F. P. Dorchak

Speculative Fiction (New Weird) Author

Short Story

Attention Span

by

I got the idea for this story while attending a multi-level marketing seminar some twenty-five, thirty years ago. I still remember as I sat in the audience (on folding chairs) and looked around, everyone (except me) was focused in what seemed to me enraptured attention at the speaker. The speaker bored me. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I’d had this same feeling when I’d later attended an AMWAY seminar at the urging of a friend. That was the weirdest multi-level marketing program I’d ever attended—and my last, and where I may have actually birthed this story. I’d learned my lesson. At that AMWAY seminar it literally felt like a cult (sorry those of you who participate in AMWAY; you may not feel this way, the culture may have since changed, but that is how I felt all those years ago). All the women had been in conservative “church-goin'” dresses, all the men in dark, conservative suits with power (red) ties. And the smiles—

Oh, God, the sickening, saccharin smiles….

Unnerving posters were up around the auditorium with “positive statements” and other things I no longer remember…except that it was all decidedly creepy.

Disturbing.

The way everyone talked…what they talked about and how they presented themselves…the speakers, the layout. The attire. How they all seemed to have the same “certain point of view” on life, religion, world view. Then there was this line in my story that I remember so well: “Shaking his hand was like holding a sea cucumber.” Yes, the guy described in this story…his handshake…it was real, and that was exactly what I remembered thinking while shaking his sweaty, clammy hand.

And had there really been a gong onstage?!

Anyway, I’d attended these seminars because I was still in the Air Force and had been looking for a way out…something to get into that could support my exit from the military. As I sat there and observed everyone, I thought…what if…what if….

This story originally appeared in Tyro, issue #26,on June 1990.

 

Attention Span

© F. P. Dorchak, 1990

 

Hi, I’m Alex. What I’m about to tell you, you will not believe. Why should you? Nobody else did. I can scarcely begin to believe it myself, even though I’m sporting all the proof I’ll ever need.

It all started, innocently enough, with one of those “Hey Come see Us, We’re Great” cards I got in the mail one rainy afternoon. It came sandwiched between the usual bills for the Visa, furniture and utilities (why do they all come at once?), waiting patiently for my retrieval from the tiny silver box apartment complexes use. That day I remember in particular because I had gone to interview for a certain very desirable management position at McGraw-Hill Books. It was a position, I regret to inform you, that did not come my way. Somebody better than I had secured the reigns. As usual, I would remain in the background.

Had my brush with that form of mail-advertising ended there, there would be nothing to tell and I’d be able to walk out of this room on my own. But it didn’t happen that way. Later that night I also received, free of charge, the complimentary phone call. It, too, was extending the same invitation that the piece of paper had already screamed at me.

I remember I regarded that call—true to form—with much suspicion. I’ve always prided myself on my cynicism: it’s the one thing I can always count on without letting it go to my head! Anyway, as I lay on the floor, as I usually do when I’m on the phone for any length of time, I began listening to the voice on the other end. Not to what was being said, mind you, but how it was being said. There was something in this guy’s voice that bothered me. He sounded slimy.

Maybe out of pure curiosity, maybe out of sales pressure, I decided to show up at the designated place, at the designated time. When he started saying stuff like: “All your co-workers are coming, why not you?”, I felt like a worm. You know how it goes, can’t show your face at work the next day because everyone at work is walking around with shit-eating grins on their faces ’cause they’re privy to the Greatest Deal On Earth and you’re not.

That card has since disappeared. I never was able to relocate it. Presumably it was lost in the myriad piles of paperwork littered about my apartment table. I never did clean it up. And so it goes.

So there I sat, considerably more casual then the other bodies around me and finding the atmosphere of the auditorium rather oppressive. Somewhere I heard the sound of an air-conditioner, but it surely wasn’t in this room. It wasn’t so much that it was hot (though we could’ve done with a few degrees less), as it was stuffy. It reminded me of how dank cellars can smell on a good day. It was indeed an odor that was very much out of place, and why no one else was unnerved by this was, at the moment, beyond me. But that wasn’t the only thing out of place here. I was out of place. This looked more like a business convention what with all the formal evening wear galore and I wasn’t even wearing a jacket.

Up on the front stage, aside from the screen and podium, stood a small brass gong complete with hammer. How cute, I thought. The velvety backdrop was swaying to some movement from behind it, and I noted how there were two guards to either side of the gong. They were smartly dressed in the official uniforms of a bodyguard, their hands folded to front. Watching them for a few minutes, I noticed how they didn’t seem to be looking at any one thing in particular, just staring straight ahead, unblinking. I thought I had seen something peek through the bottom of the curtain, but couldn’t identify what it was.

The speaker, who was to shortly take the stage, was mingling with the crowd and shaking hands, trying to get elected into whatever office he thought he was running for. It was only an investment seminar.

His person bothered me.

Appearing dumpy and pliable, somewhat like the Pillsbury Doughboy, there was something about him that seemed as stolid as granite. Like ones and zeros in a computer, when he was on, he was congenial…and when he was off, he was cold, almost lifeless. He was a contradiction in terms, two people occupying the same space; impossible yet irrefutable.

It didn’t take too long before he made his way to me. I shuddered at the thought of having to meet him, for it meant that now he could associate a name to a face. My name, my face. I wished to remain as anonymous as possible in this crowd. The only fame I had ever collected came from the local gym where I found (much to my surprise) that I could move mass quantities of weight all by myself. My strength quite belied my size, at five foot eleven, a hundred and sixty pounds. Nothing much a girl would look at.

Shaking his hand was like holding a sea cucumber—have you ever held a handful of snot? There was no substance to his sweaty grip, or to his personality for that matter, and I quickly wiped my hand on the seat of my pants. Why were people so taken in by this guy? Conservatively clad in some nondescript men’s wear, there wasn’t a speck of dandruff on his lapels as he emitted an odor of impeccability.

His face was clean-shaven to the point of boredom. He had a nose that was small and unassuming, looking more like an afterthought than an intention—and his lips! His lips were puffy looking—like someone had spent the better part of an afternoon beating on them with a rubber hose! Topping his head, his graying hair was slicked back with some form of hair crème. But his eyes were the screwiest part of him, resembling dark pieces of coal stuck into a pale, chubby face. There was no two ways about it, this man just plain looked weird.

The congregation assembled and niceties completed, the gong was rung. We were ready to begin.

 

“…and so, friends,” ejaculated the speaker, “I believe I can convince each and every one of you to invest in our program. How you ask? Well, allow me just a moment of your time…”

Yes, it was indeed getting very boring. I kept waiting for his tongue to get tangled up in his lips. We’d only been there some, oh—let me see, fifteen minutes? Fifteen minutes, and my butt was already feeling that wet, prickly sensation. There he stood before us, gesticulating with the authoritative air of a southern Baptist evangelist when I finally noticed something, even sitting all the way to the rear where I was. His eyes had taken on a strange, new quality.

By virtue of his taking position at the podium, his eyes transformed from the lifeless pieces of dark coal they had been earlier…to that of a strangely disquieting quality that seemed almost as if they belonged to somebody else. Or that perhaps someone else was looking through them at us. There was a fever being injected into those orbs, an infusion of near-righteous frenzy that seemed to increase with every sentence…forcing you to desire nothing else but the depths of his gaze. It was as though everyone in the room was being converted.

Everyone that is, but me.

So, unaffected and quite bored I decided to take advantage of this time by attempting total character assassination of our speaker. He did seem quite different now, more like another person had suddenly taken over. He still looked the worm, mind you, but I tried to find a description that would now describe the new him. The only thing I could come up with was roadkill.

Aside from his new steely gaze, he was still disgusting to look at. Everyone in the room was absolutely riveted to his gaze, his word, his every movement. The only way I could try to explain this was to look at it from the point of view of roadkill.

Dead animal meat alongside a highway is a disgusting thing to look at, but everybody does it. There are just some things in this world that defy explanation, and craning your neck about a bug-stained windshield to steal a peak at some roadway slaughter was one of them. What is it that attracts those passing stares from motorists? Fascination? Fear? Was that the secret to this whole audience fixation thing? Was it a fear of looking away—a fear of death?—the curiosity of trying to feel what it must be like to die, either among friends or alone on some deserted byway, hot screaming metal suddenly splattering through your brains and sending their remains all over the pavement? Feeling your last breath slowly ebbing away, your lifeblood warming cold, uncaring asphalt and your last view of the world some topsy-turvy angle of dirt, an unknown but active ant scurrying past your clouding vision and knowing—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that you are indeed dying, your life ended. You try to figure out what must’ve gone on within that animal’s mind during its last few moments, vainly attempting self-conciliation in a fleeting nanosecond to console yourself and your frail mortality…that swatting a roadside mammal is no different than swatting a household fly.

Who knows. All I knew was that he reminded me of roadkill, causing me to look out of curiosity, and all philosophy aside, I was dying here! This “free” dinner had better be worth it…

“…yes, our property is like no other! In the heart of the Heartland! Ripe for both the daring and the conservative at heart! All we ask is…ah—but just a minute. I’m not going to tell you that just yet! If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be here. In fact, I’d be out of a job (roar of devised laughter)! Now take a look at these figures for a moment…”

No, nothing’s worth this! How in the hell did I ever let myself get suckered? I guess I had nothing better to do on a Saturday night. But as I sat there in the very last row, watching all those Good Little Citizens hypnotized by this joker at the podium, I knew that I could be doing something better—like beating off in the john with Miss August. What tits.

But hey, no. I’m here. Listening to Mr. Charm and Charisma Himself, Joe Fishlips, or whatever he claimed his name to be (you never quite get their names, you know, and when you do, it seems to keep changing…).

“…now if you’d just be kind enough to bear with me…”

Oh yeah, right, like let’s play to the dain bramaged audience as if there were a choice! Fellow acceptance to a yuppie is everything! Besides, he got his laughter, and now he’s just one o’ the gang: “Hey, how ’bout that ‘ole Fishlips…”

“…you’ll see we offer something that absolutely no one else in the industry can offer…”

Yeah, public dumps offer something no one else can offer.

It was getting pretty deep, so I just tuned out ‘ol Joe and started eyeing the crowd, to see how many of them were actually that brainless as to be totally duped by this patronizing orifice. Scanning, I lost all respect for the Human Race. Was I the only one? It was indeed a dark day for Humanity, let me tell you!

But that wasn’t all. There was something…something else. I didn’t know exactly what it was at the time, but there seemed to be an uneasiness rippling through the crowd—an undercurrent of something indescribable, and though it bothered me greatly, it didn’t seem to bother the lot of them. There seemed to be a sudden abundance of casual shifting among the audience as they sat there in their rickety chairs, cigarette smoke weaving dreamy patterns in our oppressive enclosure. I hate cigarette smoke.

All of them had that same sick grin of blissful ignorance on their faces, that way people get when they think they’ve found the Answer to Everything. Had I been listening to my intuition, I would’ve—should’ve—gotten out of there, then and there. But like the yuppie I so detest, I stayed, picking at the stiff hairs along my arms. Forget the dinner, Arby’s would’ve been a lifesaver!

No, something sinister was underway and I was too entwined in my own cynicism to take heed. For one thing, can you imagine being seen as the only one getting up and leaving from an assemblage like this one? I’d have no one to talk to at work—not that that in itself especially bothered me, but I did have to deal with these people sooner or later.

So I stayed.

Yeah, I sat and I observed—not Motormouth the Charismatic, but the audience and the “bouncers.” They seemed to be eyeing the audience too, and apparently hadn’t yet noticed me noticing them. There was something definitely not right here, a dream-like quality to the whole affair. There were several times in which I had to actually concentrate on what I was doing. All the smoke, the incessant droning of our speaker and the stuffiness tried vainly to win my attention, but I wouldn’t concede.

Then something unfair happened, something so cunning and devious that it capped my stay for sure. Dinner was announced. It totally threw my whole evening.

So we were all herded out, instructed to follow those stupid little cards marking the way to the dining hall, even though everybody already knew how to get there (the paranoia of those guys at losing even one individual!). There seemed to be much conversation going on along the way to the dining hall, but each time I tried to focus in on any one of them, I couldn’t make anything out. It was as though it was all gibberish, meaningless dribble devised to give the impression of conversation. I was beginning to feel very much alone.

The meal wasn’t all that great—pseudo-adult portions of some bastardized version of a Swanson TV dinner. You had a choice, (and what a grand selection it was too!) either the chicken cordon bleu, or Spam.

Scattered randomly throughout the dining room, a few of us relaxed after our allotted 45 minutes of entrée. Just then the bouncers came back to see that there were no stragglers. Shit, after a muddy parfait one hardly had time to enjoy Dom Perignon-Ripple, served chilled. Oh well, the show must go on.

Marching some 20 paces to the rear and right of us, the Guard herded its quarry back into the corral. We “be-sat” ourselves in the Great Chamber. Isn’t it amazing how everyone gets the same chair they had previously?

No sooner had I “be-sat” myself, when that same feeling of uneasiness once more returned. The other, intoxicating quality, however, had not yet overtaken me. I attributed this to being able to leave the microcosm, reorienting my psyche back to its rightful compass setting. I know not why the others were not similarly affected, maybe I have some gene they don’t have. Whatever the case, by this time I was marked—the door-thugs had spotted me. Great, now there was absolutely no chance of sneaking out.

The room seemed darker, the rickety folding chair I sat in, squeakier. Everyone was so hypnotized by our narcissistic speaker except for me, and that, my dear friends, bothered the hell out of me.

Why was it that I, out of all these other people, was immune? Were there that many fools on this planet?

There it was again, that same rippling movement throughout the crowd. That same squirming.

Except for me.

Someone brushed at one of my legs. I shifted my foot.

I looked back at the thugs, who, unfortunately, were still there. Damn it all, if it didn’t seem like the room was getting darker! Was it just me, or were the lights actually growing more dim?

Think I’d get the hint? Hell, no!

I had lost all interest whatsoever in our arrogant speaker a long time ago and just had to find out what it was that was going on here. It wasn’t until some five minutes later that I didn’t give a damn and just wanted to get out as fast as I could—to erase that whole night from both my mind and the consciousness of the Human Race.

Once more I felt my leg brushed, but this time noted that the people around me hadn’t moved, or even affected their heartfelt apologies for breaking the Unwritten Law of—oh, heaven forbid!—touching another body! I looked down at my feet and lost all interest in Miss August.

Entwined around the lower structure of the puke-brown folding chairs were—and I kid you not—tentacles! Sickly-green and vomit-yellow! I looked up and down the rows around me, my mouth agape.

They were everywhere!

But more than that, they were attached to everybody’s legs. Everyone’s

but mine.

Ho-ly fuck.

What in hell was I supposed to do now? Ee-yuck, it still sickens me! No one even knew what was going on. The tentacles sucked and sucked, their huge trunks swelling with bodily fluids, looking like snakes apregnant with swallowing prey. There was a sick, puss-like film over each extremity, but there was not a one on Yours Truly. Some people had several on them, blood oozing from the inflicted wounds. Listening closely, I could hear the sucking sounds beneath the drone from the front. Gag. It made me wanna chunk right there!

Yet I was amazed at how calm and collected I remained. I guess that came from reading Stephen King. All I knew was that I had to get out of there, and now—not in three seconds, but yesterday! I looked back over at the bouncers, still there of course. It was just about then when one of ’em looked over at me again. I was nailed, no two ways about it. The guy stared right into me, he knew I wasn’t in the least bit mesmerized. Terrific. I had to do something. Be calm.

That’s when it all dawned on me why we were here. We were offerings to this—whatever it was—demon-god. Somehow we were all to be hypnotized, then fed upon. But something had gone wrong with me. Too tough for ‘ole Fishlips, I guess. Well let’s see how tough I am against a squid!

I started to get up, metal chair squealing at the release of my weight, tattle-telling to my naughtiness. That was when I felt tentacles sliming after my gams. Fawwwk, it was disgusting! Sliming after my legs—me!

No one in the audience moved. Fishlips stopped momentarily to take note of my singular movement, but masterfully continued, motioning for the Guard to deal with me. No fuckin’ way Hoser, I was roiled. Adrenalin pounding, I grabbing my chair from the clutches of a slime-hand and smashed it into the side of an approaching bouncer’s head, who went crumbling into a heap on the floor, but three others were soon joining in, not to mention those suckers. The audience continued focusing in on Joe’s chanting, several people silently collapsing either to the floor or onto the shoulders of those adjacent to them. The demon was feeding, and feeding well.

I just managed to sidestep a tentacle when one of the guards got up behind me, attempting restraint. Lifting weights gave me an edge the dude didn’t expect, considering my size, or lack of it. As strong as these thugs were—and they were strong—I managed to wiggle free enough to butt my head up into the guy’s jaw. I heard a crunching sound as he reeled back, his grip released, but a tentacle snagged me. Terrific.

It pulled me in. It was pretty tough, and I thought of all those other tentacles already out there and of the hellish damage they could—and were—doing. Quickly I grabbed my bent chair and started wailing away on the slime-fiend. It didn’t have too strong a grip on me yet and I managed to pull free, but I still had two bouncers to contend with, plus the bludgeons they were pulling out. I really didn’t need this.

I worked my way into a corner, preparing for the worst. There was no way this creature was getting me: I’d die first. I’d really rather die first….

The first thug lunged. I side stepped him easily, smashing the other across the face, blinding him and causing him to stumble right into the network of hungry suckers. Before it had even registered on my mind what had happened, the tentacles had whipped themselves around the figure and pulled him to the ground with such violent force that his body ruptured in several places. For the first time, I really looked at the bouncers. They seemed slightly sluggish, as if they too, like pal Fishlips, were not all there.

The other turned around, handling his weapon with both hands, eyes boring in on me. We paced around each other, my clothing ripped in several places, scrapes and cuts beginning to sting. Fishlips started to look real worried. Unfortunately for me, I maneuvered right into the zombie’s trap, two tentacles again grabbing me, but with firmer grips, pulling me to the ground. No way, I kept telling myself, no way! I wasn’t going to give this creature—or Fishlips—any satisfaction! I was going to make it out! Frantically I kicked and fought like a drowning man attempting to keep his head above water, tentacle vomit covering me.

The thug stood over me staring—no expression on its pale face (which I now noticed, was indeed pale). With both hands, it raised the club over its head. The tentacles that had latched onto me bit deep into my flesh, causing me to wince, but I had other things on my mind just then. The mindless guard swung at my head. Twisting, I managed to evade him at the last moment, sending a crack through the weapon as it bounced off the hardwood floor. The suckers weren’t making my life any more pleasant, either, but I got free of most of them.

Chair still in hand, I swept it across the floor and swept the guard off his feet, landing him (it?) on his back with a muffled thud. In a comical kind of way I noticed how his neatly combed hair flew up from his head as he fell, coming to rest about his forehead in a less-than-neat manner as he landed. A tentacle lashed out at one of the guard’s flailing arms, loosening it from its socket. As situation would have it, the bat rolled over to me and I grabbed it. The guard was simultaneously trying to get at me and undo the tentacle that was on him, drawing blood. I swung at him but missed. He got closer and I swung again, missing. Shit, fine time for the getaway car to stall, I thought. The zombie tried to right itself, but fell back down to the floor towards me, its useless arm banging helplessly at its side. I took advantage of this and swung the club with all my might, splattering the guards brains all over myself and the floor, not to mention splintering the bat, which now resembled more of a short spear.

Immediately I started hacking away at the tentacles on my legs. It was tough going, especially since others were still rooting for my corpuscles, but the sentinel’s remains next to me managed to divert the demon’s attention for the moment, and I wasn’t sure how long that moment would last. I lost all feeling in my right leg, my other one fast losing all sensation.

I managed to cut free, crawling as fast as my elbows would carry me. Fishlips was definitely worried now. His sales pitch, if indeed he was pitching anything, was much more hurried and higher in tone. The Watchmen up front with him made a gesture towards me, but he halted them.

He had let me go.

 

Well, to make my long story short, I managed to crawl out (and curiously enough, didn’t see a soul—or shin—the whole time exiting). But by then, I had lost all feeling in both legs, and they were actively bleeding out open gouges. I lost consciousness somewhere near Cascade boulevard….

 

So here I lay now, in a hospital bed, one leg gone, half of the other still in my possession.

No remorse you say?

I once remember reading a story asking the question of how much pain can a person endure? The answer was how much did that person want to live? Well, I want to live. Yeah, it’s my own fault. I guess I deserved what I got for being shallow and spineless—but what a price to pay for so trivial a problem! Of course no one believes me. I tried to tell them, and anyone else who would listen, but they all thought—think—that my story was brought about by my condition.

Fuckin’ A right of course it was, I yelled!

No dice. Of course, when they did check out the hotel, all there was was an empty convention hall reeking of smoke and B.P.O.E. stickers. Terrific.

All I can say is that no way am I ever dealing with an another telemarketing scam again, or “free” seminars. Ever. And I am going to find that Son-of-a-Bitch Fishlips if that’s the last thing I ever do….

Fucker.

 

Short Story Links

Links to all my posted short stories are here.

 

The Lifter

by

I’ve been working out ever since I’d been about 14 years of age, when my dad bought a free weight set. I love lifting weight. Strength. Bodybuilding. Powerlifting. The look, feel , and smell of chalk, iron, and the intensity of serious lifters grunting and straining. Always have. I’ve seen some amazing feats of strength in my time…two in particular stand out.

While in college, I’d entered my one and only powerlifting competition (I came in third of out of 3 or 4…and the tallying was messed up so I got the 3rd Place medal off-stage and afterwards when the error was found). I’d been working out at Mt. Olympus gym (long out of business), in Flagstaff, Arizona. There was this skinny-as-shit (probably weighed all of 140 lbs) lifter I saw dead-lifting  405 lbs (it’s also what I deadlifted at some 175-180 lbs at the time). 405 pounds is a lot for someone of his size. I also saw him squat 300 – 400 pounds, can’t remember what he’d done there, but the deadlift stuck in my mind because it was exactly the same as I lifted.

The other instance was with a guy who’d gone on to become Georgia Tech’s (GT’s) Director of Player Development, back in the 80s: Dave Pasanella. All 275 pounds of him. Between 1979 and 1983, while I went to NAU, I worked out at Mt. Olympus Gym. To this day, I rank it as the best the gym I’ve ever worked out at—maybe because it was my first away from home?—but I loved working out there. Like the video shows, we’d all get around someone who was going for a max lift (or I’d gather them for my heavier lifts), or just wanted some “moral support,” and yell at him/her. It was a thing. It was great. Anyway, Mt. Olympus was small, all free-weights, and we all had a great time there. Anyway, that’s where I “met” Dave Pasanella, in his early-to-mids 20s. I’ve never really shook hands with him as I recall, but was lifting plenty of times when he was lifting. He would warm up with 405 pounds on the bench press, just to give you and idea of the man’s incredible strength. That’s a 45-pound bar with four 45-pound plates on each side.  He ripped off the reps like it was nothing-but-bar.

But the really cool feat of strength I’d seen was him lifting one end of the owner’s VW bug (“Jake” I think was his first name; I’ve long forgotten his last name, but if I’m not mistaken, Jake is in the background wearing the “Pro Workout” Reebok T-shirt in this image; I know Jake used to follow him around his meets, and he’d been studying biofeedback and lifting while also studying at NAU). The VW was parked out front of the gym’s plate-glass window. I think it (the VW) was yellow? Dave and Jake had been talking, when Dave went outside, squatted down, grabbed the VW’s bumper…and freaking lifted it to a full standing position! Just like that. The VW wiggled a bit as it was set back down. Geesh. I ran into Dave a lot at Mt. Olympus, but we never really met or became friendly. He didn’t seem all that nice of a guy then…I won’t go into specifics…but even he later talked about his early behavior, once he’d become a Born Again Christian, about how he felt bad about his younger-self’s behavior. Nice to know he finally turned into a good person before he left this Earth.

Dave also had a weightlifting bar developed and named for him, called the Pasanella Bar, which had been approved by the International Powerlifting Federation for the 242-pound, 275-pound, 305-pound, and unlimited classes.

But, Dave Pasanella’s life came to an abrupt end…he was killed in a car crash caused by a drunk driver on June 12, 1995, just off GT’s campus in Atlanta. I’d heard of it years later.

I’d always wanted to write a “weird tale” related to gyms and weightlifting, so back in 1990 I wrote this one. It was based on a Gold’s or World Gym I’d worked out in, in Colorado Springs, CO.

This story has never been “spotted”…I mean published.

 

The Lifter

© F. P. Dorchak, 1990

“Move it, man! Push it! Don’t fuckin’ stop now, you pussy—push it out!”

Groaning under the stress of 540 pounds of black iron on his shoulders, Donny forced himself back up into a standing position, keeping his knees at a slight bend. This was Donny’s fourth set, working towards his third rep. Veins popped out from the sides of his twenty-one inch neck like snakes on a tree. The weight clattered hollowly on the bar’s ends. The lifter hesitated momentarily, trying to regain his needed concentration. Three spotters—one behind and one to each side—prepared for Donny to off-load the bar back unto the rack.

Donny, however, had other plans.

Emitting a loud growl and hitching up his powerful frame, Donny proceeded back down into the squatting position, sweat streaking the sides of his face. Forcing his head back (hair sweaty and tangled) to keep his balance, Donny emitted the growl of an animal and his spotters squatted all the way down with him.

Hitting bottom, Donny’s behemoth frame bounced, creating upward momentum…but halfway to the top he slowed to near a stop, actually beginning to reverse his direction.

“Fuckin’ push it up, Donny! You can do it, man! Get it up! Force it out!”

The spotter yelling behind him was “Jimbo,” his face as red and knotted as Donny’s. Jimbo’d be damned if he was going to help him—this was Donny’s weight, Donny’s movement, and, as far as Jimbo was concerned, spotters were only there for moral support.

Quickly regrouping, Donny emitted a new growl and explosively pistoned upward.

A glut of air was expelled as the movement was completed. Standing defiantly, Donny allowed the bouncing movement of the weight on the bar on his shoulders to add additional “psyche” to his powerful display of strength. He was a hunter shouldering his kill. Hobbling forward toward the rack, Donny gruffly racked the weight off his shoulders, then stepped back exhilarated.

Immediately the spotters congratulated him, slapping him on the back and smacking his shoulders with muscled fists. Throwing his own fists high, Donny whooped out another growl, but this time of triumph. Lifting chalk from his hands powdered the air in the wake of his thrown fists.

He had finally broken his sticking point…a sticking point where for weeks he couldn’t get past the weight or the reps…but now he’d done both, and the whole world could take a flying leap.

While all the excitement had been going on, nobody thought to watch the entrance desk. Donny, who owned the gym, had let the others who had been working the desk leave early because it was nearly closing time, and he could handle whatever came up. Only sparsely populated at this hour, the gym contained a mere six or seven people still battling with their workouts.

The plate-glass windows facing the parking lot were completely fogged, the darkness weaving a complex coziness to the gym’s interior. Inside, fluorescent lights illuminated tons of plates and other equipment…a layer of calcium carbonate chalk covering everything. A rock station wailed “Welcome to the Jungle,” by Guns N’ Roses, over the sound system, while the ghostly presences of the day’s previous lifters echoed throughout the mirrored walls.

Everyone was winding down, except for the blond individual currently striding in through the glass doors. Walking in, he signed the register at the front desk, under “Guest,” and went straight to the rear of the gym. An acute odor followed him, causing those he passed to wrinkle their noses.

Still excited over Donny’s achievement, others were collecting around the power rack. The gathering was about halfway into the gym’s interior—which basically consisted of one large room, mirrors facing both the north and south walls. The remainder of the gym’s inhabitants, who had momentarily stopped their workouts to watch Donny and give their moral support, resumed their own lifting. Donny meanwhile, had sat down to undo his knee wraps, chalk flecking off his muscled and calloused hands.

Out of everybody’s way the blond lifter began setting up equipment. He wore a tattered and sweat-stained shroud-of-a-tank-top that hung about his body like a cat clawing for holds. His four-inch wide lifting belt was aged and stained; his shorts a vestige of better workouts. The socks clinging about his ankles were unevenly folded down around themselves and stained, and his sneakers were more reminiscent of sandals than shoes. Not nearly as hulking as Donny, the stranger was tanned and muscular. His body “ripped.”

But the most striking thing about the stranger was none of these things. The most striking quality about him was his face.

It belched forth a face that was hard to take without wincing. Blazing blue and frighteningly wide, his eyes screamed witness to a disturbing past. There was a strung-out look about him…hair long and twisted…speared out in all directions, flowing easily over muscled shoulders and back. His movement was quick and jerky, giving the appearance of epileptic fits.

And he smelled.

Bad.

Without the slightest warmup, the stranger threw on six 45-pound plates to the bar, totaling 315 pounds. Getting beneath it, he ripped off a quick eight reps of the same exercise Donny had just completed.

Watching nearby, a weekend warrior was doing seated calves and nearly swallowed his tongue.

The blond threw on a few more plates, totaling nearly 500 pounds. Again immediately positioning himself under the bar, he unracked and repeated the same feat. Even for a guy the stranger’s size, this was a weight to be reckoned with. Staring, the weekender stopped what he was doing, motioning to a buddy.

Looking around for something bigger, the lifter saw 100-pounders, and grabbed two. By now Donny’s spotters were getting interested. Donny was still cleaning up his area from plates and personal equipment. It was about time to close up shop.

“Hey, Donny, catch this,” Jimbo said, pointing to the rear of the gym. “Who is that guy?”

Donny stopped, casting an at first indifferent glance. “Dunno—” Then he saw the weight on the bar and became immediately interested.

“Holy shit. Let’s take a look,” he said, slapping Jimbo with the back of his hand and strutting to the rear, entourage in tow.

The blond lifter stepped back from the rack, the ends of the bar bouncing and rattling on his shoulders. In one smooth movement he squatted down, then, without so much as a bounce, glided back up.

Rack.

Astonished, Donny looked back at his groupies. The blond turned around, hitting everybody with the eyes of a Lon Chaney creation. Donny flinched. Not only was he not ready for the face, he was not ready for the odor of dead fish. Donny felt the smell go beyond his nostrils, clawing down his throat and into his stomach. Could a smell hurt?

Looking at Donny for an indifferent second, the tanned beach bum continued about his search for more weight. Donny turned to Jimbo.

“What the fuck’s his trip?” he asked, gagging. Jimbo shrugged, holding back his own dry heaves.

“Weirdo,” Donny said, and approached the stranger.

“Hey, man, what’s your name?”

Replacing the 45-pound plates for hundred-pounders and adding to it, the stranger turned. He gave the same wild-eyed look, not saying anything for the first few seconds. Donny felt like an icicle had just been rammed up his ass.

“Name’s Wave Doggy, man,” the blonde lifter said, continuing to the rack. Donny hacked again, this guy’s smell was just too much.

“You ever take a bath?,” Donny said, gagging, “You smell like dead fish.” Donny did not want to open his mouth again. Opening it around this guy meant that smell would enter his mouth.

The stranger looked back after rearranging the weight on the bar.

“Bath?” he asked, as if missing a punch-line. “Yeah, guess so. Give me a spot, dude?” Donny looked at the gathering behind him, some of which were snickering.

“You—a spot? You don’t look like you need me—or anyone else.”

Positioning himself under the bar, the blond lifter didn’t move until Donny came up behind. God, the smell! It was eating away at the back of his throat….

“Go for it, dude,” Donny said. Some in the crowd were leery that Donny could spot all that weight by himself, but let Donny alone. A couple big guys silently went to either side of the bar just in case.

Wave Doggy squatted down—not once, but four times—and each squat went as easy as the first, as easy as if it were only the bar. Wave Doggy racked, getting out from under the bar and turned around. He looked like some crazed David Lee Roth. As if hit by a wall of stench—multiplied by the force of Wave Doggy’s turn—Donny stumbled backward, tripping over tangling feet. Wave Doggy shot out a hand and grabbed him, jerking Donny back up—into the air—then landing him on his feet. Blondy quickly returned to the bar, cleaning it off.

Nearly burned by the slimy coldness of the stranger’s touch, Donny wiped off his hand on his shorts, slowly backing away.

“You haven’t been in here before, have you,” Donny asked, looking for any reason to kick the dude out.

“Nope,” Wave Doggy said.

“Then you didn’t pay to get in.”

“It’s up at the desk, man,” he said, twitching in his nervous fashion as he turned to look at Donny. He immediately began setting up another bar, on the floor. Deadlifts. Donny motioned for Jimbo to go up front and check it out.

“Where you from?”

“SoCal.”

“No shit,” Donny muttered, where else would he be from?

Jimbo found the money, counting it out.

“Whatcha’ doin’ here?”

“Liftin’.”

Again, no shit, this guy was a genius. Jimbo returned, Wave Doggy’s money in hand.

“Hey, he left ten bucks at the desk—he even signed in.”

Ten bucks. It cost only five to workout one day.

“You left five bucks more than necessary, pal.”

“That’s what I always leave,” he said, squatting down before the bar. Wave Doggy grasped it using no wrist straps, in a reverse grip…one hand under, other hand over grip. Straightening his back and looking up, Wave Doggy hefted the weight off the floor. Eight times.

405 pounds. No problem.

Donny had enough of this. Taking Jimbo and the two other spotters with him, he left the crowd. It felt great getting away from that fishy odor and wild eyes.

“I’m calling the cops to check this guy out. Keep an eye on him.”

Jimbo, Bill, and Charlie nodded, spreading their lats like dangerous gym-rat peacocks, and made their way back. Donny, money in hand, made the call. Even the guy’s bills were slimy.

By now everybody had stopped lifting to watch Wave Doggy and his Amazing Feats.

Besides his odor, there was a definite fascination about the guy that fill the air. A magic. Everybody but Donny was visibly impressed. Donny didn’t take lightly to being upstaged, not to mention that he just plain didn’t like what was going on here.

Wave Doggy?

What kind of a name was that?

Donny locked the front doors. The gym should have been closed fifteen minutes ago. Waiting for the police to arrive, Donny began clearing out the remaining customers. Wave Doggy, after deadlifting as much weight as the bar could handle, then proceeded on to other exercises. There seemed no stopping him.

The cops arrived, two of them, looking quite official in midnight-blue jackets and black nightsticks. Donny let them in.

“Hi. I’m Donny Frayze,” he said, shaking hands, emphasizing the first syllable for the men, “I own the place.” Pointing to the rear, he continued. “And that’s him.” Lita Ford’s “Kiss Me Deadly” screamed over the speakers. The officers accompanied Donny back to the rear.

“Well, he doesn’t look familiar, Mr. Frayze,” said one of the officers.

Wave Doggy was now benching repetitions with better than 600 pounds. Nobody his size does that. Donny could tell the cops weren’t too pleased with the prospect of arresting the guy. A few of the overhead lights around Wave Doggy began flickering off and on. Donny went over and asked the remaining lifters to split. After some silent protest, they began packing up.

Racking the weight, Wave Doggy jerked himself upright, immediately turning to the cops. He regarded them uninterestingly, then went back to packing on more weight. One of the cops turned to Donny.

“He fuckin’ stinks.”

“Excuse me, sir, we’d like a word with you if you don’t mind,” interjected the other officer, a man named Tony Valletti.

Wave Doggy finished adding his new weight to the bar, then casually approached the officers. The officers placed their hands on their weapons and positioned for action. Wild-eyed and mechanical, Wave Doggy sauntered up to them.

“Where you from mister,” Valletti asked.

“Cali.”

“California?”

“Yeah.”

“What part.”

“SoCal.” The surfer dude’s head continued to jerk chaotically.

“This guy’s definitely on something, Peterson,” Valletti said to his partner. Carefully reaching for handcuffs, Valletti and Peterson rushed him. Wave just stood there, naively offering no resistance.

“You’re under arrest for suspicion of substance abuse. You have the right to remain silent.”

After cuffing him and turning to head back to the cruiser, the policemen were gracefully eluded as Wave Doggy pirouetted out of their control and headed back to his bench instead.

It was as if he’d never been wearing cuffs at all.

He’d simply separated his hands like the silent half to a clap…and pieces of chain fell from his wrists. Cuff-metal still encircled his wrists as Wave Doggy grabbed more weight and placed the plates on the sleeves of the already weighted bar.

Stunned, the cops spun around, unholstering weapons. They leveled them at Wave Doggy, who had simply gone on to continue with his workout.

“Mr. Wave Doggy—you are under arrest! Any additional attempts at resisti—”

But Wave Doggy had no intention of being arrested.

After his set, he popped back up and continued to pile more weight onto the bar.

Valletti went around behind the lifter, while Peterson nervously remained where he was. More lights flickered off, Donny looked around nervously.

Valletti replaced his revolver, withdrawing his nightstick, instead. As soon as Wave Doggy sat himself back down on the bench, the officer reached over the bar, nightstick grasped by both ends, and caught a Wave. Nightstick around and against Wave Doggy’s throat, he brought him back against the racked bar, hard.

With sickening speed, the officer was flipped over both the bar and Wave Doggy—landing with a crash in front of the bench. A stand containing chalk was spilled over, a funnel of white fanning out on the floor’s thin carpet. The second officer yelled “Freeze!” but Wave Doggy merely stood up as though he was off to the water fountain. And went for the remaining officer.

Peterson fired.

Wave Doggy took the slug in his chest…then grabbed the gun and threw it into a mirror. With his other hand, he placed it square on the officer’s chest and casually pushed him away, Peterson flying feet-over-head as he flew backward.

Acting as if all were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, Wave Doggy sat back down on the bench and unracked the rattling bar.

Donny made his move.

Coming from behind the bench, Donny pressed his 240 pounds down on the bar, forcing it into Wave Doggy’s chest. Wave Doggy did two reps with Donny pressing down on him before exploding—both the bar and Donny—up and into the ceiling. Ceiling tiles fell around the floor as the weight came crashing back down…Donny entangled with it. After bouncing, the bar came to rest on one of Donny’s legs, an exquisite splitting sound finishing out the movement.

Walking out into the center of the room, Wave Doggy stopped.

A green glow emanated from him.

A brighter, more intense glow took up residence in his eyes. Welts and sores began bursting all over his body…and the officious odor grew even worse, if that was possible. Doggy’s body took on a bloated appearance…the appearance of someone who’s body had been in water the other side of far too long. Lights crackled and sizzled, electricity sparking everywhere, and Wave Doggy became violently spasmodic. Out of his throat came a gurgling sound, his lungs filling with water.

“All I wanted too doooo wasss lllifftt.”

Wave Doggy’s face cracked open in places, mottled flesh and gangrenous cankers saying “hello!” to the crowd. The welts that had formed on his body broke open.

The two cops stood up, collecting themselves. Donny quickly forgot about his own pain as he observed the gruesome metamorphosis.

“Wwwhyyy cccouldn’t yyyoouuu jussst lettt meee lllifttt? III wwwasn’ttt hhhurrrting anyonnnne?”

Water and bits of lung and other “material” issued from Wave Doggie’s mouth as he spoke. The cops, Donny, and those who remained in spite of Donny’s warning, all backed up. Wave Doggy coughed up more water and viscera. He looked pathetic…alone…and Donny found himself feeling sorry for the guy. After all, he thought, he really hadn’t hurt or bothered anyone—and he had paid an extra five bucks over-and-above the amount for a day’s lifting.

Hell, he’d even signed in. How many regulars did that?

The creature now before them raised his hands into the sparking electricity above him. Tears were mixed with the sea water and decay.

“Wait!”

It was Donny, blood covering his legs—one broken—as he struggled to get up. Pain

(no pain no gain…)

knifed at him as he motioned for the cops to back off. They did. No argument.

Everyone looked to everyone else.

“I’m sorry,” Donny said, holding a hand up and gritting against the pain.

Wave Doggy stopped…looking over to Donny, who was crouching and unable to stand.

Lowering a mottled hand, the blonde beach bum came over to Donny and pulled him to his feet. Grabbing hold of the bench, Donny supported himself. The creature looked at him through puffed eyes and a face swollen nearly beyond recognition.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you. I-I’m sorry about all this,” Donny said, wincing. Donny’s Reeboks were soaked red. “Really.” Donny looked to Wave Doggy…there was (as hard as it was to believe this…) a look of understanding that came over the creature’s face…something that had been, up to this point, non-existent in him (it?). There was no longer that wild, strung-out David Lee Roth look…now only the look of a cornered, injured animal.

Donny owned a dog. One that had been injured and had looked up to him in just this way.

“I ooonllly waanttt tooo wwworrrk ooouttt.”

More matter washed out with his speech.

“III’ll llloock uuupppp when I’mmm donnne.”

There was a touch of childlike innocence to his shuddering movements that stabbed Donny right in the heart…yes, he had one beneath all the testosterone and muscle.

Donny slowly nodded his head in agreement and looked to the two officers, who could do nothing more than return the same look. Donny motioned them away.

Slowly, the swelling began dissipating from Wave Doggy…then he reached down to Donny’s splintered leg. Feeling around in the fracture (and at great pain to Donny), he put pieces of Donny’s bone back into place—setting it.

Donny looked up to Wave Doggy in disbelief.

Wave Doggy regarded Donny.

The two cops and Donny sat out in the cruiser, patiently watching through the fogged windows of the gym. The remaining lifters were all standing outside in the dark, also watching. The interior gym lights were going out on their own as the creature came out the front doors. Wave Doggy had returned to his earlier, tanned-and-surfer state. He locked the doors behind him, setting the keys down in plain view on the edge of the concrete. Donny felt his leg. There was still some pain…but nothing broken.

The cops and Donny watched as Wave Doggy faced them, still twitching in his tattered and sweat-stained gear and
weight belt still around his waist. They regarded each other for along moment. Though it was dark and Donny couldn’t make out features, he could still—mentally—clearly see Wave Doggy’s wild eyes and speared hair.

Forced reps, maaan, forced reps, Donny thought.

Donny wished him the best of luck with his continued training…and Wave Doggy nodded, turned…and walked away into the darkness.

 

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Jumper

by

Jump! (Image by By http://www.flickr.com/photos/amagill, http://www.flickr.com/photos/amagill/4614314729 [CC BY 2.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)
Jump! (Image by By http://www.flickr.com/photos/amagill, http://www.flickr.com/photos/amagill/4614314729 [CC BY 2.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)

To be honest, I’m not sure if Van Halen’s “Jump!” (ahhh…brings back fine, fine memories of the old Van Halen days…) or the origin of parkour was my inspiration for this next story or what, but it was written about the time of parkour’s development. But I’ve always been interested in “jumping,” and wish I’d been younger when I really remember hearing about all this nifty French obstacle course training. As you know, your bones don’t remain as supple into your 30s, 40s, 50s, and beyond.

But my story takes it a little beyond the whole parkour thing, not to mention David Lee Roth.

In any event, I wish I could do this outside my dreams (where I have been known to really give it a go, and it is ever so much damned fun!). I did, however, have to add the last two paragraphs when I reread it.

This story has never been published.

Jump!

Jumper

© F. P. Dorchak, 1990

He got up and walked away.

No fanfare; no good-byes. He simply lifted himself up off the chair and left…the creaking of the chair (like his bones) still hanging in the air like some spent cigar aroma.

“Bullshit,” Harold said, watching the man walk away and out the door. Turning to Bill, who had also sat there and listened to the old man’s story, he again uttered, “Pure, one-hundred per-cent, finely packed, bullshit!”

Bill merely continued sitting there, speechless. The summer sun was going down fast, and any customers who had been to Preacher’s Corner General Store had long since left, but one additional person had come out, Bill Waverly’s daughter, Marianne. She placed herself at her dad’s feet, curling up and grasping her legs into her arms.

“What’s—”

“Marianne—”

“I was gonna say ‘bull crap‘, daddy.”

Bill gave his daughter one of those stern paternal looks, then let his daughter continue. Marianne had a wry grin on her face. She was prone to blurting out things despite what she nonchalantly claimed, and Bill decided it gave her the attention she wanted…saying the unexpected…whether a “curse” word or not…usually got it good and got it fast, and Marianne liked that.

“So what’d he say?” Marianne asked her father.

“Oh, nuthin’.”

“‘Nuthin‘?”  Harold said, exploding, almost offended, “he just spent the better part of the afternoon tellin’ us how he done jumped off’n everything in sight that had a roof attached to it, and you call it nuthin’!”

“I know what he said, Harold….”

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! You said you’d tell me!” Marianne pressed.

Bill Waverly let out a long sigh as he examined his daughter’s preteen expression, then looked back at Harold, a good friend of many years. Harold Filmore and Bill Waverly knew each other since Bill was a kid. Now that Bill was grown up, he’d come help take up operation of Preacher’s Corner General Store after Harold’s wife, Millie, passed away. Harold had been old when Bill was young; now it was immaterial.

“Ah, why not, Bill. It’s not like it’s true or anything. Shit, go an’ tell her how he done jumped off the Empire State Building. Or how he’d hopped, skipped, and jumped all the way down the Grand Canyon—only to do it all the way back up!”

Marianne’s eyes lit up.

“Oh! Did he really?”

“No. I mean, I don’t believe so—”

“You don’t believe so? Lord, fetch me my switch, Bill! You think he mighta been talking’ the truth, or sumthin’?”

“Well, beat all, Harold, there’s lots a things out there we know nuthin’ about. Who’s ta say he weren’t telling’ the truth?”

“I am! You believe him when he talked a jumpin’ across those Sears Towers in Chicago?”

Bill shrugged his shoulders.

“Gol dern, William Waverly, you’re more skittery’n I thought!”

“Dad-dy! Please, tell me!”

“Okay, okay. But what I’m about to tell you is only one man’s word. This here fella claims to have jumped over, across, and down from just about anything that exists.”

“Really?” Marianne asked, pulling her knees up to her chin.

“Yep,” he said, continuing, casting a glance over to Harold who just began restuffing a dead pipe. “This here fella said he started doing it ever since he was a kid over in Australia.”

“Australia? Where’s that?”

“Down clear on the other side of the world, child, where all their seasons are backwards from ours. Anyway, he say he saw some—what did he call them, Harold?”

“Aborigines.”

“Aborigines—they’re like the American Indians are to our country, but to Australia—he saw these Aborigines jumping off platforms with rope tied to their ankles. So, one day, he decided to give it a go, only the rope he tied to his ankle came loose—”

Marianne’s eyes bugged wide.

“Did he die?” she asked.

“No child, of course not, he was just here, wasn’t he?”

“Oh…yeah…”

“But that wasn’t the worst of it, really. It turns out he just…bounced.”

Harold grunted something which Bill chose to ignore.

“He just up and bounced right back up into the air…right up to the platform he’d jumped off from. From there, he began experimentin’ with different things…steadily going higher and higher. He’s said he’s done it all…jumped from anything he could get his feet on.

“Wow…,” was all Marianne could say, staring off into the growing darkness.

Off in the distance, where none of the General Store group could see, a lone figure jumped from rooftop to rooftop in the evening twilight, sometimes doing flips in mid-air. If you listened real close, you could make out some faint whoopin’ and hollarin’….

Short Story Links

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The Way We Were

by

Nevermore. (Image by Gustave Doré [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
Nevermore. (Image by Gustave Doré [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons)
A prose poem about looking back.

Memories.

Days gone past.

Remembering past movies, mindsets, and a sense of public decorum.

And, okay, a few ties to other works. I think I can get away with that last word….

But nothing is ever perfect. As we remember it. There are always dark shadows (pardon the veiled pun).

Change is what it is.

This poem has never been published. Probably should have stayed that way.

 

The Way We Were

© F. P. Dorchak, 2003

 

We would never die and never grow old

Polite to each other

Always young

NYC known for publishing, Greenwich Village, “The Big Apple”

HIV was no more than just three letters in the alphabet

Gas was under a dollar

Our dreams were on fire

We could change the world

Nothing could get in our way

Stephen King was It

Nevermore

 

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Freefallin’

by

Into the Clouds. (Image by Radikaltech; [CC BY-SA 3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0], via Wikimedia Commons)
Into the Clouds. (Image by Radikaltech; [CC BY-SA 3.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0%5D, via Wikimedia Commons)
I’ve done three static-line skydives, never done the freefall, but still was intrigued with the possibilities detailed within this story. It still gives me the heebie-jeebies re-reading it. Yeah. My palms are still sweating….

This story originally appeared in Black Sheep #60, August-September 2004

 

Freefallin’

© F. P. Dorchak, 2004

“Crazy my ass,” Ronny Flynn hissed, as he hurtled his body out the Beech 18, at 20,000 feet. The day was gorgeous, with puffy, billowy cumulus clouds set against an intense, deep blue sky. Skipping the standard arch, Ronny set himself rigid as a board and angled his head downward, trying to escape the other jumpers as quickly as possible.

I’ll show them who’s crazy!

Ronny, arms tucked tight against his body and legs together, shot like a bullet for the ground. Just because his wife had perished in a skydiving accident on this date last year and that he swore he kept hearing her voice since then didn’t mean he was crazy. Just because he kept having dreams about her did not mean he was insane. Just because—several times—he’d remarked to others how he couldn’t always tell fantasy from reality…tell real life from a dream…did not mean he had to be locked up. Many times he’d swore he was dreaming, but was actually awake…or thought Angela was still alive, because—in his dreams—she was. It was other people who kept bringing him down, bursting his bubbles. People dreamed about their dear departed all the time and were never declared crazy. Why was he any different?

Oh, right…something about his friends meeting him in a restaurant while he kept insisting Angela was just visiting the Ladies Room and would be returning any time now….

Well, what did they know.

Why, they’d seen her auger in, is what; they all had.

Angela wasn’t in the Ladies Room and she wasn’t ever coming back, and he’d better seek help or they’d be forced to take more drastic measures.

No, he would not allow himself to be locked up. Would not.

But he kept insisting that he saw her everywhere…and that had led to the intervention…the psychiatrist. Those words—not from the doc, that wouldn’t have been professional—but he knew he was thinking them. Of course he was, or else he wouldn’t have had to come back. Again and again and

Crazy?

He’s show them!

Glancing to his altimeter, Ronny angled toward a bank of clouds. Sport rules declared skydivers had to be able to see their dropzone and had to avoid jumping through clouds.

But he tired of rules.

Ronny disappeared into the cloud.

Whether because he was lost in his thoughts…or the pleasantly vertigo-inducing complete whiteness enveloping him…Ronnie lost track of exactly when he was promptly smacked—hard—in the gut…and bounced off something that couldn’t—mustn’t be—solid.

Not once…but twice.

Ronny abruptly found himself sliding down the length of the inside of the cloud’s bright white, homogenous interior, his hands and arms up and out before him like he was still falling. He slid for what seemed an eternity before coming to

A stop.

Either out of the fear–response habit, or reflex, he jerked his ripcord. The parachute popped out of his rig, then gently fell into a pile on the cloud beside him. He watched as cloud fog calmly swirled around the deflated chute.

Ronny lay there on his stomach, arms outstretched before him, mouth open and eyes wide. His senses told him he’d stopped moving…but his mind, his inner equilibrium told him he had to still be falling.

Had to.

He was (again, looking to his altimeter) still at 15,000 feet, but was, indeed, no longer moving. He should be screaming earthward at 120 miles an hour. Should still hear the howl of the wind in his ears, feel it against his body. Should feel his face contorted by the pummeling airspeed. He flicked his altimeter several times, but nothing changed, and realized that though he was as if lying on his stomach, he was still able to reach beneath himself as if he weren’t. Frantic, Ronny shot his arms beside him, sending more puffs of cloud vapor dancing around him.

He yelled out.

Nervously shot up to a one–knee kneeling position.

Confused, he mentally tried to retrace his actions and mentally reach out to the exterior of the cloud—to what he knew existed out there, outside all of this blinding white that surrounded (and now, somehow, supported) him. His surroundings looked exactly like common ground fog, key word ground. Solidity was now where it should never be. He should still be hurtling earthward by force of gravity, dammit, not suspended in the stuff of dreams and insanity.

Crazy?

He again smacked his gloved hands down beside him, but they still did not pass through the vaporous moisture, hitting soft, enigmatic solidity. More swirls of cloud vapor puffed up around him.

“No–no–no–no–no. This can’t be….”

Ronny shot to both feet—cautiously crouched—hands out before him like a blind man.

Any moment, now, any moment and he would continue on his downward journey.

He glanced warily about him. Felt the sweat, cold and copious, begin to pour out of him like a squeezed sponge.

This was scary.

Jumping out of a plane with a parachute was nothing. His entire body trembled, and he took several furtive steps about his position, circling and staring down at the damned white “surface” he stood upon.

(not falling!)

“Oh, my God….”

Clumsily, he again spun around, got tangled in his deployed chute’s lines and looked to them. They didn’t dangle beneath him, but also appeared held up by whatever buoyed him. He checked his harness. All still good; nothing loose. He felt for his reserve chute; still there, of course, but, why wouldn’t it? The only thing missing from this equation was sanity. He slowly stood fully upright, lowered his arms, and again stomped about in a tight circle. Again, more puffs of vapor but still no falling. He was undeniably stopped dead in mid-air. It was all white, blinding white, and he could actually see the cloud particles drifting about before him. Feel their moisture kissing his face, even beginning to fog up his goggles—which he couldn’t quite bring himself to remove.

Tentatively, he stuck out his feet, one, then the other, and edged his way forward. Where, he had no idea, it was all white. All…eerily solid. Cushiony, but solid. He was expecting Rod Serling to step out before him any moment now, taking a puff on his cigarette as he introduced him to his world and welcome to it, with that sardonic smirk.

“This is stupid…this can’t be happening,” he said. “I have to be falling, have to still be in descent…this–this—it must be hypoxia, that’s all—”

But, he thought, if this is the case, then…then, what if I don’t open my chute? What if I don’t see the ground coming, because it’s one looow cloud…and I won’t break out til 500 feet? The automatic activation device…the AAD’ll open my chute at 1300. I’ll be fine. But what about…what about….

All this.

How could any of this be even remotely possible? Even clouds didn’t go on forever…he simply had to keep walking until he found the end of it, then, what…jump?

But if he found himself where he presently was, what made him think he’d ever find an end to this freaky affair?

Ronny popped the harness’s D–rings to his main chute and released it, then sprinted into an all–out run. He closed his eyes, held his breath—and leapt.

And once again landed hard on his stomach, again knocking the air out of him.

Maybe I’m just too messed up, maybe they were all right and I am crazy—and I’m actually still hurtling toward the ground right this second and just don’t realize it—

Ronny stared into the swirling cloud.

“This can’t be…it’s all got to be a dream, that’s all it is—I’m dreaming again….”

 

Ronny was not much of one to scare easily, but taking off his rig to repack his chute—here—gave him the heebie–jeebies like nobody’s business. He pictured himself still falling out of the sky, hypoxic, and those on the ground observing his flailing body as he tried to remove himself from his rig. It sent shivers all through him, made his palms sweat, and his gut clench. What if—

But, he’d decided, what difference would it make? If he really was crazy and he really was still falling, then he’d never know it, would he? He didn’t know it, now, did he? Well, there you go. And if he wasn’t hurtling earthward and really was…here…then he’d better either repack it or forget about it, and since he was fifteen grand into the air (or somewhere) why not at least go through the motions—even if it all turned out to be some hypoxic mental aberration…or all in the dreamworld.

Ronny took off his rig, lay it on the fluffy white firmament that appeared to be solid, and went about the task of collecting and repacking his chute.

“Ronny?”

The voice came soft and sweet…like it always did.

“What do you want,” he asked, continuing to pack his chute without looking up.

“This really is real, you know. All of it.”

“Yeah, right. I’m just having another dream. A nightmare, and you’re part of it. All in my head. Can’t tell reality from fantasy anymore. Have a history of it, you know.”

He carefully placed the chute back into the pack, avoiding to look the voice in its face.

“But, I’m real, too. And I’m right here.”

Ronny chuckled. “Now, tell me, how can I really believe that? I can’t believe anything anymore. I mean, look at me! I’m putzing around inside a frigging cloud, for chrissakes, my cheeks should be flapping in the breeze!”

“But I’m right here. Look at me. See me.”

Ronny looked up. Saw her. Or at least a shadowy outline of her obscured by the cloud. She came closer.

“This doesn’t mean anything, you know,” Ronny lied. He felt the tears. Always the tears. “I dream of you every night. See you every night.”

“But this is different, honey, this isn’t a dream.”

Ronny chuckled, just about to expel a sarcastic comeback, when he froze as Angela emerged from the cloud vapor to stand directly before him. She was as he always saw her—only better. Ronny came to his feet. He could smell that hint of Red she always wore when she wasn’t going gonzo. And she had that little scar she earned from rock climbing on her left eyebrow, which he never seemed to notice during his dreams. And—by God—her freckles, her cute little freckles were even there, another thing overlooked in his dreams.

Angela took his hand. Squeezed it.

“See, silly, I’m real. I’m really here, not like in your dreams—though, to tell the truth, they did keep me alive. This time this isn’t a dream…it isn’t all in your head—I really am standing before you, and I really am real.”

“How—”

“I can’t explain it, honey, I only know I exist. Here, now. I don’t fight it and neither should you. Just give in to it—us—before whatever did this and put us together takes it away …okay?”

Those pleading eyes, that heart–wrenching voice….

Angela came in closer, bringing him to his feet and took both his hands into hers. She planted the softest, most loving kiss on his lips. He could smell her, dammit, smell her and feel her. And those sensations brought back all the longing and emotion that had been so severely cut off during that—that day….

Angela shook her head, placing a gentle hand to his. “Don’t think about that.”

“But…why?”

“Honey…you know why…please, don’t make me talk about it. It doesn’t matter anymore. You’ve more than made up for it, now.”

“But, why did you have to kill yourself? We could have worked things out…gone back to therapy. If I’d known how badly it affected—”

Angela smiled quietly. “You know yourself better than anyone else. Would that have worked? Honestly? You’ve always philandered. Nothing made you stop—until that day. I was the closest thing that kept you even close to honest—and I cherished every moment of our time together—like I do, now. Please…all that’s over. You’re a new person, now. A better one.”

Ronny collapsed back to his knees, sobbing. Angela knelt down beside him and cradled him in her arms.

“I really don’t know what to tell you, honey. I’m also deeply sorry about what I did. If I had the chance to do things over, I’d do things differently. Two wrongs don’t make a right. But I loved you so much, so damned intensely that I didn’t want to live if I couldn’t have you totally, body and soul.

“Look, we’re here…now…please, let’s not waste this time by rehashing old wounds. I don’t know how else to impress this upon you. Look at me. Love me—now. Let’s no longer waste the time we now have together….”

 

Ronny and Angela walked hand in hand through the swirling cloud bank, Ronny, his rig now packed and slung carelessly over a shoulder.

“So, that’s all you’ve been doing since…?”

Angela nodded, guiltily. “Yes. I’ve been reliving our lives over and over; my death, over and over. Emotionally trying to will things differently. Like you are in your dreams. A couple times I found other threads…probabilities…in which I pulled that ripcord, but they still never turned out to change the past I had already created in that life. But your dreams…your emotion and love…keep pulling me back…to you. Sometimes your emotion is so strong I don’t even know where I am. It…clouds my mind, I guess you could say. And then…one moment—because there is no time where I am—I find myself here. You here.”

Ronny smiled, tears filling his eyes, his face red and hot. He squeezed her hand harder. Felt the warmth of her palms. “Good God, we humans create so many needless problems for ourselves, don’t we? I am so sorry for everything—everything—I’ve ever done. I am so sorry you’ve had to relive all those moments of ours—I don’t ever want to live without you again!”

“But you must. It isn’t your time yet. You have to continue on with your own life, with the past we’ve created, the both of us. When it is your time, I’ll be there, know this!”

“But, what about all this? If we can do this now, might it mean we’re meant to be together? That we can be together, again—forever?”

“But at what price? How long will it last? I feel…something strange…about everything…unfinished. Like I said, sometimes your emotion is so strong, I get confused about whether or not I’m really dead. You’re so strong and you don’t even realize it. But no emotion—none—can ever be maintained forever. Eventually, it tires, exhausts itself out, gets…diverted. Just like life everything dies. Sometimes I feel that maybe—maybe you should let me die—”

Angela choked off and stopped walking. Ronny stopped and turned to her, taking her sobbing form into his arms.

“How can something so real as this—even if so utterly unbelievable—not be true? Not be lasting? I can feel the hotness of your cheek, your tears, smell the sweetness of your breath. I may have been diverted before, but this…this is different. I refuse to believe that this cannot survive the moment. That we can’t make it survive forever. I refuse! I will not lose you again!”

Ronny buried his face into her neck and hair, his gear falling into the mist at their feet. Just before he closed his eyes he had an instant’s surge of panic—that his rig had actually, finally, fallen through the cloud and he was left without it, holding onto his dead wife, three miles into the air with nothing more than his imagination.

But did he really care?

No.

If he couldn’t live with her why live at all? She had enough guts to at least do what she did—why couldn’t he?

He closed his eyes and let go…and all was right with the world. He once more held his loving, precious wife tightly in his arms. Felt their love for each other intertwine in ways he’d never felt before. If he truly had gone off the deep end, then he never wanted to know about it. Never wanted to wake up. Never wanted to leave this cloud—be it in his imagination …or reality.

Ronny sobbed uncontrollably into Angela’s shoulders.

 

“So…what do we do now?” he asked, as they both sat beside each other in the swirling vapors. “Do we know how long we’ve been here?”

“I don’t know, hon. I just know I’m happy to be with you, again. I love you so much. I was so lonely. So angry. Missed you like I’d never, ever missed you before, even though I know there’s this bright light out there waiting for me. I just can’t go to it, yet. I don’t know how long all this lasts, but I never want it to go away. I’d gladly wait an eternity, here, for you.”

“I’d rather die and be with you now then go back.”

Angela smiled.

“What? What’s this?” he asked, as he hit something in the vapor. “Oh, my God—my rig. How’d that get here? I left it way over—well, wherever.”

Angela looked to it. “You knooow…I always used to think you looked quite sexy in your gear.”

“You did?”

“You knew that. I told you all the time.”

Ronny smiled sweetly. “I’m just playing.”

“Hey, why don’t you put it on, again…one more time?”

“I don’t really care to.”

“Oh, come on…just once more. Then you can toss it over the side. Forever. You’ll never need it again, you know, if you stay here. Humor me. Goggles and all.”

“Could we, you know…if I do this?”

Angela, smiled coyly. “May-beee….”

Ronny found all his gear in a pile beside him. Something felt different about reaching for the equipment this time, but he did it anyway—for her.

He did it all for her, now. Everything.

He wished it hadn’t cost her her life for him to learn his lesson. He supposed if she wanted to see him one last time in his jumping rig he could certainly do that. After all, what else did they have to do…where else did they have to go?

Ronny put everything on, Angela assisting, and when he had one glove on, Angela stepped back, soaking in every last bit of him. Ronny, smiling, looked up just as he slid his hand into the last glove—but saw a suddenly sorrowful expression descend upon her face. She reached up a trembling hand to her quivering mouth.

“What is it? Honey? What’s the mat—”

No sooner had he put the glove all the way on than he fell through the cloud—all the air, all his will to live knocked out of him like a sucker punch.

He plummeted away…away…from his wife….

“NOOO….”

I love you, Ronny, forever….

 

Ronny hit quick and hard, landing with the wind at the airport’s dropzone. He (again) popped his D–rings and hurried toward the tarmac. Another plane was queuing up for another round of jumpers and he was going to be on it. The jumpers he’d jumped with were all around him, collecting their chutes, and also making their way toward the tarmac. No time had passed.

He’d landed with the same crew of jumpers with which he’d exited the plane.

Ronny was the furthest out of all of them and broke into a run, gruffly shouldering past those he used to include among his friends. Several heard him mutter about having to “get back up there.” Back to a cloud. To Angela. That’s when everyone tried to stop him, but Ronny wasn’t about to be stopped and swung out at the closest interlopers, knocking several to the ground. Then he all-out sprinted for the revving Beech that was making its turn onto the runway, with its new load of jumpers. Ronny reached the plane, leapt at the opening, and yanked out the jump instructor, who sat just inside the door. Wiping away tears, Ronny commanded the others to also get the hell out, then forced the surprised pilot to continue, his hook knife effectively placed against the woman’s throat. The crowd on the ground could only watch as the aircraft disappeared into the clouds….

* * *

Nothing came out of the sky, after that delivery, except for the Beech and pilot, and when the pilot landed she related the following:

Ronny had apologized for his actions, and said he wasn’t going to hurt her. He just wanted her to take him over to a particular cloud formation, that’s all, and quickly, before it dissipated. He was very specific about which cloud, the pilot added. He also kept mumbling Angela’s name…and how he was coming back so they could be together…forever. The pilot mentioned how she’d noticed that Ronny only wore half his rig—his emergency canopy—while his main chute’s compartment was empty. Once they got to the specific formation—Ronny calmed—appreciably—smiled…then leapt out of the Beech and disappeared into the cloud.

The pilot said his smile was the most peaceful, most serene (and unnerving) thing she’d ever seen on a man’s face.

She then circled around and under the cloud…but never found him.

“Did anyone see him land?” she asked. “Anyone?”

All shook their heads.

“Hey!” someone shouted out on the tarmac. “Come quick—look at this! Hurry!”

The crowd ran toward the field, looking skyward, when they saw it…tumbling, end over end—a parachute rig. No jumper in it…just an empty rig, falling dirtward. It had just appeared, suddenly out from underneath one of the fair–weather cumulus cloud formations that drifted lazily overhead….

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Plaything

by

Things That Go Bump In The Night (Image by By Alec Perkins from Hoboken, USA, 80 SAM_3196 [CC BY 2.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)
Things That Go Bump In The Night (Image by By Alec Perkins from Hoboken, USA, 80 SAM_3196 [CC BY 2.0, http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons)
I actually vaguely remember writing this. And its inspiration is the obvious: things that go bump in the night.

We’ve all heard the unexplained sounds that always assail us in the weird hours of the night. Was it the house settling, a stud contracting from the cold, nighttime air…or something else?

And what really lives in-between the walls of a house or apartment?

Do we really wanna know?

This has never been published.

 

Plaything

© F. P. Dorchak, 1987

 

Mrs. Agnes Helderman lay in her bed, thick comforters her only guard against the night. Alongside her, the Big Ben ticked quietly away into the two-thirty a.m. morning. A waxing moon shone through the blinds, winds tussling branches outside her window.

In her kitchen dishes sat in the sink, bits of oatmeal crusted in a pot, several cups filled with dirty water adjacent to it. A nightlight dully illuminated the hallway leading into the living room.

The furnace suddenly hummed to life, preparing to spew heated air out into Agnes’s cramped living quarters.

Agnes snoozed.

Until the noises again woke her up.

This was the second night in a row. It was quite distressing, especially when she needed her sleep. She wasn’t young anymore, and what with a weak heart to begin with (ever since the death of her husband, Edgar, her health had been rapidly failing), well suffice it to say she didn’t need this.

Her eyes popped open.

The clock tick-tocked.

Clutching her comforter closer, Agnes scanned the bed-room.

Nothing.

Listened…

Nothing.

Klink!

She reached for the lamp at bed-aside, knocking it against the wall, and nearly off the nightstand. Her light now on (all the better to hear with…), she strained her ears—

There…inside a living-room wall…something…thudded!

Rats.

Had to be rats, they do that sort of thing you know, she told herself.

Wide awake, now, she sat up in bed, listening for more noises…but, nothing came.

She didn’t fall back asleep until nearly four in the morning.

Agnes got up about six.

Exterminators, that’s what she needed.

Throwing on her robe, she cautiously entered the living-room, a wooden backscratcher her only defense. She stopped in the entrance-way.

Peered about its walls… nothing.

Fully entering the living room, she began knocking on the paper-thin walls, testing their integrity, though she didn’t know what she’d do if she found something within them anyway…or something knocked back.

She’d probably have a heart attack.

Get to be with Edgar that much sooner.

 

It was about two that afternoon when someone finally arrived. “We kill bugs” was painted on the van’s side, an upturned cockroach with an “x” for each eye, emblazoned at the end of the words.

“Well it’s about time you fella’s got here!” she scolded the two thirty-something’s.

“We’re sorry ma’am, we got here as fast as we could.”

Agnes went back to her television while they worked.

The exterminators attacked every nook and cranny they could get their tools into, spraying all sorts of wonderful poisons into and around her place.

“Fred, I don’t think there’s anything in these goddamn walls,” one exterminator said to his partner.

“I believe you, Lou,” said the partner. “I think she’s just losing it, know what I mean?” he said, making coo-coo motions with his finger beside an ear.

Finished with poisoning the apartment, the men told Agnes to have a nice day and packed up. Agnes, relieved, sat down with a triumphant smile upon her wrinkled face, “Got you, you little bastards,” she said with more than a little relish.

 

After her cup of warm tea, Agnes crawled into bed and pulled the comforters up and over her deteriorating body. She lay there with the light on, not quite wanting to sleep.

What if they hadn’t gotten them all…or whatever they were supposed to have gotten had gone out for the day?

Or was immune to the poisons they used?

Opening her nightstand, she took out a romance novel. It occupied her mind for the next hour or so, however sleep won out in the end, her book falling to the floor.

Tick-tock, tick-tock went the merry, merry little clock….

 

Then from the linen closet it came.

A rustling.

At first she didn’t hear it…dreaming about her wedding night, fifty years ago. But the rustling…again…transmogrified into an all-out THUMP!

Agnes jolted upright.

Her heart raced.

She listened.

THUMP!

…and again…

THUMP!

The noise traveled along the hallway walls…getting closer.

As if something was looking for something…but was coming from the inside of the wall rather than outside….

Agnes had had it.

She’s paid good money (from her fixed income!) for those two bug killers to do their job and do it properly—but, that was the problem with today’s world. No one cared about quality and doing things right the first time. Always in a hurry, even though they’d spent two hours at her place.

Yes, Agnes had had quite enough.

Mustering her resolve, she crawled out from underneath the blankets and went to her bedroom closet. She emerged with an old golf club that belonged to her Edgar. The 1 wood, but she didn’t know this. He’d always been quite handy with “the sticks,” as he’d called them.

Edgar.

Turning on her main bedroom light, she went after the hallway noise, turning lights on as she went. The noise persisted…jumping around from top to bottom, side to side…wall to wall….

But her resolve never wavered. She’d had it. She’d show it what-for.

Finally at the entrance way coat closet, the noise ceased. She flipped on the closet’s light with the end of the driver. Agnes scanned up and down the closet, poked around inside among the coats, but found nothing.

Angered by her fruitless search, she closed the closet door and braced a chair up against it.

Damn this was getting old.

 

The next morning, she called the same exterminators, complaining they didn’t know their job from a

(18-hole...)

in the ground. Threatened to take them to People’s Court. The head bug-killer said he’d be right over to check it out personally. He arrived an hour later.

“Mrs. Helderman? Tim Spanner. May I come in?”

Without saying a word, Agnes hobbled aside to let him in.

“You gonna fix it? Get rid of the whatever it is?” she asked, eying him. She coughed, pulling a tissue from her wrist’s sleeve, using it, then stuffing it back into her wrist’s sleeve. “And I ain’t paying a penny more.”

“Mrs. Helderman—”

“—don’t ‘Mrs. Helderman’ me,” she said, shaking a crooked finger at him, “I don’t need double-talk, I need results. Now are you going to kill this thing or not?”

Exasperated, the exterminator said, “Where were the noises coming from?”

Humphing, Agnes led him to the linen closet in question.

“It started in there,” she said, pointing the golf club she picked up from against the wall, “and ended up at the coat closet up front,” she said pointing to where they’d just come from.

“Thank you, Mrs. Helderman,” Spanner said, stepping past her for the closet. He opened the door and took out a flashlight, poking around inside and in between the folded and ironed linen. It smelled as if none of the linen hadn’t been used in years and looked as if they’d all contained permanent folds. Spanner started to feel sorry for the old lady. Thought about all the life she’d been through and the fact that her husband was dead (she’d mentioned three times over the phone…how if her deceased husband, Edgar, had still been around she wouldn’t have needed their services) leaving her all to herself.

Lonely.

“Find anything?” she asked. She got right up behind him and he could smell a really sour smell coming from her. “Anything?”

“No, Mrs. Helderman, nothing yet.”

He banged about the walls, checked the shelves and anything else that could have the possibility of making a sound…movement…anything. Nothing. For another hour or two, with Agnes in tow, they searched the entire collection of corners and dark places the apartment had to offer.

Not one trace of vermin.

Not one.

They had, however, found an old neckless Agnes had thought forever lost. Why hadn’t the first group found this, she wondered?

Because they hadn’t properly done their job, that’s why.

The bug man left. He was glad to be rid of her. Some people can really get on your nerves, and others can really get inside your skin. Mrs. Helderman was the latter.

And she smelled.

 

Before turning in, Agnes took one more look into the closet before closing it. After her tea, it was beddy-by time. Lights out.

And as usual…2:30 in the morning…the noises again did their thing. This time they were much closer…in the hot-water heater’s closet.

Agnes arose quietly this time…tried to sneak up on it. She got up to the door of the unit, put an ear to it…when the sounds stopped. She stood back up, grasping her club and reaching for her sore back. Mustn’t do that again.

Childlike laughter erupted from the water heater’s compartment!

Kids?

What and how would kids be in there—and at this time of the morning?

“Get out of here, you rascals!” she said, shouting at the hot-water heater’s closet door, “Get out and get back home where you belong!”

But the giggling continued…only to fade out a few minutes later.

Agnes went to a window and looked out into the night-time parking lot.

Had some hooligans actually gotten into her apartment?

And how had they done so?

That must be why no one had been able to find anything—kids…it’d been kids all along! Coming out to harass her!

Well, at least now she knew.

Rats of a different sort.

She’d get them for what they were doing….every last one of them….

 

The next day, Agnes kept a wary eye on every child that looked at her or her apartment…telling them to shoo and be-gone. Some of the much younger ones she’d actually made cry.

Served them all right. All of them!

A rat was a rat.

Agnes hadn’t always been such a bitter person, but ever since the death of Edgar she’d taken a big dislike to youth and life in general. She secretly wished she could join her husband.

Why had he left her?

They’d been married almost fifty wonderful years! How dare he leave her!

Growing old was scary and hard…and doing it alone….

She’d lost sight of the former person she once was. Fun loving, friendly…attractive. She used to catch the eye of many a man in her day….

But not now.

Now she was old, withered, alone…and bitter. Had a bad case of IBS.

Well into the night did Agnes keep her vigilance. Tonight was the night. She was going to catch them come hell or high water.

Well, she was going to…but sleep has this unnerving way of sneaking up on you.

Again her book fell to the floor.

Two-thirty.

And again the noise.

This time, it came from her very own bedroom closet.

Agnes lost no time in getting out of bed (damned back…she tweaked it again). She fumbled for her club, alongside her bed, but in her sleep must have knocked it over, because it wasn’t where it was supposed to be.

She’d moved just a little too fast in getting up and was already out of breath…and she couldn’t seem to get it under control, her heart rate increasing. She pushed away from the headboard and lay back down, comforter yanked back up around her neck, eyes bugging, struggling for a breath.

The panic rose in her chest and she was unable to stop it.

“Go-go away! Go away, I said!” she said, wheezing, “Leave me alone!”

Her heart-felt like a brick in her chest. Felt like she was trying to breathe through a plastic bag.

“What do you want?”

The noise continued, now sounding more like rummaging than anything else. Child-like giggling filled the air, she could hear boxes and things tumbling about—

Golf balls came rolling out of her closet.

Agnes clutched her chest, panting.

Air felt like so much mud in her lungs.

More scrambling and giggling came from the darkness, bits and pieces of her things—her things!—came flying out of her closet.

Agnes bicycled her varicosed legs, trying to get away from whatever it was in there that was trying to get out…and knocked over a nightstand picture of her husband, shattering the glass.

Edgar..!

“G-go awaaay, I say!”

The child-like laughter continued getting closer with each giggle. She swore she saw something move in there—

The shadow now threw entire boxes out into the bedroom, laughing.

“Please, please…leave me alone! I-I c-can’t take this, please—”

From out of the closet bounded a creature the size of a large stuffed animal. I flew high through the air and onto Agnes…landing square on her chest. It stared down at her and looked a cross between a gremlin and a teddy bear, with big brown eyes. It’s head twisted back and forth, then it jumped up and down on her chest.

“Let’s play! Let’s play!” it squealed, “Let’s play! Let’s play!”

Agnes had her heart attack.

“Let’s play!”

 

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