Caine's Sister

28-April-2040:

“Mrs. Donovan, you understand that changing time creates consequences that you’ll have to live with? You won’t be able to change it back.” The Time Group lawyer stared at her before continuing, “When you return, you need to bring back these documents signed by both you and your husband.”

“That won’t be a problem,” she said. Although her husband didn’t agree with her decision, she’d do whatever it took to make this happen. Even forge his signature. Every day since her son’s death, she had prayed, implored, and yes, screamed to the heavens. Today was the anniversary of Caine’s death, and finally, someone had listened.

His death had affected all of them, especially her daughter Caitlyn. She lost a twin brother and a mother that day. By changing this one event, both of them would become whole again.

Her arms ached to hold him. She still woke in the night thinking she heard his call, still missed that little boy smell of baby and sweat. Now she would be able to enjoy her life, her husband, and both her children. No more wondering what else she could have done.

“How soon can we begin?”

“We’ll be ready when you return the necessary paperwork. The trip itself will seem like you walked through a door into another room. When you come out, it will have never happened.”

“That quickly? Will I realize what’s happened?”

“Yes, but you’ll be the only one except for the Chronographers here at the Time Group.”

“Chronographers?”

“The Chronographers track the different aspects of time and reality. Someone has to know the variations of history created by the Conversion Chamber. So we have a group of scientists who audit the time trails.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll get these right back to you.”

“Mrs. Donovan, you must wait at least seventy-two hours. We feel that’s the minimum amount of time required to thoroughly discuss and consider the impact this decision will have on your lives.”

“I’ve thought of nothing else since I heard about this contest. When I won, I knew this was the answer to my prayers. I don’t need any more time. I’ll be here three days from now. “



01-May-2040:

“All right, Mrs. Donovan, everything seems to be in order,” the lawyer said, reviewing the signed releases. “Just step into the Conversion Chamber and we’ll begin.” As she entered he said, “Last chance to change your mind.”

Shaking her head, she replied, “I’ve been waiting years for this chance.”

The lawyer joined the white-coated scientists in front of a control panel. Slowly she became aware of a high-pitched whine that grew steadily louder until she felt the reverberations deep within. Then, nothing. She looked around and saw a technician opening the door.

“Is it done?”

The technician glanced at her then looked down as she replied, “Yes. It’s done. I hope you know . . .” She sighed, shook her head slightly then said, “Good luck, Mrs. Donovan.”

“Thank you so much.” As she departed from the Time Group headquarters, she laughed for the first time in years. She walked briskly toward home, looking around, but not noticing any differences. Entering her house, she stopped and called out, “I’m home.”

She heard the staccato sound of running footsteps heralding Caine’s appearance. Her husband trailed after him. Near tears, she swung him up in her arms, hugging him close. “Hi, sweetie. You two having a good day?”

“Not bad,” her husband replied. “Where have you been?”

“Oh, just out for a walk.” She looked around but didn’t see her daughter anywhere. “Where’s Caitlyn?”

Her husband flinched and looked down for a moment before saying, “Honey, did you remember to take your medicine today?”

She just stared at him. His shoulders rose and fell, then he said, “Don’t you remember the incident?”

Her throat tightened. “Wha-what incident?”

He walked to her and wrapped his arms around her. “Caitlyn’s dead, hon. The kids were playing when Caine grabbed hold of Caitlyn’s swing and . . . She was dead when we found her.”

“Nooooooo.“

Her son patted her on her cheek then said, “It’s all right, Mommy. You don’t need her, you have me.”

Staring down at her son, she noticed the electronic anklet for the first time. Her husband gestured, addressing the nurse standing across the room, “I think it’s time for another dose of their medicine, don’t you?”

(This story was originally submitted to Writer's Digest "Your Story #19" earlier this month - see posting on 07/08/2009. Unfortunately, it wasn't selected as one of the finalists. Maybe next time. I hope you enjoy it. )

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Update:

Well, I've spent the last week finalizing a flash fiction piece that I just submitted today. I have to admit, I'm more than a little nervous, since this is the first piece I've submitted anywhere other than on my blog.

The story was for the Writer's Digest Your Story competition which occurs every other month. A prompt is posted on the website and published in the magazine. Then you have a relatively short period of time to develop a 750 word or under piece and submit by a deadline. The editors then select the top five stories and post them in the Forum where they will be voted on for the winner. The winning story will be published an upcoming issue of the magazine.

For more details, see the website: http://www.writersdigest.com/yourstory

So everyone think good thoughts and if you're interested, you might stop by the WD site, sign up for the Forum and vote for the best story. I would love for it to be mine, but everyone should vote for the story they feel is the best written. The site is a wonderful resource for any writer or poet, so you might want to take a look anyway.

Wish me luck!

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Six Little Words

In the 1920s, Ernest Hemingway’s colleagues bet him that he couldn’t write a complete story in just six words. Hemingway jotted down six little words. For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn. They paid up. Hemingway is said to have considered it his best work.

Think about it. Six words to tell a story. The words have to be evocative enough to imply the story to the reader. What story can you tell in 6 little words?

Here are a few to ponder, from http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/14.11/sixwords.html.

Longed for him. Got him. Shit. ~Margaret Atwood
From torched skyscrapers, men grew wings. ~Gregory Maguire
The baby’s blood type? Human, mostly. ~Orson Scott Card
Kirby had never eaten toes before. ~Kevin Smith
K.I.A. Baghdad, Aged 18 - Closed Casket ~Richard K. Morgan
Heaven falls. Details at eleven. ~Robert Jordan
Three to Iraq. One came back. ~Graeme Gibson
I saw, darling, but do lie. ~Orson Scott Card
In the beginning was the word. ~Gregory Maguire
Corpse parts missing. Doctor buys yacht. ~ Margaret Atwood
He read his obituary with confusion. ~Steven Meretzky

Additional 6 word stories may be found at: http://www.sixwordstories.net/ and
http://www.smithmag.net/sixwords/.

I recently submitted several stories to both Narrative Online and to Six Word Stories website and am waiting to hear about them. And finally, for your reading pleasure (I hope), here are some of my own 6 word stories.

Final truth: Nobody wins at war.

One writer. Blank page. Undiscovered territory.

Childhood daydreamer finds niche, becomes author.

Lost myself. Began writing. Found myself.

Oh, God! My finger slipped. BOOM!

Patriot Act Passes! Shhhhhh, they’re listening.

Oops, condom broke. Meet the twins.

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Waiting

As I walked up to the bus stop, I glanced at my watch. 4:43 p.m. I’d just made it; the Crosstown express should be arriving within the next five minutes. Forty-five minutes later, I’d be at home and could officially call this day at an end. Thank God!

The day had been horrible. My girlfriend and I had another fight. My car wouldn’t start; AAA said it would be at least four hours before they could get to me. When I called my boss, he had said, “you better be here by 9:00 a.m., or I’ll mail your check.” And that was the beginning of a downhill spiral.

Now, all I wanted was to get home, have a drink and relax. The last thing I wanted was conversation when the old guy next to me handed me a faded photograph he’d pulled from his wallet. It was cracked and faded, edges dog-eared, the once-white border now verging on gray. A dark haired girl wearing a long, blood-red skirt and a white blouse stood in front of a liquor store. The full skirt flounced and swayed around her slim shins. I knew by the way she stood, one hip thrust towards the camera that she had a Southern accent. As I handed the photo back, I asked, “Who is she?”

He ran his thumb slowly across the surface of her picture then placed it carefully back into his wallet before saying, “She’s my wife.”

“She’s pretty. Are you two still together?”

“No. She went to live in Hollywood. Said she wanted to be in films; that acting was in her genes. She said her Daddy had been a famous film star. She didn’t know his name, but she believed it to be true.

“Has she done any films?”

“I haven’t seen her in any.”

“Do you still talk?”

“It’s been twenty years since she left.”

“Twenty years? And you never remarried?”

“Nah.”

“But, she left you, and you haven’t spoken to her ….”

“Doesn’t matter. I still love her as much as the day we married.”

“That’s, that’s something. Hey, why’d she think that her Daddy was a famous film star?”

“Well, that’s what her Momma told her. What she told everyone. That she’d met him down in Dallas, they’d run off and got married, but her Daddy run him off and had the marriage annulled. Course that was before he knew she was carrying.”

“So, who was he?”

“Don’t know. Mary-Sue’s, that’s my wife, her Momma never would say. Just said that her little girl looked just like her Daddy and could follow is footsteps and be in the pictures.”

“That’s kind of …”

“Yeh, Mary-Sue’s Momma was a strange one.”

“So what brings you here?”

“I’m going to California. Going to look up Mary-Sue.”

“How are you going to find her after twenty years?”

“Well, I’ve got an address for her room-mate. We’ve kept in touch over the years.”

“Does she know where Mary-Sue is?”

“Yeh. She kept tabs on her and has been taking care of her for me.”

“Really. So what happens when you find her?”

“I’m going to join her.”

“Oh? Where’s she at?”

“Shady Acres in Sacremento.”

“Is that a retirement home?”

“You might say that. It’s where she was buried.”

“She’s dead?”

“Has been for nearly twenty years.”

“But, didn’t you say …”

“Yeh. She was killed in a car wreck with some actor about six months after she arrived. Never had a chance to find her Daddy. Never made a movie. Now it’s time for me to join her.”

“Join? You mean …?”

“The doctor told me I had six months left to live and that was five months ago. So, I sold everything and I’m going to California. I’m going to see what she left me for, and then when it’s time, well, we’ll be buried side-by-side. “

I stared at him wordlessly.

“Is that your bus?” he asked.

Looking around, I nodded affirmatively before turning back to him. “What’s your name?”

“David Miller.”

“David, I’m Dylan Kennedy. It was a pleasure to meet you. Good luck on your trip.”

“Thank you.”

I had started up the steps into the bus when he spoke once more.

“Son?”

I turned back to him, and he continued, “Pride’s a terrible thing. Don’t let it stand in the way of someone you love. Before you know it, you’re whole life’s over and you’ve spent it all alone.”

For a moment, I just looked at him. Then I smiled and said, “Yeh. Thank you, David Miller.”

“Good luck, son, and good-bye.”

“The same to you.” I boarded my bus, plopping into a seat and turned to look out the window as the bus lurched away. He was still sitting on the bench, and had pulled his wallet out again, his thumb stroking slowly over something. Her picture. I kept watching him, wondering at the woman who inspired such devotion even after twenty years that a man would journey that far just to be buried with her.

As the bus began to turn the corner, I saw a smile wreath his face. A smile for the dark-haired woman wearing a full red skirt and a trim white blouse who sat down beside him on the bench.

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Notification

As the taxi slid up to the curb with its wheels chattering for traction, the driver switched off the “On-Duty” light. The vehicle rocked with the force of the wind and the snow tumbled down painting sky and ground white. He leaned his head back against the seat rolling it side to side to release some of the stiffness in his neck. This was his last fare of the night, a special fare, a favor called in.

As he looked out the window, he noticed the neighborhood appeared like a postcard or a Rockwell painting. No McMansions, just pretty houses. All nicely painted with neat shutters and landscaped yards. They were bathed in warmth from the lights spilling out in golden waves across the snow. Flipping on the overhead light, he reread the instructions he had received before starting this journey then turned to look at the passenger in the back seat.

The young man appeared to be in his late twenties. As he watched, the young man placed his hat on his head before brushing his hands over the faint creases in his military uniform. He smoothed the folds of the scarf that had remained snugly wrapped around his neck during the two hours it had taken to complete the trip from the airport. Then he buttoned his coat and pulled on his gloves.

Although he had indicated that he was going home to see his father, the driver could see his hesitation in approaching the house. A former soldier himself, the driver knew the aftereffects of war, knew the difficulty the young man faced. The instructions were very detailed so he knew that finding the strength would be as hard as finding the words.

“Ready,” the driver asked.

The young man swiveled toward him, eyes shimmering in the filtered light inside the taxi. He swallowed slowly, flinched, and then nodded affirmatively. The driver switched off the ignition and the interior lights before moving around the vehicle to meet the young man at passenger side where he stood staring at the house. As the driver watched, the young man squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin before trudging toward the front door. The driver paced him. At the glossy red door, the young man reached out with a trembling hand to push the door bell.

From inside the house the faint trill of the chimes was heard, followed by the muffled shuffling of footsteps. An older version of the man beside him answered the summons of the door bell. He addressed the driver, saying “Yes, can I help you?”

The driver turned slightly to the right and gestured to the young man beside him hidden by the shadows on the front porch. Seeing the second visitor, the older man said, “Oh, my God! David. Son.” His voice broke and he cleared his throat before continuing, “Come in. Come in, both of you.” He grabbed his son, pulling him into a hug, then ushered the visitors inside.

“It’s so good to see you. How long can you stay? It’s too bad Dylan couldn’t make it home at the same time.” His voice trailed off as he saw his son clearly for the first time. His son’s face was pasty under his tan. His eyes were sunken and encircled with a shade reminiscent of bruised plums. His facial features were drawn and skeletal.

“You look . . .,” his voice faded as a tear slipped down his son’s cheek.

“Sir,” the driver said, then handed the older man the envelope that had been entrusted to him for delivery.

The young man’s father reached toward it as if it were a rabid dog that might strike at any moment. He opened the envelope and began to read the contents. “We regret to inform you, “ his voice choked into silence. The only movement was the twitching of his eyes as he continued reading. His face paled to a parchment shade and he appeared to age twenty years in the time it took him to complete the notification. When he looked at his remaining son, he said, “Oh, David.”

The young man nodded and unbuttoned his coat. Then he loosened the scarf revealing the stark white bandages covering his throat. A souvenir of the attack that had killed his brother had left him with no further words to speak.

© 2009 Lisa G. Beaudoin

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Night on the Overlook

The bridge, once a rail crossing on the Arkansas River, was rejuvenated into a pedestrian bridge, although the old railway still exists on the top canopy. At the midway point on the river, an overlook platform juts outward. Standing on the overlook on a still night, as the mist reaches out with vaporous arms, it seems as if I can still hear the echoing clink-clank, clink-clank of metal wheels rattling the rails. In the background, there’s a thumping pulse of traffic and a rumbling hum of a motorcycle passing. Within the bridge’s confines, noises reverberate across the night as if within an echo chamber.

Golden coronas of light fight a losing battle against the dark. The fog slicks the surfaces of the bridge. The railing is damp and chill against my skin when I lean over to peer into the river below. The water laps at the pilings, grumbles across the rocks, each drop conversing sotto voice before rejoining the murmuring flow onward. In the distance, I hear a splash, and memories of every thriller and horror movie I have ever watched flood my mind.

Is it the sound of a body falling into the water? A jumper? Did someone toss a body off the bridge? Or, is it the slithering of some leviathan from the depths to terrorize the city? I search the murkiness in an attempt to determine where the noise originated. I feel the movement as each muscle tenses, creeping upwards until my neck aches. I see nothing but the denseness of a city night.

From somewhere behind me, shrouded by the fog, other sounds emanate. Something snuffling. Then a staccato clicking, a jangling of chain, and a thud, slide-shuffle, and another thud. Whipping around, I strain to see through fog-choked air, but shapes elude me as the mist ebbs and flows around skeleton of the bridge melting the stark wooden structure into a warped visage that would be at home in one of Dali’s paintings.

As a point of darkness intensifies, solidifies, blood thrums in my ears like the sonorous strum of a bass guitar. Nerves goose-pimple my arms, and my breathe wheezes between parted lips. Slowly reversing, my jacket whispers sibilantly against the solid upright as I pause to see whatever is coming my way. All I am able to think is “something wicked this way comes.”

Click-click. Click-click. Snuffle. Thud. Slide-shuffle. Like a snake shedding it’s skin. Thud. Snuffle, snuffle. Jangle. Closer now. Over and over. The shape waivers as the mist plays hide-and-seek with whoever, whatever is there. It blanks out the feeble light shed by the overhead lanterns. Thud. Click, click, snuffle. Slide-shuffle. Something dragging, or merely Quasimodo coming to visit? Or perhaps, I fell into an alternate universe designed by Stephen King?

The brume wafts away showcasing the visitor. Actually, visitors. I inhale deeply then nod my head at the man walking his Labrador retriever. He nods back. The Lab smiles a goofy grin before shaking his head, jangling his leash and snuffling out a sneeze. The man’s cane thuds on the floor boards supporting his limping progress down the bridge. The mist closes like a curtain falling, and I snort out a laugh at myself. Just a case of atmospheric conditions and an overactive imagination turning a wizened man and an aged dog with a cold into a scene worthy of Hitchcock.

© 2008 Lisa G. Beaudoin

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