Dallas Zipperer Writing

Tag: Literary Fiction

  • Desolate

    Desolate

    Rainsford stood at the window watching the approaching flames. They marched through the night to claim their prize. Word from the front had been that Queen Ann’s troops had fought to the last man, refusing to rout and refusing to die easily. They had made the fields muddy with blood and bone. And it had made the Northern Barbarians all the more eager to claim the city, to take its collective frustration on the defenseless and wealthy city-state.

    Rainsford fingered the sleeve of his Captain’s uniform. There was a tingle in his breath, the kind of nervous excitement he felt before a duel. But this feeling was colored with a tinge of dread. This wasn’t a duel to first blood, not even a duel to the death. A duel to the death implied he stood a chance to win and come out alive.

    The line of troops reached the gate, and with the skeleton crew defending it they would breach within the hour. At the end of that hour, they’d be at the castle. They’d be here.

    Rainsford clicked his boots together as he deftly turned about face and strode out of the chamber. He headed for his Queen’s chamber, where his charge sat and awaited the news from the front.

    Crossing the vestibule and entering the sitting room, he found the Lady sitting with her young daughter on her lap. Rainsford dropped to a knee before her, eyes downcast. “M’lady, the front has completely collapsed. They’ve reached the gates.”

    Rainsford glanced up at the woman he’d been in charge of defending since she herself was not much older than the young daughter. Her face was stoic but Rainsford’s trained eye detected the clenched jaw and bottom lip quivering ever so slightly.

    “Then all is lost,” she said.

    “Yes.”

    The woman stood, placing her daughter back onto the couch. She walked with cold composure to the back room and returned two vials full of dark red liquid. “Drink, my sweet child. It is time for us to sleep.”

    “I don’t feel tired yet,” the young girl said, her confusion putting a pout on her lip.

    “I know, my dear, but mommy must sleep too. See?” And she downed the first vial. She handed the second one to her daughter and watched as she drank its contents.

    When Rainsford returned his gaze to Queen Ann, her eyes blazed with righteous fury. “Take as many of them with you as you can, Captain Rainsford. Queen’s orders.”

    Rainsford saluted and clicked his heels, spinning and moving with purpose out of the room. Knowing that the two girls would be dead before he even had his full plate on made his heart twang with regret, and he quickened his pace to get away from that room of death.

    In the armory, men were rushing about to and fro, orders were being shouted, news from the gates coming and going. Rainsford found his armorer who was running by with an arm full of plate, and he grasped the boy by the shoulder to stop him.

    “My plate. I need it donned as soon as humanly possible.”

    The boy looked up at him with wide, uncomprehending eyes, mouth slightly ajar. Rainsford gave the boy a reassuring squeeze. “They don’t normally kill the noncombatants. My armor, if you please. I plan on dying with my feet firmly planted.”

    The boy’s eyes welled up but he turned and headed off. Rainsford followed with a more relaxed pace. Forty-five minutes until they’d be nearing the castle. With the matter so squarely set, he was finding himself more and more at ease. His charge would not feel the ravages of the conquering army. Now all that was left was to die gloriously.

    His armorer was quick and efficient, strapping each piece of plate on with rapid familiarity. Thirty more minutes. Rainsford belted a half-sword and grasped his freshly polished halberd in both hands. When he arrived at the entrance of the castle, he met fifty other armed guards, only three other knights. The rest were men-at-arms, heavily armored but no full plate. A full row of shields and spears, some halberds, and some crossbowmen. Rainsford inspected his men.

    “I can think of no better men to die with.”

    A loud cheer erupted from the men. Shields were slammed. Chants of “Captain Rainsford!” and “Till Death!” started as the Captain took the helm and led the men to the bridge.

    Screams and clattering and smoke billowed up from the dying city below the bridge. Torchlight illumined the paved road leading to them, and as the first savages came into view, they began yelling. Rainsford called for the shield wall, and as the savages began charging up the road, the first row of crossbows thwacked out their deadly load. A line of men crumpled, but many didn’t even break stride despite having broad bolts sticking from their limbs or chests.

    Rainsford stood behind the first wall of shields, and the men opposing them slammed into the wall. A second volley of crossbows was already shot out, and the spears of his men thrust out, and the pained screams of the dying could be heard over the tumult. A man stumbled back in front of him, and he thrust the tip of his halberd over his falling brother and skewed the savage trying to break into the formation. The fallen spearman found his footing and shored up the hole he’d opened, thrusting his spear with new vigor. Rainsford walked on, yelling encouragement and occasionally thrusting his halberd over the top of the formation, catching an enemy in the face or chest whenever he could.

    Rainsford snuck a peek over the wall and was stunned to see the sheer amount of bodies pressing onto the bridge, pushing with all their might from behind. Dead and dying men were being crushed and trampled as Rainsford’s men were pushed step by bloody step backwards, unable to stand their ground against the onslaught of bodies.

    A hush stole over the bridge as savage men parted, making way for a massive brute of a man. The monster wore the hide of a gigantic brown bear, the head of the animal serving as the man’s helmet. He wielded two broad axes, and he sheared through a spearhead and battered the man wielding it, killing the man-at-arms in a flurry of blows. He screamed in his coarse language a challenge for a champion, and Rainsford accepted.

    His men parted for him, and a clearing opened on the bridge. The massive man chortled a laugh and gestured to Rainsford obscenely. Rainsford took a fighting stance, halberd out, and stood his ground. The big man charged, his dual weapons flashing. Using the superior reach of his halberd, he parried away the first axe and scored a hit on the big man’s arm. Blood ran in thick red drips, pulsing out in the rhythmic spasms of the heart. A death wound, given enough time.

    The challenger whipped his arm back and forth, spattering blood onto the bridge. A cheer erupted behind him as he charged forward again. Rainsford replanted his feet and thrust his halberd, but the brute caught the weapon with the haft of his axe and attempted to wrench it free. Abandoning the weapon, Rainsford drew his sword and slashed twice, one catching the giant on the chest and the other on the wrist. As the big man stumbled back, a spear came from the crowd catching Rainsford in the forearm. The spear punched through the steel but failed to enter his flesh. Rainsford pushed his attack as he heard chants of “Dishonor!” coming from his men. He landed another superficial slash, but the fur-clad giant was already swinging his axe. The axe haft caught the spear now jutting from Rainsford’s arm, and the momentum twisted it grotesquely. He felt a pop in his elbow and his blade dropped to the ground with a clang. The second axe caught him in the chest, biting into the plate just enough to slice skin.

    Rainsford slapped with his bad arm, using it as a cudgel. He felt his arm cracking further and he screamed as another spear came from the crowd, ripping into his leg. The giant laughed as he wrapped him into a bear hug and shoved him over the edge of the bridge. Rainsford had enough time to watch his men rushing forward, yelling and chanting.

    He slapped against the roof of a building, tumbling into a wall and hitting the ground with a bone-crunching crash. One of the spears had been pushed deeper through the plate, and he could feel blood pumping from the torn wound. His limbs were battered and twisted, and he’d lost several pieces of armor from the tumble. He looked up at the bridge, unable to even lift his own head. He coughed blood into his face-plate. Not like this, Rainsford thought, as his vision faded to black.

  • Inheritance

    Inheritance

    The lights of Hector’s black Tahoe bounced and reflected off the woods as he followed the sparse gravel path toward his father’s house. It wound back and forth like the back of a long viper, until finally it yawned open into the small clearing that contained the double wide mobile home.

    Hector pulled up next to the old rust spotted Dodge truck. In the darkness Hector tried to spot the model. He never was a car guy, and he couldn’t tell the type. Either way, he could tell he wasn’t going to be getting much value out of it.

    The dull LED glow from his car’s dash told him the time was nearing 5AM. He’d had to come early before work to scope the place out, to make a plan of action for the weekend. For the real cleanup time.

    Hector sat for a long time, hand poised over the start button. He tried to summon the grief he knew he should be feeling. There was only the mind-numbing exhaustion from going to bed too late and getting up too early.

    He killed the engine and stepped out. He stretched and yawned, his jaw cracking with the motion. The lights from the SUV went out, plunging him into total darkness. He couldn’t suppress the shudder as he pulled out his phone light. With the white light he marched up to the small porch and fumbled out the key that had been given to him. The door creaked open, disturbing the tranquility of the early morning symphony.

    The harsh smell that reminded him of his grandparents assaulted his nose. Too many cigarettes and candle wax to cover them. He entered a small living room, with a love seat and a tiny TV atop a too small entertainment center. An ash tray and empty beer cans sat on the coffee table, with a pizza box covering most of the space. A cursory glance told Hector there was nothing of value there, but he still moved aside the empty pizza box and made sure. He found the keys to the truck hanging near the door, and he pocketed them, that way he could check the vehicle on the way out.

    Hector turned right, heading into the kitchen. After flipping the light on he opened a cupboard, which he didn’t bother closing, giving nothing more than a glance inside. Junk drawer—filled to the brim with junk. A silverware drawer—filled with an assortment of unmatching spoons and forks and knives. A coffee drawer—filled with filters and a hand  coffee grinder.

    Fearing what he’d find, he opened the fridge and nearly gagged. The smell that wafted out punched him in the nose, and he slammed the door shut. The motion rocked the small appliance, and a flash of metal soared past Hector’s face. It hit the ground with a thud, causing him to jump back with alarm. He looked down to see an ancient looking handgun in a leather holster. Now that might have some value. Hector picked the weapon up and tentatively drew it out. He looked at it, attempting to recall the few times from his childhood that his father had shown him any firearms.

    Afraid he’d give himself an aneurysm trying to remember, he carefully pushed the weapon back into the leather and placed it on the counter. Then, thinking better of it, he picked it back up and returned to the coffee table. He knocked the pizza box and several cans off to make room for himself and placed the first of his valuables pile down.

    Hands on hips he surveyed the rest of the living room. He grunted when he realized he wasn’t finding much.

    Heading down the small hall he stopped at the one bathroom. He only gave it a momentary glance inside and retreated before the smell could flatten him. The bedroom then, the best for last.

    The door opened smoothly, not a creak to be heard. He was pleasantly surprised to find there was no smoke smell. The bed was made to perfection, with expensive sheets and what looked like a single block pillow, some kind of internet fad about the shape of the pillow being important. There was a massive U-shaped desk dominating the far wall, and Hector clapped his hands together as he made his way to it. Here it was! He knew there had to be something of value.

    The left and right sides of the desk were littered with well-organized tools and materials to assist with the main section of the table. The desktop was covered with a leather pad, and had a line of knives laid on it, in various levels of being sharpened. Near each blade was a stone with a grit number on it, but what the difference between the high and low numbers was anyone’s guess.

    Hector whistled appreciatively as he picked up the massive Bowie knife inlaid with pearls. There were several different blades, each he guessed was worth fifty to one hundred dollars—maybe even more—and there were dozens of blades. There was a peg board hung on the wall above the main section of desk, with baskets and hangers and all kinds of tools and blades. Unsure where to start, he grabbed as many of the sharp objects as he could safely carry and began making trips out to his coffee table pile.

    With the most valuable items out, he turned to the dresser opposite the bed. There was an incredibly old TV sitting on it with a built in VCR. A VCR, imagine that. When was the last time he’d even seen a VCR turn on?

    He hit the power button and to his surprise it fired on.

    “Huh,” Hector said. The noise of his voice echoed around a bit, causing him to jump.

    Rifling through the dresser turned up another handgun, smaller but no less deadly. This one was more modern, black and blocky looking, but like the other Hector was unsure of the model. The rest of the dresser shared the same clean and organized shape as the rest of the room.

    Next to the closet was an incredibly tall bookcase, absolutely loaded with books. Half of them looked untouched, and the half that had been read were clearly well loved. The spines of those books were completely degraded, to the point that Hector could hardly make out the titles.

    “Vital Spots and Best Ways to Puncture, A Guide to Practical Knife Fighting,” Hector took a long breath. “What a title.”

    The books that were unread looked promising. Some serious heavy hitters, a lot of psychology books that he thought he recognized. These would be ‘found value,’ in the sense that there were a few on his own reading list that he wouldn’t have to buy himself.

    Into the closet, which was a walk-in. Here was some clutter that mirrored the rest of the home. A cardboard box contained an assortment of older looking knives. Some looked rusted and unpolished. After some thought, he figured it wouldn’t hurt to add them to the pile, and he transferred them to the living room.

    There were three long guns in various places in the closet. One on the tall shelf, and two on either corner against the wall. One looked like a shotgun, one looked like a hunting rifle, and the other was one of those military rifles. These had to be worth some money. He added them to the pile.

    The clothes wouldn’t fit him, and after some consideration he decided he wouldn’t be willing to wear a dead man’s clothes. There was a shoebox at the top shelf that Hector had to blow dust off of. It was labeled Hector. With a shaky hand he opened the box and found pages and pages of keepsakes. Old report cards that made it to the third grade, pictures of him as a child, drawings he couldn’t remember making. A handwritten letter his mother had made him write when he was in the sixth grade.

    And there it was. The grief he’d thought he should feel. It hit him, breaking the dam, and finally he cried. He cried for a long time, holding the letter he’d written as a boy, telling a father he hadn’t spoken to in years that he missed him so much it hurt. Why had he not tried to reconnect with his father as an adult? Why hadn’t he tried to regain what they had lost? Now he never could.

    Hector sat at the desk and laid back, looking up at the dingy ceiling. He sat like that for a long time, longer than he would have liked. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His eyes scanned idly and noticed cardboard under the bed. There was no bed skirt, so now that he was lower to the ground and looking underneath, he could see there were many boxes down there. Standing, he set his expectations low. Seasonal decorations most likely, nothing of value.

    Hector slid out the first box. It was taped shut, the packing tape so old it had yellowed and frayed at the edges. After flicking out his pocketknife, he slit the tape and peeled open the box. It was filled to the top with VCR tapes, each clearly labeled with a date and a name. After verifying each row was the same, he put them back and grasped out the next box. When he found the same thing, he glanced up at the old VCR player.

    An uneasiness stole his resolve. He decided against plugging one in and pulled all of the boxes out from underneath the bed. There was a relatively new box at the foot of the bed, unsealed. It contained rows and rows of composition notebooks, with a stark white envelope on top. Hector flipped through a notebook and was met with lines and lines of neat scripted penned with black ink. The pages were old and yellowing in many of them, but some appeared to be from the last few years.

    Addressing the letter, he ripped open the sealed envelope and pulled out the paper. Like the journals, it was written with a neat script.

    “Son, if you’re reading this then that means I’m dead. Spooky, cliché maybe, but we’ve all known about the cancer for some time now.

    I know you and I haven’t been very close. But you’re the only family I’ve got left. Which is why I’m trusting you with my life’s most terrible secret. I’m going to tell you where the bodies are. You should see a journal in the box you got this letter from with your name on it. Details can be found there.”

    Hector felt bile from his stomach burning the back of his throat. He hadn’t eaten yet, but his stomach heaved involuntarily. Sweat pricked his forehead, despite the chill of the morning invading the small mobile home. He looked at the desk where all those knives had been, and swept his gaze to the closet that had contained the firearms.

    He returned to the first box with the VCRs and began pulling them out. Camryn, 1987. Joselyn, 1988. He pulled them out faster and faster, the names and dates blurring together as each tape piled up and up. The revulsion was overpowering, and he stumbled down the hall, covering his mouth. He passed the bathroom and instead burst out the front door and collapsed to his knees, dry heaving into the dirt. Tears streamed down his face, falling in fat drops to the dusty ground, mixing with the thin splatter of his watery puke.

    “Some inheritance,” he muttered.

  • Giving Grace

    Giving Grace

    I stood at the doorway. I could hear the sounds of laughter and children screeching through the heavy door. I took a deep breath and grasped the doorknob, opening it and stepping through the threshold. The noise of the inside washed over me, and my entrance into the small hallway went unnoticed.

    “Yes, yes dear, I love you too,” said a sultry voice off to my right. I turned to see Aunt Tammy eyeing me from the bar room. It was empty except for her, and she was already slipping her phone back into her purse.

    “Gregory, dear!” she exclaimed. She had an assortment of glasses in front of her, bottles of every color and size. “It’s never too early for shots, let me pour you one.”

    “No, no! I’m okay, thanks,” I said.

    Aunt Tammy squinted her eyes at me. “Suit yourself.” She threw the shot back in one quick gulp, then plopped the glass down with a clink. She stalked toward me, and I could feel my body tensing.

    “So,” she said. She rocked on her heels. “You’re the oldest now.”

    My stomach sank. Not her too. I tried to hide the pain from my face.

    “Are you nervous? About… Well, he always did the blessing.” Aunt Tammy put her hands up, cutting me off. “Not that you have to do the blessing.”

    “I’m thinking about it. And no, I’m not nervous,” I said, running a hand through my hair. She smiled a sad smile, clearly not believing me. We hugged and then we turned to the scrum of people.

    “Where’s Kate?” she said.

    I winced. “We… broke up.”

    Aunt Tammy feigned a gasp, then laughed.

    “It’s nothing, Aunt Tammy. Just not a good time for a girlfriend.”

    “Not a good time! You’re thirty-four! Get married already, Greg.” She waved out of the shadowed cave we stood in toward the greater living room. It was packed with bodies, children running in between small packs of adults, the noise deafening even over here. She narrowed her eyes. “Or maybe not.”

    We had a laugh at that, then I said, “Into the fray,” and strode into the living room.

    Cheers erupted from the children. Nieces and nephews came scrambling up, with chants of “Uncle Greggy!”, even little cousins who didn’t know any better took up the chant, and I was swarmed by little pressing bodies.

    I went on the attack. Roaring like a monster, I snatched up the first squirming wriggling form that reached me, swinging them up and around like a battering ram, pushing through the crowd. I didn’t have to fake laughter as the kids attacked back, redoubling their efforts. I hugged and kissed foreheads and patted heads, pushing my way to the small circle of adults.

    My twin siblings laughed and embraced me. Sterling gave me a vigorous hug, slapping my back a little too hard. Avery was next, giving me a soft hug.

    Our little circle broke off into the small kitchen. “So,” Sterling said. “How are you feeling?”

    “What do you mean?” I asked, my smile faltering.

    Sterling put his hands up in quick surrender. “Nothing, bro. You want a Shiner?”

    I shook my head. “No, no I’m good, man. Sis, how we doing?”

    She looked at me from under her shaggy bangs, her eyes big and round. “We’re good, Greg. Are you going to do it?”

    I looked between the two of them. Then Sterling said, “The blessing, brotherman. You gonna do it?”

    I shrugged. “I’m thinking about it.”

    Avery gave a bitter laugh. “I don’t know how anyone is supposed to be thankful right now.”

    Sterling caught my gaze and interrupted, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “Say. Where’s Kate?”

    I stiffened, my palms up. “I… we…”

    Avery gasped audibly. “No! You didn’t. On Thanksgiving?”

    “Nothing like that! I broke up with her a few days ago.”

    Sterling laughed out loud, shaking his head. “You sure you don’t want a Shiner, man?”

    “I’m sure,” I said, a little more stern than I wanted. “Where’s Papa?”

    Avery pointed to the back door, “Turkey duty.” I nodded, then hugged them again. They returned to their spouses, and I pushed through the mosh pit of cousins and uncles and aunts, snagging hugs on the way through, laughing at crude jokes, planting a smile on my face. I did my best to ignore their looks, the questioning gazes.

    I went through the back door, pushed aside by a flood of kids. I shook my head at the passing chaos and made my way down the concrete path to the outdoor kitchen. Papa stood next to the gigantic, stainless-steel fryer, a fat cigar in his mouth and a whiskey glass nearby. He wore a baggy Hawaiian shirt and flip flops. His hair was shaggy and long, since Grandma passed he rarely got it cut anymore.

    “Hey, Pop,” I said in greeting. He turned to me and grunted, smiling around his cigar.

    “Hey, Kiddo.” We hugged. He waved me toward the fryer. “Step into my office, son.”

    I followed, taking my place next to him. We checked gauges, tracked time and adjusted the heat.

    I could feel the question, the one they all wanted to ask, but he stayed quiet, steadily chewing on his cigar.

    I broke the silence. “I’m thinking about giving Grace for the family. Since… you know.”

    Papa nodded. He picked up his whiskey glass with the same hand that held the cigar and took a sip. “Yeah,” was all he said.

    “Problem is, I’m not sure how.”

    Papa grunted a laugh, a raspy sound. “Well, son. Thankfulness, grace, blessing. It’s a heart condition,” and he patted his chest. Then he saw my face. “A thing you feel in your mind, smart ass. It’s something you have to live and feel. Then you pray to our Heavenly Father and thank him.”

    I nodded. “But how,” my voice cracked, and I felt a lump in my throat. “How are we supposed to be thankful?”

    Papa peered at me. “You angry?”

    I coughed. Thought about it. “Yes.”

    “At yourself?”

    “Yes.”

    “You know, when your father passed and your mother did… Well, what she did, it was easy for me to be angry too. I bathed in it. Was my daily bread. But now, with Bradley, I feel only heartache. I say give your anger to God, son. He can be angry enough for the both of you.”

    I chewed on that, then Papa’s watch buzzed at him.

    “Pull that turkey, here.” Suddenly I was handed the triangle hanger and was digging into the boiling greasy liquid, hot oil spattering out at me. I fished with the hook and lifted out the golden brown bird, my mouth salivating at the sight.

    “Good, God,” I said.

    “See, you sound pretty grateful to me,” Papa laughed, sticking the pan under the bird and hoisting it out. “C’mon, let’s get Sterling to carve ‘er up.”

    I followed the stout man into the house, shaking my head at him. I didn’t feel any less angry, but something felt a little lifted from me. I walked with a lighter step.

    In the kitchen Avery poked and prodded Sterling as he carved the turkey, laughed and called out every time he made a mistake. The generous spread was laid out, and the line started to make its way down, filling plates to the edges, little mountainous feasts in every hand.

    The main table was full of adults, side tables were pulled and filled with teenagers and children and anyone in between.

    At one end of the main table, Papa sat. I sat at the other head, then stood. Everyone turned toward me, and I felt my throat constrict. My hand had a slight tremor to it.

    A murmur spread through the family, sighs of relief that I would step up to the task.

    “Please bow your heads for the blessing.” The hush spread as quickly as the murmur had, and soon every head was hung in solemn silence.

    “Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing us all together to share in this Thanksgiving dinner. Thank you for keeping Papa’s timing honest and Sterling’s knife hand steady to deliver another good turkey.” Soft agreement followed. “Father God, there’s an absence today that weighs heavy on our hearts, but we hope and pray that you can bring peace to Monica and the kids, who must go on without a husband and a father. I ask that you take some of our anger and frustration, and instead help us understand why you needed to call Bradley home to you so soon, and to help us trust in your design. And Father, I ask that you help us all get home safe tonight, especially Aunt Tammy, we know how she likes to drink.” A soft ripple of laughter at that last, and I raised my head and looked out at my large, crazy family. Every head was bowed, except Papa’s, who smiled and nodded to me.

    Then I realized that no one had raised their heads yet. I cleared my throat, then said, “Amen.”

  • Embrace

    Embrace

    The clock in the bottom right of Dee’s screen struck 3:53pm, and he sighed with relief. With practiced deftness, he navigated to the work time website, and clocked out. It would push his time to having clocked out at 4 o’clock, but that didn’t free him up to leave just yet. No, Dee knew better. Can’t leave at the 53 mark, you’ll look like a lazy worker.

    He busied himself with his various work websites, clicking through menus, even pushed an odd update that was overdue. 3:57pm, now there was a time. Not too early, not too late. He scooted his chair back, making a great show of it, pushing off his knees and stretching deep.

    “My God, is it 4 o’clock already?” John said from behind him, turning in his own chair. He had his own busy work up, Dee was sure, but the screens were turned slightly away from him.

    “Yessir and thank God it’s Thursday.” Dee began picking his bag up, his water bottle and lunch box.

    “TGIT, eh?” John said. He snapped his fingers, “That’s right! Y’all still playing cards?”

    “Yup, got ’em right here in my bag.”

    John chuckled. “Well, y’all have fun.”

    They exchanged their daily fist bump, a ritual that neither remembered who started, and Dee made his way out the door.

    He jockeyed his way out of the garage, vied for pole position at the lights, pushed his way tooth and nail ever onward onto 610. All the while his audiobook went on, transporting him away from the traffic and the tedium of a long commute. It was “The Blade Itself” by Joe Abercrombie today, and he had been a little disappointed by the so-called “Lord Grimdark.” Grim to be sure, dark in some parts absolutely, but grimdark Dee had understood was supposed to be a different thing altogether. Then the plot transitioned into the climax, and each arc began concluding.

    “Oh,” Dee muttered under his breath, as a particularly gut-wrenching scene played out, with one of his favorite characters no less. “I see we save the worst for last.”

    Dee pulled into the driveway, a full hour passed since he’d left his work. A lot can happen in a novel in one hour, and the events rolled around in his head. He knocked on the door, waiting, listening. Leaves crunched under his shoes, and then he heard movement approaching. Dogs barking, a woman’s voice hushing them. A commotion as she corralled them.

    The door cracked open but the woman was still holding back the animals. Dee stepped in, the two large dogs beside themselves, pulling, whole bodies wagging, attempting to get him. The short woman held them back with both hands and sharp words.

    “Hey hey,” he said with a wave. He shouldn’t have spoken. They redoubled their efforts, the smaller of the two breaking loose and bounding towards him. Laughing, Dee stepped away, excusing himself for the bathroom.

    When he came out the dogs were under control, but he didn’t see her anywhere. “Where’s El?” he asked his ex-in-law.

    She half scoffed, half laughed. “You know Ray needs to blow dry her hair.”

    “Ah,” Dee nodded.

    They stood in the kitchen when she came out. A blur from the hallway, flying towards Dee. She lunged the last few steps, colliding hard into his legs. “Oof!” he said.

    “You nearly knocked him over!”

    The little girl peered up at Dee, a gap toothed smile to match his own.

    “Hey, kiddo,” he said. “Ready for our date?”

    She giggled up at him. “Of course! I’m ready for McDonnys!”

    “McDonnys!” Dee replied, shocked. They’d gone there almost every Thursday for well over a year. “How did you know it was going to be McDonnys?”

    She shrugged. “I just know!”

    The food went quickly. The characters of “The Blade Itself” still tumbled in his head. How had Joe made them so interesting? The characters were so… What was the word? Didactic? No that wasn’t it. He halfway had his phone out to look the word up before he realized what he was doing. No, no. He pulled his hand away. His daughter was laughing, moving her arms around as she told a story. He smiled, nodding along.

    The night was coming to a close, and they sat at the table in the library. Dee peered at the cards in his hand, and over at the piles of cards his daughter had lined up. She was collecting a lot of pairs and triples. He peered at his cards again. Had he asked for 5’s last round or 6’s? If he asked for the same one twice in a row that would look suspicious. The Queen in his hand glared up at him. She knew as well as he did that there was a stack of her sisters at the other end of the table.

    “Got any…” he paused maybe too long. “6’s?”

    She smiled across from him, triumphant. “Go fish!” He let himself sigh internally.

    The game progressed nicely, until suddenly he realized she was going to destroy him. He’d hardly scored 2 points. Dee’s brow furrowed when he realized his mistake. She was going to notice.

    He laughed trying to play it off. “You destroyed me!”

    She laughed maniacally, hands raised as she counted out the points. 11 to 2. He shook his head, allowing himself another internal sigh as she didn’t seem to notice the discrepancy.

    Dee collected the cards up, shuffling them back up.

    “Can we play another game?”

    Dee flicked his wrist, checking the time. No, no it was too late for another. Almost too late for… “Sorry kid, not enough time for another.” Maybe he could ask next Thursday… Then Dee remembered the words of Logen, ‘Once you’ve got a task to do, it’s better to do it than live with the fear of it.’ Dee steeled himself and said, “In fact, we need to head upstairs real quick so I can ask the librarian about something.”

    “Why?” Why. Kids and the question ‘Why.’ Don’t worry about why, kid, dang.

    Instead he said, “I just have some questions I gotta ask, don’t worry about it kid.”

    They marched up the stairs, and she grasped his hand, holding it tightly. There was a line to speak to the librarian, and they waited. Was that his heart beating in his ears? Why was he so nervous all of a sudden? This was something he did already. This was something… Well, that he wanted to take seriously.

    His turn was up, and a middle aged lady with an accent asked him the question. “How can I help you?”

    If this were a novel or a movie, perhaps he would’ve frozen up, or maybe he would’ve turned and ran away, and the plot would need to kick him back into this space. But this wasn’t a book or a movie, and he smiled openly and spoke easily. “Hey, I saw online that there’s a monthly writing group? I was thinking about coming but wanted to see if there was anything I needed to know before showing up.”

    The woman’s face lit up into a smile. “Ah yes! There’s about 9 or 10 people, regulars, who come every month. Here,” and then she stepped from behind her desk, walking briskly away. Still holding his daughter’s hand, Dee followed after her. She led him halfway down the stairs, a different staircase than the one he’d come up, and pointed to a flier on the wall. “Here’s the one,” she said.

    A colorful flier on the wall. Some random animals sat hugging each other. He noticed two pieces of information right away.

    Embrace

    and

    1500

    Fifteen hundred words wasn’t too bad, he could do that. Embrace. “Embrace, like a hug?” Dee asked.

    The woman chuckled. “It could be an actual hug, sure, but it could also be…” she paused to find the word, “Metaphorical, as well. Like, you embrace something in your life.”

    Dee nodded. Of course. Hard to stretch a hug out for 1500 words, no doubt. He snapped a picture of the flier for good measure. “Thank you so much,” he said. She smiled back and made her way back up the stairs.

    Dee and his daughter returned downstairs, and she picked out a fresh book for the week. Pete the cat, her favorite. She was running out of ones she hadn’t read yet.

    They walked out of the library, the cold air pulling at their hair. She skipped next to him, her hand in his. He smiled down at her, mind racing already. A literal hug, or a metaphorical embrace. What about metafictional? The story was already tumbling in his head. He just needed to sit down and write it.

  • Time Traveler

    Time Traveler

    Martin awoke bolt upright. He felt wide awake despite the nightmare he was having. He looked at the red glowing alarm clock, the digital numbers reading 2:14 A.M. A good two hours before he would wake up for the day. With a sigh, he started to crawl fully out of bed. He wasn’t getting any more sleep tonight, and he knew it. He could always get a few hours grinding on his Orc Hunter though. He hesitated halfway out of the bed and leaned back down to kiss the top of his wife’s head. She murmured in her sleep but didn’t wake.

    Martin pulled his pajama pants on but skipped the shirt. The boys never woke up, no matter how loud he was. He wouldn’t need it. He stumbled in the dark, using the red glow to light his way, and entered the hallway. On the opposite side of the cramped hallway was the boys’ room, and he skulked past them. He was halfway down the hall when he noticed the light coming from the kitchen, spilling under the door.

    His pulse quickened as he approached the door, his hackles raised. He knew he shouldn’t have sold his guns, but the wife insisted. Now here he was, unarmed and about to have to fight some hobo. Martin put his ear to the door to the kitchen and listened. He heard the soft muttering of a voice, and his heart eased. It sounded like a young boyish voice. That must be Dylan, his younger son. A smile crept on his face as he creaked the door open.

    The doorway opened into the kitchen. The table was on the right, against the wall. He took in the scene. His younger son sat at the table, playing cards spread out in front of him. He flipped four cards over and groaned.

    “Fuckin a,” Dylan muttered.

    Goose flesh spread along Martin’s arms, the hair on his neck stood on end. The casual ease of the words came out like a seasoned cusser. Was 8 too young to be so fluid with the art of naughty words? Possibly. Martin’s heart dropped as Dylan spoke again, this time pointedly.

    “You just gonna stand there, Pop, or you gonna join me?”

    Pop? Since when was he Pop? A scene from one of his favorite Stephen King movies played clearly in his mind. The boy from Pet Sematary, after returning not himself. ‘I wanna play with you, Daddy,’ the little boy had said.

    Martin circled around Dylan so he could face him. “Son? You feeling alright?”

    The boy had a snarling look of concentration. Flipping 4 more cards, he cursed again. The cards were arranged in a game Martin had never seen before, and he knew cards. He was in the army, after all.

    “No, Pop, I’m not alright. You think I would choose to be up at 2 A.M.?”

    The shock was wearing off now, and his patience was running thin. “I don’t care how you’re feeling, you need to not take that tone with me.”

    The boy winced, such an adult reflex on his young face. “Damn this body. You’re right, Pop, sorry I’m on edge. Say, how old are you?”

    He wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming, but the whiplash of words was hard to parse. Body? Old? He tried to think of the last time he had told his son his age and realized it must have been a while. It had been a while since he’d had a real conversation with him now that he thought about it. With the early morning, the long commute, and the late night, there just wasn’t time.

    “I’m 33. Why do you ask?”

    The boy still hadn’t looked at him, and he finally did. His eyes had a hard look about them. A look Martin thought with a chill, that he recognized. Who are you? he suddenly wanted to say, but the words were stuck in his throat.

    Dylan let out a wry chuckle and began scooping the cards with a deft hand. There was a second deck nearby, and he gestured to it. “Aggravation? I remember that one better than Scoundrel. Damn shame too that was my favorite.”

    Aggravation he recognized, obviously. That was the family version of Phase 10, taught to him by his own grandparents. Martin’s mind raced, trying to remember any time Dylan could have learned it. He didn’t recall. He nodded his assent, but his son was already expertly shuffling the two decks together.

    In silence, Martin watched. The boy dealt the 12 cards needed to start, then fanned his hand awkwardly in his small hands. Martin pulled his cards up and fanned similarly. He had a good starting hand, but he didn’t move to play. Finally, he had found his voice, but the adrenaline still thrummed through him. “Who are you? Who are you really?”

    “Oh, come now, Pop. You don’t recognize your own son?”

    “You certainly look like him, yes.”

    The boy grunted, then after taking his draw immediately dropped his two books. He had four 7’s and three Kings. No wild cards. A first turn down was pretty lucky.

    He discarded an Ace, then said, “I’m Dylan, for real. But… I’m older. I came from the future.”

    The shock of it was like a blow to the face, and Martin couldn’t keep back the light laugh. “Is that right?” His hammering heart eased at once. His son was having a go at him.

    Wasn’t he?

    “I overshot, you see. I wanted to go back 12 years, instead I hit 28. I mean, it’s not like I had a manual.” He paused, noticing Martin was still arranging his hand. “Christ, what are you waiting for, Christmas? Take your turn, man.”

    Now it was Martin’s turn to grunt, and he drew a card. He pulled a 2, a wild card, and he decided to drop down as well. These first hands were always a slogfest, and his young son clearly knew that. He dropped two 4’s alongside his 2, and three Jacks. Then he dropped a King and a 7 of his own onto Dylan’s books. He also discarded an Ace.

    Dylan nodded approvingly. “It could have been worse, I guess. Could’ve ended up in the womb.” The boy visibly shivered as he drew another card.

    “That certainly sounds worse,” Martin agreed. “So, what happens in 16 years?”

    “Shit,” Dylan said. “What are you, a mathematician?” His son took a shuddering breath. “Something bad happens in 16 years. I wanted to stop it.”

    Martin studied his son, and yes, he did know that hard look. He’d seen it himself, in the mirror.

    Dylan collapsed the fan of his cards and began idly sorting them, front to back. Martin realized he recognized his grandfather in the movements.

    “What happens?”

    “No, no, don’t you see? I’ve been here a week already, man. I’m too early. I’m too fucking early, man. If I change things now, how many butterflies do I trample over?”

    Martin nodded slowly. Yes, he did see.

    “When a thing happens, you’d give anything to go back and change it. You know?”

    “Of course,” Martin said. And he found that he did know. His mind wandered to a jungle, in a faraway country. Yes, there are always things you wish you could go back and do differently.

    Dylan nodded, a knowing look in his eye. “Shit, right, I’m sorry Pop of course you know. Well, I’m here. I’m too far back, sure, but I’m here.” His voice was hoarse, intense.

    “What’s stopping you, son? From doing something?”

    “The growing up lesson. The one only someone like you or I would know.” His voice was choked up, now, and Martin couldn’t help it. He was overcome by an inexplicable, overwhelming sorrow.

    “Which one of us is it?”

    Dylan recoiled from the question. The boy was physically fighting back tears. He managed to point over his shoulder. The angle was clear. It was to his older brother, Charlie. Oh hell.

    Martin let out a shuddering breath, one he hadn’t realized he was holding. “And what’s the lesson?” he whispered.

    “That we heal,” the boy said, his quiet sob breaking.

    Martin maneuvered around the chair, and he grasped his son. The man trapped in the child’s body. The boy clung to his father, his grip tight as he sobbed. Martin didn’t know how long he cried like that, but he held his boy and patted his back, his own tears lightly running down his cheek.

    “I met my wife after… Would I meet her again, if I change things? I’m so far back, dad. How many beautiful butterflies would I squash in my selfishness?”

    “I don’t know, son. But each man must himself decide what is right—”

    “—and what is wrong…” Dylan finished. He pulled his head back, a sly mischievous smile playing on his face. With bright tears in his eyes, he looked again like a little boy of 8. Like his boy. He hugged him tightly again.

    “Guess you’ve heard that one before,” Martin said with a chuckle.

    “Sometimes… it’s so clear. I’m back in that doorway. I’m running down the hall, and I just can’t stop. I want so badly… so badly…”

    Martin patted the boy’s back, nodding. Yes, he had a doorway of his own, one he knew well. “We do heal. It’s terribly unfair, isn’t it?”

    “Terribly unfair,” the boy agreed. Martin still carried him, and he found himself lightly rocking. His son cradled his head into the crook of his shoulder, and his breath picked up pace. He was fading fast, he realized, but he kept his slow steady rock.

    Eventually the boy’s breath was even in sleep. With careful steps Martin carried him back to bed and tucked him into the blanket. He pushed the hair away from his forehead, and Martin realized the boy, the man, had made his choice.

    The man’s voice rang in his skull. ‘How many butterflies will I squash?’ How could he continue with this terrible knowledge? He would lose one of his sons young, so horribly young. It was an uncomfortable, sinking sorrow that swept over him. His mind protested loudly, he should’ve convinced him to stay! To change things!

    ‘How many beautiful butterflies.’

    Martin headed for the bathroom. He needed to shower, and he’d do the only thing he knew. He’d go one day at a time. He’d feel that pain anew one day, and he knew in time he’d learn that lesson once again.