He turned up the sound on his device. Nothing. Plugging the ear buds back in, he switched from Spotify to Pandora to a generic radio station. His pained expression grew as he went outside to see if it was a connection problem. The phone’s silence turned to static. He switched it off and closed his eyes as the late autumn sun warmed his face. He opened one eye as a cardinal chirped above his head.

https://youtube.com/watch?v=sYEgUX8Mafc%3Frel%3D0%26controls%3D0%26showinfo%3D0%2520frameborder%3D0%2520allowfullscreen

The old woman breathed an amused sigh and, gripping the arms of her chair, rose to pour herself another cup of tea. Peppermint might be nice. She gingerly placed her cup on the seat of her walker and shuffled to the window. She sipped the strong peppermint, then put it back on the walker seat as she watched the young man who was now lying in the grass looking up at a bird in the tree overhead. A soft laugh erupted from her lips as she walked back to her chair, adjusted the pillow behind her back, and closed her eyes. Not to sleep. No, not that.

The little one in the stroller exclaimed at a busy squirrel next to them on the sidewalk. As she checked on her charge, a breeze blew and the pages of the book the young mother was reading fluttered with it. What?! She flipped the pages back and forth. Finding her lost place shouldn’t be this hard. Reaching for her water bottle, she dropped her book and, as she bent to retrieve it, locked eyes with her little one. They exchanged smiles, and she picked up her little girl instead as the little one pointed and chattered.

to be continued . . .

Her hand, blue-veined and small, pushed open the creaking front door, and she sucked in a fragile breath of the brisk, morning air. Her eyes searched up and down the street.

There he was. The thirty-something man in his black dress coat with the collar turned up passed by every morning. His morning walk was first on his to do list every day. He would say it was first on his list because it cleared his mind. As usual, he walked with quick detachment as he scrolled through something on his phone. He had important work to do. He was an influencer of many and held great power.

Across the street a younger man by a decade or more strolled home from his night job, his ears plugged with his chosen mind-numbing sound. He did not see the cardinal to his right that swooped past nor the golden splendor of the large walnut tree ahead. He’d spent the night making a buck, and had made his usual stop at an all-night diner for breakfast. It was good enough for him, and now he deserved a morning’s sleep before doing it all over again.

Farther down the block a young mother pushed a stroller, reading a book, while her blanketed toddler looked wide-eyed at leaves stirring on the sidewalk beneath. They both glanced up at the click of a door as they passed.

The woman closed the door and locked it. She turned slowly until both hands grabbed her walker, and she made her way to her chair. The T.V. loudly announced the latest news of crime and peace talks and weather and sports while she sipped some tea and munched on toast with orange marmalade. What was that? A president or prime minister? She really must get her hearing aids fixed. She leaned forward and turned up the sound. Finally she clicked off the television, dabbed at her lips with a napkin, adjusted the pillow behind her back, and closed her eyes. Not to sleep. No, not that.

Five  minutes later the sound went out in the young man’s earbuds. He frowned, pulled them out, and examined his phone.

to be continued . . .

Images: 479px-Cardinalis_cardinalis_-Columbus_Ohio_USA-male-8_1-cc-attribution-2.0.jpg; tea-commons.wikimedia.org_.jpg

These were dangerous times. Her father had warned her, and he was right. Her eyes moved from the glowing numbers that were quickly counting down to zero to four wires. Only four. It wasn’t as though there were multiple wires tangled together. It shouldn’t be that difficult. Which one to clip? Which one to stop the bomb?

She reached back into her memory. She was pretty sure the middle two, the white and the yellow wires would do nothing. They didn’t have enough power one way or the other. A bead of sweat trickled from her hairline and hit her eye. She wiped it away with a shaking hand. What was it she had heard back when something like this wasn’t real, when times were safe and life was good? Which wire needed to be cut to prevent the current from setting off an explosion? Was it red, you’re dead or blue, you’re through? Red, blue, red, blue, hmm. Thirty-eight seconds. She was pretty sure it was the blue one. Yes! That was it! Except there wasn’t a red or blue wire. There were only purple and orange wires left.

She hoped it was the purple one. The purple wire looked pretty sketchy, but what wire didn’t? It wasn’t about pretty, it was about power. Thirty seconds. She bit her lip. A nagging intuition told her the orange wire was the one to clip to stop the bomb. But the orange one hardly even looked like a wire! Shouldn’t the wires look at least similar? She peered more closely. Ugh. It had something on it she didn’t like. It was sticky and smelled to high heaven. If she cut it, she might get some of the sticky stuff on her hands, and who knew if the stench would fill the air and for how long?

She looked around her and wondered about the power of the explosion. If the bomb went off, the little church on the corner could be blown to bits or maybe compromised by the blast and fall bit by bit through the years. Of course, churches didn’t need buildings, so did it matter? Twenty seconds. The newborn cradled on her mother’s lap on a nearby bench would be killed. But who knew what the infant’s mother was like anyway? Maybe she would be spared a lifetime of sorrow. Maybe it would be okay if she died so young. A couple of army buddies’ laughter momentarily punched the air and she shifted her gaze. The singular reporter nearby, the one who refused to march lockstep with the others, would be a goner. Their eyes locked for a brief moment and she looked away. Ten seconds. Her eyes searched the street. Would the people walking and chatting and dining and shopping even know what hit them?

She looked again at the orange wire. No. She couldn’t bring herself to touch it. No one would know she had had this chance to stop the bomb anyway. Why did it have fall on her shoulders? Five seconds. If the orange wire would actually stop the bomb, and she couldn’t be certain that it would . . . but no. Any consequence was better than clipping orange. She just DID NOT want anything to do with the orange wire. It was a matter of principle. She squinted up at the sun, then clipped the yellow wire with one second to spare.

And the sky grew dark with dust and debris while a deafening sound filled the air.

Image: commons.wikimedia.org

It was silly really. The minute he’d opened his eyes the thought came to him like a character from a forgotten dream: a ridiculous dream, a dream of nothing but unrelated thoughts and images. He ignored it, but it returned as he whipped two eggs for his Saturday morning omelet and hung around as he buttered his toast. By the time he’d washed his last dish, he’d given in; if nothing else than to make the thought go away.

Now here he was, standing in front of the unwanted, unvarying house with a tiny plant he’d purchased for 89 cents at the grocery store. He exhaled, walked past the spot in the yard and the tiny plants at the side, walked up steps, and rapped on the door. A moment of silence was followed by the sound of a scraping chair and barely perceptible footfalls. The door squeaked as it opened.

Her uncombed hair fell over a brown tee shirt. She tucked one hand in the pocket of her jeans as a confused frown flitted over her face.

He pushed the plant toward her.

“Here. I . . .” He scuffed a shoe against the porch floor and cleared his throat.

“I noticed you were trying to fix up your yard.”

She looked at the plant.

“I thought maybe you might like this to add . . .” his voice drifted off and he shrugged.

The hint of a smile crossed her face and she took the tiny flower.

“Um. Thanks. You’re the guy who walks by every morning at 7:30.”

He nodded.

“And walks past every evening at 5:15.”

He pressed his lips together, searching for something to say.

“I . . . When I eat breakfast and supper I can see you from the window. There’s not much else that happens around here. Nothing changes. Except you. You started walking past here.”

“I started walking past because you started working on your yard. Or at least someone did,” he defended himself.

She took a step back, then looked at the floor in thought.

“Would you . . . would you like to sit on the steps? I have some sweet tea inside I can bring out for us.”

He nodded quickly. They settled on the steps and sipped their tea.

“My dad lived here. He got sick, so I moved back. He died a couple of months ago,” she volunteered by way of explanation.

The man shook his head. “I never saw anyone around this house.”

She stared ahead.

“No, you wouldn’t have. He was very private. I take after him.” She flushed. “But, you know, he had some second thoughts those last few months. He told me to plant some flowers in the yard after he passed. He told me it would be a start. Of what, he didn’t say.”

His gaze was drawn to the yard.

“His house, your house, it looks cared for with flowers. Like it’s wanted maybe. Do you think you’ll sell and move back to wherever you were?”

She shook her head.

“No. This is my childhood home. Maybe it doesn’t – didn’t – look wanted, as you say. But I don’t sell memories. I’m stayin’ “.

“To second thoughts,” he said as he held up his glass.

“To new beginnings,” she added.

The clink of their glasses caught the ear of a passerby and she smiled.

He had first noticed it in the Spring. It was just a little spot in the grass near the door of a house that had been there as long as he could remember. Not that he did. Who would think of, much less remember such a house? He rarely walked this block. It was boring. It offered nothing. He preferred, and therefore frequented, a route two blocks over. Who knew what prompted him to vary his route that Spring day?

The house, itself, was small enough to be called “crackerbox”. It’s white paint was not peeling, but it was tired as was the faded trim at the few windows. It looked unwanted, but whether it was wanted or not, someone must live there, and for all the years he’d seen it, he didn’t recall it ever being for sale. Not wanted, but not for sale. He didn’t recall anyone ever sitting on the front step. He didn’t remember evidence of life there.

But in the Spring the little spot in the grass near the door had caught his eye, not because it was pretty or even interesting, but because it was different at a house where nothing ever varied. It had appeared suddenly – the little spot of dirt – and then nothing.

A week later, tiny leaves poked up from the spot and and what had once been weeds along one side of the house had been cleared and hoed.

Curiosity changed his route to a job he neither loved nor despised. After all, other than the nine to five schedule of his week and Saturday grocery shopping, his days were pretty much like that lifeless house where nothing ever varied.

One Saturday changed that.

to be continued . . .

Image: https:// pixabay old-house-513440_640

He glanced down at the unfolded paper and scoffed. In spiderwebby scrawl it said, “You’re next”. That was all.

He leaned back on the bench and crossed his knee. The brook’s song was noticeable now, and the occasional breeze had slightly increased. Dark edged closer, but dusk’s gray remained.

An amused smile crossed his lips. Sure, some people might be frightened here, at the edge of night with a strange message that came from who knew where, a paper that smelled slightly musty, and words written by what appeared to be a decrepit hand. He wasn’t some people. Everyone knew the stories weren’t true. Anyway, he came because of his annoying dreams. That was different.

He’d stay a little longer just to show it didn’t matter. He was comfortable here – truly comfortable now that he thought about it. In fact, if he wanted to, he would find no trouble in spending the night sleeping on the bench.

His eyes grew heavy, his head bobbed, and he slid down, resting himself on the bench. His breathing slowed. The moon rose higher, the stream sang, and a stronger breeze rustled through his hair. His eyes suddenly opened, grew wide, then closed. The paper slipped from his hand and was swallowed in the weeds. And he dreamed no more.

It is said that as the moon peeks through the leaves of a gnarled tree near an old stone bench, its light signals a nearby brook which raises its voice to call the invisible spirits dwelling there. The spirits have no patience for those who believe they are always right, who confuse opinion with fact, and who indoctrinate those who don’t know better. Those who believe the unknown and unseen exist steer clear of its call because they understand people, even very smart, sophisticated people, perceive life through a limited lens. Those folks, the ones who rewrite truth to suit themselves, who think the old stories are rubbish . . . discover they were wrong.

There were stories, of course: ghoulish, horrible tales passed down for generations. Everyone in town had heard them, and everyone knew they weren’t true. He’d heard the stories all his life and ignored them for the tripe they were. He had better things to do than sit and watch birds and bugs in a cemetery. He was a man of the age. But then the dreams had come and wouldn’t leave.

Funny thing, dreams. When they come in sleep, we’re certain they’re passing fancies. When they’re part of waking thought, some view them the same as sleep’s imaginings and others view them as possible future fact. He pondered that, for a minute. Did it matter when they came, whether waking or sleeping? Bah! Of course it did! Mind tricks is all they were!

So he’d begun to visit this place because of the dreams – the dreams that wouldn’t leave – looking for the thing that would set his mind to rest. And because, if he was honest, he was curious. First, he’d paused as he walked past. A week later, he’d taken a few steps in, then walked away. A few days after that, he’d quickly walked through the grounds; the next day, slowly. Then he’d begun to stop by every day. He’d found the bench and breathed in nature’s sweet air. It was peaceful, actually.

He rested his hands on the concrete and pushed himself farther back onto the pocked bench. A whisper of a breeze touched his hair. He scratched his ear and let his gaze

wander over the stones that peppered the green grass and weeds. Gnarled trees, older than anyone living, dotted the place. A rocky stream meandered silently along the edge of a steep drop not three yards away, with only a stray burble here or there.

This was the first day since he’d begun coming here, though, that he’d stayed long enough for twilight to descend and cloak the small acreage in the gray that follows periwinkle. The dreams had told him to, hadn’t they? He shook his head. Funny the influence that fiction mixed with the subconscious had on a person.

Still, his eyes searched the ground and he saw what he must have missed the other times he’d come here. It lay just as it had in his dreams. Finally. In his dreams he hadn’t been able to make out the scrawl. At last he could. At last the silly visions would leave him and he would sleep undisturbed once again.

A stray breeze, strong for the evening’s quiet, rustled his shirt sleeve and he shivered. The stream trickled more loudly now. The weather must be changing. He looked up at the leaves, still in the evening air.

He leaned down, picked it up, and unfolded the yellowed page.

to be continued . . .

Image: old-stone-bench-1183074_960_720 pixabay CC0 Public Domain

Memorial Day: what a great day! Citizens pulled out grills of every shape and size, stores were busy with celebratory sales, and beaches were filled with winter-white visitors. The brief parade highlighted the day, assuring every attendee of their patriotism.

Five well-spaced lines of an exuberant drill team followed the Grand Marshal, a politician of much note and reputation, in whom even the press found little to criticize.The band with its seven trumpets and eight drummers, its four flutes, three clarinets, and a handful of varied other sounds followed the swishing flags down Main Street. Next came a hay wagon of square dancers, the local gymnastics club cartwheeling to their hearts’ content, and the yearly float carrying the newly crowned city queen with her court waving in harmony.

The convertible with two Gold Star mothers that came next received a smattering of polite applause on this unseasonably warm May day. They weren’t as pretty as the queen and her court nor as exciting as the gymnasts, but they were included every year just the same. People lining the street began to shake out their blankets and stretch their legs, as just ahead of the fire truck, in the echoing cadence of the band, marched the veterans. The flag they carried high hung limp in the heat and stillness of the day.

But one stood still, watching what others left behind in their haste to find the best place at the park. He stood at attention, his chubby hand over his heart as he had been taught. And then? Oh yes. Then a sudden breeze lifted the drooping flag straight. It flew as it should, with honor and dignity. The veterans looked as one at the loyal little boy standing alone at his post on the curb. And the boy smiled.

Image: United States of America flag – commons.wikimedia.org

We’d loved each other forever. Grew up two houses down from each other. Went to the same schools and sometimes, if luck was with us, were in the same classes. We looked enough alike that some thought we were sisters. In a way, we were: sisters with different last names. We held each other’s secrets close, and kept promises made with the passionate loyalty of youth. When college years approached, we promised each other we’d choose the same college.

That was the first promise we broke. Her parents wanted her to go east to their alma mater and she agreed. I wanted something close to home. We kept in touch with weekend girlfriend chats, though less because of studies and new friends. Then one week we didn’t.

She moved back to town ten years later. I’d already settled there with a husband and two kids in a starter house that was fast becoming our forever home. We ran into each other at the local grocery and stopped at the cafe next door for lunch. By the time we’d caught up, her ice cream had melted and my fish sticks had grown soft.

We fell back into the familiar dance of friendship. My kids thought she was a superhero. Without the extra treasure and tension that mark the presence of a family, she had energy, money, and time to do those kinds of things that lives of mundane structure cannot. I promised I would cheer her on in whatever next adventure she undertook. She promised to understand when I did not join in.

I can see now what I didn’t then. Our long, repetitive accounts of years together and apart lasted sometimes into the night. Honestly, I was flattered she was so interested in the time I’d mistaken salt for sugar on Valentine’s Day or missed my car payment one December. I was grateful for the sweet little presents she bought for my kids. Her excuses for the missed lunch dates were little bits of nothing I ignored. All were tells I could’ve noticed.

When she suddenly moved and I was left without an inkling why, I dusted off college-honed research skills to find her. Hours of effort resulted in nothing other than a suspicion of identity theft in different cities across the country. Her parents were of no use, only saying it was her way to visit them on an unplanned day and they were resigned to her preference. My husband told me to let it go. Let it go.

It’s been ten years since. Shortly after I’d turned up nothing other than suspicion, I was served with a subpoena for the information I hadn’t found. From there it was a hop, skip, and a jump to complex accusations I still don’t understand.

My life continues its mundane structure, but my schedule is behind bars. My children grew up to call another woman ‘mother’. My friends seem to think she is me, as if that were possible. My husband grew distant and divorced, and my friend?

She broke a whole stack of promises when she stole my identity – complete with its extra treasure and tension. And I broke only one: I no longer cheer her on in whatever next adventure is hers.

Image: enwikipedia.org heart

It’s been four years since. I’ve met some people from town, but mostly prefer the solitude of this place. The vastness of the grounds does something to you; something forgiving, maybe. The quietness feeds you.

I found it finally; pulled it out of a very twisting, very dark, very wet cave underneath a small waterfall. I dragged it home, the birds and their progeny following me hoping for some fresh berries in the rookery I had built up for them.

I turned on every light in my vast house, made a celebratory cup of tea, scratched my ankle vigorously, and opened the trunk at last.

I’ve been reading its contents for days now; love letters written over many years from a man to his wife; flirtatious notes, long letters of yearning, crisp pieces of ordinary detail, always signed the same way: “Undying love”. Treasure indeed.

The End

Image: Public Domain