Author: Eliza James

I love to play with different perspectives in a story or jump back and forth through time. I post Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.

The Letter: Part 6

Eliza JamesLeave a comment

pina-messina-465028-unsplash

Did you want to start the series from the beginning? The Letter: Part 1

OCTOBER 1948

“Mr. Thomas paid us to rake his leaves!” Sam said, running through the front door holding up a quarter, a giant grin on his face.

“You shouldn’t have taken his money, Sam.” Rosemary, their dad’s sister said, frowning at him. “And take your boots off. You know better than to wear them in the house.”

For the past month and a half she had been helping with cleaning and cooking while Alice was away in the sanitorium.

“I didn’t steal it! I earned it,” Charlie said, clutching it tightly in his fist. “Victor and I are saving up to visit Mom!”

“Really?” she said, turning around to face him. “How much have you saved up so far?”

“Uhh?” Sam looked back at Victor who had walked in behind him.

“Let’s count it,” Victor said, racing up the stairs and down the hall to their bedroom. Sam was hot on his heels. Victor grabbed the coffee can from underneath the bed and it jangled as he raced back to the kitchen. He stretched out his hand to Sam for the coin.

“No, I want to put it in,” Sam said, still clutching it tight. “Ok fine.” Victor peeled the lid off and Sam dropped the quarter in with a clang. Then he dumped the contents out onto the table. The coins skittered about and Sam quickly clamped his hands down one a couple that were trying to roll away. Once they’d settled, Victor began to count and sort the change.

Rosemary stood over them watching, looking heartbroken.

“How much do we have?” Sam asked.

After a moment, Victor said, “8 dollars and 46 cents.”

“Is that enough?” Sam asked.

Victor frowned and looked at Rosemary.

“No,” she said, her voice cracking. “Not quite.”

* * *

The next day, Rosemary had a surprise for the boys when they came home from school. On the table she had brought over her husband’s coin collection.

“What’s this?” Victor asked, dropping his coat on the floor.

“Not where that belongs,” Rosemary said.

“Sorry,” he picked it up and put it away.

“Have a seat,” she said, when both boys were back in the kitchen.

“This is your Uncle Bob’s coin collection.” She took one of the coins out of the tissue.

“Neat,” Sam said, reaching for it, but Dorothy pulled it away.

Victor frowned. “Why are they all wrapped up?”

Rosemary sat down beside them. “Here, look at this.” She held out the coin and pointed at the writing. “The coin was double-printed.”

“It’s still worth money though, right?” Sam asked.

“Definitely, in fact, if you can find one like this, it could actually be worth a lot more.”

Both boys looked up at her. “Your Uncle Bob likes to collect rare coins. Every day, he takes the change out of his pocket and carefully goes through each of them.”

“And he found all of these?” Victor asked, his eyes scanning the tissue wrapped coins that Dorothy was unwrapping.

“Yup. None of them are worth much yet, but maybe one day. I thought maybe you’d like to start going through your own collection. Maybe you’ll find something.” She smiled at them and handed them one of Bob’s old coin collecting books. The pages were yellowing and starting fall out, but hopefully they’d still find it interesting.

The boys grinned at each other and raced to their room. Dorothy could hear the sound of coins being dumped out on the hardwood floor. She wrapped the coins that were on the table again and put them back into the box. But she left the book on the table for them to look through later.

If she had the money to give them, she would have, but maybe keeping them distracted with a hobby was better for now.

Part 7

The Letter: Part 5

Eliza JamesLeave a comment

white ship traveling through vast body of water with white birds flying beside

Did you want to start the series from the beginning? The Letter: Part 1

SEPTEMBER 2018

Barb and Susan were in Barb’s car driving down the highway. Barb had finally convinced Susan to take a break from packing and grab some lunch. What she didn’t know was that they were going a bit farther than Susan thought.

“Where are we going?” Susan asked, looking out the window. “We just passed the last exit before the ferry. You’ll need to pull into the drop off area and turn around.”

Barb didn’t say anything. She just stared out the windshield bracing herself for the inevitable fight that was about to come.

A few minutes later: “You’re in the wrong lane, Barbie. You’re heading to Vancouver in this lane. Barb!”

Their car passed the turn-off for parking and continued to one of the lines for the toll booth. “Barb! What are you doing?” Susan had her seatbelt of and was sitting forward in her seat looking out the rear window. “We have to turn around.”

The car in front of them had finished paying and pulled through. Barb pulled up to the toll booth window.

“2 passengers?” the lady asked.

“Yes.” She grabbed her credit card from her purse and passed it over to the lady. Susan’s mouth swung open as she stared at her, momentary rendered silent.

“Thank you,” she said, as the lady passed her, her receipt.

She drove down her lane until she came to the last car and put the car in park.

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Susan asked, her voice breathless.

Barb shrugged her shoulders looking a guilty. “Now before you say anything. You owe me.”

Susan sat up straight and her eyes bulged out. “I owe—”

“Just a second. Hear me out,” Barb said, quickly. “You’re moving away! I’m losing my best friend. What am I going to do without you! We need to have one adventure before you go.”

“Where exactly are we going?” Susan said, softly, clearly still furious.

“To find the coins from Richard’s letter.”

Susan sighed in annoyance. “I told you. There are no coins. Richard was crazy. He was a terrible father to Sam and Victor and I think he just wanted to have something to give them. But he was dirt poor. You should have seen his apartment. It was bare.  If he’d had coins like the ones he mentions in the letter, he wouldn’t have been living in that hovel.”

Barb frowned. “Come on! Where’s your sense of adventure? Aren’t you just a little bit curious?”

“I have to get back to packing. We leave in less than—”

“2 weeks. I know. I know. Come on. You have plenty of time. One day. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“I don’t have any clothes or toiletries.”

“I packed them already.”

“What? When?”

“Um, when I was supposed to be packing kitchen.” She grinned sheepishly.

“Thanks a lot.” Susan said. “Still, I haven’t told Sam I’m leaving.”

“I did. I told him I was taking you on a surprise trip.”

“And he was ok with that?” Susan asked, surprised.

“I think he was relieved to have a day free from packing actually.” She arched her eyebrow.

“Ok, I guess.” Susan slumped back into her chair. “Where are we off to?”

“A graveyard in Chilliwack.” She grinned at Susan.

Part 6

The Letter: Part 4

Eliza JamesLeave a comment

black and white bridge leaf outdoors

Did you want to start the series from the beginning? The Letter: Part 1

SEPTEMBER 1948

Just two weeks after Alice had been diagnosed, a spot opened up and she packed her bags. Sam was eight and Victor was eleven.

Victor stood stoic-faced, his arms crossed rigidly in front of him. His lower lip trembled, but he refused to give in to the tears. Sam on the other was sobbing in his mother’s arms. “I don’t want you to go.” He said, over and over. Finally, Richard stepped forward and pulled Sam away so that she could step into the Dorothy’s car. His sister would be driving Alice to the bus depot.

“No!” Sam shrieked, straining against Richard’s arms as the car drove away. Once it was gone, Sam collapsed into sobs. Richard tried to hug him, but Sam pushed him away. He grabbed his bike and rode off.

“I’ll go after him,” Victor said, grabbing his bike. He knew his dad would have no idea where to look, but he knew. Sam always ran away to the same place. As he bent to pick his bike up, he brushed a stray tear away with the back of his hand.

It was their favourite place to go. He had build a fort out of abandoned twigs and branches in a little forested area in the neighbourhood. Victor found Sam’s bike laying on the ground. They came here when they were little and were waiting for their dad to come back from the war. Then, when he did, they came here to escape the fighting.

He dumped his bike beside Sam’s, got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the small opening. Inside, Sam was drawing pictures in the dirt with a twig. Victor sat down beside him and curled his legs up, hugging them with his arms.

“You okay?” he asked.

“What if she doesn’t come back?” Sam whispered.

“She will.”

“But how do you know?”

“Dad came back, didn’t he?”

Sam scowled at the ground.

“Maybe you don’t remember, but we were really worried that he wouldn’t. But he did. And so will Mom.”

“Promise?” Sam asked.

“Promise.” He said. He kept his face as blank as he could to hide the worry that was stirring in his stomach.

A Grave Mistake: Chapter 5

The Letter: Part 3

Eliza JamesLeave a comment

black and white books education factsDid you want to start the series from the beginning? The Letter: Part 1

SEPTEMBER 2018

Susan followed the cacophony from the back room, through the hall and kitchen and into the living room where Sam was ripping books off the bookshelf and dropping them into a box.

“I see we’re in a good mood,” she said, pulling the top layer of disordered books back out of the box.

“He took it.” Sam glared at her.

Susan waited to see if there was more. There wasn’t.

“Who took what?” she asked, when he didn’t elaborate.

“The letter Dad left. Victor took it.” He turned back to continue dumping books back into the box. “He doesn’t even want it. He just wants to erase any evidence our dad existed. Fine. He doesn’t have to remember. But what if I want to?”

Susan was silent as she rearranged the books to fit flat against each other into the box. Finally, she asked, “Are you sure he took it?”

“Of course he took it. It was here yesterday. Now it’s gone. Who else would have taken it?”

“Maybe no one did. Maybe I accidentally packed it last night.”

He arched his eyebrow. “I put it on top of the fridge with yesterday’s mail. Everything else is there, but the letter’s gone. Did you even know it was up there?”

“No,” she admitted.

“See, He took it.” Sam grabbed the tape and began taping up the box. The tape screeched and crackled as he ripped it from the roll.

“So what if he did? Maybe it’s better he has it for now. Just until we move. Things can get lost in the move.” She started filling another box from the stacks of books sitting on the coffee table. “Now you know it’s safe.”

“Safe?” he looked at her. “He’s probably destroyed it by now.” He sat down on the coffee table. “Richard may not have been a great father, but that was the last thing he said to us. It’s his handwriting. And I wanted to remember.”

Susan stroked his back as they sat in silence.

“It’s going to be different with our kids.” He said, finally. “I’m not going to have one of them hate me so much that they have to burn all our memories.” He stood up and started packing again.

“You’ve been an amazing father.” Susan said. “You need to stop punishing yourself for your father’s mistakes.”

“They might be grown up, but it’s not too late to ruin everything. Plus, we’ve got grandkids to worry about too. But, in two weeks we’ll live closer and I can make sure I do this right.”

Susan sighed as she watched Sam haul one of the boxes out to the garage, plagued by the ghost of his father.

Part 4

The Letter: Part 2

Eliza JamesLeave a comment

Backyard behind a houseDid you want to start the series from the beginning? The Letter: Part 1

AUGUST 1948

“Mrs. Brennaman, you will need stay at a sanatorium. You could be there for 6 months to a year. Thankfully we caught it early. I’ve seen other patients who. . . .” His voice faded into the background as Alice stared through the window at her sons playing outside.

She had kicked them outside when the doctor arrived. Usually they would be gone until dusk, but when they saw the doctor they must have known something was up. They hadn’t left the front lawn and Sam kept looking up at the front window every now and then.

Right now, they were bent over an old pail they had found in the front garden. No doubt a creepy-crawly of something or other was trapped and they were inspecting it.

“Mrs. Brennaman?” a voice called her back to the living room and the man in front of her. Her eyes refocused. “Mrs. Brennaman, did you hear me?

“I’m sorry, I must have faded out a for a second. What did you say?”

“I asked if you had any questions?”

“No. I mean yes. I can’t, that is we can’t afford for me to—”

“Not to worry, Mrs. Brennaman. The sanitorium is run by a nonprofit organization. It’s free.”

“Oh,” she smiled for a moment, then frowned as another thought hit her. “What about my boys? Richard works a lot and he doesn’t especially know how to cook. I mean, he can cook eggs, I guess. But,” She twisted her fingers in her lap.

The doctor put his hand on her shoulder. “If you don’t go, then they’ll be without you for good. It’s in everyone’s best interest. You need to get well. And you don’t want to spread the infection to anyone else in your home, do you?”

Her eyes grew wide. “Could I have done that already?”

“We’ll need to test everyone in your home to be sure, but no one else is showing symptoms?”

She shook her head.

“No one has a cough that won’t go away? An unexplained fever?” the doctor asked.

“No,” she whispered. Her eyes welling up. “Just me.” She thought, “thank God, it’s just me that has to go.”

That evening, after the boys had gone to bed, Alice and Richard, her husband, sat in the living. She explained what the doctor had told her.

“How long will you be gone?” he asked, leaning forward.

“6 months, maybe a year,” she said.

“A year!” he sprang up from the chair.

“Quiet! You’ll wake the boys. I haven’t told them yet.”

“But-but-but” he sputtered, as he paced back and forth across the living room, almost gashing his shine on the coffee table. “You can’t leave. Who’s going to look after the boys?”

“The way the doctor put it, I can stay, but then I’ll die and you’ll all be without me for good,” She frowned, but tried to restrain the fear and panic she felt bubbling under the surface.

“Oh, of course no.” He looked at her aghast. “That’s not what I meant. I-I-I.” He ran his hands through his hair and sunk down into his chair. “Of course, whatever the doctor says. You need to get better. We can do this.” He reached for her hands.

“We can talk to your sister. I’m sure she’d be willing to help out while I’m away.”

“When do you leave?”

“As soon as a spot opens up,” she said, pulling her hands out of his grasp and hugging herself.

Part 3

The Letter: Part 1

Eliza JamesLeave a comment

Writing a letter

SEPTEMBER 2018

“What are you doing?” Susan asked, looking over at Barb who was supposed to be helping her pack. Instead, she was sitting in an armchair piled with clothes, engrossed in the contents of a letter she’d found. She had out her reading glasses and was lost in another world. Barb and Susan had been friends since high school, nearly 50 years and Barb had always been the easily distracted one.

They were in the spare room at Susan’s house surrounded by open, half-packed boxes, frames filled with pictures of kids and grandkids, and various knickknacks representing a lifetime of memories.

Scattered through the chaos were stacks of papers and books. Clothes from the closet spilled out over the floor and were strewn about the room. Moving was probably the only time Susan’s house ever looked like a disaster.

“Barb! Come on, we don’t have much time,” Susan said, as she pulled out the roll of tape to seal one of the boxes she’d just finished packing.

“Suzie, you don’t move for another 2 weeks. Half your house is already packed,” Barb said, not looking up from the letter. “Besides, I still don’t understand why you and Sam are moving in the first place? Your life is here. Do you really want to start all over again?”

“We won’t be starting over again. Our kids and grandkids are out there.” Susan walked over and swiped the paper from her hand.

“Hey!” Barb said, frowning.

“And I think what you meant to say was, only half the house is packed and we move in less than 2 weeks.” She started to fold the letter back up and was about to slip it into the envelope when she pulled it back out and started to skim the contents. “What is this?”

“A letter from Sam’s dad. It looks kind of old. It was just getting interesting when you yanked it out of my hand.” She stood up and leaned over Susan’s shoulder to read more of the letter.

Susan’s eyes skimmed the first paragraph, then rolled her eyes and folded the paper back up, stuffing it back in the envelope.

Down the hall, they heard the front door open and slam shut.

“Is someone here?” Barb asked.

“Probably just Victor and Sam coming in from packing the garage.”

“So, did Sam ever find out what Richard’s secret was?” Barb asked, getting back to the subject at hand. “Did he find the coins? How come I’ve never heard about this?”

Susan snorted. “You didn’t hear about it, because there was nothing to tell. Richard was poor as a church mouse and a bit confused at the end.”

“Richard was not confused at the end. He was batshit crazy right from the very beginning.” A voice said from the hall.

“Hi Victor,” Susan said as a towering man with a deep frown and bushy mustache came into the room. Behind him was Sam, her husband, a little shorter, a little balder, and slightly hunched over.

“We’re off. You’re not going to pack all night I hope,” Sam asked.

“We’ll see how far we get,” Susan said, kissing him on the cheek.

Barb slumped into the armchair again. “This is how far I get.”

“What was this about a letter from Richard?” Victor asked, still frowning.

“I found a letter from your dad.” Barb said. “Something about leaving you guys a bunch of coins he’d saved.”

“Those damn coins! That’s all the old man ever cared about. It was an obsession with him.” Suddenly, he whirled around and glared at Sam. “Wait a second. You kept the letter?

Sam looked abashed, but didn’t back down. “Yes. Where do you want to go for dinner?”

“I can’t believe you kept anything from that man! He was a terrible father. He—”

“Yes, I know. I was there, remember?” Sam said, frowning.

“So why—”

“Because he was our dad and you didn’t want it.”

“You should of burned the thing.” Victor grumbled, watching Susan hand the letter to Sam.

“Burgers at Bin 4?” Sam asked, still trying to change the subject.

“Sure.”

“We’ll see you after the game.” Sam leaned down to kiss Susan.

“I’ll walk out with you guys. I have to grab some more boxes from the garage,” Susan said.

“I’ll help you,” Sam said as the three of them left the room, leaving Barb behind. On his way out to the garage he set the letter on top of the fridge.

The collapsed boxes weren’t heavy, but they were awkward to carry. He bumped the wall a couple of times as he carried an armload from the garage back to the spare bedroom. Victor went out to start the car.

“Thanks, sweets,” Susan said, kissing him on the cheek. He left just as Susan started to tape the bottom of one of the boxes they’d brought in, when Barb came back in.

“Where were you?” Susan asked, looking up.

“I went to the bathroom, nosey,” Barb replied, before she started to help pack for the first time that night.

Susan stared at her for a second, then shrugged and continued to tape up the box.

Part 2

A Spark of Hope

Eliza JamesLeave a comment

The world was dark and vacant
And God said, “Let there be light”
He saw the light was good
Then removed it from the darkness.

Within this light, life awoke.
Soon the air swarmed, waters overflowed.
The land flourished as creatures
Darted across fields and forests.

Then God caressed the dirt,
Molded us into his image.
We too, were declared good.
And for a while, it was.

Until sin echoed through God’s perfect plan like
Unrelenting cracks cascading across a frozen pond
Releasing its icy darkness,
Yearning to pull us under

The light of God’s love fractured.
A deep hunger seeped into our shattered souls.
As we fell from grace, God fought to restore us
Reaching down, pursing us as we slid from the cliff.

Lowering a rope of rescue
He sent prophets and judges,
Appointed priests and kings.
He parted waters and sent droughts.

He made covenants and commandments,
Demolished armies and walls.
Miracle after dream,
Dream after wonder.

Generations stood in awe
While our children forgot,
Satisfied with the veil of deceit
That clouded their eyes.

Our distance to God grew
As we continued to slide
Until shadows bled into dark night.
But hope still flickered.

For those who searched for the light
A Saviour was promised.
The prophets foretold,
The teachers preached of
One who would restore our loss.
We believed he would come ready to fight.

But, we didn’t hear any blaring horns
Or welcome a man with a blazing sword.
Instead, one night he came quietly,
A reflection of the whispered visit with Elijah.

He was the promised King
But born poor and in disgrace.
He was the son of a perfect God,
Conceived by an unwed woman.

But as a mere wisp of smoke and smolder
Precedes a raging forest fire;
God’s plan to banish darkness had finally began.
In the stillness of that night hope began to spark.

Spiderman

Eliza JamesLeave a comment

A man in his late thirties stands in the pouring rain as rivulets pour down his face. He’s drenched from head to toe. His shoes hold puddles drowning in mud. He should be freezing standing in the darkness in a T-shirt and jeans, but doesn’t notice. He just stares into the shadows, breathing in the silence and blinking through the drops that gather on his eyelashes.

Behind him, the lights are on in the house, smoke billows from the chimney signalling a warm haven from the waterfall of rain, but he doesn’t go back inside. Instead, he finally turns toward the leaking, dark shed, grabs a shovel and begins walking through trees to the back field.

* * *

Kristin was now confined to her bed. She lacked the strength to leave on her own and slept most of the day. Eric watched helplessly as she pulled further and further away from him. It was like watching her slip through a veil of fog and sleep, as impenetrable to him as her dreams.

He ached to hold her tight, keep her with him, but the more her pain intensified the more selfish he felt. He absorbed each moment she was awake and replayed each memory he had of her while she slept. He worked to memorize every detail of her being; her expressions, how she smelt, how she reacted when he teased her.

He didn’t know how much their 5-year-old son Dominic understood about what was going on. How can you understand the permanence of death when you’re still grappling with what it means to be alive?

Already an inquisitive and thoughtful child, Dominic seemed to hover at the edges of rooms watching them with his large, brown eyes.

After many talks he seemed to understand that Mama was going away for a long time even though she didn’t want to and that he wouldn’t be able to go along. But since no one knew when she’d leave, he seemed terrified he would miss the big good-bye. As each day went by, he became more and more reluctant to leave Kristin’s side.

One day Kristin had Eric go out and buy an action figure of Dominic’s favourite superhero. Spiderman was a legend in their household.

“After I’m gone and you want to tell me something, whisper it to Spidy and he’ll give me the message while you’re sleeping,” Kristin told him after he’d unwrapped it. He was curled up in her bed in his pj’s, his hair wet and smelling of freshly washed shampoo.

He clutched his Spiderman action figure in his fist and nuzzled down deeper into the covers. She softly stroked his hair as he fell asleep curled beside her.

“You realize,” Eric said from he chair beside her bed. “If he ever loses that, we’re in trouble.”

“No babe. You’re in trouble.” She winked at him with tired eyes and gave a soft laugh. “Serves you right for getting to see him graduate and get married.” Her voice cracked at the end. She turned her head to kiss Dominic’s hair.

* * *

He walked through the orchard until he reached the back meadow that overlooked the valley and the city lights. They gleamed their warmth and security from afar contrasting against the darkened meadow lit only by soft moonlight. He slid the shovel through the muck, scooping out mud and water that weighed his shovel down.

All he could hear was the pattering of rain as it pinged off every surface culminating into one steady current of sound that muffled everything else. Almost everything. He could still hear the soft sucking noise as he tore the earth, slicing it out with his shovel. And the sounds of his son screaming, though the boy was now asleep, echoing through the man’s head.

* * *

“You grab his paw,” Charlie said to Dominic. “And I’ll grab the other one.” The cousins each grabbed a paw of the stuffed puppy and leaped off the back of the couch.

“Super Dog to the rescue!” Charlie yelled. They landed with two loud thunks closely followed by a ripping sound as threads snapped and a seam on the puppy’s back split open.

“Oh no! He’s hurt,” Charlie cried. “My dad’s going to kill me!”

“It’s ok,” Dominic said. “I know where the first aid kit is.” He raced out of the room as Charlie tried to push the stuffing back into the broken dog.

He kept glancing up at the door to see if his dad was coming in. He would be so mad if he found out that Charlie had wreaked another toy. Hopefully, he was too busy talking to talking to people at the funeral.

“Got it!” Dominic shouted as he raced back into the room with the first aid kit. “Okay doctor. We’ll need to do surgery,” he said, now frowning seriously.

“Surgery,” Charlie asked, his eyes wide.

“Yup, if we want to save him. His odds of recovery will go up asto…astromatically,” Dominic said, as he searched through the supplies, shuffling things about in his haste to find what he was looking for.

“Okay,” Charlie said slowly.

“First, gloves.” Dominic handed one pair to Charlie then struggled to pry the other set of gloves onto his own hands. His tongue stuck out of his mouth as he worked to unstick the fingers. Finally, he managed to get them partway on and decided it was good enough.

“Next, Band-Aids” He tried to grab a few, but the gloves were too big and not on properly. The extra length of limp, latex hung off the ends of his fingers and made grabbing anything extra slippery. Charlie, who was having less luck, didn’t have his gloves on at all.

“Here, you open these.” Dominic dropped a handful of Band-Aids on the floor in front of Charlie. Frustrated, Charlie tossed his gloves to the side and began to tear open the Band-Aids.

Just as they were about to stick the first Band-Aid on, Dominic suddenly thought of something. “Wait. We need to put something inside to make him better. Like medicine.”

The boys glanced around the room.

“What about the remote controller?” Charlie asked.

“That’s not medicine,” Dominic said, wrinkling his nose. “Besides, it’s too big.” He squatted down to look under the couch.

“What about Spiderman?” Charlie asked, grabbing the action figure off the coffee table.

“No, Spidy’s special,” Dominic said, trying to grab him back.

“Exactly!” Charlie said, jumping out of reach. “He’s a superhero! He can fix anything!” Without waiting for an answer, Charlie pushed Spiderman into the wound, deep inside the stuffing. “There!” He grinned at Dominic. “You don’t want puppy to die, do you?

“No,” Dominic said, not taking his eyes from the puppy. “But as soon as he’s better you HAVE to give him back.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You have to promise.”

“I promise,” Charlie said.

“Okay.” Dominic said, still staring at the puppy, his lip trembling a bit.

The boys worked together to close the massive wound with 10 Band-Aids crosshatching and rippling across the stuffie’s back.

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Charlie asked.

“We can only pray now,” Dominic said, solemnly.

“Hopefully my dad won’t notice all the band-aids.” Charlie said, frowning.

* * *

“Dad!” a voice screamed into the night. At first the man thought the voice was in his head, but it kept getting louder and more persistent. He stopped digging and stared into the black shapes of the orchard in front of him.

“Dad!” the voice called again.

* * *

Charlie raced outside after his older brother Carson, clutching his mangled, stuffed dog.

”Hey kids, before we leave, do you want to see the tree house we built when your Uncle Eric and I were kids?”

They wandered through the rows of apple trees. It was still too early in the year for fruit, but the leaves were out and the blossoms had fallen.

Near the edge of the property, there was a large peach tree that was too old and big to bear fruit anymore. Eric and Tom, with their dad, had built a modest tree house when they were younger.

As Tom explored the old tree house, the kids quickly grew bored and broke into a game of tag. Eventually, the game took them to the pet cemetery at the back fence.

“What are these?” Charlie asked, stopping to stare at that wooden crosses sticking out of the ground. Each cross had a name burned into it.

“Graves,” Carson said, matter-of-factly.

“Like Aunt Steph?” Charlie asked.

“No, these are for pets, stupid,” Carson said, giving him a shove.

“Don’t be mean,” Charlie said “Or I’ll tell Dad.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Carson stuck his tongue out at him.

Charlie dropped his puppy on the ground and walked closer to the graves, tracing the name on one of them with his finger.

“What does this one say?”

Carson didn’t bother answering. He snatched the stuffed dog off the ground and took off running. “I’ve got your do-og!”

“Hey! Give him back! Daa-ad!” Charlie tried to catch up, but Carson was 3 years older and much faster. When he finally caught up to him, Carson was almost to the top of the ladder to the tree house and their dad didn’t seem to be anywhere near.

“Give him back!” Charlie shouted again.

“What’s with all the Band-Aids?” Carson asked, poking his head out of the window. He peeled one off and dropped it to the ground below.

“He needed surgery! Give. Him. Back.” Charlie shouted, as he climbed up the ladder. “You’re going to hurt him!”

“It’s just a stupid, stuffed dog,” Carson said. He dangled the dog out the window. “Besides, what are you going to do about it?”

Charlie raced up the ladder and Carson moved to the back of the tree house, holding the dog over his head. “You’re going to have to jump for it.”

Charlie tried to snatch it back from his brother. It took a couple of tries, but finally his hand latched onto the pup’s leg. Unfortunately, Carson still had a good grip on the head.

They tugged back and forth, but it was too much for the already broken stuffie. With a loud RIP, the dog’s head came off in Carson’s hand. His eyes went huge.

Charlie stared at his decapitated mutt with his mouth open wide.

“You killed him!” Charlie squawked. Slowly, his shocked look turned to anger.

“Dad!” he screamed.

“No-no-no! Don’t tell Dad!” Carson whispered, quickly moving to block the ladder.

“Da-ad,” Charlie shouted, even louder.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Carson said. “Hang on. We can fix it.”

“No we can’t. He’s dead! Ya can’t fix dead!” Charlie stomped his foot. He tried to get past Carson, but he was still blocking Charlie’s way.

“I’ll only let you down, if you promise not to tell.” Carson’s eyes were wide as he pushed Charlie back away from the ladder.

Charlie glared at his brother. “Let me down. Now.”

“First promise not to tell,” Carson asked.

“Let me down.”

“First promise.”

Charlie tried to push past him, one more time, but Carson was just too big. “Ok, fine.”

“Promise that you’ll never tell or rats and worms will eat your brains.”

Charlie sighed. “Fine. I promise not to tell or if I do, rats and worms will eat my brains. Now can I get down?”

It wasn’t until they were on the ground that Carson realized he wasn’t in the clear yet. “Wait, where are you going with the dog?” he asked, staring at the headless dog gripped in Charlie’s hand. “He’s dead. We have to bury him. Just like a real dog.”

“He is a real dog,” Charlie glared at him.

“Okay, so we have to bury him,” Carson said.

* * *

A boy emerged from the orchard, soaking wet and shivering.

“I thought you were sleeping,” the man said, sternly. “and where’s your coat?”

“I f-forgot it,” he sniffled.

The man shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around the boy. “Does Grandma know you left the house?”

The boy shook his head. “She was sleeping in the chair. Did you find it?” the boy asked, shivering.

* * *

“What were you kids doing in there?” Eric asked. He had heard some noises coming from the shed and found Tom’s kids covered in splotches of dirt looking guilty.

“Um, we were digging,” Carson said, quickly putting the shovel he was carrying down.

Charlie stared at the ground.

“Where were you digging,” Eric asked. “You didn’t wreak any of the trees did you?”

“No, Uncle Eric. We were at the back fence.”

“By the pet cemetery?” Eric asked.

“Time to go boys!” Tom’s voice called from the driveway. Carson immediately took off running.

“Why were you at the pet cemetery?” Eric asked Charlie.

“My dog died,” he said quietly, before he took off after Carson.

“What?” Eric asked, staring after him, confused.

* * *

The man went back to shoveling, more carefully now that he was deeper. The boy crouched down, holding the flashlight and peering into the muddy grave.

“I think I see something!”

* * *

“Dad!” Dominic shouted from the top of the stairs. “I can’t find Spidey!” There was an edge of panic in his voice.

“I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” Eric said, distracted. It had been a long day. The funeral and the gathering at the house after. Everyone wanted to hi and ask how he was. He was completely and utterly spent.

“It’s not here!” Dominic’s voice had become more high-pitched.

“Okay, where did you see him last?” Eric asked, picking up his son and sitting down on the top step.

“I dunno.”

“Were you playing with him downstairs with Charlie?”

Suddenly, his eyes opened wide and he clambered out of Eric’s lap and grabbed his hand and pulled him downstairs.

“We were playing superheros with his dog, but then it had an accident so we did surgery and stuck Spidey inside to make him better.”

“You put Spidey inside a dog?” Eric asked, his brain feeling fuzzy.

“It’s a stuffed dog. But I can’t find it,” he said, laying down on the carpet and peering under the couch.

Eric ran his hand through his hair and cringed, the pieces clicking into place. “Bud, Charlie probably took it home with him.”

“No! He promised to give him back!” His lower lip trembled.

“He probably just forgot,” he said, stroking Dominic’s back.

“No. Th-that’s, but I n-need him,” he said in gulping breaths. “I h-have to t-t-tell Mom I l-l-love her!” Eric held him as he sobbed. It was over an hour before he finally fell into an exhausted sleep.

* * *

Mark reached down into the hole and grabbed what looked like a sopping wet, brown, matted furball. As he pulled, the rest of the puppy, minus the head, came up.

“Is Spidy in there?’ Dominic asked, pushing his rain soaked hair out of eyes.

Rooting around in the wet, fibrous stuffing, Eric felt something hard and plastic.

“Spidey!” Dominic shouted, when Mark yanked it out. “You found him!”

Eric tossed the mutilated stuffie back into the hole and handed Spidey to Dominic.

“Just wait until I tell Mom what happened!” Dominic said, laying his head on Eric’s shoulder.

Social Anxiety of Fairy Tale Proportions

Eliza JamesLeave a comment

If you think monsters are imaginary, dragons don’t exist, and fairies can’t be real because there isn’t any magic, then you must live an anxious-free life. How nice for you.

* * *

But for people like myself and Sara, these mythical creatures live beyond fairy tales and Hollywood cinema. They are very real and so is the war we wage against them.

Just like every morning, Sara woke up to the pulsing bleat of her alarm clock. She refused to open her eyes and instead focused on the orbiting sounds that seemed to expand and contract in her head.

Right now, the voices were conspicuously silent and she knew it was vital to use this brief time of respite to double-check her arsenal of weapons and prepare to defend herself.

Every quest has a purpose. Frodo’s quest was to destroy the One ring by throwing it into the fires of Mount Morder. Harry’s quest was to destroy all seven horocruxes and defeat Voldemort. Dorothy’s quest is to kill the Wicked Witch of the West and steal her broomstick.

Sara’s quest is to destroy the evil Overlord who reigns in her head and feeds on Sara’s social terror, self-doubt, and insecurities. Her name is Aras Sara’s captor and torturer. Every day, Aras sends a legion of parasites to torment Sara wherever she goes.

With goblins and ogres lurking about, Sara couldn’t risk leaving herself vulnerable and unprepared, so she took stock of her collection of weapons that she’d accumulated from her garden-gnome mentor. When she was ready, she finally opened her eyes and sat up. That’s when the first attack came hissing past her ear.

“You’re going to work today? Really?” laughed a pudgy mouse that had climbed up onto her dresser. He strung another arrow and it whizzed just over her head as she quickly ducked. “And what will you accomplish there? They basically pay you to screw up. That’s money well spent.”

Three more mice hopped up onto the dresser after having climbed up the back behind the wall. They each pulled an arrow from their quivers and, with their bows, pointed them directly at her.  The urge to retreat built in her chest and her feet lifted and hovered a couple of inches off the carpet as she hesitated between retreating back beneath the warmth and safety of her covers and standing up and fighting.

But she was trained for this. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath while sliding her hand beneath the pillow. Her fingers slid across the metal of her shield. She clutched it tight and whirled around, slamming it onto the mice. Bright blue smoke curled out from underneath the shield where the mice used to be.

Sara smirked. Their kind were getting easier to kill. The trick was to kill them before they multiplied into hundreds.

If you were in the room with her, you might insist that there hadn’t been any arrow-shooting rodents. You only heard silence when they spoke. But they were there and she did defeat them. Don’t be fooled into thinking their mute invisibility meant they were harmless. Their kind have brought down many of us, even Sara for a time, until she learned how to silence them.

I won’t bore you with all the details from the battles she faced as she got ready for the day. They were mostly small and she defeated them all. And when she grabbed her purse and keys to leave, there was a smile of satisfaction on her face.

It’s worth noting, however, that while she appeared to the untrained eye as put together, competent, and calm, reality was much different. Just from this morning, she was bleeding from a wound in her side, sticky and clotting from the sword of an evil knight who assured her that the reason her friend hadn’t returned her text message the night before was because they weren’t as close as Sara liked to think they were.

Her hair was singed a bit on the right side and she had a new burn on her elbow. Closing the door, she limped slightly from a fresh wound to her calf as she walked to her car. Then, when she went to check her reflection in the rear-view mirror, a hatchet hurled through the air slashing her check. It was propelled forward with the words, “Your stomach is pudgy and your pores are enormous. Ew!”

Sitting in the front seat was a princess with flawless skin and bright eyes. She spoke with a soothing, melodic voice and smelled of flowers and fresh air. Sara was temporarily paralyzed by the fear that she, in contrast, emitted a mildew-y stench that came from living in a damp basement suite.

Sensing she’d found a weak spot, the princess launched into another attack. “No one could love a face like that. And look at those clothes!” She wrinkled her nose into a pinched expression.

But Sara recovered just in time, and as the hatchet lowered for a second time, she grabbed a fist full of fairy dust from her pocket and blew it into the princess’s face. The princess immediately turned to stone, the perfect statue, before crumbling into dust.

Battles won still leave scars. Most days are a constant war waged against the deprecating voices in her head. Voices that refuse to be silenced or ignored. Like a four-year-old with something to say, they repeat their messages, over and over, getting louder and more insistent if she tries to ignore them.

Usually she can keep their taunts on the borders of her periphery, but these minions enjoy testing her resolve like raptors test their cage for weaknesses. Where was she the most vulnerable? They leer forward, scratching at old scars as they watch to see when she winces, searching for clues of any injuries she might be hiding.

* * *

After she got to work, the day began to roll smoothly along. All was quiet. Too quiet. She sat at her desk going through her inbox. Normally this was a source of anxiety; communicating with people she didn’t know and no being able to see their faces to know how they would react, made it feel as though she was conversing blind and deaf. To compensate, she’d punctuate her emails with emoticons and exclamation marks to make sure they came across as friendly, only to freak out after she sent them because they looked like they’d been written by a nine-year old.

But today, the words flowed from her fingertips without the need to cringe. She hit send without clenching her eyes shut and holding her breathe. The creatures who normally flooded her office were absent. It was weird, great, and alarming. When she’d sent the last email on her list, she decided to reward her new-found confidence with a second cup of coffee, or was it a fifth? No worries. No one, but the judgemental voices in her head were counting and they didn’t seem to be here today.

As she approached the kitchen in the back room, she could hear laughing. She hesitated for moment knowing that there was the definite possibility that she would say something stupid in front of whomever was in there, but she was feeling confident and the creatures were strangely muted today.

“Sara!” Katherine smiled, looking up from a box of timbits she was picking through. She was about sixty and was always smiling. Warmth radiated from her and you couldn’t help but feel like you’d been hugged by your favourite Grandma every time she said hi.

“We were just talking about you.” Erin and Mitchell, who were sitting at a table with Katherine, grinned at her. Well, Erin more glanced over quickly before returning her gaze back to the box of timbits in Katherine’s hands. Mitchell, on the other hand, stared a bit longer than was appropriate. Not because he was interested in Sara, in fact, he was happily married with grandchildren. He was just a bit awkward and often unknowingly danced across the line between friendly and creepy. Sara barely noticed anymore.

Suddenly, a strange looking woman materialized behind Katherine. She was hunched so far over that the curve of her back was higher than her head. She gripped Katherine’s shoulders as she peered at Sara with her watery, red eyes.

“They were just talking about you, and laughing,” the woman crooned. “What do you suppose that means?”

Sara pretended she hadn’t heard the woman and smiled at Katherine. “Really?” Sara asked.

“He’s perfect for you. He’s tall, like you,” Katherine said, finally deciding on a chocolate timbit, and passed the box to Erin who eagerly grabbed three without really looking and shoved them, one by one, into her mouth.

A second witch appeared in the empty chair beside Mitchell. She grinned at Sara with a mouth full of crooked yellowing black teeth. “Tall like you? Freaks really should stay together. Don’t you agree?” she asked, turning to Mitchell who seemed completely unfazed and oblivious to the witch’s presence beside him.

“It never occurred to me to set you up with him until we were chatting yesterday. He was saying how hard it was to meet anyone and I thought, I know someone who isn’t seeing anyone!” Katherine said, snatching the box away from Erin and began to carefully peruse her options again.

“Someone lonely and she thought of you!” Another voice floated from behind Sara’s right ear. The woman was standing so close to Sara that she could smell the witch’s breath, a stench of rotting fish and sour milk. “Lonely loser!’ she cackled, her breath emitting in waves.

In her mind, Sara grabbed her sword and plunged it backwards, deep into the stomach of the witch behind her. The witches all cackled.

“Stupid girl. Swords don’t work on us!” the woman with the crooked teeth said, grinning.

“What do you think?” Katherine asked, “He’s really nice and funny. Seriously! I laughed so much last night.” She finally grabbed another timbit, popped it in her mouth before dusting the sugar off her hands. Mitchell swiped the box out just as Erin went to grab it. Her glare was fierce, but he just grinned back.

Panic clenched Sara’s stomach and it felt like a vacuum was opening up in her chest, threatening to suck her insides into non-existence. “I don’t know. I’m not that great on dates,” she said, turning away to pour coffee into her cup giving her the excuse to turn away and her terror.

“It’ll be fun! Just coffee,” Mitchell said, pulling out 2 more timbits. Erin scowled at him.

“Just coffee?” all three witches cackled. “How many things can go wrong with a coffee date?”

“She could spill it on herself,” one witch said, ticking the option off on her long, bony fingers.

“She could get so nervous it gives her diarrhea!” another cackled.

“In a public bathroom.”

“Again!” they all cackled.

Sara cringed.

Turning around, she grabbed her bow and quickly shot three successive arrows into the chest of each witch. For a moment, they appeared stunned, but then they doubled over laughing. Even the hunched-over witch managed to fold over even further. Then, they each plucked the arrow out of their chests.

“Arrows don’t work either, sweet pea,” said the foul-breathed witch.

“Go for it Sara. You don’t want to be alone forever,” Mitchell encouraged.

Another witch materialized in front of Sara. Her robes were ratty and there was a phlegmy rattle in each breath as she stood staring at Sara. “He’ll look at you like all the others. You’ll open your mouth and say something stupid.” The witches all quietly giggled.

“He’ll look at you with revulsion and then you’ll be stuck in uncomfortable silence that will last for hours,” the hunched witch said.

“Sara? What do you think?” Katherine asked. They were staring at her, waiting for her to say something. Erin even looked at her concerned.

“I, um,” Sara stalled, trying to think of a polite way to refuse.

“Um?’ cackled the hunched over witch. “That was articulate. Practicing for your date?”

“He’ll try desperately to figure out a way to get away from you!” The ratty-robed witch said, pacing slowly back and forth in front of her as the ends of her tattered robe dragged across the floor.

“I mean, if you don’t want to that’s okay,” Katherine said, looking a bit disappointed.

“Now look what you’ve done,” tisked the witch with the crowded teeth. “Your friends think you don’t want to go out with him. Bet you think you’re too good,” she said, examining her cracked and chipped nails.

“Oh? Is that it? You’re too good for him?” The first witch stepped closer and examined her up and down. “Really?”

“Yes. Sure. Sounds like fun,” Sara said, quickly. She tried to smile, but her face felt frozen. A mask.

The witches cackled. “Big mistake, my dear!” crooned the foul-breathed witch, bringing her face right up to Sara. She felt her stomach churn.

“Great! How does tomorrow night work?” Katherine asked, smiling again. Sara’s mind raced as she tired to think of a way out of this. On the outside she continued to smile. On the outside the mask only faltered. But inside her brain began to spin

“You worthless pile of dung. What made you say yes?” another witch popped up.

“What have you done?” a whisper buzzed in her ear “They’ll hate you now. It’ll all go wrong.”

“But that was inevitable,” a new voice echoed back.

“True, true.”

“You always manage to say just the wrong thing”

“Well, say something.”

“They’re waiting.”

“Um, I’m not sure tomorrow works. I’ll have to check,” she said lamely.

Soon there are so many witches dancing around her, staring at her that she couldn’t see the reality happening in front of her, her vision clouded with anxiety and fear. She tried to focus on her friends, hear what they were saying, but the echoes of the witches’ voices were too loud and their blurred faces were pressed too close to hers. Panic clenched her stomach and jaw as her brain continued to spin the ricocheting thoughts around inside her skull.

The voices began to repeat and overlap each other, like a juggler’s partner hurling more and more balls into her scull, bouncing back and forth, gaining momentum.

“They’re staring at you!”

“They think you’re an idiot.”

“Fix it.”

“You can’t”

“Run away!

“You could fix it if you had some social skills.”

“Say something!”

“Run! Run Away!”

“Speak, you inarticulate idiot!”

“They’re waiting.”

“Run! Run and hide! Run!”

“Are you stupid?”

“Run away!”

“Fix it.”

“RUN!”

The voices cut through her, simultaneously looping, repeating until she was ensnared, tangled in the sharp threads of their condemnation. Finally, all she could hear was “Run! Run! Run!” twisting and echoing through the spinning in her brain.

Her face appeared calm, but her brain continued to scream as a shrill static stabbed her ears and a white fog bled through her vision.

“Run! Run! Run!” echoed through her mind like the alarm clock she’d heard this morning.

“I have to use the washroom. I’ll get back to you,” she mumbled as she walked down the hall to the bathroom door. She could feel hot heat flash up her back and ears.

She sank onto the toilet behind the closed stall and squeezed her eyes shut trying to shut out the panic. She breathed in slowly, then exhaled even slower focusing on the darkness behind her closed eyes willing the manic spinning in her brain to slow.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent focusing on blocking the memory of their conversation and fighting the terror at the thought of going on a date. What if he took one look at her and left? Or worse, what if he stayed?

All day, the arrows, bullets, and darts zinged past her. Enemies that she had learned to kill suddenly felt impossible to conquer. Wounded and hunched to the side, she limped back to her car. Today she did not feel like a warrior. The clenching in her stomach sucked like a vacuum threatening to turn her inside out. All she wanted to do was go home and crawl so completely inside herself that she could escape the world forever.

At home, the witches’ coven returned in full force as she shut the door. She slowly withdrew her sword, knowing it would do nothing. It felt heavier than usual, or her fingers felt weaker. The witches cackled and spewed their vicious hate, but she already felt numb, bound by their spell.

Sobbing, she fell to her knees onto the floor, unable to fight anymore.

“Victory!” the witches cackled.

Her sword clanged beside her and she dropped her head into her hands and sobbed.

“Giving up so soon?” a gravelly voice asked.

She lifted her tear-streaked face to see her garden-gnome mentor enter the kitchen. He was shorter than her even when she was hunched over on her knees. He wore the classic red, pointed hat.

“I can’t defeat them,” Sara said in a soft voice.

“Of course you can’t,” he nodded. Even beneath his full, gray beard, she could see that he was smiling as his cheeks lifted and his eyes crinkled. “At least, not with a sword.” He handed her a vile of purple liquid. “Drink this.”

“Now wait just a minute!” one of the witches croaked. She had finally stopped laughing when she noticed he was there.

“She’s ours now!” another witch bellowed.

“We’ve won fair and square.”

“You’re not going to trust him, now are you sweet pea?”

“Poison. It’ll kill you,” a witch said, pointing her crooked, bony finger at her.

The gnome winked at her.

He hadn’t failed her yet so she uncorked the vile, and drank it in one gulp. It bubbled and fizzed it’s way down. Then nothing happened.

She looked at the gnome. He just stood there with his hands clasped behind his back. He continued to smile at her as if he expected this complete nothing to be happening. Or not happening.

The witches, who had been eyeing her with frightened looks, started to relax and then began cackling again.

“You can’t defeat us!”

“You’re going to die miserable and alone with only us for company!”

“You can’t fight us!”

“She’s right,” the gnome said calmly. “that last bit, anyway. You can’t fight them. But you can stop believing. Stop accepting what they say.”

“Haha! Poppycock! Your little gnome has betrayed you. Even he doesn’t like you! No one does.”

“Deny it, even if you think they’re right,” the gnome whispered in her ear.

“Not true,” she whispered. Suddenly, she felt a fizzing in her throat, like bad heartburn.

“No one likes you. They just pretend to.”

The gnome winked again.

“Yes, they do. You’re lying?” Her heartburn started to get worse.

“And now you have a date tomorrow and he’ll think you’re weird too!”

“No he won’t?” she said, uncertainly, before belching purple mist. Whatever that potion was it was not agreeing with her and was fizzing back up.

“It will be painful. You won’t be able to say anything.”

“Absolutely no social skills.”

“You’re wrong. I’m not always awkward.” Sara belched again and more mist poured from her mouth.

“What’s going on?” one of the witches narrowed her eyes at Sara.

“Now she’s burping. Classy! He’ll love that on a date!”

The witches continued to hurl her insecurities and inner most thoughts and fears at her, but she kept denying them, even when she wasn’t sure if they were untrue. Even when she believed them. Each time she did, the potion fizzed and bubbled until finally, with one great burp a huge purple cloud hurled out her mouth and filled the kitchen.

One by one the witches began to suffocate and collapse into a heap on top of each other where their bodies then melted and vapourized, mixing with the purple cloud, erasing it.

Confused, she looked down at the vile and saw that it had refilled itself and the gnome was gone. She lay her head back against the cupboard, exhausted.

She knew the war was far from over. Today was just one day. But tomorrow, she would not start again. Instead, she would continue the journey she’d already started. She knew they would be back, but she would defeat them again. And again if necessary.

She refused to see this as an endless cycle. It was an epic quest to kill the overlord in her head. Aras could send as many henchmen as she liked, but Sara would eventually defeat them all. And, when she’d built up enough armour, cultivated enough skill, she would defeat Aras as well.