It Just Happens

The following is my submission to the student literary magazine at Naugatuck Valley Community College in 2005.  Not new fiction, but a hiatus entry.

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It Just Happens

Leroy Weathers pushed himself off the bench at the train station and re-entered the flow of the crowd. Pain lanced through his hunched shoulders, reminding him of the twisted vertebrae of his upper back.  A sigh ripped from him when he stepped out into the dim, overcast evening. His attempt to hesitate there, to gain his bearings, was foiled by the shoving crowd that came behind him. Too weary to fight it, he let them sweep him away at a pace much faster than his habitual shuffle. He knew that the crowds would clear away as the streets slowly decayed around them, respectable neighborhoods losing their ground before the urban neglect -- and soon enough, he was right.

The dry passage of his feet against the rough pavement was a comforting sound to his ears as he traveled along the streets that were suddenly devoid of humanity. The burned out shell of a car still stood at the end of the block and had for the last three years, ever since the riots. The throbbing ache of his knees and left hip joined the pain that gripped his shoulders and his steps grew slower. The stoop of his brownstone seemed to slip further and further away, as if the block was elongating before him. Despite the pain, he was in no real hurry. The house was just a house since his wife's death a scant three months before. The coroner took the home with him as he and his assistant carried the body out of the building.

His attention fixed upon the car shell, a frown deepened the wrinkles of his face. Was it George who had owned the car? Maybe it was young Michael? He couldn't remember anymore and couldn't place the owner's face, although he could almost see the shining smile of pride worn there as the announcement was made. "I finally saved up enough to get a car of my own. What do you think, Mr. Weathers?"

Leroy shook his head, weary.  Such youthful pride. Now both George and Michael were gone, and only the burned out car remained. A poster on the side of a bus shelter displayed a young, smiling black face proclaiming neighborhood pride and improvement: Rebirth of History. The old man snorted dismissively. Rebirth. This neighborhood was history, all right. It clung to history with the desperation of a child who just knows that when her father steps out that door, she'll never see him again. Rebirth wouldn't be coming here; not until all the buildings fell down, anyway.

The sharp shattering of glass alerted Leroy to the fact that he was not alone. A rough, wiry looking young man stepped out from the yawning darkness at the mouth of an alley and stood in front of him. Two more edged behind him, hyena-like laughter betraying nerves.  The white around the leader's eyes was bright as he flickered a nervous gaze up and down the street. His thick tongue wetted thicker lips just before he demanded, "Give us money, old man."

Leroy's weariness grew, pressing down on him from above and making his chest tight with the effort to breath. "Step aside, youngster. Don't bother your elders. Didn't your momma teach you no manners?"

"The money," thick-lips insisted while one of his compatriots twittered from behind Leroy.

"Just what money do you think I've got?"

"Everyone knows, old man." When Leroy turned his head to see this speaker, he saw the jagged shard of glass held like a knife in his hand. This one's eyes were cold, neutral -- like a snake. The tightness in Leroy's chest grew.

"Everyone knows what?"

Thick-lips broke in, "You're loaded. Everyone knows it. In a mattress in your basement."

"With your wife's body," said the twitterer, sniggering.

Leroy sighed, passing his hands over his eyes and feeling the weight of the world press down on his shoulders. "Rumors are like smoke. They have no substance."

"Don't bullshit us!" Snake-eyes jabbed the shard of glass at Leroy's back, the press of it dulled by his thick sweater. "Everyone knows!"

Leroy's temper snapped, "Everyone knows shit! I've lived in this neighborhood for seventy-three years. I didn't have no money then, and I ain't got any now. You think if I had money, I'd still be living here?!"

Thick-lips cast an uncertain look towards his companions. They hadn't expected any resistance. Knock and old man around, steal his cash, and live a life of luxury. Resistance hadn't been in the plan. A dog started barking at the far end of the block, breaking the sudden silence like a gunshot. Snake-eyes struck out again with his shard of glass and this time Leroy gave a yell as he felt the edge bite into his flesh.

"Are you crazy?" Thick-lips shouted.

"Shut-up!"

"We just wanted to rough him up a little!"

Leroy coughed, a startled wet sound, and pressed a hand to the injury on his back. The beating of his heart battered at his eardrums, drowning out the growing argument between the thugs. He didn't notice when the twitterer finally broke and ran. Thick-lips reached out and shoved him down, drawing a pained cry from the old man, then took off as well.

Snake-eyes stared down at him, looking a bit shocky as he saw the blood staining the back of Leroy's sweater, "Why didn't you just give us the money?"

Leroy coughed again, "No one in this place's got any money, kid." He could see the squad car approaching from behind Snake-eyes, the sense of relief almost as painful as the jab from the makeshift weapon. "They just let life happen to 'em and complain about it later." He lost himself in the growing pain, only cognizant of the flashes of imagery: Snake-eyes pressed against the ground before the police car; the concerned eyes of the officer kneeling over Leroy while his partner made the arrest; the grabbing hands of paramedics as they put him in the ambulance. He just let it happen to him.

Hiatus

As predicted, the move has completely interrupted my writing attempts. I will get back on the wagon once I'm moved and settled in. :)

A Midwinter Day's What

Winters were the worst.  They came early and set in deep, lasting well into what other lands might call spring.  It would be many years before I'd travel away from my mountain home and learn that there are places in this world where snow rarely touches.  But then, in my youth, I'd have thought it was a lie, or at least a fabrication for entertaining effect. All the augurs said that year would be worse than any in recent history and so my people spent the brief summer working extra hard to lay in what stores we could to face the weather to come.  The gods perhaps took pity on us for what was to come because the harvest was bountiful and the hunting plentiful, letting us set up in the best position possible to survive the trial winter was going to be.

The first snowfall that winter took us by surprise, because it was really still autumn when it arrived. A full month earlier than even the most pessimistic expected, the snow was wet, heavy and two feet deep in the shallows.  There were drifts up to three feet in some places. The trees were as surprised as the rest of us, and still bore their autumn colors.  The weight of the snow on the leaves bowed branches until they nearly touched the ground, forming tunnels all through the wooded areas.  More than a few branches snapped completely, but we were quick to harvest that wood for fires. We almost didn't bother to pack the snow up against the buildings, figuring it would all melt away before the real winter set in anyway, but some nagging sense - and the insistent stubbornness of the head seer - made us follow through.  When another two feet of snow arrived less than a week later, we were equal parts shocked, dismayed, and grateful.

It went on like that for weeks.  A major storm every five to seven days, often with a more minor storm in between to keep things fresh.  Temperatures never rose enough to let any of the previously fallen snow go away before new snow joined it. It didn't take very long for all the buildings to have a thick wall of insulating snow around the outsides.  That was necessary just to keep the pathways clear!  The areas of the village where the snow fell even more deeply, people started making tunnels between buildings with supported bricks of snow just so they wouldn't have to clear a path after every storm.

Foragers and hunters roved out each day, looking to supplement the supplies we'd laid in with fresher materials. Grannies who couldn't leave their homes tended small pots of sprouts.  Children cleared every piece of falling wood within easy reach of the village. Crews would eventually need to go out beyond that perimeter to harvest wood from the forest itself, but the insulating snow around the houses made the fires more efficient.

I was too old to be one of the kids roaming for sticks, but too young to join the hunters in ranging further and further afield looking for game.  Though I was over tall for my age, I had no bulk yet and my aim with a bow was truly pitiful.  Still, my fingers had none of the clumsy awkwardness of the rest of me and I put them to good work making traps for small game.  I roamed out past the areas where the kids gathered sticks. Snowballs and shrieks littered the air there, chasing away any wildlife likely to be out in the winter.  I knew the rules and made sure that I told one of the Granthers at the council building which direction I was going and when I intended to return.

In the summer time, there are so many leaves on the trees that you never notice how many squirrel nests that are up there.  Once winter comes to claim her domain, the leaves fall away and the nests become obvious. They're everywhere. It was under the trees with the most nests that I set my traps.  Squirrel may not be glamorous eating, but when fresh meat is scarce, it's mighty delicious. I'd been doing this pattern for several days, checking to see if my traps had caught anything this time. I was so used to being disappointed (and more than once certain that this was a colossal waste of time and maybe I should just be gathering sticks with the younger kids like Nan said) that at first, I didn't really register what I was seeing.

Right there, in my trap, was a squirrel - all black in color - with the fluffiest, bushiest tail I'd ever seen.  A big squirrel.  Well, not people big, but big for a squirrel.  Definitely well fed.  But that wasn't really what left me speechless.  It was the little hat and scarf the squirrel was wearing.  That, and the foul mouthed cursing that came in a high, squeaky voice, while it yanked on its tail to try to escape the trap I'd set.  No one in the village used such language, but there'd been a trappers and traders who came through and they might even have blushed at the language coming from that squirrel.

I know, I know.  You're giving me dubious looks and thinking I must've been out in the cold too long and been hallucinating or something, but I'm telling you sure as I'm sitting here across from you and drinking this ale, that squirrel was wearing clothes and cursing fit to make a sailor swoon.

When he finally noticed me, he stopped pulling on his tail and put his little paws in fists on his hip. "Well, don't just stand there. Are you going to let me out or what?" I'm afraid I must have gaped at him, because the next thing he said was, "Don't just stand there like a suffocating fish. Get my--"

I'm not going to repeat, word for word, what that squirrel said. I've been a soldier, a sailor, and a merc, and I tell you now, that squirrel's mouth still shocks me to think back upon it. Suffice it to say, he wanted my help getting his tail out from the trap.

Well, I don't mind telling you, I was in a bit of a quandary.  On the one hand, this is the first animal I've caught in days of putting out traps. On the other, this was a talking squirrel! I wasn't really sure, but I somehow felt that a squirrel with that kind of potty mouth was probably not good eating. No matter how plump he was. So I eventually came down on the side of not eating him, and I approached warily, ready to snatch my hand away if it looked like he was going to bite. He snorted, a disgusted and impatient sound, and rolled his eyes.

I didn't know squirrels could roll their eyes either until that moment, but I swear on the moon that it's true.

He rolled his eyes and told me to hurry up.  Not with those precise words, but the meaning was clear. I released the trap and jumped back at least a foot with a rather unmanly scream, I'm not too proud to admit, when the squirrel darted across the snow, up my arm and shoulder to launch himself off my head onto the nearest low hanging branch.  Once he was well out of reach, he let me know exactly how rude it thought it was that I'd leave traps laying around on the ground where just anyone might roam into them.  I thought it was prudent not to point out that was kind of the point of having the traps.

Truthfully, I put on the same meek, apologetic face I used to wear when Nan would catch me filching cookies from the kitchen table. After a long scolding - and I do mean long, I was beginning to worry that I wouldn't make it back to the village by nightfall - the squirrel, who never did offer up his name, launched himself further up the tree. With an unceremonious leap to the next tree over, he disappeared out of view.  The departure happened so fast that I had almost convinced myself that it had never happened. I certainly didn't tell anyone what I'd seen - they'd lock me up as being snow sick!

Really, I'd gotten so caught up in the day to day work of just getting the village through the winter, that I had almost forgotten all about the encounter - dismissing it as a strange dream - when the first pile of nuts showed up on the door step. And then a new pile every week or so after that. Imagine trying to explain /that/ to people.

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Word Count: 1455
YTD: 7935

Night Market

Photo redacted to protect the innocent.  Or the guilty.


Everyone seems to have a different story for how the Night Market came to be, though most seem to agree that it was the last outpost on the outer edge of the known world of a dying empire.  That empire has been gone so long that no one even knows what they called themselves, but the Night Market remains.  In fact, it has grown to be the size of a city in its own right.  It belongs to no nation, but is comprised of people from many - and some whose lines have been there so long that even they couldn't tell you what nationality they were.

In keeping with its name, the Night Market is much more lively at night that it is during the day. People emerge from their homes, or the encampments that constantly surround the edge of the Night Market, to stroll through the barkers and merchants.  A cacophony of voices fills the cool, evening air as the sun sets and silence becomes a stranger to the Night Market until the sun rises again.  All kinds of food, clothing, and items are available, both exotic and mundane.  It's said that you can find anything in the Night Market, and that everything has a price.

Mingled with the more straightforward shops and merchants are the roving carnivals.  Performers of all types make the Night Market a stop on their tour.  Some never leave again, finding the eager crowds ready for consumption enough to support abandoning the road for a more predictable life. All of this forms the surface of the Night Market - controlled chaos of merriment and abandon, where every desire has the potential to be fulfilled.

Beneath the surface, is a quieter, more serious Night Market.  One populated by those for whom the Night Market has become home.  This level of the Night Market is made up of those who trade in stolen or questionable goods and the people who supply them.  Dark magicians seeking dangerous ingredients, blackmailers trading ill-gotten information, thieves... all the sorts of people the surface doesn't want to acknowledge.

Mouse grew up in this world.  The Night Market was a place where opportunity abounded, but where money was king.  Her mother was a madame in one of the brothels that ruled the Eastern end of town, but that was not a life that appealed to Mouse. Still, she could always stop in for a good meal when pickings were slim so she was careful to keep on good terms.  Nimble fingers and a quick, slim build gave her an advantage when slipping through the crowds that sought distraction and entertainment in the Night Market, and likewise provided her income.  And if picking pockets wasn't lucrative for some reason or another, she could always do a bit of impromptu acrobatics for tips - at least until one of the traveling troops could chase her off.  Sometimes pickings were slim, but she could always visit her mother for a bit of food and a bath.

She made a place for herself in the world of the Night Market.  It was home.  She was content. And generally, she loved it. And then the law came to the Night Market.


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This isn't really a story proper. And it fails to have a picture because the idea of the night market came to me without one and I couldn't find a good one for it and that seemed to be the backwards way to do it anyway. So this is just a snippet of background idea rather than really a story, per se.  Still, I love the image of the night market in my head and this probably does nothing to really convey it.

Word Count: 535
YTD: 6480

Striations

The air was oppressive, heat and humidity pressing down like a weight against the chest.  Even the breeze, when it did crop up, felt sluggish.  Jase could feel sweat trickling down his back as he stooped to pick up the last stone. Muscle already sore and tired from a long day of labor under the punishing sun protested the action by inspiring a soft grunt of effort.

"Let's wrap it up, boys!" The foreman's voice cut across the field, and Jase looked skyward for a moment as if he'd find strength in the faint, wispy clouds catching the deepening orange glow of approaching evening. Not finding anything there, he finally trudged back across the field and deposited the rock in the wall being formed. With his hands free, he wiped his brow on the grubby sleeve of his shirt and then stretched his back while the last few stragglers deposited rocks of their own. He hear the coughing sputter of the transport starting up and made his way there, bypassing the open tub of water with an act of mighty willpower. His throat felt like half the dust of the field was clogged in there, but he knew better than to drink unsanitized water.

As he settled into his seat on the transport, he looked out the grimy window.  The last light of day was casting deepening shadows across the area they'd cleared, but he could still see the green color of grass peeking through the worn out brown scrub. They'd be able to plant this field.

* * *

Jase woke with a start as the transport jostled into it's final position and the driver called out, "Last stop! Everyone off!" His body was stiff as he leveraged himself out of his seat and shuffled off behind the other workers. As usual, there were various hangers on gathered at the transport stop, hawking their wares in elaborate and yet somehow still scant outfits. Workers were well rationed for their efforts outside of the domes - much more so than those who stayed inside. Of course, nothing approached the luxury of the Fertiles, but if you were willing to take the risks, you could set yourself up quite nicely as a worker.

"Hey baby, need a bath? Massage?" "I've got skills!" "Marge'll make you beg for more, stud!" The catcalls followed Jase as he walked past the small crowd of men and women gathered at the barrier. Some of the other workers stopped at this or that offering, striking quick negotiations for whatever pleasure it was they fancied for the night. Jase just collected his bag, dropped off his tool belt, and exited the terminal to find the bathhouse. He couldn't wait to get the grime off his body and since he didn't drop his rations on hangers on, he could afford to use the filtered bathhouse.  That his passage inspired lingering looks from more than a few, and disappointment at his obvious lack of desire for any of their services was lost on him.

Light under the dome was a fickle thing - ever present but not always steady.  Brown outs were common, especially as the heat climbed in the summer and the cooling systems took more and more of the energy available to keep the domes from turning in to ovens. Still, the amount of light an area had was directly proportional to the power and resources of its residents.  The Facility was a shining mecca in the center of the complex of domes - separated from them all, but connected by spokes of decontamination tunnels joining to each of the five surrounding domes. Within the exterior domes, the affluent and powerful lived closer to the interiors, with stunning views of the pristine, white complex in the central dome. Most everyone had nostalgic feelings about the Facility, which had born them all, but few could clearly remember what it had been like inside of there. But everyone agreed that it was as close to heaven as one could get on this earth.

Jase wasn't one of the affluent and powerful by any stretch, but he was frugal with his rations and that meant he could afford the best bathhouses.  His current bathing room was his favorite, tiles and murals in greens and blues, with one glass wall that had a nearly unobstructed view of the Facility. He soaked in the hot water, having already scrubbed himself clean in the showers, and closed his eyes while the attendant shaved him and washed his hair. The tension slowly drawn out of his muscles by the heat of the bath and the deft massage of fingers on his scalp.  He was half asleep when the attendant rinsed his hair a final time and did a water change before leaving him to his peace. Through half-lidded eyes he watched the glow of the Facility, bringing up his memories of the place.

The scent of powder.  The brush of soft lips on his forehead.  Soft, pale skin.  Warmth.  His mother.  He could almost remember the sound of her voice, like a song whose melody is so familiar and yet ungraspable in the moment. He had been five when he had been separated from his mother, and he could still remember the wonder he felt when she held his hand to her rounding belly so he could feel the baby kicking inside. He could remember the infinite sadness in her expression when she watched him leave the Haven.

He held those memories tight in his heart, the longing they inspired a torture to which he was accustomed.  He wondered if she was still alive.  If maybe she was one of the Matriarchs now directing the breeding programs in the Facility. He wondered what her name was.

Watching the Facility from this distance, the melancholy memories of his mother pulled around him like a blanket, he fancied that he could see movement in one of the windows, like a hand pressed against glass.  But when he sat forward to take a closer look, he couldn't see anything.


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This one's for Kit, because she demanded.  And because I'm still thinking about what might happen on Gen's side of the glass. :)

Word Count: 1009
YTD: 5945

After the Fall

All the color leeched out of the world after the last war.  Most of the people died out.  Entire cities became ghost towns practically over night. The artificial separations like color, race, and religion became irrelevant against the great unifier survival.  Not all at once, and not without their death throes, but when it became evident that most people were infertile and what was left of humanity was dying out by inches, the desperate struggle to continue their existence forced people to realize the pettiness of their squabbles.

For a while, it was like a golden age of cooperation and brotherhood.  People worked together, sharing the fruits of their labors.  What did it matter if you were a Christian or a Muslim if neither of you had enough fertile women to continue your line? Or enough uncontaminated food to keep from wasting away? Science mattered, not which holy book's words comforted you in the orange glow of the night sky.

The food supply was stabilized and purification methods invented that helped minimize the contamination.  Fertility was still extremely limited, but they had a solution for that, as well.  And if it was necessary to apply the careful techniques of animal husbandry to the task of raising fertile woman to ensure future generations, well, it was easy to accept that burden.  Especially for the men and infertile women making the decisions.

Gen rested her hand against the chill material of the window. It was clear and allowed her to see the world outside, but thick like the glass of an aquarium so that everything was oddly distorted.  The world was painted in shades of grey and brown.  She'd read about grass and trees in her studies, but had only seen such things in faded photographs or paintings.  When the confinement became too unbearable, she liked to close her eyes and imagine dew gathered on the tip of a leaf, poised just before dropping.  She'd seen the image in a poster once and it struck her as a perfect moment captured and preserved.

Preserved like she was preserved.  She pulled her hand away from the window and turned her back to the view.  Normally, she loved to watch the play of the light against the wood of the deck that surrounded this side of the facility, admiring the shadows as the stretched across the faded, silvery boards like searching fingers straining towards a prize. Her heart just wasn't in it today.  She paced the room, walking a slow circuit that drew her ever closer to the center, and then back out again.  Waiting.

The sleeveless gown she wore was made of grey material trimmed in dark blue. She paused in her pacing to look down at her toes peeking out from the bottom hem.  If the tests came back positive, her wardrobe of grey and blue would be replaced with one of white and red so that all could know of her forthcoming blessing. If it came back negative again, she would be given work clothes and shipped away from the facility to one of the work colonies and labelled an Infertile.

Her feet carried her unconsciously back to the window and she squinted out through the thick glass at the empty countryside beyond, her heart torn in two.  She had been bred, raised and protected from the poisons of the world in this careful crucible of science. Fed and clothed and educated, she had never wanted for anything - except the feel of the wind pulling on her hair. Or the sound of the rain striking the ground.

Her hand strayed to her abdomen, hidden by the straight drape of the dress. If she was pregnant, she would never know those things.  She would live out the rest of her life in this facility, bloodlines carefully maintained and crossed for optimum genetic health and potential. She would have children, babies, and know the terrible and wonderful love of motherhood.  She would never know hunger or want for anything. She would never know freedom.

And she did want to be a mother.  She'd heard other women speak of it - of the quickening, of feeling their babies grow inside of them, of the closeness of having their babies in their arms.  She remembered, somewhat vaguely, the comfort she felt when her own mother held her before she was sequestered.  The brush of soft lips on her forehead as they were parted. She longed for that closeness.

But she'd also heard that those on the outside could touch others.  They could embrace.  They could even, so the rumor went and usually with a lot of furtive whispering and nervous giggles, have sex.  But they could never have children. They could never return to the facility. It was hard in the world.  Rations were strictly enforced and illness was prevalent.  A frightening thought for Gen, who had been so well cared for and sheltered. Still, she'd heard the rumor that there were birds once again showing up in the skies - birds hadn't been seen in this part of the world for more than four decades - and she yearned to see them fly.

Gen gave a start as a booming voice came over the intercom, "Report." She scurried over to the far wall, hiding her hands behind her back so that they wouldn't see her shaking. The wall raised up and she saw the medical triumvirate behind the revealed glass.  She tried to read her fate in their faces, but nothing was given to her. "We have your results," it was the center doctor speaking - an older woman with grey hair who had probably never been outside of the facility herself. "You are to be moved," Gen's stomach suddenly felt like lead and she swayed where she stood. The head doctor's expression flickered a little with concern and she repeated, "You are to be moved to the pre-natal ward. Congratulations, Ms. Collins. You have joined the ranks of the Fertile Women."

Gen didn't hear anything more the doctor might have said, because she fainted dead away at the news.


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I'm not really sure where I was going with this one, to be honest.  Except that the lack of color in the picture made me think of something desolate.  And then there's the mental desolation of daylight savings time beginning.  Oy.


Almost forgot the word count.

World Count: 1017
YTD: 4936

Little Treasures

I fingered the ragged edges of the photo.  I could still feel the remnants of tape long since removed - dry and dusty feeling, not tacky in the slightest.  This picture had been handled so much that the edges felt more like cloth than paper and I carefully set it down on the desk in front of me before returning my attention to the person who had handed it to me.

He was tall and slender, carrying himself with his shoulders hunched over like he was apologizing for being tall.  And I do mean tall.  If he didn't top six and a half feet, I'd eat my hat. If I wore hats, which I don't because they just never look good on me. Anyway, tall and slender.  Slender was possibly being overly generous.  He was almost skeletal in his thinness.  I'd bet that he never puts on weight no matter how much he eats. Lucky bastard. Only thin white wisps of hair still clung to his scalp, which was otherwise covered with freckles and age spots.

"None of it was particularly valuable," he was saying. "Just her little treasures - that's what she always called them, her little treasures." I could hear the catch in his voice as he spoke and felt my mouth turn down in a sympathetic frown. "Maybe it seems silly now, but they brought her joy and I expected that I'd find them when I was packing up her stuff, but they were no where." His shoulders slumped just a little bit more.

I half rose from my seat, holding out my hand in an invitation for him to take a seat of his own. "Please, Mister...." I trailed off, realizing that he hadn't identified himself when he entered and handed me the picture. "Jenkins. Willis Jenkins." "Mr. Jenkins.  Please, have a seat." I didn't settle back into my own seat until he had taken the invitation.  The window behind me rattled as a skycar zipped by a smidge too close to the building. "What were you hoping that I could do for you?"

The look he gave me was naked hope, and it made me very discomfited.  "I heard about you," he practically whispered the words. "I heard that you could speak to them. That they sometimes gave you messages. That you were the real deal. Not like those fakes on the vids all the time wanting your money and telling you what you want to hear. I just want to know what happened to her things."

That wasn't what he wanted to know. The desperation in his voice told me that he wanted to know that she was well and content and whatever other feelings people think a good afterlife should inspire. I checked the sigh I wanted to give. "Mr. Jenkins, I'm not sure what people have told you about me, but I don't want to sell you false hope here." I dropped my attention to the picture again, frowning mildly at the over-saturated glow of the candle flame. "Most of what I do is just boring investigative work - following someone's spouse, looking for lost relatives. Stuff that's too unimportant for the Authority to handle. Off the top of my head, just looking at the picture here, I'd say you want to see if you can find the key. Might be to some kind of storage space.  No one much uses locks like that anymore--"

He broke in, voice gone impatient and almost angry. "You can speak to them. People have told me. People I trust. They will tell you things."

I fought the urge to rub my eyes with the palm of my hand, my own shoulders slumping with defeat this time. I kept my voice soft, reasonable and firm, "I don't do that, Mr. Jenkins." At least, I didn't anymore.

He leaned forward, intensity shining in eyes suddenly brimming with tears. "Please, please, Ms. Anderson. She was all I had left in the world and we couldn't afford the stasis when the doctors said she had the Cancer." He pushed the picture closer to me. "This was taken when she was sixteen. She was my wife for seventy-five years. I've outlived everyone. I-I just need to know...." His voice broke on a sob and tears spilled down the delicately thin, wrinkled skin of his face before he covered it with his hands.

I sat in uncomfortable silence.  It wasn't that I didn't sympathize with his loss, or that I lacked the desire to help. It just wasn't safe. It would open doors that were better off left closed. Doors I closed to protect myself.  I closed my eyes, heartily wishing that I hadn't come to work today, and leaned back in my seat. When I opened my eyes again a few minutes later, Mr. Jenkins had composed himself and was looking at me with watery eyes. My heart lodged in my throat as I felt my resolve give way. He could see it on my face when I gave in and the hope flared in his eyes once more. "I'll see what I can," I murmured, rather grudgingly if I must be honest.

"That's all I ask," he assured me, reaching out to grab my hand with his much larger ones.  I could feel the bones through his skin as he gave my hand a grateful squeeze. "That's all I ask."

*     *     *

Her name had been Charity.  Charity Beaumont Jenkins.  My first thought upon learning that had been that no one names their kid Charity anymore. Of course, she was 97 when she died, so it was still true. She had loved slow jazz music and sultry summer evenings by the river.  She wore lace long after lace was so out of style people only saw it in museums. In the modern age of skycars and neural implants, she still believed that a gentleman opened the door for a lady and pulled out her chair for her to sit down. She had lived long enough to see the modern world be born and grow up and to remember when you had to have something called a television to watch vids and that kids used to go door to door for Halloween looking for treats. She had loved Willis from the first day she saw him, working on the barge that went past her finishing school.  She had loved him enough to stand up to her family's objection to his modest origins.  And he had stayed by her side through all the years that her family had cut her out. And stood there still when they finally reconciled .  The first time she'd seen him cry had been the day her daddy told him that he couldn't imagine a man that could have taken better care of his Charity.

I felt all of this and more as a welling up inside of me while I sat in the cool, dimly lit interior room of my officer.  To call it a room was really rather generous, I suppose, since it was barely much more than a closet.  And it held a somewhat musty smell to it, as it had been months since I'd last opened it up to air it out.  I wasn't lying when I said that I didn't do this anymore.  I worked on deep, relaxing breathing techniques designed to let the tension in my muscles slip away and tried not to be aware of the equal parts hope and loss radiating from the outer office where Mr. Jenkins was waiting.  

I sat Indian style in the center of the room, a circle of salt laid around carefully around me.  The picture rested on the floor in front of me and dust motes floating in the air occasionally caught in the single shaft of light that escaped from the blinds covering the small window.  My gaze rested on the image of the photo and I continued my breathing exercises for what felt like an eternity.  I knew that contact would come. I just knew it.  In the deepest parts of me, it happened like that sometimes. Sitting here now, letting down the walls I'd so carefully constructed, I was aware of how much energy I spent every day cutting myself off from that well of knowledge. And how much I missed it.

Slowly the tension slipped away and my breathing evened out and softened.  I knew that anyone who saw me at the moment would think that I was asleep, my head dropped just slightly forward and the backs of my hands resting on my knees with my palms open and fingers slightly curled. Relaxed. Yet, I was never more alert than I was in this state.  I could feel the pressure of hundreds of souls - living and dead - pressing against the barrier the salt represented.  For just a moment, my heartbeat picked up and I fought to hold onto the calm I'd managed to obtain.  When it settled again, I let out a long, slow exhalation and unclenched something deep inside of myself.  You see sometimes those time lapse vids of a flower opening up to the sun.  This felt exactly like that.

I knew how to do this. Had known since practically before I could walk.  I remember my Nana teaching me, her voice gravelly and her English thickly accented.  I remember the feel of her hand touching my solar plexus. "Here, child. They come here. To you." It was easier than breathing. 

And so I reached out, pushing a questing tendril past that barrier, whispering Charity's name with an inner voice and felt the rush when she answered and her soul touched mine.  I drew her in, inviting her into my circle, closing it behind her to keep us safe. "He misses you," was the message I gave her. 

If someone was watching me, they'd have seen the soft candle glow coming from the picture, faint and haunting, that heralded her presence.  Her answer was nothing verbal, though I could interpret it closely enough. Equal pats, "I know," and "I miss him, too." 

My own communication was likewise silent as I formed the thoughts, "He brought me this picture.  He says you called them your little treasures but that he could not find them in your things."

"They are long since gone.  He was always my greatest treasure. These... these are trifling things. They will not bring him the comfort he desires. But he might find the little jar of sand with its tiny map in the little compartment of my secretary desk. The drawer with the flower mostly worn off."  There was a sense of silence long enough that I began to doubt she was still there, even though I could still feel her warm presence. "Tell him I am with him always, and he will be with me again. He is not alone." I could feel her energy start to flicker. Prolonged communication can really take it out of the dead. Not to mention the living recipient. My own energy was flagging in response. 

"Thank you, Charity. I'll let him know. I leave you to travel in peace." The words didn't really matter, though I spoke them by rote. I could have just as easily said that the sun barks at midnight for all the purpose that it served. But it gave the encounter shape and put me into the right frame of mind to open up the way through the barrier once more so that I we could relinquish the mutual hold we had on each other and Charity could return to... whatever or wherever it was that Charity would go.  Her presence melted away slowly until I could no longer feel even the faintest trace of it.  

I felt winded, like a runner who has been out of the sport too long and expects to start up right where she left off.  I held myself still for too long after she faded, left that tiny opening in place just a bit beyond what I should. I was tired, and heart-sore, and not looking forward to passing on my message to Mr. Jenkins at all. I was distracted.  I didn't notice the first tentative pushes at that tiny fracture.  I didn't feel the dark, growing pressure just beyond the fragile barrier. I didn't feel it until it drew itself up and lashed out.  It was almost as if I could see it coming and I frantically poured myself into holding the barrier closed.  It hit like a sonic boom and my vision exploded into stars, like I'd taken a blow to the head.  My body, which was still in its limp, relaxed pose, abruptly jerked back and landed in a sprawl on the floor. 

I held myself still, trying to catch my breath and waiting for the spots in my vision to fade away.  Every muscle in my body ached.  As did that talent inside of me which had allowed me to communicate with Charity. I reached out with it tentatively, groping blinding for the barrier I'd set and felt it there - wispy but still in place - and let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I closed my eyes and put my walls back in place brick by painful brick before I let go of my hold on the barrier and let it slip away entirely. 

A groan escaped me as I levered myself to my feet and reached out a hand to steady myself against the wall.  Once the world stopped spinning, I tried to take stock of myself. Except for the soreness and a certain amount of mental rawness, everything seemed to be in place. With one hand rubbing the back of my neck, I stepped out of the circle and reached to open the door. 

A static shock strong enough to be visible jumped from the old metal doorknob to my fingertips, leaving them tingling in response.  I jerked back my hand and bit off a curse, shaking out my fingers. It felt like my hair should be standing on end, though a quick shake of my head assured me that it was still secured in a bun so I reached out - much more tentatively this time - to open the door again.  This time I was able to step out without risking defibrillation. 

I knew I must've looked about as exhausted as I felt by the sudden expression of apprehension in Mr. Jenkins' eyes when he looked up at my entrance.  I pasted on a tired smile and let myself sink into my desk chair once more. I didn't have the energy to drag it out, so I didn't even wait for him to ask. "I contacted Charity." I closed my eyes when I saw tears spring into his. "She said you won't find those things. They've been gone for a long time. But look in the drawer with the faded flower on the secretary and you'll find the little jar with the map." 

He reached out and touched the back of my hand, startling me and making me open my eyes again.  The gratitude shining through his features was a bit of balm to my tired and bruised soul. "She's waiting for you," I felt compelled to add. "You'll be together again." 

"Thank you, Ms. Anderson. From the bottom of my heart, thank you." He fumbled at his pocket for his cred stick and I waved away the gesture, "You don't owe me anything, Mr. Jenkins. Just go and be well with the knowledge you've gained." 

He hesitated, squeezing my hand again before reluctantly turning to make his way to the exit.  Just as he was ready to step through the door, I said, "And please, dear god, don't tell anyone I did this for you." He looked back over his shoulder at me, surprised. He gave a simple nod in response and stepped out to the hall.  The door slide closed behind him.

I sat there in the silence of my office, listening to the sound of my heart beating. Fifteen minutes probably went by before I remembered the photograph still on the floor in the other room. I rose to go retrieve it so I could have it sent back to Mr. Jenkins, and a shiver passed through me as I heard a faint, dark chuckle that came from nowhere and every where.

"Oh, shit." There's a reason why I didn't do this anymore.

----------------

I'm pretty sure this doesn't /really/ count as a ficlet because of its length. This one is loooong.  Because of word wars. Yay for word wars! Yay for msagara!  I'm actually pretty pleased with it, though I'm sure it's very rough because it's effectively first draft word vomit. I'm not entirely sold on the Future Science bits, but... well, it bears consideration.  It's hard to do a word war where you stop partway through to web search to see if you can find a good Eastern European term of endearment a grandmother might use for their grandchild.  Obviously I came up short. :)

Anyway, word count!

Word count: 2752

YTD: 3919