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Once Upon a Time in the West by Stephanie King
Seyfert by Julie Mark Cohen
Vapor Lock by Charles McKelvy
Destined To Be by Elliot Richard Dorfman
Website: http://sites.google.com/site/stephkingfiction/ Bio: Stephanie King is an environmental consultant from Watford, England. She has previously been published at 365 Tomorrows and has a story in a forthcoming issue of Soft Whispers magazine.
Once upon a time in the West
By Stephanie King
Come with me, little one, and we’ll watch together. You mustn’t sleep, because you watch for us all tonight. Watch for wolves, and trees, and I’ll tell you a story to keep us awake.
Once upon a time, the forest took back the land. We woke and it was here and we were afraid. So many people ran away, trying to get out before it was too late.
I don’t know if they escaped. I just know that we never saw them again. I like to think that they got away and told the world that we were trapped. I used to think that they would come and rescue us. After a year I stopped thinking it. We’re alone.
The trees came, huge and dark, and there were more of them every day. The branches tore through the walls of the houses. The roots ripped up the floors. We huddled together by candlelight and prayed that our homes would still be there in the morning. We wondered why God had forsaken us. A lot of us hid in the church anyway, until the oaks burst through the floor. We still prayed after that, but it was more habit than any hope that God could help us. Instead we pinned our hopes on the things that protected us in the real world. Men came out of the big house at the top of the hill, the one with the iron gates and the high walls. They wore black and carried guns, heavy and dark and silently threatening. I’d never seen a real gun before then.
The men that carried them were grim and frightening, but we were grateful for them. They moved people to new homes when they gave way to the relentless onslaught of the trees, found them new places to live. Kane, their leader’s name was. Kane, but to me he’s always just the man in black.
We had help closer to home too. Karen Lee’s son, Ryan, was in the police until the trees changed everything. He and his girlfriend, Lisa, went from house to house, checking that we weren’t hurt, that we had enough to eat. If people were alone they found them new families to stay with, made sure that nobody was helpless. The children that we had watched grow up together became our hope, our courage. We trusted them, and we looked to them for guidance. We survived.
Some of us tried to break out. The ones that we saw again said that they just got turned around and around. There’s no way out, but people still keep trying. There are fewer of us every day.
It was the man in black who claimed the park and turned it over to growing food. Few of us had ever grown anything but flowers before, but we could all see the future if we didn’t start planting now before the food ran out. His men dug the well too.
We guarded our precious fields night and day, watching for trees. We discovered that the trees only came when we didn’t watch. They stole into our world like thieves in the night, appearing where there were none before. We tried to watch everywhere, but there weren’t enough of us. Gradually we huddled closer and closer together around the fields and the man in black.
For a time, the man in black and Ryan worked together, but we watched and we saw the man in black’s eyes following Lisa wherever she went.
Ryan saw it too, and started going wherever she went. Whenever the three of them were together his arm would be around her, claiming her. We watched both men circle round her in an uneasy dance of want and possession. Lisa kept her own counsel, but she was quieter than before, a little sad. The smile that lit the room died, replaced by a tension that crackled between the three of them.
Somehow they made a peace, and we prayed that our protectors would stay together for us. They were all that we had. After three months we saw deer and boar in the new forest that surrounded us. The men in black hunted them, and we all ate together around the fire, survivors of the forest’s revenge on man.
After six months we heard the first wolf howls in the distance. We clutched our children to our breasts and wept. Ryan and the men in black started carrying guns all the time after that.
One evening I came home too late and I saw them; grey shapes flitting through the trees, pacing me. Watching me. I walked as fast as I could, and I prayed to God and the Forest to let me get home safe. It was the last time that I went anywhere alone.
We learned the hard way. Never run, never go out alone at dusk, and always carry fire after dark. We kept a fire burning in the village night and day.
The men in black started building a palisade. Everything changed again when the wolves took Anna Lee. Proud old woman, she refused to move to the new village. Said that nothing would make her leave her home, and not even God would bring her into the man in black’s village when he was sniffing around Lisa Andrews.
One day Ryan’s little sister took Anna some food, the way she always did, and found the door swinging open and covered with claw marks. Anna was gone. Ryan went mad. He took one of the precious guns and a knife and disappeared into the forest alone. We grieved for both of them.
After a month, Lisa went to the man in black and became his woman. No-one said anything. He was the Chief, after all. We needed him. We needed Ryan too, but we lost him anyway. Lost him to the wolves and the forest and the darkness.
I was in the fields the day that Ryan came back. Moira saw him first; she screamed and pointed to him standing at the edge of the forest. He was thin and ragged, and he had a terrible scar down the side of his face. He was wearing a necklace of wolf teeth and carrying a grey pelt over his shoulder. He went to the village square and we followed him. A crowd gathered round him. We loved him and many of us owed our lives to him, but he was a frightening sight and he had a prior claim on the Chief’s woman.
Our lives depended on what happened next. Lisa and the man in black came out, and we watched in hushed silence. I heard Sarah’s baby cry and her shush him quickly. It was the only sound. Lisa put a hand to Ryan’s face and traced that terrible scar with her fingertip. Then she looked at the man in black like she was asking a question.
I don’t think anyone breathed. He took her hand and kissed the palm before walking away, back into the building. She took Ryan’s hand and led him inside, and we all breathed again.
I don’t claim to understand it, but when your lives depend on each other, everything changes. Ryan went again in the morning without saying anything to any of us.
Whatever happened to him in the woods, I think it broke him. He can’t be around people too long now. But every couple of months he’ll come home, and Lisa will take him in and Kane will look the other way.
Life is too precious, and we are so few in this brave new world.
So now we watch. We watch for trees and we watch for wolves, but maybe if we’re lucky we’ll see Ryan too, coming home to us for a little while.
Seyfert, Utilizing a Simulation Chamber,
Visits the English Castle of King Edward I circa 1295
by Julie Mark Cohen
Hmmm. I must be in the Minstrel's Gallery, just as I specified. I think that I hear the Minstrels on the Mezzanine. Good timing! Seyfert thought. That must be the Great Hall. Perfect! This should be good fun.
Is that ale I smell? Wine? Hot bread? I don't remember my olfactory senses being stimulated in my previous immersions. That new technician must've added some special effects when he upgraded this simulation chamber.
Leaning over the balcony, grasping the railing with the two opposable digits on one hand, Seyfert squinted, trying to improve his vision. Strange. Why are some of those Homo sapiens looking up at me and motioning me to join them? They're programmed not to notice me until I introduce myself.
Looks like they're having quite a good time. And, what glorious clothing! I expected to be much taller than them, but the king appears to be a giant. I need to find a disguise. He skidded into the shadows, occasionally stealing glimpses of the lively crowd.
Ah, a lantern. He removed the candle-lit device from its wall mount. Solar Room Suite should be this way, and the Wardrobe just beyond it.
Seyfert employed his visual memory of the castle and padded his way down several hallways repeatedly touching the stone walls for directional guidance. Once inside the Wardrobe's door, he noticed that his lantern did little to illuminate the blackness of the room. Although inexperienced with flames, he cautiously removed the candle from his lantern and successfully lit the torches arrayed along the walls.
"Oooo. Look at those colorful fabrics! And, sewing tools just like the ones that I've used in practice for this trip!" he said, peering down at his three unequal legs. I should bind my middle leg against my shortest one and sew a pair of wide-legged pants. I'll need something to keep me balanced, though, like this polished piece of wood with a spherical knob decorated with light-catching stones.
Taking several strips of leather, he bound together two of his three legs and immediately introduced a shift in his center of gravity which resulted in a severe lean into his already disturbingly asymmetric frame.
Seyfert spent the next twenty minutes perched on a stool, bobbing about, cutting pieces of green and orange cloth, and using long running stitches to hold them together. Let's see if these fit.
He buttressed himself against the wall, assembling a tunic by tacking together blue and white bits of burlap-like materials, finishing after twelve or so minutes had elapsed. Extending his arm, he pushed himself away from the wall and he pulled his creation over his head, weaving like a precariously perched pendulum. Ah, a leather strap to cinch my tunic and hold my pants up. This top tickles. He involuntarily giggled.
"Uh oh," he said, patting his three cranial protuberances. A hat and I'd better hurry. I hear the minstrels and -- eewie -- perceive the odor of roasted meat.
He snared strips of red and yellow cloth and twisted them together, fashioning a floppy head piece with three dangling points. Meticulously manipulating his nine knobby digits, he managed to tie knots at the free ends and finished each off with a jingle bell.
"To the Great Hall!" he declared, yanking the hat onto his head, raising his cane, round end toward the ceiling, but falling to the floor. Grumbling, he grabbed the table, pulled himself into a quasi-upright position, and propped himself up with the cane, increasingly the verticality of his spine.
I've got to get the hang of this one-two step pattern. One, two, one, two, one, two...
...one, two, one, two. I made it! Now, for some enjoyment.
Entering the Great Hall, Seyfert was stunned by the aggregate of sensory input -- raucous laughter, reverberating music, boisterous activities, symphonies of scents, brilliant colors.
He listened, but didn't understand what anyone was saying. Attempting to communicate, he walked up to several people, leaned in to make eye contact, and repeatedly said, "Good evening. I'm Seyfert. What's your name?"
Without exception, the people whom he confronted peered upward at his long eyebrows covered with tiny bits of cloth and errant threads, shook their heads, chuckled, and briskly walked away.
Pondering the problem, he thought, I should be able to comprehend each phrase that they utter and they should be able to understand my SeyTTT-ian. Maybe, there's a glitch in the new software?
When his shirt's fabric rubbed across his epidermis, he again uncontrollably giggled which morphed into an outrageous laugh that was accompanied by him teetering on his longest leg. He quickly repositioned his cane which gave him a few seconds to redistribute some of his weight onto his bound legs and achieve equilibrium.
"Ha ha! Look at the buffoon!"
"Look at that fool laughing at his own jokes!"
What's so humorous? Seyfert asked himself. He reached under his new apparel to turn on his universal translator, setting off sudden muscle spasms as the rough edges of his tunic scraped against his mid-torso chitinous patch, which expelled bits of black gooey flakes that escaped between the stitches and stuck to his make-shift pants.
"What an ass! The king would be amused."
"What is he doing now? Lifting his mock scepter to mock the king? Ha ha!"
Seyfert again shifted his bulk, temporarily re-stabilizing himself.
Catching drift of the commotion, a drunken King Edward I with his rowdy male entourage in tow stumbled toward Seyfert. In one hand, Edward clenched a goblet but allowed the wine to slosh over its lip, and with his other hand, pinched any woman's rump within arm's reach. Facing Seyfert, he rolled his eyes upward, barely able to keep his head upright, and asked "And, who... what are you? <hiccup>" He reached sideways, reeled in a willing volunteer, and proceeded to grope her.
Intolerant of lewd behavior, Seyfert blurted out, "Longshanks! How dare you! You should be ashamed of yourself." Seyfert thought back to his studies on the sexual psychology of 20th and 21st century Terran males and what he learned as acceptable behavior, but was so overcome with anger that he continued. "Why aren't you with just your wife, Eleanor of Castile?"
"Just her? You nincompoop. Look at you," Edward said, tipping his goblet, spilling wine on himself.
"Yes. Just her."
"Jest hur?" Edward's eyes glazed over. "You idiot. You wit-cracker. You jester." Edward passed out, dropping like a large boulder into the arms of three attendants who had rushed to his side, but ended up travelling to the floor underneath the king as his cushions.
Something is very wrong, here. I can smell. The humans acknowledge me first. I must use my universal translator.
Puzzled, Seyfert scratched his head, knocking two jingle bells to the floor.
Oh, no! This must actually be King Edward the First's castle. How did the technician do this? I thought that time travel machines don't work. How do I get back to the Saturnalia Laboratory? Shocked, Seyfert sank, landing on his tush and slumping into a multi-colored mound.
As all eyes except Seyfert's focused in the direction of the king, his scoured the room. Suddenly, in silence and with minimal illumination, a transporter-like pod materialized within centimeters of his elbow.
"Whew. This must be my ride home," Seyfert said. He extended his arm to verify the solidity of the vehicle, then sighed in relief. But, what have I done to Terran history? I called the king "longshanks" and he called me "jester."
Bio: Charles McKelvy was a reporter for the City News Bureau of Chicago and the suburban section of the Chicago Tribune before turning to fiction. He is the author of the 1993 children’s book, KIDS IN THE WOODS (0-944771-03-3), and the 1998 children’s book, THE ICEMAN’S PATH (978-0-944771-26-6). Both books were published by The Dunery Press of Harbert, Michigan. Charles McKelvy lives and writes in southwest Michigan with his wife and fellow author, Natalie McKelvy.
Vapor Lock
by Charles McKelvy
Rebecca Bryan was more resourceful than the other Buffalo Valley busdrivers, so she knew by the sound of “engine knocking” that there was trouble under the hood as she headed into southwest Michigan’s Warden Woods on Halloween Eve.
She waited until she had crossed the Gatlin River basin and pulled off on the soft shoulder. It had been a brilliant fall day, but great gray cumulus clouds were sweeping in from the lake.
“What’s the matter, Mrs. Bryan?” Jennifer Hackett said. The alert eighth grader was seated in her usual place right behind the driver.
Rebecca Bryan faced her young charges. “Nothing to worry about. The engine seems to be misfiring. They just had it in the shop, but they must have missed something. I’m going to go out and have a look. You kids sit tight and do your homework. I’ll be right back.”
Jennifer Hackett and 23 other students from the Buffalo Valley Middle School watched their little brunette busdriver brave the cold and damp to set things right.
“She better hurry up,” Susan Blakely, an eighth grader said. “It’s going to take me all afternoon to get ready for Bobby Stuart’s party.”
“What do need a costume for?” her seatmate said. “You already look like the Bride of Frankenstein.”
That brought the bus down, and Jennifer Hackett had to give her shrillest whistle to restore order.
Rebecca Bryan poked her head back in the bus and said, “That’s right, you’d better be quiet, or you’ll wake the dead with all that racket. And I’m sure you don’t want to wake the dead just before Halloween.”
The children peered out at the darkening forest primeval. Towering trees that always seemed bright and friendly, now looked dark and sinister. They all settled deeply in their seats and waited anxiously for Rebecca Bryan to return.
Knowing they wouldn’t be quiet for long, Rebecca quickly inspected the motor. As far as she could see in the gathering gloom, everything was fine.
Rebecca lowered the hood, wiped her hands on her jeans and bounced back on the bus.
“Well, kids, it must have been vapor lock because . . .”
Rebecca was dumbfounded when she realized she was addressing two rows of empty seats. Then she remembered what day it was and said, “All right, everybody, come on out!”
Silence.
Rebecca dropped to her knees and looked under the seats.
Nobody.
She ran to the back of the bus and checked the emergency exit. It was not ajar, and she would have heard them if they had all tumbled out the back.
Rebecca Bryan felt her heart race and sat down to quiet it. She closed her eyes and told herself she was just having a bad daydream. But when she opened her eyes, the children were still gone.
Looking out the left side of the bus, Rebecca saw a trail that twisted off into the deep woods. Maybe the kids climbed out the windows and were hiding out there. It seemed impossible, given the short time she had been under the hood, but there was no other explanation.
So Rebecca Bryan set off into Warden Woods praying that the children would jump out from behind trees at any moment and give her a good scare. Then they could all have a good laugh and be on their way before it got any darker or colder.
But there were no children behind the trees, only more trees and a mist that seemed to be rising from the river basin.
Rebecca Bryan ran deeper into Warden Woods to warm herself and because she sensed something was terribly wrong.
She shouted: “All right, you kids, stop playing games! Come on out! It’s too cold for this!”
Rebecca slowed to listen. Save for an angry jay overhead, the woods were still. Then a twig snapped. Rebecca spun around and thought she saw someone or something slip behind a huge beech.
“Jennifer, is that you? Kevin? Donna?”
Silence.
Then something brushed the bark off a maple just ten yards from the trail.
“All right, you kids! You’ve got me good and scared. You won! Now come on out, so I can get you home tonight.”
The stillness was deafening.
Then an annoyed chipmunk chattered a warning.
Rebecca looked every which way, sensing many movements in the thickening mist.
"All right. Have it your way. I’m going back to the bus. You can all walk home as far as I’m concerned,” she said, cupping her hands over her mouth.
She turned and was about to take the first step toward the bus when a muscular adult male appeared from behind a tree and blocked her path.
He took two soundless steps and leapt at Rebecca.
She hacked at him with the heel of her hand, landing a lucky blow to his left kidney. He grunted, rolled, and was on his feet again.
Rebecca turned away from the bus and ran headlong into the dark heart of Warden Woods. She stumbled over a root but propelled herself forward. Ignoring the bushes that lashed her face, Rebecca ran into the thickest undergrowth but gained no ground on her pursuer.
“What have you done with the children?” she yelled as she ran.
Saying nothing, he ran all the faster to catch her.
Rebecca ran down the riverbank, sliding on the mud and wet leaves. She found a shallow point and forded the freezing water. Looking back, she saw that her pursuer had been joined by three other similarly dress men. One bore a knife.
They charged after her with the knife wielder in the vanguard. Rebecca dodged his attack, ran ten yards, broke a dead branch off a tree and turned to face her attackers.
Smiling triumphantly, they fanned out and edged forward for the kill. Then a rifle shot ripped into the man with the knife. He dropped his weapon and clutched at his shoulder. His comrades peered nervously into the woods behind Rebecca.
When the bolder of the two started toward her, a second shot splintered a branch just inches from his face. Before Rebecca could blink twice, the threesome had melted away into the mist.
She turned to see who had saved her, and gasped when he emerged from the fog.
“Daniel!" she said.
Revolvers drawn, the two Berryman County Sheriff’s Deputies warily approached the Buffalo Valley bus.
"You cover me,” the senior deputy said. “I’ll go in first.”
When his partner was in position, the senior man stormed the bus. Twenty-four students greeted him with frightened stares.
“Where’s the driver?” the deputy said, looking around.
His partner vaulted up the steps and looked quizzically at the kids.
Jennifer Hackett cleared her throat and said, “She just ran off into the woods.”
“What?!?” the deputies chorused.
“We were driving along, and all of a sudden she pulls over and says there’s engine trouble. Then she goes out and looks under the hood and comes back and tells us it was probably vapor lock. Then she pretended like she couldn’t see us and ran around the bus having a big fit. Then she ran off into the woods yelling her head off.”
“How long ago was that?” the elder deputy asked.
Jennifer consulted her watch. “Twenty-nine minutes—exactly.”
“You stay with the kids,” the senior man said, “I’ll radio for help. Sounds like we’ve got a looney on our hands. You kids know anything about this driver?”
Jennifer Hackett shrugged and said: “Her name’s Rebecca Bryan; she just started two weeks ago. She moved up here from Kentucky. She’s a good driver, but she’s kind of quiet.”
The deputy nodded and called for help.
Another driver was brought to deliver the children safely to their homes, and a team of 50 state, county and local police officers and dogs carefully combed Warden Woods well past nightfall before giving up the search until the next day.
An ever-diminishing group continued searching the woods every day until Thanksgiving and never found a trace of Rebecca Bryan, not even a footprint.
She was officially declared a “lost person” on December 1, and her case was quickly forgotten.
That is until December 18 when Jennifer Hackett made a startling discovery in the W.C. Breed Middle School library while doing research for a history project.
“Rebecca Bryan!” she said, nearly shouting.
Mrs. Robertson the librarian schusshed her, but the excited girl could not contain herself.
Look,” she said, pointing at the book. “it’s right here—Rebecca Bryan married Daniel Boone in 1756. Our bus driver’s name was Rebecca Bryan.
Mrs. Robertson, do you think . . .”
Mrs. Robertson patted the girl on the shoulder and said: “Jennifer, you and that imagination of yours. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that there are wild Indians running around Warden Woods . . .”
Julie Mark Cohen, PhD, PE, SECB, is a Consulting Structural and Forensic Engineer who practices in New York State. Currently, she is writing drabbles, flash fiction, and short stories about her SciFi character, the inimitable Dr. Seyfert. Julie can be reached at jmcohen1028@yahoo.com
Note: Julie tells us that she is developing a collection of stories about Seyfert, mostly with him as an adult. He is researcher in Sydney Stardust's Saturnalia Laboratory that focuses on studies of sexual behaviors (lighthearted stories, not explicit, not pornographic) of Terrans and other creatures. The irony is that poor Seyfert has trouble finding his own date, even when he resorts to magic, a matchmaker, an appearance on the Intergalactic Dating Game, and so on. As noted in the below story, nothing else seems to go as Seyfert had planned.
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“DESTINED TO BE”
by
Elliot Richard Dorfman
Gary Travis was approaching middle age. Oh, he wasn’t there yet, but pretty near close to it! Recently he had begun to self reflect on his life accomplishments, and wasn’t pleased in what he came up with. He lived his entire life in the small town of Cederville, located in Central New York. Depressed after getting divorced after twelve years of a mundane, childless marriage, Gary had given up the mortgage of an attractive colonial home and recently moved into a lousy one bedroom apartment above a store on Main Street. Five days a week he worked as an auto mechanic in a drab little service station a few blocks away. All in all, his life was extremely bland. He did have one interest, however, how Cederville existed during the latter half of the nineteenth century.
One late hot summer afternoon after getting off from work, he decided to get some dinner at a local restaurant nearby.
Like many of the structures downtown, the Union Restaurant was located in a three-story building that had been put up in the latter part of the nineteenth century. As Gary was about to go in, a man wearing a straw hat and an oddly antiquated white suit nodded to him.
He looked to be about the same age as Gary.
“Hello, Mr. Travis,” the man was pleasant. “It’s been a real scorcher today, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, it sure has.” Gary replied. Wile the man vaguely looked familiar, he couldn’t place him. “I’m sorry I can’t seem to remember, but have we met before?”
“No, not in person, but you certainly know of me. I’m Filbert H. Banning. I was the first photographer in Cederville. I built this building and had my studio on the third floor. The name Banning is still etched on the top of the facade.”
Of course this had to be some kind of joke. As Gary recalled from his research, Filbert H. Banning was born in 1846. That would make him more than one hundred and sixty-three years old
“Well, I don’t want to keep you from your meal,” the stranger, replied, then tipped the brim of his hat and disappeared around the corner
Gary shrugged and walked into the restaurant. But the more he kept thinking of it, the more sure he became that he had seen that man’s face - and recently. Then while eating his desert, he finally remembered and almost gagged. He had seen him in a vintage photograph on the computer while looking at the community college’s local historical website. He recalled the notation under the image, “Filbert H. Banning -1882.” The picture had probably been self taken. The man stood in a relaxed pose, leaning on a prop pedestal with a small dog sitting on the top of it. The man had clear, bright eyes and an expression that made Gary think that Banning must have been very likable.
“Wow, the heat must really be getting to me, now I am starting to have illusions that I actually met him,” he thought after leaving the restaurant.
Restless, he didn’t go directly home. Instead, he took a stroll to the town square, near the post office. The place was empty as he approached a bench near the band shell. Sitting down, he relaxed and closed his eyes and was about to doze off.
“Relaxing after dinner?” someone asked. Opening his eyes, there was Filbert H. Banning sitting right next to him!
“Nice place, isn’t it? ,” Banning continued. “It hasn’t changed too much except for a new band shell. I used to play trumpet in the Cederville band. It was lots of fun.”
Gary lightly touched the figure’s arm. The phantom was solid, unlike what he surmised a ghost should be.
“Are you a ghost?” he asked.
“Well, Gary, in a way yes, and in a way no. It depends on what you mean by a ghost. While I physically died a long time ago, my soul had continued to linger around this town because of my great love for this place. Now, somehow without knowing it, you have gotten me to materialize and appear like I looked in the photograph you saw on the computer.”
“But how could I do that?”
“You’ve got some strong powers without knowing it. I believe you need me to be some kind of catalyst.”
Gary was confused. “A catalyst? A catalyst for what?”
Just then a neighbor walked by on the path and greeted Gary. The phantom immediately vanished. It wouldn’t be until a week later that Gary would see Filbert H. Banning again.
During the interim, Gary tried to get more information about the life of Banning by visiting the town’s historical society, library collection and checking out a few other historical websites on the internet. The results were disappointing. All he saw were some articles that the photographer had written for a professional magazine in New York and various photographs he had taken of the town and its people.
The next Sunday morning strange things continued to happen. After eating breakfast, Gary decided to get a newspaper at the convenience store. As he stepped out into the street, the man was taken aback when a red trolley car stopped at the corner and picked up a woman dressed in a long skirt and high collared blouse. The vehicle then nosily clanged down the street and disappeared in the distance. Gary rubbed his eyes in disbelief. There hadn’t been a trolley in Cederville since the line had been discontinued more than sixty years ago.
“Notice something strange?” Filbert was back, looking at him with a big smile on his face. “You look kind of pale. I suggest you get a strong drink to steady your nerves. At this hour, the bars are still closed, so do you have anything upstairs in your place?”
Gary silently nodded.
Returning to his apartment, he pulled out a bottle of Scotch from a bottom shelf and gulped down a shot.
“What in tarnation is going on, am I going nuts?” he exclaimed. “My imagination seems to be totally going out of whack. First seeing a ghost, and now this.”
Filbert gave him an affectionate slap on his back. “Perk up, my fine fellow. There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just making a wish come true.”
Gary had a second round, then feeling a bit dizzy, sat down near an opened window. “Do you mind explaining that? And please talk slowly so I can comprehend what you are saying.”
“It’s not that complicated, Gary.” It seems that all your life you’ve been unhappy. It started when you were very young. First, your father abandoned you and your mother. Then your mother, in turn, unfairly blamed you for his leaving. When she eventually remarried, you were left with an old spinster aunt who was overly strict and lacked any compassion or understanding for children. Developing a low self image, you weren’t good in making friends and basically kept to yourself. Then, after noticing a vintage book of local photographs in the library, you became interested about this town during the second half of the nineteenth century. By vicariously immersing yourself into that era, you forgot for a while about your own sad and lonely life. By strongly wishing you could have lived in that era, your mind somehow began to create an actual dimension of a parallel time. I suppose it was then that you tuned me in because you needed a catalyst and companion to help you smoothly adjust when you eventually entered into that dimension you created.”
Gary shook his head, “But by entering into this dimension, won’t we cause a lot of harm by having the advantage of knowing what future events will happen? I mean . . . ”
Fillmore’s eyes twinkled as he cut Gary off. “You didn’t listen carefully to me. I said you were entering another parallel time you created. As far as that world’s future is concerned, it has not happened yet. Events could turn out much differently from what has already happened here.”
For a moment there was silence, and all that could be heard was the ticking of a pendulum wall clock near the front door.
Suddenly, Gary got up. “Nonsense,” he shouted. “It’s all nonsense!” Storming out of the house, he got into his car and just drove around the area. If he wanted things to be normal again, it was too late. The momentum of his wish had already accelerated. Familiar streets seemed to take on an altered appearance. By the time he returned home and got out of the car, an empty lot stood where the build he lived in should have been standing.
Gary looked in amazement and gasped when he heard something behind him whine. A buggy and horse stood where he had just parked his car. Filbert was sitting inside of it, holding the reigns.
“So how do you like it? From what I ‘ve gathered, this is Cederville as it was around eighteen-eighty-four, the year when my photograph was taken.” He pulled out a key. “I suggest that we should go take a ride and get you familiar with the way the town looks and then return to my studio and sort things out.”
Overwhelmed, Gary silently got into the buggy, suddenly realizing his clothes were similar in style as his self-appointed mentor. “The atmosphere is so overwhelmingly quiet, and the roads are so dusty," he thought.
The third floor studio was crowded with equipment which was state of the art for its time. Filbert affectionately put his hands on the camera, but to Gary it seemed overly large and cumbersome.
“I remember how proud I was when purchasing this," Filbert reminisced out loud. “It served me well for many years and will do so again.”
From another room, a cute little brown dog came running in barking.
Filbert picked up the dog and hugged him. “Hello, Buster.”
“My gosh,” he sounded joyous, “this is marvelous. This dimension seems to be exactly as it was in my time. I ‘m so very happy to be here. I’ll bet my wife and son are waiting for me to come home for Sunday dinner. You’re going to like them, Gary. I have an extra bedroom for you which is very comfortable. You could be my assistant while I train you to become one of the best photographers in the region. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet a nice woman, fall in love and start your own family. Be happy.There’s so much to look forward to."
Gary was starting to panic. He was already homesick for the world he knew-- a place with automobiles, computers, and other modern day things. The tempo in this dimension seemed to move in slow motion. Obviously it was one thing to romanticize the past, but to actually live it was another thing!
He walked to the front window and put his head in his hands. “Sorry, Filbert, I’ll never be able to make such an adjustment to all this change. I’d rather live in the world that I’m familiar with, good or bad. I’m hopefully going to return by concentrating hard and wishing this dimension to disappear."
Filbert rushed over and shook him. “Come to your senses, man. You just can’t wipe all this away. Everything here is so viable. You’ve created a living world. Destroying it will make you a murderer.”
Gary broke free from him. “No, this place wasn’t meant to exist. It’s a freak mistake,” he shouted. “I must get out of here right now!”
Slowly everything about them began to fade as Gary ran down the steps that led to the street. Filbert chased after him. Half way down, Gary tripped and tumbled to the ground floor, crashing his head on the marble floor lobby.
Instantly, the surroundings became clear again.
Filbert looked at the lifeless body. “What a shame this had to happened, Gary, but I suppose it was destined to be.”
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Brief Bio:
Elliot Richard Dorfman taught in the New York City School System for more than three decades, as well as giving private vocal and piano lessons. He founded Suma Play Productions, Inc., and was artistic director of the American Youth Repertory Company, Off Broadway. After retiring, he moved with his family from the borough of Brooklyn to Johnstown, New York. Among his successful former students are American tenor, Daniel Rodriguez,character actress, Kelly Wolf, and Broadway stage manager, Ira Mont. Mr. Dorfman, a former member of the NY Dramatist Guild and Associated Music teachers League, has appeared and written for radio and television. His plays (dramas and musicals) have been presented on the professional stage, schools and centers. Since the fall of 2007, over fifty-three stories have appeared in the following magazines: Delivered, Twisted Dreams, Bewildering Stories, Golden Visions, Static Movement, NVH, The Tiny Globule, Perpetual, Paradigm Shift, Black Petals, Blood Moon Rising, Demonic Tome, Short Story Library Magazine,Stories That Lift, M-Brane Science Fiction, Coffee Cramp eZine and Infinite Windows. Five poems have appeared in Falling Star, Orange Room Review, Debris, and Golden Visions.
For more detailed information go to: elrite.webs.com
