Christmas Beyond the Box
A short story collection by
Josh Langston
Smashwords Edition
Published by
Janda Books on Smashwords
A Time for Giving
~*~
The List
~*~
Love Story at Gate 6B
~*~
Behavior Modifications
~*~
Vanishing Skills
~*~
No Marbles This Year
All stories copyright 2011 by Josh Langston
Cover photo
Copyright 2011 by Chepko Danil Vitalevich/Shutterstock.com
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
~*~
A Time for Giving
"The invisible and the non-existent look very much alike." ~Delo McKown
"They're gone," Mrs. Binderburg said. She set a plate of cookies on the kitchen table and lowered herself into a straight-backed chair. She stared at the cookies for a time, then pulled a wad of tissue from the pocket of her housecoat and blew a goose call into it.
"You're sure?" Mr. Binderburg asked when she finished.
She looked out the window at the broad stump which was all that remained of the 100-year-old fir tree that once shaded their house. The folks from Rockefeller Center had paid them handsomely for it the day before and then hauled it into the city.
"The cookies went untouched," she said, "so I'm sure they're gone."
Mr. Binderburg bowed his head and wrapped his wrinkled hands around his coffee mug as a tear worked its way down his cheek. "After all these years." He raised his head, placed his hand gently on top of Mrs. B's, and smiled.
"Thank God," he said.
~*~
Tony Paschetti looked down in shock from the scaffolding surrounding the great tree in Rockefeller Center. He gripped the rail and stared at the scene on the ice rink below where a heavy-set man lay flat on his back, his arms and legs moving almost imperceptibly. Tony hadn't seen the ornament fall, but he'd heard the commotion from below and feared the worst. The injured man lay like a target on the ice, surrounded by an inner ring of shattered tree ornament and an outer ring of curious on-lookers.
Moments later Abe Joli, the job foreman, arrived at his side. "Geez, Tony, how'd that happen? Don't tell me you ain't usin' the locks on the bulb hangers."
"'Course I am," Tony said, "ya think I'm nuts? I'm not out to kill anybody." He looked up at the scaffolding and the brightly colored canvas which covered the huge tree while it was being decorated. "Somebody had to throw it off," he said. "There's no way a falling ornament could've slipped through that canvas."
The two workers watched as a trio of emergency medical technicians burrowed through the crowd to reach the downed man.
Abe shoved his hands in the pockets of his work pants. "It don't look so good for you, Tony. I mean, what're the cops gonna think? You're the only one working on this side of the tree." He shook his head. "I hope for your sake you don't know that poor slob down there on the ice."
~*~
Detective Sergeant Mona Deevers pulled the collar of her coat close around her neck and looked down at the deserted ice rink from the plaza end of the Center. The decorations were magnificent, as usual. The bright colors of the many huge fiberglass toy soldiers all around added to the festive look of the massed state flags at the other end. Rockefeller Center had everything, except people.
"It'll be Christmas in a few days. This place oughta be jammed." She shivered. "It looks about as happy as a funeral parlor."
Her companion, a uniformed officer named Bailey who had been on hand during two of the last four tree-related accidents, nodded. "Yeah, that fits--only the joint's a graveyard. If ya ask me, I'd say that tree is haunted."
Deevers laughed. "You don't really believe that, do you?"
He shrugged. "We've had guys stationed all around that tree since the second accident. There's no way anyone could've got past 'em, climbed up the tree, and tossed those ornaments. But, they did. They hit the Zamboni machine twice before the driver refused to bring it out anymore."
"I'll bet it's the wind," Deevers said. "It's gotta be. I'll bet there's a new building or something that's caused the wind to behave differently."
"I talked to one of the guys who decorates the tree every year," Bailey said. "According to him, there's no way an ornament could come loose on its own. They're actually locked on the branches."
Deevers turned to look at the officer and noted a change in the shadows behind her. "Look out!" she screamed as one of the gigantic toy soldiers toppled over and landed within inches of them. Deevers looked up from her hands and knees at the deserted sidewalks all around. Even the Metropolitan Art Museum shop had closed early for lack of customers.
"Did you see anyone?" she asked.
Bailey shook his head. "I told you the place was haunted. Now do you believe me?"
~*~
Mrs. Binderburg poured her husband his second cup of coffee and helped herself to another sticky bun--just one of the many culinary wonders she regularly produced. And she had the ribbons from the county fair to prove it.
Mr. B. set the newspaper down on the table and uttered a deep sigh. "They're in the city ya' know."
She nodded. "I figured as much."
He sipped his coffee. "We really oughta do something."
"Why? We had 'em for years. It's time somebody else took the responsibility."
"But nobody else understands them like we do."
Mrs. B. gently wiped her mouth on her napkin. Sometimes the caramel from the buns would stick to the little hairs on her upper lip. She hadn't yet figured out how to remedy that. "I never claimed to understand them."
"Well, no, me neither, but we've dealt with 'em longer than anybody else. That should count for something."
"It counts for us being rid of them," she said emphatically. "We've earned our holiday. Let the city folk earn theirs."
~*~
"Who died?" asked Deevers as she stepped from her unmarked car and approached the uniformed officer who had called in the report of vandalism.
"Very funny," he said. "I was standing right here when it happened. One by one, each flag dropped halfway down the pole and stopped."
"Then you must've seen who did it."
Bailey shoved his hands in the pockets of his blue greatcoat. "I didn't see a soul. Folks come by all the time, but they don't stay long. It's too dangerous."
Deevers looked around at all the downed toy soldiers and crushed Christmas tree ornaments. Yellow police investigation tape mingled with streamers, garland and holiday ribbons. Though colorful, the effect was anything but cheery.
"Well, they're taking the tree down in a couple days, and that should be the end of it."
Bailey looked at her and shrugged. "I hope you're right, but I've got a funny feeling you're not."
"Intuition, Bailey?"
He paused to measure his words. "No," he said, "more like fear."
~*~
Mr. Binderburg clicked off the television and stormed into the kitchen. "Get yer hat and coat, Millie. We're goin' to the city."
Mrs. B. frowned. "Now? I've got a sheet of brownies in the oven."
Mr. B. unfolded the earflaps on his camouflaged hat and slapped it on his head. "Leave 'em. This is more important. I just heard that a cop at Rocky Center was nearly killed in some bizarre accident. I can't imagine what those little buggers did, but if that poor guy doesn't make it, I'll feel responsible. I don't know about you, but I sure don't want to hear about anyone else gettin' hurt just so's I can have a pleasant Christmas. It ain't right, Millie, and you know it."
He hurried past her to a cookie jar shaped like a fat, cherubic friar, and dumped its contents into a plastic bag.
Mrs. B. reached for the bag. "You can't take those! They're for the Women's Group at the church."
"Not any more," he said. "Now get a move on while I warm up the truck. We've gotta stop at the nursery on the way."
~*~
Deevers met Bailey in the squad room, now dimly lit and otherwise unoccupied. "I read your report," she said. "But I've gotta tell ya, it doesn't make much sense." She sat down close to the big patrolman. "The captain asked me to see if I could help you clarify it."
Bailey crossed his arms and squinted at her. "You think I made it up?"
"No, I--"
"You think maybe I wrapped myself up in all those flags?" He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open to reveal broad bands of elastic bandage. "Whoever did it fractured three of my ribs."
Deevers put her hand on Bailey's shoulder. "I'm trying to understand--really. But if you couldn't see your assailant, how can you say it was a ghost, or anything else for that matter?"
"I didn't say 'ghost;' I said 'spirits.' There's a difference."
"Right."
"What is it with you, Deevers? You weren't there. You don't know what happened. I've tried to warn people, but no one listens. Rockefeller Center is haunted! Anyone with half a brain can see that."
Deevers pushed her chair back and stood up. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
Bailey scowled.
"The tree's coming down this afternoon," she said. "Maybe that'll make a difference."
"I wouldn't count on it," Bailey said as he re-buttoned his shirt. He gave her an intense look. "Will the department have people out there while the work goes on?"
She nodded. "The union wouldn't have it any other way."
~*~
Deevers watched as an elderly man and woman exited an ancient Ford pickup truck which they'd parked illegally. She couldn't help but smile as an officer intercepted them before they had waddled a dozen paces. She watched them argue for a few moments, but when they became angry, and the cop had to restrain them, she sauntered over to investigate.
"Easy, officer," she said, turning so he could see her shield. "What's the problem?"
"I told them they'd parked in a loading zone, and if they didn't move their truck, I'd have to have it towed away."
She turned to the old couple. "He's right you know."
The old woman looked at her companion. "See? I told you."
"Hush, Millie. These folks just don't understand the situation. Once they do, I'm sure they'll let us leave the truck right where it is."
Deevers dismissed the officer and then glanced at the bag of cookies in the old man's hand. "Is that your lunch, or are you bringing snacks for the workers?"
"Neither. It's uhm, a little hard to explain."
"Give it a try Mr...."
"Binderburg," he said. "Walt Binderburg. This is my wife, Millicent."
"It's bait," the old woman said. She pointed at a mini-grove of fir trees jammed in the back of their truck. "He thinks we can lure them out of the big tree and into the little ones." She sighed. "Then I guess we'll have to take 'em home again."
Deevers conquered the urge to smile. "Take who home again?"
"That's the hard part," Walt said. "We're not exactly sure what they are."
"What, or who?" Deevers asked.
"We've never actually seen 'em," he said. "They're only active around Christmas."
Mrs. Binderburg exhaled impatiently. "Tell her the whole story, Walt, or don't say anything. She'll throw us in the loony bin."
"That isn't too likely," Deevers said, smiling. She nodded at the old man. "Go on."
"We used to make ornaments out of bird seed and suet and hang them from that big tree." He pointed to the giant, scaffold-shrouded fir towering over the skating rink. "It used to be in our back yard y'know." He paused. "There's not much time left. Can we put these cookies out while we're talking?"
Deevers frowned. "Well--"
"It won't take long, I promise. What can it hurt?"
Deevers looked back at their truck. Traffic was light. She shrugged. "Sure."
The old couple split the contents of the bag and took turns setting them out on the pavement as they walked.
"Anyway," Walt said, "one year we noticed that the ornaments were being eaten mighty fast, even though we never saw any birds. We thought it was squirrels or something at first, but we never saw any of them either. It didn't make sense. So, the next year, we didn't put any out." He shook his head. "That's when the trouble started."
Mrs. Binderburg took over the story as he worked his way through the scaffolding.
"I don't think you should be in there," Deevers said.
The old woman waved off her objection. "He's gotta get close enough to get their attention. There's so much going on right now, it's important we reach them right away."
"Why?" Deevers asked. "Christmas is over. The damage has already been done."
Both of them turned at the sharp growl of a chainsaw. The old woman grew visibly upset.
"They're just cutting off the limbs," Deevers said. "Makes the tree easier to transport."
Mr. Binderburg rejoined them, dusting the knees of his worn coveralls. "That's it," he said, "nothing to do now but wait." He stared at the workers who had cranked up two more saws and were busy slicing limbs from the tree. He shook his head.
While Deevers watched, one of the larger limbs rose two feet off the ground and flew toward a workman. She yelled to get his attention, but the racket from the chainsaws drowned her out. The worker went down hard when the limb smashed between his legs and twisted viciously. His chainsaw hurtled into the air, then bounced off the cement sidewalk amid a shower of concrete chips.
"Stay here!" Deevers barked as she hurried toward the downed man. The chainsaw rumbled on the cement a few feet away from him. He seemed unhurt, and she helped him to stand. Despite her protests of innocence, he continued to look at her as if she were his assailant. Finally she just walked away.
"They're just askin' for trouble," Walt said. "I wouldn't stir 'em up any more than they already are."
Deevers looked deep into the old man's eyes, searching for some sign of insanity, but what she saw was care and concern. When the old man reached for his wife's hand, Deevers made her decision.
"I'll be right back," she said and signaled to the foreman standing under a makeshift plywood shelter. Their argument didn't last long, but when Deevers offered to cover the cost of an early dinner, the foreman told his crew to take a break. Deevers hurried back to the old couple who sat huddled in their truck with the motor running.
"You were going to tell me about some kind of trouble you had when you quit putting out food for the birds."
"Right," said the woman. "It wasn't bad at first, the doorbell would ring at night, and sometimes the trash cans would be knocked over. We thought it was kids, but when we looked in the snow for tracks we never found any that they might've made."
Deevers raised an eyebrow. "What kind of tracks did you find?"
"Small ones," Walt said, "about the size of rabbit tracks, but nothing I could identify."
"We tried to ignore it," said the woman, "but the trouble only got worse. They broke windows, destroyed lawn furniture, flattened truck tires. It was awful."
The old man chimed in quickly. "We called the cops, and they left a car by the house all night, but the vandalism went on like before. I stayed up all night a couple times myself--"
"With a camera and a gun!" exclaimed Mrs. Binderburg.
"But I never saw them," he said, "even when they smeared stuff on the walls or threw snowballs at the squad car."
"Nothing worked," said the old woman, "until we started putting food back out on the tree. After that, things got better. From then on, when the Christmas season started, I'd bake something different every day and leave it outside. The only time we had any trouble was when I forgot, or if we took a trip somewhere. By New Year's Day things usually went back to normal."
Deevers scratched her head and looked back at the trail of cookies the old couple had left behind. Several disappeared as she watched. She looked in the back of the truck where the last of the goodies had been scattered. One by one, those, too, evaporated.
"Assuming everything you've told me is true," Deevers said, "and these pissed-off pixies, or whatever they are, were the cause of all the problems we've had here, there's still one thing I don't understand." She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head to one side. "Why are you trying to claim them? What's in it for you?"
The old man looked at his wife for a moment and then back to the detective. "It's Christmas, right?" He shrugged. "They're the only family we've got."
~End~
The List
"I don't believe in mathematics." ~Albert Einstein
The intensity of the cold surprised Toby as much as his sudden and painful arrival--face down in a layer of feathery snow too thin to cushion him from the hard-pack beneath it. He came up sputtering and brushing frantically at the frozen powder sticking to his nose and cheeks. His glasses dangled precariously from one ear having sustained substantial damage to the wad of tape which held ear and eye-pieces together. Toby stuffed them in his pocket and rubbed his face to restore some warmth. It worked, but sent a trickle of frigid runoff down the inside of his collar.
Suddenly motionless, he ground his teeth and waited quietly for the shiver to subside. Silence was his only friend, at least until he got things sorted out.
He had no idea the Translation Effect would leave him so wobbly. He'd heard his father talk about it, but he never paid much attention. His dad talked a lot, usually about stuff Toby didn't understand.
Clutching himself for warmth, he turned in a circle and squinted at the dark wasteland.
The sky was less forbidding. Vast waves of colored light floated in a sea of brilliant stars. Neither moon nor horizon offered any clues about where he'd landed. Not that he needed them. He knew. Who could've imagined his dad's stupid machine would work with neither longitude nor latitude settings? On a whim, he'd typed in a destination never once actually believing it might work.
Man oh man, was it cold! He slapped his arms and pumped his chubby legs up and down as a cold, thin ribbon of snot edged over his lip. He rubbed his nose and sniffed, undaunted by the salty taste.
It never should've worked. The whole idea was crazy! He couldn't wait to get back home. Luckily, the same gizmo housed both the LAUNCH and RETURN buttons. It looked about as complicated as a TV remote control, and he'd been holding it when he left the comfort of his dad's lab.
Now, his hands were empty.
Abandoning silence, he dropped to his knees and blubbered a mixture of prayer and curse, accusation and denial. Again and again he plowed through the frozen dust, scoring his knuckles on the icepack until at last his numb digits bumped something solid. He pounced and brought the gadget into the dim light of the stars, weeping like a first grader and not caring in the least.
"Yes! Yes!" he cried, his voice dissipating in the gloom. Hastily brushing snow from the control, he stabbed the RETURN button with a dead thumb.
Nothing. Not even a click.
He pushed it again.
Still nothing.
"Dad!" he screamed, "how could you do this to me?"
Maybe it's frozen, he thought. Maybe if I stuff it inside my sweater I can warm it up enough to work. Into the garment it went. He put his hands over the hard cold lump, pressed it to his chest, and waited. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three...
He counted off several minutes, though he cheated on the last few. Unable to wait longer, he retrieved the device and pressed RETURN with both thumbs.
Still nothing.
His tears stiffened on his cheeks as he stared down at the useless machine blinking at him in the dark.
Blinking?
He stared again. A tiny screen centered near the top of the device displayed a row of ever-changing, ever-decreasing numbers. A timer--there was hope after all. Provided he could survive another 47 minutes.
In sub-zero weather.
Without a jacket.
Or mittens.
Or....
He wondered if anyone would find his body. Not that it would rot or anything. Frozen woolly mammoths popped up all the time, and who knew how long ago they died.
All alone.
Just like Toby.
"Think!" he yelled. That's what his dad would do. He'd think his way out.
Start at the beginning. What had he done? Why had he come here? Then he remembered.
He'd come to prove a point. To himself mostly. Most other kids just took it on faith. That's why he hadn't asked any of them to come with him. Besides, they would only have laughed at him. Like they always did. No, he had to prove it alone, and how else could he do that without actually making the trip? He remembered giggling as he typed in the destination, as if he were filling in for the kids who weren't there. Somebody had to laugh at the geeky kid--it was a rule of the kid cosmos.
Once again he scanned the bare white plains all around, praying for a light, a sign, or tracks in the snow. He knew the cartoons had it wrong. There'd be no cutesy candy cane signposts or gingerbread decorations on the building, assuming there even was a building. He knew about magic, too. He'd read everything the library had about it--not tricks and stuff, sleight of hand--but real magic. Unfortunately, the only thing the books seemed to agree on was that names had power. Just saying the name of something magic could mess it all up. He wouldn't make that mistake. No way.
Lord, it's cold!
Teeth chattering, Toby walked in a circle, tramping down the snow. The powder squeaked under his loafers and trickled in around his socks where it made him even more miserable.
He thought about rolling big snow balls and stacking them to make a fort, or at least a wall, something to block the wind. Except, there really wasn't any wind. The cold came from everywhere--up, down, sideways. He shivered for the gazillionth time, and when he finally stopped, he saw it.
A glow.
Not too bright, but not too far away, either. Difficult to tell without his glasses. He took them out of his pocket, but they were too fogged up to see through.
Could the glow be real, or was it some kind of arctic mirage? He remembered seeing cartoons where some poor shlub tried to swim across a mirage only to drown in sand. Would he fall victim to a snowy alternative? Who cared! At least it gave him a goal, something to do besides walk in a stupid circle until his feet froze.
He headed for the maybe-light. Maybe it was, maybe not.
Plodding through the snow, he pretended not to feel the cold seep into his shoes. A super hero, that's what he needed to be. For a little while, anyway. And if not super, then maybe just special. Maybe he could be like Rocky Balboa training in Siberia to fight the giant Russian, avenge his dead pal, and strike a blow for the American Way. He always liked those movies. Toby could be tough, too, if he had to be. He wasn't just a near-sighted ball of blubber. He could be hard.
He could also be dead pretty soon.
The glow grew. He hadn't made it up after all. A double row of blue lights stretched away from a cluster of odd-shaped buildings. The largest one looked like a giant tin can buried halfway up its sides in the snow. Of course, he had no way of knowing how deep the snow might be. It could be a skyscraper for all he knew. Maybe only the top floors were exposed!
Whatever. It had windows. And lights. Warm, cheery lights.
Toby trudged faster, churning through the powder with renewed strength. Maybe it was true after all--maybe this was the place! He hadn't seen any reindeer, but he'd seen rows of blue lights before--at the airfield outside of town. Oh, yeah. Whoever lived here knew how to fly. Ab-so-lutely!
His original plan, though ill-defined, had been to debunk the myth. And if it turned out to be true--the condition he'd not so secretly hoped for--then he had yet another job. He had to find The List. Once he had his hands on that he could... But, no. That would all come in good time.
He glanced down at the little screen on the TV thingy and noted that he had another 31 minutes to go before he was automatically recalled.
Toby tried to wiggle his toes, but he could tell if he'd succeeded. He desperately wanted to get inside the building, peel off his shoes and socks and rub his feet in front of a fire. With his face and his fingers burning in the frigid air, he stumbled on.
The building had no doors on the side facing him, so he went to a window. Snow had drifted up to the metal sill, and he had to crouch down to look inside. It didn't look like any workshop he'd ever seen. In fact, except for a single string of Christmas lights over a chalk board, it looked a lot like where his dad worked. Books and papers were piled everywhere. A half dozen maps hung from bulletin boards around the walls. Book shelves bulged under manuals, computer gear, and other mysterious paraphernalia. That's probably where he'd find The List. He glanced briefly at the cartons, boxes and cans stacked against the curved exterior walls and at the bunk beds shoved against a flat central partition.
He saw everything but people, large or small.
This close to the big day, they were probably working. Underground! That made sense. That's how he'd do it if he were in charge. He tried to open the window, but it wouldn't budge.
Rising slowly, like Dickens's last ghost, Toby staggered on in search of the door. The knowledge that he might actually survive propelled him along the circumference of the tubular building. Without corners to mark his progress, he couldn't tell how far around he'd come. But then he reached it--the entrance to the Great Man's home, the lair of The List, the portal of life.
Weeping with joy, Toby searched for a door handle.
There wasn't one.
Groaning, he dropped the remote control device with the blinking screen and the balky RETURN button, and pounded on the door with both hands. Surely someone would hear him if only he beat on the door hard enough. When no one came, he added his voice to the commotion, screaming and crying for someone, anyone, to let him in.
But no one did.
Defeated, Toby sank to his knees and leaned against the unyielding door. Maybe the occupants were busy preparing for the Great One's annual trip. Maybe they were celebrating in some subterranean factory. Maybe they were just sleeping and couldn't hear him. It made no difference. They'd find him in the morning when they went to load the sleigh, or the jet, or whatever the Great Man used for his deliveries. Toby's name would either be on The List or not, but Toby would be long past caring.
So close, he thought, shaking his head. The little lighted screen kept blinking, the timer down to 24 minutes. Too bad I won't make it. In a last gesture of futility, Toby made a fist and backhanded the wall beside to the door. Instantly, a light went on overhead, and the door swung open.
Astonished, Toby rolled backwards into a small empty room lighted by a single bare bulb in the ceiling. Regaining his wits, he turned himself around and stuck his head back outside where he saw the kick switch he must have hit with his hand. Of course! Anyone loaded down with stuff couldn't turn a knob, and anyone empty-handed would want to keep their hands in their pockets. The old guy was clever--maybe even as clever as Toby's dad.
By the time he got back on his feet, the outside door had closed and warm air leaked into the cramped chamber. After stamping the snow from his feet and brushing it from his clothes, Toby faced a pair of inner doors which gave easily when he pushed against them.
He peeked through the gap in the doors at the room beyond. Warm air coursed through the opening and compelled him to enter. He did.
Delicious heat from the room's central furnace washed over him. He approached it with reverence, arms and hands extended, head bowed. A nearby chair beckoned. He lowered himself into it, toed the loafers from his numb feet and groaned in grateful pleasure as he massaged his frigid digits. Heat had never--ever--felt so grand. He basked in it like a love-starved puppy in the hands of puppy-starved boy. It made him sleepy, and Lord knew he deserved a rest. He closed his eyes for just a moment.
When the tingle in his toes subsided, Toby sat up and surveyed his surroundings, albeit in soft focus. He fumbled the glasses from his pocket, squeezed the slack from the tape wad on the hinge and propped them in place on his nose. The room came instantly into detail, though it remained as messy as it looked when seen through the window.
He smirked. Tidiness was obviously no requirement for inclusion on The List's "good" side. Score one for kids everywhere!
All he had to do now was find it and read it. That shouldn't take long, especially since he only intended to look for his name. He wouldn't think of trying to change anything.
Unless forced.
He checked the screen on the RETURN gizmo and all but panicked as the timer erased the last second over three minutes. Had he wasted time sleeping? How stupid! He gasped at the sound of distant aircraft engines.
Where was The List? He searched beside a desktop computer, its screen-saver alive with images of sunlit sandy beaches. On a low bookcase struggling to hug the inward curving wall he found a box full of wool mittens and socks, and a tin of candies. The word "lagniappe" was scrawled on the lid. Never crazy about oriental food, Toby left them alone. Besides, how could he think of food now? He paused, thinking. Hey, chocolate was chocolate. What could it hurt? He popped one in his mouth and chewed.
The liquid center burst and flooded his teeth and gums with something cold and harsh and alcoholic. The fumes cleared his nose, but whatever it was scorched his throat when he swallowed. He exhaled as if someone had punched him. He thought of Rocky Balboa again and suddenly felt sorry for the big Russian Rocky had pummeled in Moscow or Leningrad or wherever it was. Toby screwed up his face at the aftertaste and shivered. Still, he liked the way the stuff warmed his chest and belly. Maybe one more would--No!
He had to find The List.
Outside, the aircraft engine noise grew to a crescendo, and the plane's colored lights blipped through the windows in tiny bursts of red and green. Naturally.
The last minute disappeared from the timer. 59 seconds remained.
58.
57.
Where was The List?
And where were his shoes? Man, if he left those behind, and the Great One realized he had broken in... Toby shut the thought from his mind, raced back to the heater, and jammed his feet into the warm, damp leather loafers.
And there--beneath the chair he'd sat on earlier--lay the biggest, fattest computer printout he'd ever seen. Bound in a thick paper cover the color of pea soup, The List occupied the most logical spot in the building. Of course it would be here, right by the heater, so the Great Man himself could stay warm while he poured over it night after night.
Toby grabbed it with both hands and dragged it out as the timer in his pocket started beeping. Five seconds left. Surely the names would be listed alphabetically. His hands trembled as he opened the cover. No, that wouldn't work. They'd be done geographically. Or maybe... whatever. He'd just have to--
The Translation Effect hit him harder than the booze in the candy, wrenching him off the floor and twisting him to fit through an invisible window in geo-space and null-time, words his dad had muttered endlessly while building his transport engine. The bizarre Effect would have broken every bone in his body had they not all become squishy and soft. He prayed he wouldn't barf.
He prayed he'd left no traces behind.
He prayed his fingerprints weren't registered somewhere.
And then he just prayed.
Really, really hard.
As silently as he'd arrived in the snow an hour earlier, Toby appeared face down in the air two feet off the floor of his father's laboratory where the Effect winked out, and gravity took over.
Toby's nose and toes hit the floor at the same time. The timer in his hand bounced twice then pin-wheeled across the cement floor. Toby groaned and rolled over on his back, squinting up at the fuzzy, dark-haired figure hovering anxiously over him. Dad? Why was he so out of focus? And where were his glasses?
"Are you all right?" his father asked.
Toby nodded. "I think so." His words had a wheezy sound. Then things quickly came back to him--where he'd been, what he'd seen. But most especially: what he'd gotten his hands on.
If only he had something to show for it besides a bloody nose and a mild case of frostbite. Ah, but the next time-- Things would be different then! He would prepare: wear warm clothes, bring a camera and some food. It would be great, and best of all, he could prove to the whole world the truth of what he'd discovered: not only did the Great Man exist, Toby could connect with him at will. Next to the Great Man himself, Toby would be the most popular person in the universe!
"Toby! Are you listening to me?"
Toby blinked. "Sure, Dad. 'Sup?"
"When I realized what you'd done I went out of my mind. For cryin' out loud, Toby, I haven't even finished preliminary testing of this thing! Don't you see? It's not merely a geographical matter transporter, it's cross-dimensional. I wasn't planning to transmit living tissue for years, and I certainly had no intention of sending a human being, let alone my own son. My God... You could've been-- I don't even want to think about it."
Toby coughed as he sat up. His father knelt beside him on the floor and sniffed. "Have you been drinking?"
Toby shook his head and briefly considered recounting his adventure, but without some sort of proof, nobody would ever believe him, including his father. So he mumbled something about a cold place and a makeshift shelter. It didn't make much sense, but he didn't care. In the back of his mind, all he could think about was the next trip.
Meanwhile, his father held him tight and gazed in unreserved horror at the equipment crowding his workspace.
Finally, Toby's father handed him his broken glasses and helped him stand.
"I'm sorry about all this," Toby said. "I hope I didn't hurt anything. And if I did, I'd really like to help you fix it." The more he knew about his Dad's incredible device, the better. He could become the explorer of the year, maybe even the explorer of the millennium!
"Thanks for the offer, son," his dad said. "But I won't tempt fate twice. You go back in the house." He turned and faced his invention. "I'll join you later, after I've destroyed this thing."
~End~
Love Story at Gate 6B
"To the world you may be just one person,
but to one person you may be the world." ~Brandi Snyder
The gate agent wears a Santa Claus hat, but offers neither a smile nor a "Ho ho ho," as the old man approaches him at his station. A wide counter bedecked with metallic green garland separates them, and the agent avoids eye contact as he makes one computer entry after another. He pauses only to look over his shoulder at the electronic display looming above and behind him. Though only the two men stand at the counter, the younger one is too busy to chat.
The old man watches as the sign showing the arrival time of flight 373 is replaced by a one-word pronouncement:
Delayed.
And instantly the old man ceases to be alone.
"When will..." His voice fades, swamped by a dozen others, all younger. All louder. The agent steps out from behind his protective wall and moves toward the concourse. Though slowed and surrounded by questioners, he still moves too fast for the old man to follow.
He watches the mob slowly dissipate as the agent seeks respite from the public, a comet trailing disappointment.
The rest of the crowd remains, camped in purgatory. Carry-on luggage and soon-to-be-exchanged gifts litter the walkway between crowded rows of seats. The old man shuffles by them, lost in thought. Though among them, he is not of them; he is a trespasser, not a traveler.
Thirty minutes pass.
He glances at the glowing red digits on the wall clock, then at his watch, then back at the clock.
"May I help you?" asks a cop, summoned by a concerned passenger.
The old man shakes his head. "I told her I would be here," he says, as if that explained it all. "I have to be here."
"You're meeting a flight?"
He nods, yes.
"Do you have a Gate Pass? Otherwise, you can't be here unless you're a passenger."
He digs out the paper they gave him when he arrived.
The cop examines it and hands it back. "You're okay, then."
The old man shrugs. Worry is not "Okay."
"You're sure you're all right?"
The old man shakes his head and moves to the periphery.
Christmas music plays in the background, though largely obscured by the sounds of a busy airport--announcements, voices, the incessant beep of a golf cart used to shuttle VIPs from one gate to another. Through the windows he sees the tropical foliage of Florida beyond the runway and then is distracted by a child singing along as "Jingle Bells" pours from hidden speakers. The child knows most of the words but few of the notes.
People in the main corridor scurry by, searching for other gates and other flights. They are the world: a menagerie cloaked in noise and anonymity.
The old man ignores them as they ignore him. They look away, as if they don't see the skinny legs protruding from his running shoes or the sweat sock slipping down around one ankle. The image of the old man, his belly pushing against the waistband of his rolled-up walking shorts, is easy to catalog, easy to forget. Aged. Weak. Frail.
The neck of his T-shirt is stretched and reveals a tuft of thin curls on his chest, the same wet-newsprint grey as the few strands on his head. Centered on the shirt is a printed color photo of himself with his arm around a smiling, dark-haired woman. His face bears a few less wrinkles. A caption beneath the photo proclaims:
"I've got everything!"
He moves on, traversing old ground.
Cautious footsteps carry him through the overheated air by a huge window and deliver him into cooler shadows where his image is reflected on the glass. His strongest feature, a fiercely patrician nose, angles down steeply above an unlit cigar. Trailing behind is the faint odor of tobacco--unsmoked--he's been told he cannot smoke. His rheumy eyes drift neither left nor right, but stay locked on the carpet as if his stare alone will part the masses all around him.
It doesn't work. Instead, he must maneuver between them and does so in silence.
An hour passes.
A heavy man in a flowered shirt stands in the middle of the aisle talking to a woman of similar size wearing a dress with the same floral pattern. "They never tell 'ya nuthin'," he says, and the old man turns away.
A child lands at his feet, dumps a mound of building blocks on the carpet, and begins to play. The old man turns again.
The flower-shirted passenger is still talking to his female counterpart. "Remember the crash they had a couple years back? Horrible. Terrible tragedy. And they never said a word about it. Sure, it was on the news, but nobody at the airport found out 'til later." Shaking his head, the big man shifts his bags from seat to floor, then drops into the vacated space.
With his hands clenched and jaws set, the old man moves on.
Another hour passes.
"The Midwest? I'd never fly out of there," says a woman whose jewelry and nail polish match the trim on her jogging suit. She talks into her cell phone, but her voice seems so loud enough she doesn't need it. "Storms are so bad, they knock planes right out of the sky."
"They should have extra planes standing by," mutters a mother of three little ones in need of naps. The old man could use a nap, too, but that's not possible--not yet, not until she's safe. He drifts on through the restless crowd.
The gate agent returns and approaches him as if they know each other. "Maybe you ought to go home. It's getting late and there's nothing--" A phone at the desk rings. The agent answers it and holds up a hand. The old man walks away.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the agent announces over a loud speaker, "flight 373 has just been cleared to land. We'll have the aircraft ready for boarding as soon as possible."
Against a background of scattered whistles and cheers, the old man raises his head. The cigar disappears. His hands, no longer clenched motionless behind him, come forth. Like the rest of him, they become animated, suddenly alive.
The crowd pushes past him and presses toward the door. Ropes on either side of it define a canyon of bodies risen on cue. The portal is lost to him. He can't see it; he's too far back, but he knows where it is. After another eternity, the door swings open and bodies spill out, singly at first, then more and faster until they pour through--in plaids and hats, with garment bags, stuffed bears, holiday packages, briefcases, skinned knees and shopping bags.
The flow seems relentless, an inexhaustible supply in never-ending variety. He waits for it to end, knowing it must, knowing he has no choice, and knowing she will be the last in line. Wheelchairs always come last.
Finally the numbers dwindle until the door stands empty; the passageway is vacant, and the ropes become tracks across a prairie. He waits, resisting crazy, stupid, scary thoughts of flights denied and missed connections, until he sees a flight attendant pushing her chair. She, too, is anxious, though her fear passes when she sees him. Her name on his lips becomes a grin as he moves toward her, his step more sure, his stride no longer humble. Reaching her, he leans and swaddles her in his arms.
A tiny liquid jewel sparkles from the corner of her eye.
The embrace lasts a long time, but eventually he must stand.
She smiles. Her hair matches his now, and a wisp of it has come loose. She tucks it behind her ear and pats his hand as he steps behind the chair and nods good-bye to the flight attendant.
They are on their way home--together again--in time for the holidays. She leans her head back and to the side as if trying to get closer to his hand. He squares his shoulders and draws in his stomach. Now it's much easier to read the caption on his shirt.
~End~
Behavior Modifications
"Do one thing every day that scares you." ~Eleanor Roosevelt
Two weeks before Thanksgiving, Casey Bolen's old teacher, the round and amiable Miss Emry, was replaced by an angular woman whose lipstick and fingernail polish always matched. She wrote her name on the whiteboard in a flourish of bright purple: Ms. Chantre. She even underlined the Ms.
Casey couldn't understand why no one else noticed how she maintained order. After all, none of the other teachers turned their unruly students into hamsters. Yet, whenever he tried to tell anyone, they just gave him The Look and walked away.
Casey and his two best friends, Ray and Marybeth, sat at a small table preparing to play "Phonics-opoly," which, despite being the world's stupidest game, was vastly more interesting than memorizing multiplication tables. Casey ignored Marybeth as she dumped out colored tokens and cardboard squares. He concentrated instead on the drama near the teacher's desk.
Billy Garber, who spent more time out of school than in, had been busted for calling Simon Smithers a bag of snot. "That's neither nice, nor accurate," Ms. Chantre said. "He's a human."
"Are you kidding?" Billy laughed. "He's a snot machine. Just look at him!"
Ms. Chantre escorted Billy to the back of the room where small animal cages crowded the wall-length countertop. She sat Billy between the hamsters and an overweight rabbit, then stood between him and the rest of the class, hiding him from view. When she returned to her desk, Billy was gone--bad attitude and all.
Casey was still staring at the cages when Ms. Chantre tapped a ruler on her desk to get everyone's attention. "The school board and the PTA require that you do an art project," she said. The students perked up. Art was cool. Best of all, it meant they didn't have to do any work.
"There are materials on the front table for your use. Your parents would probably prefer you do something related to the holidays. I don't care what kind of art you commit, just do something. And please, do it quietly."
During the rush to grab materials, Casey slipped to the back of the room to look for his classmate. Sadly, Billy was nowhere to be found. Casey did, however, find an extra hamster. It looked pretty much like the other four except it had orange fur--exactly the same color as Billy Garber's hair.
"She did it again," he told Marybeth when he returned.
The girl's normally friendly features quickly shifted into The Look. "You are so weird," she said. "Ms. Chantre is the coolest teacher we've ever had."
"I liked Miss Emry."
"She was fat," Ray said.
Marybeth chimed in quickly, "And Ms. Chantre never makes us do anything but phonics and multiplication tables. When Miss Emry was here, we had to do hard stuff."
"But haven't you noticed that every day, somebody disappears? Today, it was Billy. Tomorrow, it could be us!"
"Billy didn't even come to school today," Marybeth said.
"Yes, he did! Don't you remember? He called Simon a snotbag."
"So? That's what he is," Ray said.
Casey laughed. "I'll ask Simon. I bet he remembers." Casey crossed the room to where Simon sat alone drawing a sky full of flying pogo sticks, each of which appeared to be releasing an impossibly large load of bombs on a broad square blob labeled "skool."
"I heard what Billy called you," Casey said.
"Kaboom! Chuka-chuka!" Simon said, furiously rubbing the acreage in his drawing with a flat, brown crayon.
"And I saw what happened to him."
"Budha-budha-budha, pow!" Simon said. He paused to wipe his nose on his sleeve, then grabbed crayons in both hands. Streaks of red and yellow Crayola fire pierced the brown layer.
"Did you see it?"
"Blamo!"
Casey gave up. If only he had a hidden camera, he could prove Billy had really been there. His dad had a camera, but it was way too big. It'd be easier to hide a pony. Walking back to his seat, he wondered what it would feel like to be a hamster.
~*~
At the dinner table, Casey struggled to explain what he'd seen to his parents.
Mrs. Bolen, Casey's Mom, was a permanent member of all the PTA committees, including the Winter Holiday Task Force, which despite a name change to protect the overly sensitive from hearing the word "Christmas," was still the organization's most prestigious work group. She listened patiently before leaving the room to retrieve a well-worn paperback book. "Let's just see what the experts have to say."
Casey slumped forward until his head rested on his crossed arms. It had been just a week since she'd last used the book--when he announced that the only thing he wanted for Christmas was a ferret. She had thumbed through several chapters before announcing: "The experts say ferrets are terribly expensive. And, they bite."
Case closed.
Casey almost cried. He'd never wanted anything so much in his life.
"What's it say about hamsters?" Mr. Bolen asked.
She scanned the index. "Nothing, but there is an item about hallucinations."
"Hala-what?" Casey asked.
"Seeing things that aren't there," she said. Her left eyebrow inched upward. "What did you have for lunch the day you claim your little friend turned into a rodent?"
~*~
The first few times trouble-makers were sent to Ms. Chantre, everyone paid attention, but almost immediately, they all lost interest. All except Casey. He watched as victims were marched to the back of the room where they were hidden from view while Ms. Chantre turned them into small animals. Stranger still, no one else ever seemed to notice.
Casey offered to take care of the small but growing zoo, and he had no idea who would provide that care during the Christmas break. He counted heads every day before and after class and kept track of the changes on the inside cover of his spelling folder since it wasn't being used for anything else.
He also took notes on who went missing, and when. Billy Garber, for example, came back to class after a one-day absence, but some kids stayed gone much longer. And for reasons he couldn't understand, everyone else explained those absences the same way.
One busy morning in early December, three older boys arrived. Well-known bullies, none of them had or wanted other friends. The rest of the students in the school merely represented a steady supply of lunch money.
Ms. Chantre made them wait in the hall while the custodian retrieved a big cage from storage and put it with the others in the back of the room. He had to stack several of the smaller cages to make room for it. When the custodian left, she brought the three villains into the room, one by one, and carried out their sentences.
At lunch, Casey found three guinea pigs in the new cage. Once again he alerted Ray and Marybeth to what he had seen.
"If you keep saying such crazy things, they'll put you in a cage," Marybeth said.
Casey looked at Ray. "Do you think I'm crazy, too?"
"No," he said. "Only, sometimes I wish you'd talk about something else."
"If I could just take movies of it or--"
"Use a tape recorder? My dad gave me one," Ray said. "It's small enough to fit in your pocket."
Casey felt a ray of hope. "Could I borrow it?"
"You're both crazy," Marybeth said.
~*~
After school, Casey took care of the animals, including a new one he hadn't seen before. Ms. Chantre called it a hedgehog. Casey thought it looked liked a pygmy porcupine. And even though it was covered in prickly spines, he wondered if a hedgehog would make a better pet than a ferret. He decided he'd have to do some research before he made up his mind. Moving on, he filled the water bottle on the guinea pig cage and fed the chubby rabbit. It seemed to like him a great deal.
"Thanks, Casey," Ms. Chantre said. "You a good worker. I'm sure our little friends appreciate all you do for them."
Casey shrugged. It wasn't the first time he'd been alone with Ms. Chantre, but she still made him nervous.
"Sadly," she said, "they won't be able to remember."
"Remember what?"
"You, of course. When they return to human form."
Casey swallowed, hard. The windows were all locked, and Ms. Chantre stood between him and the only door out of the room. Trapped!
"I know you know," she said. As Casey backed away, she pointed at him, the sharp nail of her index finger tinted blood red. "It's okay. I don't mind. In fact, you can do it, too."
"What?"
"Don't play dumb, Casey. Unlike the others, you've seen what I can do. Would you like me to show you how it's done?"
"You'd teach me how to turn people into animals?"
"Sure."
"But, I'm just a-- a kid. I can't do magic!"
"Stuff and nonsense," she said. "Here, I'll show you." She walked to her desk and took a small, silver box from the bottom drawer, then reached into her huge handbag and pulled out a set of note cards bound with a wide rubber band. She tossed the cards to Casey. "Go through those and find the one marked 'White Mouse.' Pull it out."
Casey stared at the cards. They were blank.
"Oops! Wait. You can't read them without these." She slipped a dainty pair of spectacles from her nose and handed them to him. The lenses appeared to be plain glass, but when he looked through them, words hovered above the cards like special effects in a 3D movie.
Though the cards were all different, a line of text floated across the top of each. Near the middle, in English, was the name of an animal. Casey guessed the word was repeated in other languages. A series of symbols and partial words appeared on the body of the card. He knew many of the words since they were simply the names of common critters, but one card stumped him. It bore the word Esrever, but he couldn't imagine what sort of creature that might be. However, since there were other exotic animals like Manticore and Gryphon, he assumed it was something like that.
"You don't need to memorize them," she said, her voice snarly. Patience was not a word one used with Ms. Chantre.
Finally, Casey found the white mouse card. "Got it! Now what?"
Ms. Chantre opened the silver box and took out a pinch of green powder as fine as talc. She put the box on the counter, reached into a terrarium, and captured a plump frog. It squirmed in her grasp, its eyes bulging and its front and back legs making swimming motions. "Now, now," she mumbled and dusted the amphibian with powder. In moments, it quit wiggling and lay limp in her fist like a sock full of sand.
"Is it dead?" he asked.
"Of course not. It's merely--" she groped for a word "--suspended." She flicked the index card with her finger. "Now, read the card out loud. All of it."
Casey stumbled at first, but then took his time, pronounced each syllable according to his best phonetic guess, and got all the words right. He looked up in time to see the frog sprout fine white hair as its limbs became shorter and furry. In moments the last traces of the frog vanished, replaced by a tiny mouse with an extremely busy nose. Ms. Chantre held it in her hand and rubbed it between the ears with a crimson fingernail. "See how easy that was?"
Casey realized his mouth had fallen open. "Are you saying I did that?"
"Of course! Anyone with The Sight can do it, and you obviously have it. As long as you know what a creature is when you start, the words on the cards determine what it will become."
"And how do you change 'em back?"
"There's a spell for that, too. It's in there," she said, pointing at the cards in his hand. "I can't give away all my secrets, but I will share one: none of this works without the powder, and I'm the only one who knows how to make it." She held up the silver box and chuckled. "You've probably heard people say, 'take a powder,' but I'll bet you never knew where the expression came from."
He not only didn't know; he didn't care. "That's all there is to it?"
"Don't be ridiculous. There's much, much more--enough to keep you busy for years. The training takes a long time, but you could do it. And, you're smart enough not to say anything about it to anyone." Though she held his shoulder lightly, each of her sharp fingernails dug into his skin. "We can always use new blood."
"I should talk it over with Mom and Dad."
"Suit yourself. They're down there." She nodded at a pair of pale blue parakeets sharing a perch in a cage at the end of the counter. "Cute, aren't they?"
Casey turned slowly in their direction. Breathing became difficult. Mom? Dad! He turned to look at the teacher. "What did they do wrong?"
Ms. Chantre pursed her lips. "Your mother chairs the Winter Holiday committee which hasn't done anything to prepare for the Solstice. Can you imagine? The shortest day of the year, and her entire committee ignores it like it's not going to happen. What's wrong with those people? Anyway, I got tired of waiting and put someone else in her place."
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-31 show above.)