stomp. Smack. Clunk, skree! Outside his vent he saw a glint of metal.

Mumbles, you suck at this, thought Teddy.

Then, a crunch. A wet thump. A calm voice. "Idiot."

Teddy glimpsed glazed eyes, head at a weird angle. Clamped both his hands to his mouth to stifle a whimper.

The other man stooped to grab the gun and paused. He was facing the duct cover. One corner was popped out… would he notice?

He turned slightly, still crouched. Teddy remembered his uniform jacket was crumpled outside the duct. Felt sick. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying. Risked a peek, willing his head not to move. A rugged face a foot from the vent. Could he see Teddy?

Teddy saw his jacket rise and slowly exhaled.

"Now, where are you?" The man had a clipped accent. Sounded like Bond.

Listening as the steps moved away, Teddy swallowed hard and glanced down the gloomy duct. As the farthest stall door was pushed open, Teddy wiggled and slid sideways until he was belly-down and started pushing through the duct into the close dark.

He softly breathed, “I can do this, I can do this, I can do this. There is nothing in the dark. I have lots of air.”

His foot slipped, lost purchase and kicked out behind him.

CLANG. The duct cover loudly popped off. Teddy scrambled, and screamed as a hand grabbed his ankle.

As he was pulled to the bathroom floor, a finger in his face: “Shut up.”

Teddy was a drenched noodle, a lanky teen in ill-fitting uniform pants and a Pokemon t-shirt, cowering on the floor clutching a beaded bracelet.

The man was tall, wearing a very expensive looking suit. He may have sounded like Bond, but he looked like a villain: dark slicked hair, crooked nose.

He wasn’t pointing a gun, but his stern look was frightening enough. “What did you hear?”

“NOTHINGNOTHINGIHEARDNOTHING.” It came out sounding hysterical.

The man sighed. Pulled a roll of duct tape from somewhere in his jacket.

Teddy gulped.

“I’m going to tape your mouth so you can’t make noise. You need to calm down and breathe through your nose.”

Teddy stared, ducked his chin.

“It’s your lucky day. I need a helper. You’re going to help me clean this up.”

The tape went over the sweaty skin around his mouth and for a moment Teddy panicked, feeling the claustrophobia again.

“Put your jacket on.” Thrusting the garment at Teddy. Pulling his sleeves on, he resisted picking at the tape.

The man hoisted the body to a semi-standing position, held him under the shoulder like a sloppy drunk. “Wipe up the floor. Good. Wipe down the knobs. Now open the door. I locked it, so you’ll have to pull the shim out.”

Teddy was drawing ragged nasal breaths. He tugged at the piece of wood holding the door closed. The man reached past him and pulled it out.

“Open the door and check the hall.”

Teddy peeked out, knowing that it was unlikely they would see anyone. On nights without shows, this part of the Casino was quiet. He saw more solo number twos and fewer tips. He nodded over his shoulder, not meeting the man’s eyes.

“Good lad. Walk out to the left and then get on the other side of this fellow and help me carry him.”

Teddy shrank from touching the dead body, wondering about fluids expelled at death and other gruesome details. They were headed to the far elevators, the ones that led to the roof and the penthouse.

“Do you have elevator keys?”

Teddy shook his head slightly.

“Ted! You abandoning your post?” A voice behind them -- his uncle the security guard.

From the corner of Teddy’s eye, he saw the man give him a tiny headshake. Then the man spoke calmly over his shoulder, “The boy is helping us. My friend has had entirely too much to drink I’m afraid.”

His uncle chuckled, approaching. “Ted ain’t strong enough to carry a tune. Here, let me help.”

Teddy winced as Uncle Burns reached for the limp arm across his nephew’s shoulders.

The body slid away and with a neat pivot, the suited man clubbed Burns with the gun butt. The guard slumped to the floor.

Hefting the body over his shoulder, the man barked, “Let’s go, Ted.” The gun was in his hand.

Teddy scrambled to the elevators. Then he realized which elevator he was entering.

The roof.

The helipad.

40 stories in the air.

Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The man tugged him inside and he slumped to the floor as the man punched the button.

“‘Ain’t strong enough to carry a tune.’” The stranger half-smiled, not looking at Teddy.

 

As the door slid open, the suited man pulled out the dead body and shaking teen.

A small helicopter was sitting on the pad.

Teddy was hyperventilating. The duct tape that had only had minor purchase on his slick skin slid off the left side of his mouth. He barely noticed. He dropped, curling into a fetal position.

The wind whipped his jacket as he lay on the roof.

The man knelt beside him.

“Ted. Ted. I don’t want to kill you. Do you understand me?” Teddy nodded an inch. “I have a code. This man,” he thumped the body’s thin chest, “he did bad things. He had to die.”

Teddy stared at him. Did bad things because you were going to pay him! He said nothing, as he tried to stop hyperventilating.

“Ted, I need your help. There is an open dumpster over there.” He pointed to the side of the roof he was facing. “I need you to help me throw this man into it.”

Teddy wondered when his heart would actually stop. It should be soon.

“I will hurt you if I have to. But I don’t want to. So don’t make me do it. Alright? Get up.”

The man pulled him to his feet. “Call me Mr. George. Do you understand me Ted?”

As the man ripped the dangling duct tape off, Ted croaked, “M…Mr. George.”

“Very good. Do you understand what we are doing?”

“I c - can’t.”

An eyebrow cocked.

“It it’s h-h-heights. I … ca..”

“Ted. Ted.” Putting a kindly crushing hand on his shoulder. “I believe in you.” Patted him. “Grab the feet.”

The dead man had a short, wiry build. He probably only weighed twenty pounds more than Teddy.

The man grasped the body under the arms, waited for Teddy to get a hold, and pulled them all toward the edge. Tears filled Teddy’s eyes. He imagined the sensation of falling. Kept trying to lift the man’s feet, trying to stay far away from the edge.

At two feet from the edge, Ted was hyperventilating again, and felt like he might pass out.

“Okay, Ted, here’s the thing. We need to swing him over the edge. The dumpster is out from the edge of the building. There are balconies on the side. We can’t have him land on a balcony. Do you understand me?”

Teddy tried to imagine standing at the edge of the roof, the weight of the swinging body pulling him back and forth, toppling over the edge. He fainted.

Mr. George drew a deep breath. Cracked his knuckles. Stretched his neck. Paced back and forth sharply once.

Then he slapped Teddy.

“Stand up, Ted. Wait, first, take this.” Handed him a pill he pulled from his pocket.

Ted stared at it.

“It’s Ativan, it’s fine.”

“I know, I know what Ativan is.” Maybe the man was a friend after all. He slid the pill under his tongue.

“Come with me.” He grasped Teddy’s arm and pulled him to the edge of the roof.

Ted felt a plunging sensation, like he was plummeting to his death. His head swam. The tops of the awnings at street level looked tiny. He imagined his body flapping through the air, ripping right through an awning. His stomach swam.

“You are fine. I am fine. Look at me. We are going to carry the body to here,” he scratched a line about six inches from the edge, “Give it a heave and let it go. I need to get moving. We’re going to do this now.”

He dragged Teddy back to the body.

Ted picked up the man’s feet and took a deep breath. He looked at the man’s pocket where the gun bulged.

“Throw the body, then I can go inside ?”

The man grunted.

Forcing himself to breathe slower, Teddy focused on lifting the body. Focused on the ground. Approached the edge, resolutely ignoring it.

“Now. Swing. Count of” - he squinted at Ted – “uh, two.”

Focused on swinging.

“And a ONE. And a TWO-- HUP!”

As soon as the body left his hands he backed up two feet from the edge.

The body flopped gracelessly over the edge. Ted was sure they had missed the dumpster. He felt exhausted and limp, like all adrenaline had left his system, taking his bones with it. He almost fainted again.

Mr. George put his arm across Ted’s shoulders, shepherding him back from the edge. Ted almost smiled as he got closer to the elevator, but then he realized the man was pulling him on, towards the helicopter.

“No no no NO NO NO!” Ted screamed. He tried to struggle free.

The elevator lights were starting to ascend. This time Mr. George had had enough. A gentle rap with the gun butt, and he tossed Ted into the helicopter. Got it started as security flooded out of the sliding doors.

He yelled, “I HAVE A HOSTAGE,” pointing to Ted’s slumped body. Burns, holding a towel to his head, waved at his colleagues.

The tiny helicopter lifted off.

Teddy groggily lifted his head, saw the roof slope away, then slide out from under them. He looked down. Traffic was a herd of beetles miles below.

His heart fluttered at the top of his chest like a bird in snare. He tried to take a deep breath, found himself shrieking as he looked wildly around for something to cling to.

He pulled on the seatbelt, was unable to clip it. Clutching it tightly, he touched his bracelet, trying to rein in his panic. He sat, frozen, mumbling affirmations.

Finally the Ativan started to soften the edge of his hysteria. He thought about asking for another one, rejected it as he imagined falling asleep and sliding out of the chopper somehow.

The man noticed Ted’s calmer demeanor. Gave him a thumbs up.

Ted smiled, yelled, “Thanks for the pill.”  Settled into the relaxed feeling. Looking at the distant horizon wasn’t horrible.

“I’m curious, why were you hiding you in that duct?” The man yelled over the engine.

“I was getting used to it, to fight my claustrophobia.” The man nodded as if this was an entirely normal thing. “Hey, maybe this will help my fear of heights!”

Police cars massed below them. A police helicopter was droning in the distance.

“Maybe so. We may need to do some fancy flying, Ted. I planned to land under the bridge, but that may not be an option.”

“I hope Uncle Burns is okay. He got me the job.” The Ativan was working with the adrenalin aftermath to make Ted chatty. “Three weeks ago. I got locked in the second night. It was pretty freaky. Who knew being a bathroom attendant was so dangerous?” Ted nodded to himself sagely. Laughed.

“Say, who was that guy you wasted?”

“Don’t ask me questions.”

“Okay, Mr. Gerry.” Teddy was getting sleepy.

The man’s head whipped around.

“What did you call me?”

Ted’s eyes popped opened as he realized his error.

They were nearing the bridge. Gerry suddenly banked hard. Ted, unbuckled, slid sideways.

“I’m sorry, kid. I wish you hadn’t said that.”

Ted realized that Gerry was reaching for the gun. He pushed back, hard. Kicked out wildly and hit a switch. Felt the helicopter sputter. It began sliding from the sky. With the Ativan feeling like a cushion around his flaming centre of panic, Ted clawed behind him, tugging at the door. As they hit the water, he felt his beads spill off his wrist and the door wrenched open. The water rose up, and he kicked out of the vehicle. He blacked out.

He came to hearing someone saying his name. Uncle Burns.

“Ted! He’s coming to!” A policeman who had been administering first aid stopped and leaned back.

“Ted, you okay?” his uncle’s voice was anxious. “Your mom’s gonna shoot me. I spose you’ll never leave your room again after this?”

The boat rocked gently in the lapping water and he felt adrift in the soft embrace of the Ativan.

Ted answered, dreamy, “Uncle Burns, it’s okay! I think… I’m not afraid of anything now!”

He rested another moment, then turned to the officer.

“Do you happen to have any sanitizer?”

Manifesto: Our Revolution Must Be Irresistible

 (With apologies and gratitude to Gil Scot-Heron and Loretta Ross)

In America the revolution was televised

It was monetized

All our devices blinking in bewilderment,

All our eyes blinking in wonderment,

All stock markets crawling over the walls of government. 

Two theories A/B tested in the world:

Right and left. Right and wrong. Rite and logic.  

Which motivation 

Finds the solution:

Fear and Love. Love and Fear.

Fear 

• of losing power

• of The Other, those people, can I speak to your manager about them please?

• of communist central world government trying to take our guns our women our libber tea

• of being constrained restrained having to follow laws that get up our noses and into our bizness

• of, if everyone is equal how am I special? 

Love 

• of whiteness 

• of rightness

• of the lightness of being the almighty individual taming the wilderness, civilizing the savages and winning the bread. 

OR

Love -

• of mankind, womankind, gender-neutral kind, all the kinds, being kind

• of glorious rainbows, suspicious spectrum of uncanny colour mixing and blending together until who even knows where one starts and one stops?

• of trees, lakes, oceans, fish, fowl and beast, of land (i mean, don’t they even know about the gold in those hills?)

• of even the opposite others (not sheeples!) who have had their sadness and need weaponized through manipulation misinformation meanness 

Fear - 

• of climate change and species extinction, ice caps melting and seas dying

• of homicidal righteous anger wrapped in flags and uniforms and coded tattoos

• of losing rights, losing presence, pleasantness disappearing into a vacuum of frontier face offs and every man for himself (women and children first!)

• of fratricide, obliteration, genocide, annihilation

Are we on the eve of destruction? 

The secret Kryptonite of the left: 

Recognizing that we have met the enemy and they is us. 

There but for the grace of God

Heaven knows we don’t believe in corporal punishment, never could bring myself to meet violence with violence. 

They think we tear babies from our wombs with our manicured hands, tear-lessly,

When we know the gravity of choices we make, 

Know our systems might inject death into an innocent person because of a 

DNA typo

Know that means letting child murderers live.

We live with those stones in our breasts.

We still try to model peace. 

Do we have time for tolerance paradoxes? 

We have already fought this war

(so many wars over “state’s rights” and oil rights and the rights of other countries and peoples to make choices we don’t agree with, so few wars to stop apartheid, political prisoners abused, public beheadings, genocide )

What if the kind of dispersed global network of ideals that we seek becomes their tool? 

So many people chasing the end of the world as if it isn’t at the door already. 

Is the solution motivation? 

Their loud flashing hate and anger that boils hot and explodes

 

Our love can’t stay soft. 

Not even tough love. FIERCE love. Burning love. Evangelical love. 

We must stuff our hearts and our guns with glitter and blast everything to shattered shards of glory. 

We must radiate the joy that can be ours, MUST be ours,

right now, in this anxious and fraught time. 

We must be the beautiful terrible frolickers following Pan, bringing green life and wonder to all parts of the world. 

Our revolution must be irresistible 

It may be televised 

It will need not be monetized

Our joy will be shared from each according to ability to each according to need.

Honey Sweetheart

Written for the NYC FlashFiction Challenge, Round 2 2020

Her husband’s death has left a mess of lawsuits and dangerous questions. At least her company is thriving.

Monday, Second Shift

This is a story based on a Reedsy prompt. It's still in draft form. Comments welcome! I think I will submit it tomorrow night. 

*********

“MOM’S BIRTHDAY.” The message flashed across my iPhone screen as I glanced at it for the time. Right. I forgot, I had to pick up a gift. There was a lilac cardigan and a bottle of White Shoulders waiting for me at Percy’s Department store. Maybe I’d get her a cupcake too. Not a cake. I squinted at my lumpy thighs. Neither of us needed that.

Whoop! I focused on the time. I was going to miss the bus! As I accelerated, I saw the bus stopping a long half block away. I sprinted, yelling. The bus driver waved back as he drove by. Ass.

My pulse thudded in my ears. Ten minutes to the next one. I’d be late, but not deadly. As I considered whether to walk on to the next stop to fill the time, I noticed two men in warm-looking grey suits bearing down on me.

“Bus is gon—” I offered, but the two swooped in and grabbed my arms. “Excuse me? What is this? You can’t just—” I started struggling as they slid cuffs onto my wrists.

“You know what you did.” The men pulled me into the back seat of a dark-windowed sedan purring by the road. I was in shock as it pulled away.

“What the hell is this? I have rights. I’m a Canadian. You can’t just grab people. What do you think I did? Are you white slavers? What is going on?” I babbled in fear, whipping my head from one stony chiseled face to the other. They didn’t react in the slightest.

The car was going too fast. I was already in a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. “Stop the car. Please! Stop and let me out! This is a mistake!” I was waiting for their grip on my arms to lessen but my struggling had no effect on them. “Where are you taking me? I’m going to be late for work!”

I realized I was sounding ridiculous now.

I fell silent, breathing heavily as my eyes twitched around the car looking for help.

Oh my god, I was still holding my phone! What a dolt! I wasn’t sure they had noticed – they continued to stare woodenly ahead, as if getting me in the car had been their task, and, accomplishing that, they had shut themselves off.

I discreetly unlocked my phone with my thumb and angled my phone to get a photo of one of the men and part of my frightened face. I concentrated on quietly and with minimal movement opening a message to my mom and sending the photo. Then I remembered the last message on my phone was from my boss – it was to him I’d sent the photo. Would he understand? I tried to imagine what he was thinking as I typed, “help me” and hit send.

“This car is shielded.”

The voice from beside my left ear made me jump and almost drop my phone. “Wha-what?

“You will not be able to send a message to anyone. Your phone is useless.”

He was bluffing. Wasn’t he? I risked a look at my phone. It looked dead.

“H-how did you…”

“Relax Miss Lovelace.”

They knew my name.

Was there a driver in the front seat? There was a window between, it was hard to tell, but it looked empty.

“Is … is someone up there?” I nodded my chin to the front. “Or is this car on autopilot? Who are you? Do you have badges? Show me your badges!” I was vacillating between terror and anger. They hadn’t shown any weapons, so I wasn’t really scared, although their iron and unrelenting grip on my arms suggested that they didn’t need guns.

I tried a different tack.

“What are your names? I mean, maybe there is a valid reason for this, but how do I know if you don’t tell me? Did some old landlord say I had overdue rent or something?” I was pretty sure this was the plot to an old Law & Order episode but I felt if I stopped talking, the silence would actually seriously frighten me.

The man on my right spoke for the first time, tonelessly saying, “You know why we're here.”

I started crying.

Lefty shifted his head a bit. “I think she may actually not know.”

Righty mirrored the slight head turn, gazed at her profile, and agreed, “She is reacting in a genuinely puzzled manner.”

Unexpectedly Lefty sighed. We were on a highway ramp now, leading west to one of the small suburbs of the city, and beyond that, toward the rest of the country. “Not again.”

Lefty released my arm and removed the cuffs. I flexed my wrist to restore circulation. I turned to look at him. He held his forearm in front of him and with the other hand, reached over to grasp it. With a tug, his arm, jacket and all, cracked opened like a small casket lid.

My mouth hung slack. “Wha..”

He reached inside where 35 years of science fiction film consumption had told me there would likely be metal and wires, but it looked smooth and buttery soft like old wood. He pulled forth a small pen-shaped device.

“Are you from the future? Are you a robot? Are you an alien? What are you?” I was jabbering now, equal parts scared and fascinated.

He grasped my arm again. “I am a cleaner.” Righty had changed his grip on my arm and was tapping his fingers along it like it was a player piano. He stretched a hand across me to take the object from Lefty.

“A… a cleaner? Like on Breaking Bad? Are you going to ki…kill me?” I whispered, staring as Righty tapped the object on my arm.

“Kind of.”

Suddenly I felt…. A prickling? A strange sensation in the crown of my head. As I stared, my forearm too swung open.

“You do this every time, Elsie. Skip your shift. Play human.” He tapped an indented button in a complex code.

“You’re late for work.”