F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Metaphysical

Rainy Nights and Christmas Lights

by

Know Exactly Where I am. (Image by By Juliancolton [CC BY-SA 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Know Exactly Where I am. (Image by By Juliancolton [CC BY-SA 4.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
There is a restaurant in Manitou Springs, Colorado, called The Stagecoach Inn. It was an actual stagecoach inn in the 1800s. On the outside of the building are strings of lights. One beautiful rainy night my wife, me, and some of her family had gone to eat here, and as my wife and I held each other outside, she said “…rainy nights…and Christmas lights….”

You don’t say something like that within earshot of a writer and expect to get off lightly…especially by one who trucks in death, dreams, and the hereafter.

As I read it for the first time in years for this posting, it brought tears to my eyes. It is another of my favorites.

This story has never been published.

 

Rainy Nights and Christmas Lights

© F. P. Dorchak, 1993

 

Rainy nights and Christmas lights. That’s all I can think of. All I want to think of.

I only just stumbled into this…inn…moments ago, seeking relief from the bitter cold of an angry blizzard. It’s dark, but I don’t know the time because I no longer have my watch and it’s very desolate—not just for my own heart, but for the souls outside as well.

No one wanted to be out on a night like this and God only knew how long I stumbled about out there, dazed and disoriented. The weather, frigid and snowy for most of the day had turned more brutal, forcing all life in from the streets. I, too, searched for a place to take me in, but nobody would have me, everyone hurrying home for their own families. Was I a leper? It was only this inn that took me, and I had to barter my soul just to gain entrance.

Her name is Laura, and I love her like no other. I love her more than life itself.

Sure, we had our differences like everyone else, but nothing, nothing changed my deep unfaltering devotion for her. Not even the times she said she was leaving….

But now I sit before a raging fireplace in a darkened room, utterly alone. It’s cold, and the chill I feel cuts to my marrow. Just now I think I see a waiter or waitress behind me, but turning find no one.

I look about the room and see that it is small, by some standards, large by others…and has not quite a dozen tables, including those in the alcove to the far end. Each table has unlit candles and neatly placed silverware atop it. The shadows I see are disturbing and gnaw at me. It is all so vaguely familiar, this place, and I feel I should know it, but I…I feel disoriented.

Deep memories stir within, but nothing surfaces.

I am just as helpless as when—

Death.

I love her, oh dear God, how I love her!

Why is it that I alone survive?

Why should I have this cursed privilege! What I would gladly give to have her back! Why did not both of us perish—it is so much better that way, you know, to be together in death than alone in life!

Oh, how I curse God and all that is life! I curse the devil for the torture! I curse everything, except—

Rainy nights and Christmas lights.

That’s what she said, my Laura, the one with the beautiful hair and loving smile.

The one I was to marry…to begin a new life with.

Suddenly I rush to the front door and pull it open.

The wind, she wails and batters me back and I hear glass shatter as the door slams behind me into the wall. It is hideously cold, yet I don’t feel it. All I feel is the pain in my heart.

I do recognize the inn.

Rainy nights and Christmas lights.

Christmas lights….

There are Christmas lights strung out across this building, and as I stand there I know where I am. Know exactly where I am. This is the inn my love and I frequented when…when we were whole…but, worse than that, it is the place where my beloved Laura was so brutally ripped away from me!

I scream into the wind, to the innkeeper who admitted me. Here—you have my soul, why not also take my heart!—oh, why even to be created, only to die! Why is life nothing but torment! Why are we to love, only to lose?

Again I look to the lights.

Still, strangely, they are lit; out of place. I peer through the blinding, heavy snow, but see no others; no movement.

I am all there is.

There is nothing beyond the snow-covered flagstone steps I know are before me. Nothing exists beyond myself and this haunted inn. The lights. I remember

 

Standing out on this porch one rainy, summer night…my Laura wrapped around me…her breath warm against my neck. We gaze lovingly at each other stretching out the moment to eternity.

“Rainy nights,” she bubbles.

“What?” I ask.

“Rainy nights…and Christmas lights!” she blurts triumphantly, radiantly.

I adore her smile and know, right there, why it is I love her.

“Rainy nights, and Christmas lights,” she says again, still beaming.

“That is so beautiful!” I proclaim, and hug her tightly.

“Hold me,” she whispers sweetly into my ears and mine alone, “hold me and don’t ever let me go.”

I knew I’d marry her someday.

 

But the tears now freeze to my face and the wind rips me apart.

Take this too, Devil, take all there is I have left!

My voice is nearly gone and I tear into my clothes to get at my heart—that eternally pumping and vile thing! Fingers unfeeling, I cut into my skin and bring forth blood, but it, too, freezes, and I realize I am truly—truly—doomed—unable to even take my own life!

I slump forward to the snowy porch and bury my hands and face. Rainy nights.

And Christmas lights.

 

So I am resigned to the fate of this dispossessed inn. It seems fitting that I should be held here, a place my love and I so enjoyed. It is so fitting to be forced to relive those moments, those memories…the moment…of her death.

Her death.

 

We had finished dining, leaving the building for a stroll. Ever the adventurous soul, she had leapt upon the ledge of a stone which guarded the creek below. I remember how the water was still visible, unfrozen.

And…the rocks.

I had hoped she wouldn’t fall and rushed to her—

 

“May I take your order, sir?”

Startled, I spill my coffee and send the porcelain cup skittering across the room to shatter somewhere. I look up and see, in the dark and standing entirely motionless, a waitress of ageless beauty. I could barely breathe, yet spare a word.

“W-what? Who-who are you?”

“Your order, sir, do you care to order?”

She placed a menu before me. I stared at it for an eternity…then lifted my head to look out the windows. All I see is the storm, which has increased its intensity, if that be possible. I also notice that I have gripped the edges of my table in a mighty hold, knuckles most assuredly bone-white.

The fire crackles.

“I-I already ate,” I said.

“As you wish,” she says, most politely, and withdraws the menu.

“B-but I could use some more coffee,” I continue. All she did was turn…and smile. I could have sworn she spoke, but I did not, for the life of me, see her lips move.

I’m sure you could, she said.

I know it was dark, and I know I am not in the most stable of minds, but I know what I experienced. She spoke…but did not move her lips.

I blink. She is gone.

I need my woman and I need her now! Forever! I cannot and will not live this way!

The pain is unendurable!

How does one survive?

How can others live through what I continue to grieve over? Nothing means anything to me anymore! As much as I don’t want to dwell on my beloved’s death, I feel compelled—it was our last few moments together…the last time we kissed, held each other…gazed into each other’s eyes or felt the warmth of each other’s touch.

I so desperately want to die and be among the dead with her!

I attempt yet again to get at my heart, my wrists, with knives…forks…broken glasses…but am without strength. Instead, I collapse upon my table and heave great tears into the wood….

I remember my arms reaching out to her.

One moment she stood atop the wall…pirouetting beautifully and telling me how much she loved me and would never, ever leave me—and the next—the next moment I reach out for her and clutch only air…huge fists full of it…and watch helplessly as she tumbles over the side like newly falling snow…drifting down, down…ever downward…

(Christmas lights…)

in her grasp. I watch until I can bear it no longer….

 

“Your coffee, sir.”

I bolt upright. A busboy is pouring fresh coffee into a new cup. His back is to the fire and he seems aglow. His smile is genuine, but he, like the shadows, scares me.

“Where—”

“Nowhere, sir,” he says, and fades from view back into the shadows, his Cheshire smile the last to go. I look to the coffee poured and it remains, small curls of ghostly white steam disappearing into the dark. I touch the cup and find it warm. Solid.

“I don’t want coffee! I want Laura!”

I pound the table. Again.

And again.

I drift off.

 

Time has again passed, and, as I have already told you, I know not how much, but it is still evil and blinding without, dark and foreboding within. I watch the spoils of snow as it batters against the windows of the alcove, and there are times I feel the building shudder, or think so.

Maybe it is just me.

The fire is still alight, though I have yet to touch it.

Where did that gentleman who admitted me go off to?

The shadows close in on me. Something is different.

Rainy nights, and Christmas Lights.

She had grabbed Christmas lights….

That’s all I want back. I want that summer night again, I want her back! I will gladly mortgage my soul again to have her! Anything, I just want that moment to remain, to never change. I want to spend that moment in eternity with my Laura. She is all I live for…all I want to die for….

Yet cannot die.

This I know for some strange reason, but I shall try one more time. I look to the fire and spy a poker. Going to it, I raise it and touch it to my chest; feel its dull accusation. Stoking my emotions, I raise the weapon with mighty intent—but alas, it misses its mark and strikes the wall above the hearth instead. I anchor the handle end into a wall, the point placed firmly over my heart…and ram myself forward…but it slides harmlessly off. I attempt yet one more blow, but it is again deflected, this time pulled from my hands as if by some unseen force.

I pound my fists into the wall.

Laura! Why has this happened?

I want so much to die and join you—I no longer wish to bear this tragedy!

I collapse at my table and once more try to dream

Of rainy nights and Christmas lights.

But hear a door open.

Something is different….

I hear footsteps and look up.

A figure is in the doorway. Stands still.

“Who…are you?” I ask. “I can take this no longer! Please, take me, I am yours!”

I cry, my blood long since cold, my senses frayed. I hope the figure to be Death’s messenger, finally come for me.

“I know,” the figure says, and it is a soft, pleasant voice.

I rocket to my feet, chair spilling out behind me.

I know that voice!

“Laura?”

Unstable, I grip the table for support. Again, I ask, “Laura—i-is that…you?”

“Yes,” she answers, moving out from the shadows. “I am here, my dear.”

It is her, there is no mistake! As sure as I live, it is her!

“But—but you had died!”

She smiles ever so lovingly as she approaches.

“No, my love, it was not me who died. I had grabbed a string of the Christmas lights…and when you saved me from falling by diving for me…you fell yourself. Don’t you remember?”

My throat is suddenly dry. I collapse to my knees.

“But—that would make you—”

“—dead? Yes, I am indeed.”

Still she smiles, unaffected by her words.

My heart pounds, rises to my throat.

I choke.

I love her so much!

I touch her and find her as cold as I am.

“H-how?”

“Does it really matter?” she asks casually, “I am here.”

Standing before me, she reaches down and I grasp her hand. She pulls me to my feet and I notice she places an empty prescription bottle on the table.

I say nothing.

“Tell me how much you love me,” she says, drawing in close to me.

I see the concern on her face…feel the tears on mine and cry, “I love you with all my heart and soul and will always—ever—be there for you!”

“And I, you, my darling. I love you more than life itself!”

And so I know.

 

We sit at our table…together at last…and gaze into the fire. Our hands are tight and true, our hearts one. The blizzard still rages, but I no longer care. As we look to each other, we are no longer cold.

Related Posts

The Reincarnation of F. P. Dorchak

by

Bull Run, Virginia, Battlefield Cannon (© F. P. Dorchak, April 22, 1990)
Bull Run, Virginia, Battlefield Cannon (© F. P. Dorchak, April 22, 1990)

I believe in reincarnation…or, more specifically, in the living of simultaneous lives that appear to us in this physical existence as reincarnational.

This belief has led to more than a story or two. The strongest past life is my Civil War existence. This is the one that seems to come up the most. Has the strongest effect on me. It led to the short story “Etched In Stone” (to be posted Feb 26, 2016, on my other blog site). I feel I was part of a Zouave regiment, perhaps the 5th New York. Another life that greatly impacts me is my Titanic life. I feel I died while in the steerage section of that ship. That lead to “The Death of Me.” Existences as a WWII tail gunner and a Ronin/Samurai lead to the short story “Tail Gunner” and a character, “Kioshu,” in The Uninvited. The curious thing about the WWII tail gunner existence is that I also feel I may have been an American ground troop in that war as well. Not only do images of B-17s rattle my bones, but many scenes with ground troops stir my soul quite a bit, too. So, I figure I must’ve had dual counterparts in WWII. But there’s more “military”…

Someone once told me they “saw” me as a Roman soldier. And a chiropractor I used to go to had muscle tested me and came up with 14 past lives…including yet another military life: a WWI life, which was interesting, because I’d never really felt that existence. He might have been confusing it with my WWII lives and his own “filters”…but, in any case, it was interesting (muscle testing can be influenced by the one doing the testing). Yet another World War counterpart. Clearly I’ve dabbled in the military end of things a bit. And I’m quite over it, to tell you the truth. Enough with war.

Another life I haven’t looked into much was one as a witch. A “kid witch.” In early 1984, a woman (a witch) told me she thought I’d been a kid-witch of 12 or 13 years old and had been pressed to death. She also told me that she’d been the cause of my death. I later found this in a letter I’d written to the late Jane Roberts and Rob Butts in 1984. In it I’d written that this present-day witch:

“…keeps seeing me as a coven member, and I tell her that she’s probably just seeing a probable self of me. She also says that we knew each other in a ‘past life.’ That I was a little kid-witch, about 13, and she was the death of me. Interestingly, [while with her one day] I saw an image of a young kid, about 12 – 13, being pressed to death–an agonized face. I told her this after she told me what I told you.”

Curiously, I could find no instances of a teenager being pressed to death over the Internet, so who knows what we’re really picking up on…or maybe it was done “in private”…you know, once you get past believing in any of this….

Interestingly, as a teenager I did have a weird thing happen to me that relates to the above: one day while looking for something in the Lake Clear, N.Y. garage, I had pulled some upright sheets of plywood toward me, away from the garage wall (the wall closest to the house). As I did so, I felt the plywood (this is how I thought of it then) seemingly take on a life of their own and fall into me. I pressed with all my might and was utterly helpless…and it raised a fear in me I had not experienced at that time. The entire “pile” knocked me over onto the gravel floor, all 10 or 15 or however many sheets there were, on top of me. Those suckers were heavy! It was the first time I’d felt so utterly helpless…and it felt so damned weird. I managed to get out from under them no worse for the wear, but that moment remains etched in my mind. I thought back to that later, after the witch told me the above. Also as a kid, I’d read up on the history of witchcraft, but it never really held much interest to me after reading about it…though I did get into it as an interest (not a practitioner) for a while, reading several books on it….

While visiting Maui, in 1998, with my wife, I had the following experience (taken from my diary):

“Nov 14, 1998, 1:36 p.m.

Note: While driving around, had a particularly spiritual experience, like the Manassas one, north of where we were staying [in Maui]. Laura and I drove north, to just inside that one-laned road, and we both felt that this drive felt “weird”! It was overcast, and late in the afternoon, but it was more than that. I again felt like I was straddling two worlds, and I got to thinking: oh boy, am I treading on ground I treaded before? Had Laura and I been alive in another life, past or future, here? Maybe had I been a spiritual kahuna? Had I died here in some ritual or war? It was verrrrrrrry weird….”

As much as I very much loved visiting Maui…I have absolutely no desire to  permanently live there (though am perfectly willing to go back as many times as possible!). Whatever the reason…it seems to stem from the above “weirdness” and finally made total “sense” to me.

Another interesting one is seeing images of me walking in monk-like robes over sand in a far-away (barren) land. I wonder if it’s Australia. I haven’t gotten much from this imagery.

There have been a couple of other possible lives I’ve glimpsed, but none of them are as strong and emotional as the ones mentioned above.

Now…as fascinated as I am by the lives I feel I’ve lived/am living in other realities, I don’t focus my energies so much on finding out all I can about them (i.e., “reliving” them) as in acknowledging them, listening to them when I need to, but focusing my conscious thoughts and efforts to my current existence. Those lives…those consciousnesses are elsewhere…being focused upon by the me that is there…and I need to focus on the me that is here…but acknowledging that my other selves do still exit elsewhere and are every bit as important and real as the me I am, here, writing this. Some of those lives I really don’t want to revisit anyway.

If you keep focusing on the past (or “elsewhere”), you’re never really living in the present.

I feel the important thing about learning about our past lives is that we have them and acknowledge them when we become aware of them. Send them positive energy. I feel in doing this we can enhance their lives…change them, even. Remember I believe in simultaneous lives…not so much past lives. All our lives are ongoing…and this being my belief, I feel we can all help each other out. Make our collective lives better…which therefore helps out our individual “present” lives as well. It’s all energy…and all energy is connected. As we help ourselves out…we’re also helping out everyone else.

So, while it’s cool and interesting to learn about the other lives we live…we still need to focus on our present-day lives (“Over Now,” by Alice in Chains has been playing just now, and “Say Goodbye” just popped up from Theory of a Deadman…). I feel that’s also why many of us cannot remember much about our other lives. Or why we only get bits and pieces. I feel we have built-in filters. We only get what we can “handle”…or only enough “bleed throughs” to remind us who “we are”…but not enough to cause us to focus so heavily on these other lives so as to ignore our current focus. The purpose of having a life is to live it. Live and focus on the things in front of us. That, in turn, helps us all in our overall experience of Life and growth of our soul.

And each of you all have this ability. I bet you’ve all had some weird imagery or experience you can’t readily categorize that fits into the realm of reincarnation or simultaneous lives but have dismissed it as fantasy.

Well, don’t.

Acknowledge it…send it positive, constructive energy when you get such images…and move on. It’s okay if you do ignore it/them…they happened/are happening whether or not you believe it/them…or acknowledge them (you know, given you believe in this stuff…). But they pop into your consciousness for a reason. So, why not give them their due? No one else has to know! It’s just between you and…you. And it doesn’t even matter if you’re misinterpreting what you’re “getting.” Just acknowledge the thought…the idea…it.

So this post is not just about the reincarnation of F. P. Dorchak…it’s also about the reincarnation of you.

Related Articles

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock

by

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock. (Image by Steven Depolo, CC BY 2.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock. (Image by Steven Depolo, CC BY 2.0 [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Years ago my wife and I had come from the county fair, in Calhan, Colorado, and stopped at this road-side diner. It is exactly as I described it in the story, down to the stencil-work and Clay Walker tunes. This is where I was inspired to write this tale…the cool and cozy microcosm of life we experienced in this diner on that hot summer afternoon was so unto itself it was separate from the rest of reality.

And then there was the meatloaf.

Typical restaurant meatloaf is extremely salty to me, but this was the first time I’d ever had meatloaf at a restaurant where it wasn’t—I liked it so much I’d ordered an extra meal to go.

So…meatloaf, microcosms, and messin’ with reality. That’s how I roll.

“Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock” originally appeared in The Black Sheep, issue #64.

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tock

© F. P. Dorchak, 2004

 

“Table for two?” the hostess asked somberly, escorting Tom and Lea Colbert to a booth in the very rear of the restaurant. It was a late mid-July afternoon and the air-conditioned interior felt like a life-or-death oasis. The couple nodded thanks, taking their seats as the hostess deposited menus then quickly returned to the front of the restaurant.

“Is it even worth it?” Lea asked her husband.

“How would you rather go? Out in that heat?”

Lea said nothing, mechanically opening her menu. “I don’t think I could even eat anything. Look. Look around. Is anyone else eating?”

Tom opened his menu, and took in the restaurant without making it obvious. She was right. Everyone either skulked, stared blankly into oblivion, or quietly sobbed. There wasn’t much dinner conversation. Several lone individuals, cowboys and cowgirls, simply sat and stared straight ahead into the western-motifed walls. The waitresses (they didn’t seem to call them “servers” out this way) all congregated at the front of the restaurant around the white lattice-work behind the counter, where a hand-burned sign proclaimed “$Cashier$.” Off to the right of that were the restrooms, equally proclaiming “Cowboys” and “Cowgals.” Tom’s gaze fell across to the dinner special written up on a whiteboard. Meatloaf special, it said, mashed potatoes, veggie, diner roll, and a salad. $5.50. Clay Walker played quietly in the background, from overhead speakers. There were pictures of many famous and not-so-famous cowfolk across every wall, ranches and horses, as well as a stencil that traveled the entire length of the room with pictures of cowboy boots, spurs, horses, and that same old, bleached-and-weather-beaten steer skull. Behind his wife, Tom saw quite the elderly couple not talking, partially eaten food sitting on the table between them. Bibles were open before the both of them and each clenched each other’s hands. Inside this small, hole-in-the-wall western diner off the beaten path all the curtains were drawn shut. It was as if nothing existed outside this tiny diorama.

“I’m just not hungry,” Lea said, closing her menu and carefully laying it on the table before her. She leaned over it and buried her face in her hands.

“Well, I’m hungry and meatloaf sounds good. If we’re gonna die, I might as well do it on a full stomach.”

“How can you eat?” Lea lowered her tone to an intense whisper. “How can you eat at a time like this?”

Tom calmly set down his menu.

“I don’t know, honey…all I know is my stomach’s growling and I feel shaky. What difference does it make if I die starving or well fed? If the cook’s cooking, I’m ordering.”

Tom saw tears emerge from his wife’s eyes. He reached across to her, but she continued crying, her shoulders shuddering.

“Honey…honey,” he said, “there’s nothing we can do…we just have to live our last day like any other. What else can we do?”

“I know,” Lea blurted, suddenly realizing the other patrons were eyeing her, including the group of cowboys and cowgirls at the large table up front. The small family to her right. They all stared…knowingly…at her.

“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Lea pulled some napkins from the holder and dabbed her eyes. “You’re right. There’s nothing we can do about it except what we’re doing.” She cleared her throat. Blew her nose.

“Hi, folks,” the waitress said, showing up at their table with glasses of water in each hand. “Are you all right?” the waitress asked Lea.

Lea nodded, composing herself.

“Yes. About as fine as anyone can be, right now, I guess. Thanks for asking.”

The waitress smiled warmly and pulled the pencil from her beehived hair. “All we can do is what we can do,” she said, reaching out to Lea with the hand holding the pencil and resting it for a moment on her shoulder before retracting it. “Now, what can I get you folks to drink?”

“Um, cmmm, I’ll have iced tea,” Lea said.

“Same,” Tom added.

“We have a meatloaf special today. And I must say it’s really good—but I’m supposed to tell you that there’s green peppers in it.” The waitress smoothed away loose strands of hair behind her ears. Her hand trembled just a little. Barely at all. She was a pretty woman, in her forties, with a slim cowgirl’s figure pleasantly stuffed into her Wranglers. Lea started to tear again, when Velma (her name was on her name tag) again reached out to her. “Honey…it’s okay. When the Lord’s ready for us, we just have to answer His call.”

Lea recomposed herself, again wiping her eyes. She smiled blithely.

“Just get us two of your dinner specials, okay?” Tom said. Velma jotted that down and departed.

“How does she know there’s a God? We’ve all seen it, haven’t we? The same dreams? Over and over again. Night after night. It’s been on TV, books have been written about it. Psychologists have analyzed it the world over, but nothing—not one thing—has been done about it. It’s today, and there’s not a damned thing anyone can do!”

“Hon, please try to keep you voice dow—”

“Why? Tell, me, why, Tom? What’s the point? We’re all gonna die—the dreams told us so. The strong ones, they took their own lives—but look at us. We couldn’t even do that—”

“Honey, please,” Tom said. “Everyone else is going through the same thing. There’s no need to get everyone all stirred up. We have to go sometime, don’t we? What difference does it make if we go in our sleep, by old age—or in some apocalyptic Götterdämmerung? Now, we’ve done the best we could with our lives, we’ve atoned…each of us in our own ways…there’s nothing more we can do. We’ve all made our peace, and we’ve had two years to do it. Every one of us. The world over.”

But, here, Tom began to tear, whispering.

“We have to be strong, dammit. For others.”

“But what difference does it make!” Lea again exploded, and this time she shot to her feet. “We all made the jokes at first, didn’t we?” she said looking to her captive audience.Even those who’d been quietly sobbing stopped and looked up.

“All of us…we thought, ‘oh, something must be in the water,’ or something similarly stupid. We joked about it. Then…then we sought religious and philosophical help, because that’s what we do in times of stress, even if we aren’t practicing about it.”

Lea looked everybody in the eye, including Velma and the other waitresses…the cook, who poked his head out from the grill.

“We all made amends with everyone, tried to make up for all the little and not-so-little wrongs we’d done. Helped out those in need of any help. Did our best to be perfect little Humans—but it didn’t seem to make any difference, did it? We still had those goddamned dreams—those nightmares—every night, didn’t we? Don’t we? And today’s the day…the day we alll pay the Piper. And how can all of you just sit there like this? Like stupid…pathetic…little mice, caught in a trap?”

“What else are we going to do?” asked the wife from the small family to her right, huddled together like frightened puppies. Her eyes pleaded, searching for an answer, anything…but Lea had none. She just stared back.

“Mommy…” the woman’s daughter peeled, “I’m scared.”

“Please, ma’am…please,” the mom pleaded.

Tom got up and went to Lea. He put his arm around her and brought her back to her chair. He sat her back down, and she again began to quietly weep. Tom took up a chair beside her and grasped her hands….

 

Tom and Lea just stared at their food. Two meatloaf specials on the table before them now cold. Iced teas also untouched, but leaking condensation down the length of their glasses onto the table.

“Tom…how do we know this isn’t a dream…a lucid one?”

Tom took his time answering, noticing that the late afternoon was quickly turning into early evening. The light outside the windows had changed…became darker, more…solemn.

There just wasn’t enough time.

“I guess we don’t do we? That’s what some of the experts were saying. That we could all just be dreaming this and we’d all wake up to find our world the same as it ever was. Sane, rational, still there…what we remember.”

“I’ve had some pretty real dreams before,” Lea said. “Before all this, I mean. Where I couldn’t tell the dream from reality. People thought I was crazy—”

“Not anymore,” Tom said, snorting.

“No, not anymore, huh. Well, we’ve lived a good life, haven’t we? You and me?”

Tom smiled, reaching out to her/ Twenty years of married love and emotion immediately welled up inside him. “Yes, we have, my love. The best life we could ever live. We always did our best, even before…all this.”

“Yes, we did.”

“We just have to look at it as…time to go.”

The two sat silently for a moment, squeezing each other’s hands before Lea continued.

“But, Tom, I know I’ve asked this before…but, really, what if this is all a dream? I mean it. This is all a dream and we’re gonna wake up, you and me. Say this is my dream and in your sleep, you’re not even dreaming about this—but I am—and we’ll both wake up tomorrow and you’ll not remember your dream, but I’ll remember mine—this dream—and tell you all about it, and nothing’ll be wrong. Nothing. Everything will be as it normally is, I mean, like we’re used to?”

“Honey, that’s been said before, you know that—”

“Yes, but if it is my dream, then it’s all just me, don’t you get it? Or you. Don’t you see? This is my dream and when I wake up, none of this will matter…it will all have just been in my head. No one else’s—the world isn’t going to explode or whatever it is that’s supposed to happen, because it’s all in my head and no one else’s.”

Tom stopped.

Yes, she had brought this up once or twice. As had others. And, yes, books had been published on this premise more than once over the past two years.

But…what if she was right?

What if it was all a dream, her dream—or his dream? What if all this—the dream of the dream—was all…a dream? A lucid one, where he (or she) was just wide awake and aware and that just made it all the more frightening? And Lea just thought it was her dream, because that’s how dreams work…that’s the weirdness of them…he’s dreaming, it’s his point of view, and she’s just a part of his dream…just like sometimes he’s in hers. But if he was (also?) dreaming it, was it really Lea’s dream—or his? How could he be aware in Lea’s dream? It had to be his dream, not Lea’s. And further, if he was aware he was dreaming and the dream was so intense and scary—and he knew this—why not change it?

“You know…you’re right. We don’t really know, do we? It could all be a dream of a nasty dream, and if it is, we can change it, because we’re aware of it.”

Tom stood up. Took in the restaurant. Everyone stared at him. He stared back.

Country music continued to play over the speakers. Somebody he didn’t recognize.

The sky was now totally dark outside (wasn’t it just twilight?). The curtains closed. This was their own little microcosm and it did feel different. Something was suddenly different about the whole affair. Not just the place, but also what supported this place…life itself…was the only way he could describe it. And he was conscious that everyone was still staring at him as if he was going to save the world—which he was, because it was his dream. Lea had said it was hers, but she was just saying that because she was in his dream and that’s how dreams worked. You never really knew—until you did. Then everything just fell into place.

“Okay…okay, everybody…,” Tom announced, arms upraised as he walked away from Lea and their table and into the center of the restaurant, “she’s right. She’s right—can’t you feel it? You’re all in a dream, my dream—all of you.”

The cook and waitresses stopped talking and—holding hands—came out from behind the lattice-work.

“Think about it. How could this be anything else? Nothing like this ever happens in real life—it’s all boring and drab. Dull. Practical. Sometimes even downright brutal—but always, always the prime directive has been that nothing like this ever happens.

“Only in science fiction and fantasy.

“Books and movies.

“This is all dream world stuff.

“Armageddon? The end of the world? The world never ends…sure, it gets nasty, wars come and go…but it never ends. It only did once, if you believe in the Bible, but wasn’t there also something about a promise that God would never do that again? So, if it’s all true…my wife’s correct—this is all a dream, but it’s my dream, and not her’s…and you’re all in that dream. So, if this is the case—”

“Sir, this has all been talked about before,” a cowboy said, pushing back his wide-brimmed hat. “And what about Reve—”

“Of course it’s all been said before—because it’s my dream! But that’s exactly what I’m trying to say! There’s no real time in dreams, everyone knows that—years can end up being mere minutes. Listen to what I’m saying! If this is all in my head and it’s not reality then why do we have to live with it, right? We can change it. Each and every one of us—”

“But, if it’s your dream, then why do we have to do anything?” another asked.

“Don’t you see? Everyone knows dream logic never makes any sense—except in dreams—so go with it. This is my dream, so I’m telling all of you to go along with it! We’re not all going to die because I’m not going to allow that to happen.

“I’m saying, right here, right now that this is my dream and I’m taking control.

“I’m saying we live. All of us. And that we’ll wake up in the morning, refreshed and ready to meet the day in all its beauty and splendor!” he said, spinning around, arms upraised higher, “A day like any other day! Like we’re used to! If it isn’t a dream, then we all die with smiles on our faces, but if it is…if it is, then we change a bad outcome for a good one.”

Everyone continued to stare at him.

“Come on, people! What do we have to lose? Take control!”

The quietness was slowly replaced with handfuls of intimate conversations. Tom watched as people hugged and kissed each other, but more importantly, he saw renewed hope. People, finally, had hope, again, where they hadn’t had any for two years.

He smiled, returning to his wife.

“Why isn’t this my dream?” she asked.

“That’s the beauty of it, hon—it is. But it’s also mine. Whether it’s yours, mine, or the cook’s, it’s still everyone’s dream. The dream is dreaming as well as the dreamer! Credit doesn’t matter. We’re the only thing that matters—the now,” he said, taking hold of both her hands and kissing them, “dream with me, honey. We can do this!”

 

Everyone closed their eyes and many mumbled their desires over and over and over…but all concentrated with their hearts and souls…upon lives they wanted to live.

To live.

A better life. For all.

Beautiful homes, with beautiful yards and beautiful pets and kids.

Beautiful birds. Singing.

Beautiful trees whispering in balmy summer breezes.

No wars, peace everywhere…love and plenty for all….

And Clay Walker continued to belt out his tunes overhead. People dreamed about the way it used to be, only better…simpler problems with simpler solutions. Simpler times….

 

Outside flashed a brilliant, silent explosion that was gone the instant it ignited…and with it, all the world that had been known and loved. All of it…down to the last atom.

All the people…all the animals…all the dirt and trees. All the insects and birds. All the hate and love. All the oceans, the mountains, the stars…

Everything.

And, except for everyone in this one diner, reality…all of existence…simply ceased to b

Related Posts

Dark Was The Hour

by

Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks - 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0], via Wikimedia Commons).
Going Home. By L Eaton (Snowy Train Tracks – 20150321_130326 [CC BY-SA 2.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons).
In 2004 The Gazette newspaper had put out a call to write stories for their Christmas short story contest. They required certain themes in the stories, like trains and Colorado and snow. This was the first and only time I remember “writing to spec”; it’s not something I like doing. But I did. I submitted. It didn’t place.

But where did the story idea itself come from? There was definitely the train imagery from the Twilight Zone’s “A Stop at Willoughby“…but there had also been some media coverage about Fallujah at the time that also had something to do with it. In any event, I love these kinds of stories, whether it’s Willoughby, “The 7th is Made up of Phantoms,” or my own: “Tail Gunner” and “Etched in Stone” (which will post Feb 26, 2016). They reach into me and just grab me. Make me, well, tear up….

When I wrote “Dark Was The Hour,” I’d contacted a nearby Marine Corps recruiting station and talked to a handful of marines…even got a couple of them to read it. I wanted to use the right terminology, the right descriptions, get the right “feel” to the story. Those marines were: Sergeant Sharp, Corporal Hughes, Private First Class Fox. That’s all the information I have left on them. Again that was in 2004. I often wonder about them…how they’re doing. I remember one of them was actually chomping at the bit to get “over there”; I think it was PFC Fox. I hope they’re all still alive and well.

This story was published in the December 2007 issue of Apollo’s Lyre.

 

Dark Was The Hour

© F. P. Dorchak, 2004

 

A slight chill radiated inward from the window as Frank Bishop stared out through his accusatory reflection into the snowy night. He rocked back and forth as the train gently cradled him through the high Colorado mountain passages with its comforting ratcheting sounds and motion. He inhaled the scent of leather and polished wood—nostalgia.

Fallujah sucked was the nicest way he could put it and the fact that he’d left parts of himself back there didn’t help matters.

“Ticket, please?” the Conductor asked.

Frank jumped, shooting a hand to his side.

Of course he no longer carried his Beretta nine mil and of course this man wasn’t a threat.

He gave the conductor his ticket.

“Thank you, sir,” the Conductor said. “Next stop, Idaho Springs!” The Conductor smiled an odd little smile Frank found unnerving and left. Frank closed his eyes, allowing the lulling metallic Ta-tun–Ta-tun, Ta-tun–Ta-tun of the train to

Fallujah.

A name he hoped he’d never—ever—have to speak or hear again.

But he still heard the

 

Explosions. All around him. His ears rung, his eyes swam, and his head pounded from the slight concussion. Lieutenant Bishop popped his head back up over the battered cinder block wall. Small-arms fire came quick and well-directed. He ducked back down.

“Sir! We really need to—”

“I know!” Bishop shouted back to the platoon sergeant. He wiped sweat from his eyes with bruised and battered hands caked in dried blood and powder burns. The cacophony and smell of rocket-propelled grenades, spent mortar rounds, and death filled the air. The Fog of War.

“I’ll head off to the left—there,” the lieutenant said, pointing, “and you guys nail ‘em with everything we—”

“Sir, you know you’re—”

“What do you want me to do? Leave him there? You can see him as well as I can! I’m not leaving him behind.”

The Marine sergeant passed on the word to the rest of the platoon.

Bishop took a deep breath, looked to his men, then

 

ran his hands through his hair. It’d been a while since he’d been on this train. The last time had been when he’d been nine—was that right? His folks had taken them all on a Christmas ride between home—Idaho Springs—and Denver. Just before the car crash that had claimed them.

Had he made that up—or was that the concussion talking? His head still felt fuzzy. All that shelling…all that….

God, it felt so good to do nothing. To just sit back and relax. Look out at the dark snow-covered landscape like some Hitchcockian movie. His dad had really loved Hitch.

A reflection in the window passed quickly behind him, and

 

Bishop spun around, his still smoking and spent M-16A4 useless at his feet. Nine mil already in hand, he pulled his KA-BAR combat knife up before him and in one swiftly efficient movement took out the hostile who’d lunged for him. Another was close behind, but Bishop dispatched him just as efficiently. Breathing heavily, he quickly secured the room, sheathed the knife, and grabbed the dying marine’s wrist. He looked to the wrist.

Something was wrong.

No time to think about it, he turned to leave when there was a tremendous flash of heat and noise and something ungodly kicked him in the very seat of his soul and launched him bodily into a wall. The next thing Bishop knew, he was

 

crying. Something wasn’t right. Why was he crying? He was going home, home for good. He was no use to the Corps any more. Had served his country. Had his decorations, which he couldn’t look at without considering the lives lost—and saved. He was going home to his parents and girl. Their black lab, Boomer. Going to make a new life, if that was at all possible these days.

But what about those left behind?

Who was gonna keep an eye on them? Keep them safe? His buddies. Hector—how was Hector? Had he made it? Hector Gonzalez

 

laid down a searing blast of cover fire around the lieutenant’s position. The lieutenant was still in there. Gonzalez had no choice. He couldn’t leave him. Additional hostiles were quickly overrunning their position.

Gonzalez hand-signaled the platoon to cover him.

Gear rattling, Gonzalez tucked in around the wall then made his way through the rubble. Once he got to the open twenty yards through which he had to sprint, he glanced back to his platoon. They kept up his cover fire. Gonzalez sprinted across the space and slammed his body against a wall. Just up ahead was Bishop. He wasn’t leaving him, not after all he’d done at his own expense. No way. He’d stayed behind to allow the rest of them exit…when the blast had come. Gonzalez cursed himself for allowing the lieutenant to order them off like that. All he could think of was

 

“I’m not supposed to be here, am I?” Bishop asked the Conductor.

“Of course you are, Son,” the Conductor reassured. “You’re going home. For Christmas. The best one ever.”

“But…”

The Conductor smiled.

 

Gonzalez had made it to the lieutenant. He was a mess. All he could tell for certain was that he was missing…parts. It’d hadn’t yet registered just what, in all the still-settling smoke and rubble, but he wasn’t…whole….

“Christmas…,” the lieutenant whispered, “Jea-nna….” His face was thrashed and bloodied.

“Lieutenant?” Gonzalez asked, but there was no more.

Gonzalez grabbed the lieutenant’s wrist and quickly pulled him from the rubble as more fire opened up on their position. He turned to leave, but lost his hold. He tried to regrip the lieutenant’s wrist, but only grabbed

Air.

Gone.

The lieutenant was

Gone.

Gonzalez spun around.

No body, no lieutenant. Only acrid ordnance stink and rubble.

“But he was—he was just—where’d”

 

he stood in the well of the exit stoop as the train came to its screeching halt.

“Have a great Christmas, Lieutenant!” the Conductor encouraged, smiling. He saluted Bishop.

Bishop turned and looked up to the conductor. Bishop was bloodied and covered in soot and grime and war in his desert cammies and gear. He still held his nine mil in one hand, KA-BAR in the other. He looked to the nine mil. Outside.

It snowed heavily.

He cast a momentary, dour smile back up to the Conductor, then carefully placed his weapons up at the Conductor’s feet. He stared at the instruments of personal destruction one last time…rubbed a wrist and worked his jaw…when a larger smile crossed his face. He uttered a single chuckle.

He looked back out into the dark, snowy Colorado winter before him.

It was always darkest before the light.

Bishop inhaled deeply of the cold, sweet, aromatic pine of the evergreen forest mixed in with train exhaust. Saw Christmas lights through the heavy snowfall he swore he could now actually hear—heard Christmas music?—when a hand reached in to him from outside the train.

“Welcome home, Son,” his father greeted.

Bishop again inhaled deeply, smiled…and stepped off the train.

Related Posts

 

Merry Christmas To All!

by

Merry Xmas! (Image by [no machine-readable author provided. Alsandro assumed (based on copyright claims] GFDL http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html or CC-BY-SA-3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/], via Wikimedia Commons)
Merry Xmas! (Image by [no machine-readable author provided. Alsandro assumed (based on copyright claims] GFDL http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html or CC-BY-SA-3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
I really love this time of year!

I love all the trappings, the fun, the feelings-of-love that run rampant come the Christmas timeframe.

Yeah, and I also like the lights, the ornaments, and all the “pretty colors”!

I’m not a traditionally religious guy. In fact, I’m not religious at all. My beliefs are my own, but I love all the fun that goes into this time of year…the giving of gifts…the receiving of them (oh, come on—you know you like getting as well as receiving! There’s nothing wrong in admitting that!)…the getting together. Reaching out to family, friends, and the world. To see how others “view” me in the fun and excitement of receiving well-thought-out gifts from others (yes, and I do the same when I get gifts for others…we all talk freely about giving…but no one talks about the receiving)!

I love the Christmas lights, the merriment, the decorated trees—I actually love wrapping gifts! It’s fun “hiding” something that I hope people are going to like…and looking forward to seeing them tear into it when given to them!

I do it rarely, but I also like holiday baking…and I just did some yesterday, making some Slovak apricot and poppyseed rolls. Love those things. Haven’t made them in a couple years…though I clearly need more practice….

I know we all celebrate in our own ways…many talk about the “reason for the season” and all, and that is their right. Many like to go to church…and that is their right. I do not like going to church one bit…if I go (aside from funerals or weddings and that kind of thing) it’s purely for family reasons. I allow each their own belief systems…and I allow all the joy of their expression!

So, please…allow everyone else around you who doesn’t believe as you do the joy of their expression. We all enjoy and celebrate Christmas for our own reasons…don’t trounce upon them or look down upon them like some poor, lost souls. Because many of us are not poor, lost souls. We’re just as excited and joyous in our own beliefs as you are of yours. Greet us with the smiles with which we greet you…give us the respect with which we afford you.

So to all, I wish you a Merry Christmas—enjoy it as you want to, but do enjoy it!

The Coming of Light

by

When The Nightfun Ends. (Image by Lienhard Schulz at the German language Wikipedia ([GFDL, http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html; CC-BY-SA-3.0,http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/], via Wikimedia Commons)
When The Nightfun Ends. (Image by Lienhard Schulz at the German language Wikipedia [GFDL, http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html; CC-BY-SA-3.0,http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
I don’t remember much about this story, except for the obvious inspiration, which I really can’t get into, because it’s part of the story itself. But it’ll be obvious.

But I’ve always been fascinated by “those things” and all their “incarnations.” And I really do think it would be fun to, well, “live among them.” There is so much more I’d love to say, and maybe after I post this story I will do another post about them all.

But, for now….

This was originally published in the October 1991 issue of Tyro #32/33.

 

The Coming of Light

© F. P. Dorchak, 1991

 

Barrett Bartholomew James awoke, groggily.

In fact, he wasn’t at all sure he was actually quite yet awake, but more in that in-between, graying state between sleep and wakefulness. There was something entirely odd about the way things felt. Very odd…like he wasn’t all there…his more valuable pieces missing. He felt (in point of fact) like he was entirely someone else. In his body.

As he lay there, trying to figure out who was in what body—and whether or not he was actually awake—Barrett focused on the room. It gave him the feeling of being wrapped within the arms of a jealous lover. He felt as if he was…smothering…and very much wanting to be smothered. Spying frost on the windows—and noticing the fire in the hearth—he figured it was cold and wintry outside. He then directed his attention to the bed he was in and found himself adrift within a sea of billowy comforters. Rocking his head back, he floated upon huge, down-filled pillows…and there was a tingling in his ears that resonated in his head.

The fire cracked loudly, belching out a rather large fragment onto the hardwood patch of floor before it. The piece glowed quite brightly before momentarily before dying.

Should have had a hearth screen there.

Slowly Barrett came to the only realization that made any sense: that he was, in fact (most assuredly) himself…and that himself was (in fact) the very awake Barrett Bartholomew James.

Whipping off the comforters he swung out of bed and sat upright.

He was clad neck to toe in an archaic, almost comical pair of pajamas. With a chuckle he playfully fingered the material and got to his feet. He headed over to the heavily curtained window. His feet swished through thickly piled carpet that covered the entire floor except for the hardwood spot before the fireplace.

Wiping an opening on the clouded windowpane he peered out…and was greeted by the most pleasant illumination of gas streetlights…from a small but bustling snow-covered town square below. He was on the second floor.

“Where the hell am I?”

Padding back across the room he went to the mantel piece above the fireplace.

Pictures and trinkets, none of which he recognized.

The pictures ranged from the ancient to the current. There were families and there were singular moments. There were—

The bedroom door squeaked open.

“Oh, my! I’m sorry, sir! You’re awake!” It was a pleasant voice from an attractive and unassuming woman in her mid-thirties. He froze. Was caught in his jammies by a woman he didn’t know…in a house he recognized not.

“Who are you?” he asked, “and what is this place?”

“I’m Julie, Mr. James, I run the boarding house you’re in.”

“You know me?”

“Well, indirectly…I was told there would be someone new tonight.”

“You were told? What’s going on, here?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really—now let me give you your clothes and let you get ready for the evening. There’s dinner awaiting downstairs.”

Barrett watched her glide across the floor to his bed, deposit a set of cleaned and pressed woolen garments, then returned back to the door. He noticed snow boots had already been placed underneath his bed.

“You’ll find a full set of undergarments in the dresser over by the window,” Julie said, pointing. Barrett followed her direction, trying to keep up what little decency he felt he had left. It was tough doing so in garments that had a bomber’s hatch on the seat. “If there’s anything else I can do, please, don’t hesitate to call, Mr. James—”

“Please…’Barrett.'”

Julie smiled. It was a charming smile and Barrett felt his insides grow warm. Things didn’t feel right—they felt good—just not…right.

“Okay…Barrett…,” she said demurely, a thin smile across her lips. Turning just before closing the door, she again addressed him. “Mr. Jam, ah—Barrett—we’re all very pleased to have you join our community.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m pleased to have you.”

Julie quickly closed the door behind her as she left.

“God, if I didn’t know better I’d think she had a thing for me.

“Now, where’s that damned bathroom?”

 

Treading down firm but creaking stairs, Barrett made his way to the dining room. While in the shower things had begun to surface, though not much, but it was better than nothing. He remembered being a businessman of some kind from “The City.” New York City. He remembered being on vacation into the upstate region…but that was about it. He didn’t know if he had a wife, or a family—though he assumed so since he was wearing a ring, and a very meaty one at that. Maybe he was divorced, or widowed; he just didn’t know.

Walking through the house he smelled the aroma of cooking. Found the heat of another fireplace. And plants were everywhere, even covering one unused piano he spotted in a room he passed by.

Making his way through drapery adorned doorways, his weight caused the hardwood floorboards to squeak. In no time he found the source of the aroma…also finding the dinner table cleaned by the previous users, with but a single food-filled place setting awaiting.

“Oh, there you are,” Julie said, arriving at the doorway. “Please, sit down and eat, Mr. Barrett! I hope you don’t mind that the others have already come and gone, but what with the Coming of Light it seems there’s never quite enough time. Always much too much to do and no one seems to want to wait for anyone anymore, don’t you know!”

“‘Coming of Light’?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about just yet. You’ll see it all in good time.”

Barrett felt his head twinge…as if like a mild headache…but it quickly passed.

“W-what others?”

“Well, as I said, I run a boarding house. It is a most rewarding job, and I really do enjoy helping others relocate—”

“Relocate?”

“I’m so sorry, I know it’s a lot all at once, but please try to bear with me. Look,” she said, extending a hand and leading him to the table, “why don’t you first sit down and get some warm food inside—you haven’t eaten in who knows how long—then we can go out for a walk. It’ll invigorate and aerate and there’s still quite a few hours left before—well, you’ll just love it! We’ll have plenty of time to talk then. Come!” Holding back a smile Barrett allowed himself to be led. Her company really did seem to grow on him.

As he made his way to the table, images flashed through his head, but nothing solid enough for a mental lock. He was as a babe lost in the woods. Wincing a few more times, which Julie didn’t seem to notice, he looked at—really looked at—Julie. It was more than her company he liked—he found her to be quite attractive…especially dressed in her checkered apron and floor length skirt (why such formal attire for everyday wear?), and though he didn’t know her all that well, it was easy to see the openness and warmth her manner radiated.

But it was her eyes…large and warm…which really grabbed him.

He was totally captivated by her spell.

“Well, Julie, I must say—you certainly do have a convincing way about you.”

Julie blushed, bringing a lovely and delicately crafted hand to her mouth.

This was all too much—it was like some damned fairy tale. Nothing’s this perfect.

“You’ll be sure to explain this ‘Coming of Light’ during our walk?” Barrett took his seat at the table.

Julie’s blushing quickly gave way to a look of mixed emotions she quickly changed back to a smile.

“Oh, it’s nothing, really, “she said, “it’s just where the Nightfun ends and the Light comes.”

“You mean ‘dawn,'” he casually muttered, still somewhat preoccupied with the flashing images inside his head. He dug hungrily into the plate of food before him. “You really are a charming woman, Julie—from your mannerisms right down to how you express common everyday things.”

“Thank you, Barrett.” Again, the down-turned head, the endearing blush.

“‘Nightfun,’ huh.”

 

“…and over there is Pastor’s Church. Isn’t it simply the most beautiful building you’ve ever seen?” Julie asked, pointing a mittened hand.

“It is!” Barrett exclaimed.

It was all beautiful, every bit of it.

And it was snowing!

It was all too beautiful…too perfectly quaint and hometownish…and Barrett again felt that strange something shudder and rattle

(yes, rattle…)

through him—he felt it about the buildings, the people, the town’s atmosphere.

And it all felt disquietly familiar…as though he’d actually been here before…when he damn well knew he hadn’t. It was a tight little microcosm, an entire universe built around the confines of glistening snow and homey neighborliness. A picture-book life and times the way all life should be. Several people passed, surprisingly close, waving.

“Hello, Julie; Barrett! Wonderful weather we’re having, ayuh!” some positively friendly New Englanders greeted. And most New Englanders Barrett knew were not outwardly friendly unless they knew you. Grew up with you. Lived in the same town with you. Julie waved back, returning the greeting.

“Julie…now how did they know my name?”

Hands tight to the front of her jacket, Julie looked up at him with her large brown, positively hypnotic eyes. Something fluttered deep within him.

“Everyone knows you, Barrett. It’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody.”

Barrett found it harder to resist. She was a powerful magnet and he but an iron filing. What was it about this place…about her? He felt…pleasantly uncomfortable….

“Huh? What? I’m sorry, I seem to have forgotten my…question.” Barrett said, flushing a bright red. This is not like me, he thought. Not like me at all!

But what is me?

I don’t—or never used to, anyway—get butterflies in my stomach over a woman. I’m married, sure. Or used to be—or still am, or—I don’t know what anymore!

“God help me!” Barret blurted, hitting out a gloved hand at a light post. Frightened, Julie jumped back several steps. Passing pedestrians gave surprised looks, but quickly turned them into empathetic smiles and continued on. Eyes full of concern, her voice lowered, Julie came back to him.

“Barrett? What’s wrong? Is it something I—”

“No—I-I don’t know—but that’s the whole problem, Julie! Just where am I, and what am I doing here! How did I get here?”

Julie brought her hands up to Barrett’s knotted shoulders. She felt them suddenly relax and it brought an immediate smile to her face. Barrett took her face into his gloved hands. His resistance was quickly faltering.

“Is it so bad here?” Julie asked.

“No, but…where have I come from, what is this place, and who are you to have this power over me?”

Julie didn’t attempt an answer, but Barrett quickly lost interest in the questions and brought her face in closer. “Nobody has ever wielded such control over me. I haven’t felt like this in, well, in God knows how long….”

“Is it so wrong to feel so good? To feel the way you’ve always wanted to feel, Barrett—the way were all meant to feel? Why analyze everything? Why not just be. Just live.”

Barrett felt her warmth through his gloves. Felt the warmth of her soul, penetrating deeper, ever deeper into his soul and trying to bring out…something…and exploit it….

Her lips parted slightly.

Barrett spiraled helplessly downward.

CLANG-CLANG!

CLANG-CLANG!

It was the church bell.

“Oh! Come on, this is going to be so much fun!” Julie said, pulling away, head thrown back and arms flailing outstretched like a horizontal windmill.

“Why? What’s up?” Barrett asked, looking around.

Julie reached out for him, but then broke away, taking playful steps toward the convergence of townspeople still further up.

“Come on—it’s the skating competition! On Glass Pond! You going to just love it!”

Barrett regarded her with loving consideration, watching her skip off. She was so childlike, so full of energy and desire!

He started off after her…when something else caught his attention.

It was a sparkle…a flash of some kind.

Julie’s back to him, he diverted off towards the flash, to an area where the streetlights and the starless darkness beyond met. Beyond the gas-light haze. Something wasn’t right over there, just up ahead of him. There was an icy tingling playing up his spine as he continued forward.

He felt old aches.

Felt his movement becoming restricted, labored.

He was mere feet from the border when Julie turned, her face immediately draining of color.

“NO!”

She’d stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth a large “O.” A look of dread on her face. Bent forward, her hands were tucked forcefully down between her legs as if she’d had a painful stomach cramp. She repeated her command. Barrett didn’t just stop, he grinded to a halt, his mind’s eye envisioning a mile’s worth of burned rubber left on an open stretch of road.

“Barrett, no—please don’t!”

Barrett turned, frightened more by the unexpected terror in her voice than the actual situation itself.

“What’s the matter? I only wanted to see what was over there?”

Seeing that he stopped, Julie ran for him, arms quickly wrapping him in a tight bundle. Barrett again felt the butterflies.

“Julie,” he began, initially amused, “I didn’t know you cared!”

Julie hung on like a dying woman, her face buried into his shoulders.

“What’s wrong? I was only—you’re crying! My God, whatever I did, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again!”

“I’m sorry—it’s not you, Barrett, but that…that area. It’s off-limits. It’s The Place of Endings…and nobody ever returns who ventures there. I’ve lost…others have been lost there.”

“‘The Place of Endings?’ Julie, you have to tell me what’s going on here—no more cute little euphemisms—I need to know what’s happening. I have to know.”

“I can’t, I—it was…a loved one. It was horrible. Later, please, Barrett, I really can’t go on.” She reburied her face into his shoulder.

“Julie, I like you very much, but I have to know—”

“—please, Barrett, I really…like…you, too, but the memories are too painful. Later I’ll tell you everything, I will, but for now let’s just enjoy ourselves. Please?” Julie’s crystal tears were of such purity that they felt like cold knives of despair ripping through him. He was helpless…he was hers….

“Okay. But after this skating competition of yours, we talk. Okay?”

“Okay.”

 

Glass Pond looked exactly like its name—shiny, smooth, and unmarked. Barrett was amazed at how reflective and clean the surface was and why there were hardly any marks made by the hordes of skaters flying across it. But possessed by an ever-widening grin across his face, he found himself casually responding to everyone who passed them by. And he did this by name—first and last names. He found that their names magically popped into his head and when he unconsciously began using them, they proved themselves correct. The townspeople were visibly pleased with him.

“Are you enjoying yourself more, Barrett?” asked one elderly couple.

“Why yes, I am, Mr. and Mrs. Greetallski. I really am! I’m finding this to be the friendliest town I’ve ever visited! And the Christmas spirit surely cannot be beat!”

“Well, we’re all very proud to have someone as prominent as yourself taking up residence here,” Mr. Greetallski said.

“And you certainly do add very nicely to the decor!” Mrs. Greetallski chimed in, her rosy cheeks and frosty nose bursting and wiggling with fervent holiday cheer. “He’s a great catch, Julie, be sure to keep on to him and don’t let him get away!” Mrs. Greetallski said to Julie as she leaned into her. Julie flushed into another blush.

“I could get very used to living here, you know,” Barrett said, once the Greetallskis had left.

“I could get very used to you living here,” Julie replied.

Barrett brushed away a few nothings from her face. More people came by, some running and throwing snowballs (one or two of which landed at their feet), and Barrett watched as they passed, their chanting ringing in his ears long after they had past:

“Get ready for the Light, the Coming of the Light! One hour, one hour to go! Get ready for the Light, the Coming of the Light—one hour to go, ho ho ho!”

Julie watched his reactions with a pounding heart.

“What is this—”

“—Coming of Light?”

“Yes! Why is it such a big thing to have the sun rise? Hell, it’s not even near dawn now! Look,” he said, pointing over to the other side of the Apothecary. “It’s dark, pitch dark. Except for the street light glare, there’s not even a hint of a rising sun!”

Julie continued to eye him…that look of confused and caring face. Barrett looked back up into the gas-lit sky. Snow had been falling fairly heavily ever since they had stepped out into the street, but there was hardly any accumulation—in spite of the fact that there was already a fair amount on the ground. Everything looked so perfect.

Planned almost.

Julie came up behind and lay a hand on his shoulder. Barret suddenly realized that he really didn’t care about who he was…or what this whole coming-of-light problem was. All he wanted now was to make his lips touch hers…to taste the firm slipperiness of her tongue and inhale the delicate scent of her breath.

“The Coming is at 6:05 in the morning…,” she began, coming closer.

“Six-oh-five? Exactly?”

“Exactly. There is no dawn, only light.”

Face to face he now felt her breath; felt a tingling; felt her shiver. He shivered.

“…only light…,” he repeated.

A particularly large snowflake landed between their mouths, perched for only a birth of a second before melting. Barrett felt a wellspring of emotion that had been coiled up within the both of them; felt the explosion that now took them away.

Teeth felt teeth.

Passers-by smiled.

He would fit in very nicely here, yes, indeed he would.

“I love you…,” Julie breathed.

“I…I love you, too, Julie.”

“Barrett, I couldn’t bear it should you ever leave! There is no one else here made for me!”

Barrett’s eyes squeezed shut. A lump blocked his throat.

“I won’t. I feel I can’t…but I won’t. I won’t even try.”

“You could; you almost did.”

“But, I won’t.” Then he looked down and noticed the wedding ring on her finger. “You’re my wife, aren’t you.”

“Yes, my husband.”

“But…but, how? You had no ring when we first met—in fact you called me ‘Mr. James.’ This is all too much, I…I’m not sure I can handle it.”

“But you will, my husband, you will! Your love is all, your love is enough. It is all that matters—nothing else does.

“It is time that we talk. Come, let’s walk.”

Julie led him away from Glass Pond and took him down a different street, passing Mrs. Goodall’s Mercantile & Dry Goods (Mrs. Goodall waving vigorously through the window as they passed). They then passed the New England Bank, a small tree nursery that was up on a hill (next to a water tower that boldly displayed “something Towne” around its reservoir, he couldn’t see the first word), a toy shop, village market, and more. Then they stopped. People were taking on more urgency to their steps, several still chanting about the Coming of Light

at six-oh-five

there is no dawn, only bright….

Only fifteen minutes to go!

“I still don’t understand this no-dawn part. Everyplace has a dawn, honey.”

“No, not every place, dear husband.”

“And you mentioned ‘6:05’ like it happens the same time every day.”

“There is only light and dark, my husband. Look.”

The two turned, and Barrett followed Julie’s mittened hand. He followed it to a simple white-painted wood building with an unobtrusive sign hanging above a window.

Barrett James & Company, Realtors.

“T-that’s me!”

Julie raised a gloved hand to his mouth before he could continue further.

“Come, we have only a little more to go. Brace yourself, husband, for what is to come next. Your love for us—this town and myself—will bear you through. Trust us.”

The two rounded a corner, and he found “Julie James Boarding House & Hostel.” In a lower front window rested a real-estate flyer bearing Barrett’s name. This time Barrett didn’t even bat an eye.

Together they walked up the wooden stairs and into the warmth and glowing that was their home.

 

A light switch flipped on, illuminating a small, novelty-clustered workshop. The owner, a bearded and slightly stooped man, entered, aimlessly throwing the morning paper down on a counter. Shedding his coat, he foraged about for several minutes, looking for something in particular. Going over to the cash register he took out a receipt box, one that had “Paid” written on the front in small, crooked letters and fished through it. Finding the object of his search, he took it out, giving it a sad glance before placing it on the table next to the paper. He looked at one of his clocks.

Six-oh-six.

Casting another grieved look at the paper and the bill he went back out the door.

The front page story, only part of which was visible past the tossed bill, read:

“Famous maverick stockbroker, Barrett B. James, predictor of Black Monday and Wall Street wunderkind died last night in a car crash in the Catskills. He and his family were said to be visiting relatives and friends for the holiday season. Local authorities claimed no one was at fault at the accident. It was a weather-induced accident, inches of snow unleashed in blinding force on already existing icy conditions. The James family could not be reached for comment. Mr. James was apparently en route from a shopping trip…”

Alongside the paper sat the bill of sale. “Barrett James, PAID, one complete Snow Towne village set. AMEX Gold card. To be delivered.”

Not five feet from that table sat a lower display, on which sat Snow Towne. In its center was Glass Pond. Along the edge was Pastor’s Church. The tree nursery was at the center of town, under the shadow of the water tower with the village’s name painted across it. Somewhere, between Glass Pond and Pastor’s Church, rested the porcelain buildings of Barrett James & Company, Realtors, and Julie James Boarding House & Hostel.

All through the village the lights were down…and everyone lay snug in their porcelain beds, dreaming, and waiting for the next cycle of the Coming of Light….

Related Posts