Alexander Ferrick's Blog

Well Boys and Girls, I’m sure one or two of you have wondered what happened ot the Thursday Night Thrillers. They will return, and with a vengeance, but for the last year or so, I have been focusing my artistic pursuits in a slightly different direction: I have been writing songs.

The first collection of those songs is out NOW, written and sung by yours truly, and I would invite and encourage you to check them out. Here are some links that I have handy, but you should be able to access the album on any platform you choose.

 

Spotify

Pandora

The door was unlocked when I reached it, behind the tall grass and tangled vines. Well… Unlocked isn’t the word. It was hanging open. The storm door was gone altogether. 

I stepped through it into the kitchen. The ceiling tiles had started coming down. That figures. They had been stained from a leak even when I lived here. Good God… I Lived here. It was a lifetime ago. At least one man’s life.

 

I sighed into the empty air. There was no one with me. No one to speak to. No one to grieve to. No one to care.

 

The refrigerator we hadn’t had time or room to take with us was gone. Sold for scrap, undoubtedly, by the same people who had taken the stove and the sink out of the wall.

 

The wall, for that matter had holes in it, where they had tried to get the wires. Seems like a lot of trouble to go through for a few ounces of copper, if you ask me, but I suppose desperate people will do just about anything.

 

I went to close the door. I’m not sure why. Maybe some old habit, slow to die, even after all these years. They’ve taken the doorknob. What could a doorknob be worth? Maybe they needed to take it to open the door. The deadbolt’s gone, too.

 

I turned away from the door and saw that the metal frame of the kitchen table was gone, and its glass top was propped up against the wall. Almost carefully. It stuck out in the midst of the chaos of ruined cabinets and fallen insulation. One, lone, anachronistic piece of a life that didn’t exist anymore, delicately perched in the midst of a building that wasn’t home anymore. Not for me. Not for anyone else.

 

I moved on to the living room. They hadn’t taken the easy chair. Not surprising. It was the heaviest thing in the damned house besides the woodstove. I furrowed my brow for a moment… Could they have taken the woodstove?

 

I turned back and went to the sunroom. Moving hastily through the building like I owned the place… I did, technically. I found the little hearth we built for it sitting on the floor empty, but the stove was gone. I laughed out loud. That thing was a bitch to move. That meant there were at least two people. Not that it mattered.

 

I turned back and retraced my steps, back through the kitchen and into the living room. How chaotic my movements must appear to you, looking down. Like an ant whose hill has been smashed, scurrying to and fro. I am, I suppose, just that. I grew up in this house, and now… I stepped over a stuffed animal. A rabbit. I don’t remember his name. No one does, now, I guess. I made my way through the hall to my room. I couldn’t even see the floor under all of the old school papers scattered everywhere. My bed was moved like they tried to take it but gave up. The linens were gone. Funny… the things they take. The huge, out of date tv, for instance, was still there. This thing had to be twenty years old, and had to be worth something as scrap, I guessed, but nope. It was still here. I wondered for a moment if it would work if the power was on, but they had cut the power cord off the back. A few more ounces of copper.

 

I sat on the bed and looked at the paint peeling off the walls, and the mickey mouse sticker on the door, which was remarkably close to the way it had looked when I left it. No doorknob, of course. There wasn’t a doorknob left anywhere in the house. Are they really worth taking?

 

I walked down the hall to my “office”, which I had never used as an office. There was a door here that used to lead into the living room, but one of the owners before us had put in a new set of shelves in the living room, so the whole time we lived here this door opened up and there was a big plywood panel there. We used to laugh about it. We called it “The Door to Nowhere.”

 

I stood there and opened the door, and looked at the plywood. A door to nowhere. That described every door in this house now. If this were just one of my stories, it would be some kind of deep metaphor for the futility of looking at the past, but this isn’t just another story. I lived here. I grew up here. I laughed at this door, and I slept in that bed, and I called this place home, and it’s not anymore. Not ever again.

 

I stepped back out of the office, and down the hall. This time I see a frog next to the rabbit. I remember him. His name was Swampy. I remember when I was five years old, crying to my dad that we needed to rescue him from the grocery store. I remember coming out of Tae Kwon Do a day or two later, and Swampy was there in the passenger seat. Tears start to sting my eyes. I pick him up. The small rip in his arm has grown. The arm is nearly falling off. The paint has faded on his big plastic eyes, and now they are almost all white, when they used to have green irises and pupils. I hold him close like he is a child. If this were just a story he would be a metaphor for my youth and innocence that I left behind in this place, but this isn’t a story. I lived here.

 

I walk back through the kitchen with tears streaming down my face and a twenty-year-old stuffed frog cradled in my arm like a sleeping toddler, and I get in the car, and I drive away, without looking back. I get on the highway, and I never go back, but when I get home… I google how much doorknobs are worth as scrap.

 

 

 

 

 

Inspired by a prompt at https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/

Write about someone who returns as an adult to a place they last visited as a child.

 

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“You’re gonna regret this,” she said. I smiled a little.

 

“Sam,” I said, “I’m sorry, but this just isn’t working out. You’re a great girl, and I’m sure you’ll find someone. That someone just isn’t me. Not right now.”

 

She left in a huff, and that was the last time I ever saw Samantha Luck. That was a few months ago, and since then things have been… weird. Not like… alien invasion weird, but like… pretty weird, y’know?

 

It’s hard to explain, but I’ll give you an example. I woke up this morning drenched in sweat, because my A/C went out overnight… again. I live in Minnesota, but the heat wave we’ve been having is insane. So I woke up, drenched in sweat, and while I was reaching for my phone to call and get maintenance on it, I accidentally knocked it to the floor and cracked it. Whatever, it happens.

 

Then I got up and made coffee. Burned it. Drank it anyway, because if I tried to make another pot, I knew I’d burn it again. Just doesn’t seem like anything has gone my way since I broke things off with Sam.

 

I had to, though. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice enough girl, but she was getting a little… obsessive, possessive even. I couldn’t do it.

 

My phone rings. I already know it’s her… again. It’s been three weeks. I finish my coffee with a grimace, and shower. The hot water is out again, but I don’t mind. It’s hot out anyway.

 

I head down to my car, and it won’t start. Third dead battery this week. This car never broke down once while I was with Sam. Samantha Luck… you don’t think? Nah. Coincidence.

 

I pulled out my phone and ordered an Uber… None in my area? What are the odds? Oh well. No biggie. I grab some change from my ashtray and head for the bus stop. Gotta get to work one way or another. Phone rings again. Samantha Luck. Again.

 

What have I got to lose?

 

“Hello?” I say.

 

“Mike! Hey, you answered!” Sam’s voice chirped over the phone. Did the air just cool down a bit? Can’t be.

 

“Yeah. I’ve been really busy lately.” I say absently while I count out the change for the bus driver. I’m a nickel short. “Shit,” I say involuntarily.

 

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks. The bus driver is looking at me impatiently.

 

“I’m… uh… I’m 5 cents short on bus fare.” I explain. Feeling around my pockets desperately.

 

“The bus… Your car never breaks down!” Sam says… Funny. She didn’t sound surprised… She was saying the right thing, but… oh well.

 

“Yeah, well it did today,” I said. Still patting my empty pockets dumbly.

 

“I can come get you!” her voice lights up through the phone. My heart sinks. I don’t really have a choice.

 

“Alright yeah. I’ll be out front of my place.” I say. The bus driver looks like he’s ready to punch me in the face, and the rest of the passengers don’t look far behind him. I decide he can keep the 85 cents I already gave him, and I get off the bus. Have you ever seen a bus burn rubber? I saw it.

 

This is weird. This is too weird. I broke up with Sam, and nothing has gone right since. Samantha Luck… You don’t think? Nah. Can’t be.

 

Sam pulls up in her little red Camaro, grinning ear to ear. I get in and she kisses me on the cheek.

 

“Sam, please,” I say weakly, “I…” she looks at me sheepishly. “Nevermind… Can you just take me to work, please?”

 

“Aren’t you gonna ask why I called?” Sam chirps once we’re rolling.

 

“You haven’t stopped calling for three weeks.” I grumbled.

 

“Well then I’ll ask…,” she says, “Why’d you answer?”

 

“Because…” I start, but I trail off and look out the window. It’s too crazy. I can’t even tell her, but I have to. “I answered because things have been really weird since I broke up with you.”

 

“Weird how?”

 

“Weird like… Like my hot water keeps going out, and this heat, which… has gone away for some reason?? And I haven’t called a coin-toss right in the last hundred tries, and… It’s like… Like I’m cursed or something. Like I lost my luck?”

 

“Oh that’s what we’re gonna do?” she barks, “we’re gonna make jokes about my name?”

 

Shit.

 

“I didn’t mean it like that, Sam. I just… I don’t know what’s going on.”

 

“Well, actually…” Sam murmurs.

 

“What?”

 

“I have a small confession to make… I’m, umm… I’m Lady Luck.” She glances over at me for a second then fixes her eyes back on the road.

 

“Come again.”

 

“I’m… Lady Luck,” she repeats, “I’m the embodiment of chance, luck, those little anomalies that defy probability and statistics. I’m them. I’m it. I’m luck… And I was pretty upset when you broke up with me, because I felt like you didn’t appreciate everything I did for you. Think about how long your car went without breaking down. Think about all those poker games you won while we were together. I figured if I could just remind you of what life is like without me, then you’d want me back, and then…”

 

“Stop the car right now,” I said.

 

“Mike, don’t be like that,” Sam whimpers.

 

“Stop the car right NOW,” I insist, “you… you freak! That is the most vindictive, manipulative, small minded thing I have ever heard… Which assumes I even believe it, which is insane! Stop the car. I’m leaving. I was right to dump you, but I was wrong when I said you’d find someone else. You are NUTS!”

 

She stomps the breaks. “Fine. Get out then. You’ll never hear from me again.”

 

So I did. I got out. I was close enough to walk to work… And then it started raining. Hadn’t rained all week. Wasn’t a cloud in the sky when Sam picked me up… That’s just my luck, I guess.

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The next day I sat in our lavish conference room, flipping through the plaintiff’s motion with all of the reverence that a dog shows a fire hydrant. On either side of me sat 3 professional looking individuals with legal pads. One of these was Jimmy, the other five were probably paralegals, because I doubted he would have had the gall to actually bring in bums from the street. He wasn’t me, after all. Their suits, if I may say so, fit perfectly. I would probably pay a few thousand for this little stunt. It would, however, save my client almost a billion in the long run, so I had a feeling my investment would pay off in due course.

The glass door opposite me opened soundlessly, and through it a receptionist ushered a tiny old woman, and behind her, an ambulance chaser. This was not an ordinary ambulance chaser, though. That much I could tell at first sight. This was, for one thing, the most beautiful ambulance chaser I had ever encountered. She was also, I would come to learn, far more principled than most. She seemed to me to be idealistic, to the point of naivety. She was a redhead, who almost measured six feet tall with the help of some substantial heels. Her eyes were blue, but not like mine. Hers seemed kind. If my eyes were ice, then hers were the sky. She sat across from Jimmy, whose freckles disappeared, as he blushed red under her gaze. I rolled my eyes. Across from me was the widow. That was the ambulance chaser’s first mistake.

There was an exchange of mind numbing pleasantries and introductions, as there so often are in such meetings. In this exchange, I learned that the ambulance chaser called herself Jenna Mason; she cut through the false cordiality of the moment with what she must have thought was a show of strength. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we gentlemen,” she said. Her voice sounded like a bell even when she tried to make it stern. “My client is suing Simpson for $10 Million for the wrongful death of her husband, and the emotional distress it caused. You requested a negotiation. Let’s have your offer.”

I soundlessly wrote a single number on my legal pad and slid it across the table to her. She took it and looked at me with a smirk. “Five? Am I to take it that you are offering my client $5 Million dollars to settle this matter out of court?” I shook my head and produced a manila folder from my briefcase, which I placed on the table before her. I could see in her eyes that my silence unnerved her a bit, but I saw that it unnerved the widow more still. That was precisely the point. Ms. Mason’s eyes opened like a deer under headlights as she read the document that I had presented. I spoke for the first time, but not to Jenna. I spoke directly to her client, looking her straight in the eye.

“My client is countersuing the plaintiff for $20 Million dollars for filing a frivolous lawsuit, defamation of character, slander, libel, and all of the lost business and personal distress attributable to it. In light of the plaintiff’s tragic loss, my client is willing to settle the matter for a mere $5 Million.” I declared flatly. Ms. Mason gulped and looked up at me with every bit of dignity she could muster.

“This countersuit is nothing but a scare tactic. My client will win in court and you know it. We will not settle for anything less than our full claim of $10 Million. Now, are you prepared to get serious, Mr. McMahon, or should we just see you in court?” Her voice cracked and the widow heard it.

I shook my head once more and uttered a single word, “Seven.”

“You are offering my client $7 Million?” Jenna asked doubtfully.

“No,” I answered, “My client will now accept no less than $7 Million. Our previous offer is off the table. My time is very expensive, Ms. Mason, as is the time of my colleagues here, and we do not appreciate you wasting it. The longer you continue to deceive this poor woman, the less merciful my client can afford to be.” The young lawyer’s jaw dropped. She had no words for me; there was no class on this in law school. I, however, had some words for her client. “Ma’am, let me first say how sorry I am for your loss, but let me explain to you how this process really works. I have pages of measurements that were taken by our insurance company after your husband passed away. They will prove that he did not actually set the ladder up correctly, and that the manufacturer was not really at fault. I know this woman said things to you that sounded very convincing, but that is her job. She is a predator, and you are the prey more than my client or myself. I am sorry to say that in cases such as yours the underdog almost never wins.”

“Mr. McMahon I-,” Jenna began, but her client interrupted her.

“You’re fired,” The widow declared, “Get out.” Jenna looked down at her client in stunned silence, before storming out of the room. “Mr. McMahon, please. What can I do?” the old woman implored.

I smiled warmly at the hapless widow. “Well, ma’am now that you have rid yourself of that woman, if you drop your lawsuit, then my client will no longer really have an actionable claim. We could forget the whole thing, and you could get down to the business of healing from your loss. My colleague, Jim, can help you with the paperwork.” I turned to him as I spoke, and found that his mouth was hanging open at what I had just done, but he gathered himself just enough that the widow didn’t notice. We adjourned our little meeting without much more fan fare. I excused myself from the conference room, and the old woman hugged me. I winked at Jimmy over her shoulder, and he almost heaved.

The two of them went to the elevator. When he arrived at his office, he would find an envelope on his desk with my name on it. The envelope contained the motions I had prepared on behalf of the widow to drop her lawsuit. I make a point of always being prepared.

As my colleague and his new client entered the elevator, I made my way to the staircase. I still took the stairs in those days. Near the basement level, I encountered a redhead in a business suit, whose face was flushed from crying. She was leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette to calm her nerves.

“That isn’t going to do you much good, Miss Mason,” I taunted as I approached.

“You!” She seethed; smoke spilling from her gritted teeth, “What the Hell is wrong with you? That… That stunt was the most appalling, disgusting, unethical display of pseudo-legal debauchery I have ever been exposed to. You should be dis-barred for that. You should be locked up! Don’t you think that poor old woman deserves to be compensated for her suffering? Don’t you have any sense of decency? Any appreciation for justice?” When she was finished she was even redder in the face than she had been, and her cigarette had very nearly burned out in her hand. She threw it to the cement floor and snuffed it out with her toe. From the force she exhibited, I am sure she wished the butt were my face.

“Ms. Mason,” I began smoothly, “do you honestly believe that justice has anything to do with what went on in there? What that woman deserves has nothing to do with me, or my job. What she does or does not deserve is your job. We are trial lawyers, Ms. Mason. The earliest roots of our profession are not mere scribes. The first trials were conducted by combat, and it was believed that whoever fought with the most ferocity, had God himself on their side. Think of that, then, Ms. Mason, before you accost me. If your client was so right, and mine so wrong, then why was I willing to fight so much harder than you? Didn’t that poor woman deserve an advocate who would leave no stone unturned to see that she got justice?” The lawyer stared at me in open-mouthed shock, with a new stream of tears beginning to trickle down her pink cheeks. “Maybe you should consider another profession, Ms. Mason,” I offered. To this day, I feel she would have made an excellent schoolteacher.

I turned from her and walked into my firm’s parking garage. When I was about half way to my car, a black Lincoln pulled up beside me, the back door opened, and a very-Brooklyn voice said, “Would you get in please, Mr. McMahon? My employer wishes to meet with you.” I got in, and my life was never the same again.

 

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The island of Manhattan has long been a home to men whose love of money is rivaled only by their love of themselves. The better part of the world’s power is concentrated in these few, greedy souls. Among them, however, there is one whose lust for power and money makes the rest seem tame. My name is Brian McMahon, and I am that man.

In my time on this island, I have been an advisor to many of the wealthiest entrepreneurs the world has known, I have served the state of New York as Attorney General, and I recently announced my candidacy for Governor. At the moment, however, my position does not appear so lofty. At a rally earlier today, a sniper put a bullet in my chest, and as I stare up into the blinding whiteness of God knows which hospital, I have decided that now is as good a time as any to recount the story of how I came to be here, for I may not have another chance.

Bear with me then, if you would, for this story is a rather lengthy one. It begins sixteen years ago, when I had just turned twenty-nine. At that age, I was the youngest partner in the history of Davis, Eagan, and Howell; the most prestigious law firm in the city. The day that my story really begins is shortly after I made partner. I am fairly certain that it was early autumn, because some of the leaves on the trees beneath my window were still green, while others had turned orange and red, as if the branches burned beneath me.

I sat in my new office, looking down at the fiery foliage, and on the other end of the phone was my colleague and closest friend, Jimmy O’Reilly. Jimmy was in an absolute panic because some little old lady was suing Simpson Manufacturing, perhaps the largest corporate client the firm had, for several million dollars. The lady’s husband had, in fact, died during a fall from one of Simpson’s ladders. The ladder had, in fact, been defective, and the geezer had not been the first to fall victim to the sub-standard welding practices of our client. He was, however, the first to die and his widow was the first to sue.

I was not interested in seeing any additions to that list. The list of lawsuits, of course, if others died I wouldn’t have lost any sleep. I allowed Jimmy to vent his fear and trepidation. He was a couple of years older than I was, but he did not have my composure. He was soft inside, like so many others. I was not soft, not even in my youth.

“Jim, calm down and listen carefully,” I purred into the phone, “everything is going to be fine. I need you to set up a meeting with the lady and her lawyer, and get me a conference room. I want you to put 5 people with us in the conference room with legal pads in front of them. It doesn’t matter if they are paralegals or bums off the street. Whoever they are, take them down to my tailor, tell him to put it on my tab, and make sure that they look like they belong in the room. I will take care of the rest.”

Jim began some crowing about how outlandish my instructions were, and how he needed more details or something to that effect. Honestly, I didn’t hear most of it because there was a blonde on the sidewalk below my office, and I found myself quite a bit more interested in her than I was in my esteemed colleague’s hissy fit. Once the blonde was out of sight and Jim seemed to be calming down I heard him ask, “What are you planning, Brian? I need to know.”

“Shock and awe, Jimmy. I have to let you go. There is a call on the other line,” I soothed. Jim started trying to ask more questions but he was silenced by an abrupt click. There was no call on the other line. I was just tired of listening to him rant about ethics. I stood and walked across a ten-thousand-dollar oriental rug that some older partner had given me for the office and opened the deep brown wooden door that led to my private restroom. I turned on the lights, which were too bright to be comfortable, and I splashed some cool water on my face. I looked in the mirror and examined myself thoroughly. In those days there were no wrinkles on the face, and there was not yet any gray hair around the temples. It was a similar face to the face I wear today in few respects, but the only things that have not changed at all are the eyes. Cold, blue, emotionless eyes stared back at me.

I have long held the belief that hunger is the difference between wild and domestic animals. When a creature is exposed to real hunger and desperation in its youth, the Hunger never really leaves it. The same goes for humans. I saw the Hunger in my eyes. Others saw it as well, which kept them from meeting my gaze. This was not a hunger that could be sated by food. This was the aimless thirst for power and control. This was ambition that knew no reason: the mark of a man who was neither soft, nor domesticated. I had not yet seen hunger in another person’s eyes in those days. Before very much longer I would.

In my office a shrill bell sounded, and roused me from my daydream. I walked slowly toward it, expecting it to be Jimmy calling me back. The caller ID did not bear his name, however. This was someone else.

Despite some small part of my being screaming out against it, I picked up the phone. “This is McMahon,” I said somewhat hesitantly.

“Mr. McMahon,” a very Brooklyn voice implored, “my employer was given your name and number by a client, and he is eager to meet with you.”

“Appointments are handled by our reception staff, I can give you their number if you like,” I said, walking the tightrope of being both dismissive and respectful at once.

“My employer would be extremely disappointed if that proved necessary, Mr. McMahon, especially after you came so highly recommended,” the voice spoke up. The way he emphasized the word highly made it sound like a threat, even though it was perhaps the least threatening part of that sentence. I shifted the phone to my shoulder and searched desperately for something to wipe my hands on, for they were suddenly slick with perspiration.

“And who are you?” I interrogated, feeling as though it were permissible to begin to show frustration at this point. I make it a point of never showing true emotion, but I have found that crafted, calculated emotion can get you very far if it is applied intelligently.

The voice laughed a little. “We will be in touch, Mr. McMahon.” Click. I don’t know if I ever recovered from that phone call for as long as I lived. I still don’t know what it was about it that unnerved me so badly. It certainly wasn’t what he said; it was more in the way he said it. There was a snake slithering between his words, hissing its malice while his voice spoke pleasantly. This was something I did not recognize from any other conversation I had ever had with another person, but it was still, somehow, familiar. It was the sound of ambition: the sound of Hunger.

 

 

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The smell of salt hung heavy in the air, and the wooden deck pitched sharply beneath my feet. This was it, I thought. This was how it would end. In the sky the clouds were heavy and dark. They seemed almost to sag under the burden of the coming rain, and the sea was rising to meet them, as if the two collections of water could sense each other and longed to be reunited. A raindrop hit my face. Their reunion would come soon enough.

 

The ship lurched beneath me again, in a different direction this time, and nearly sent me tumbling. I grabbed a handrail and swallowed the bile, which was reaching up from my throat. The grain of the wood against my hand was harsh, but it still provided a sort of comfort. It was the sole reminder of Earth here in the Sea.

 

“Damnit, Rosek,” A voice called, “if I had known you’d be this useless, I would’ve left you in that trash heap I found you in.”

 

I flinched a little. In the fear of this moment, I had almost forgotten the fear of the last moment. Cities like Galgol did not suffer orphans, especially not orphans like me. I turned to face the captain, and wondered what he thought of me, but only for a moment. The Sea did not care about race, which suited me fine, but it did not suffer fools, and neither would Captain Luca the Grey. It was said that Captain Luca had journeyed with Prince Maronir long ago; in the days before the Aetherstorm.

 

Once I had arrived at the mast, I wrapped my hands around the hanging ropes and began to climb. I did not yet have the callouses of the old sailors, and soon felt the familiar soreness of the hemp under my raw hands as I hauled myself through the rain higher and higher skyward. Soon the soreness was replaced by slickness as my hands began to bleed. I could not stop though. If I stopped I would be thrown into the sea, and by the time the creatures there were through with me no one would realize what I was. Whatever was left of me might even get a decent burial once it washed up.

 

“Hurry up, boy, get that sail pulled around or we’ll be sharing this ship for a coffin!” Luca’s voice cried. I wondered why Luca had bothered to save me from the thugs in the city. I decided I would ask him after the storm, if we survived it. I finally reached the nest at the top of the mast, and grabbed what I hoped was the right rope with my bloody hands and began to pull it toward me.

 

“That’s it, lad, PULL, PULL, you’ve almost got it,” the voice called louder now, but somehow more softly, as though trying to signal in the midst of command that my efforts were not unappreciated. Beneath me the mass of white fabric swung out and pulled taut, and even in the midst of the ships crashing from the waves, I could tell that it was now moving hastily to the East.

 

I tied the rope off and descended the mast gingerly. In the time it took me to reach the deck, we had very nearly made it through the storm. In the horizon before us, there was sunlight breaking through some of the clouds.

 

When I lowered myself, Luca was waiting. He had that peculiar sort of white hair that only occurs in men who were once blonde, and a thick beard, which was blonde still, as if to spite the rest of him. He had bandages out for my hands.

 

“Captain,” I murmured, “is it true that you won the Aetherstorm?” Luca looked at me wearily as he worked to bind up the wounds in my hands without depriving me of their use.

 

“Nobody won,” the old man said, “least of all me.”

 

“What does that mean?” I asked.

 

“Someday, you will understand, boy,” Luca grumbled through his beard. He looked me up and down. “You could be him,” he murmured at last, “the resemblance is uncanny.”

 

“Who?” I said involuntarily.

 

“Your father,” he whispered, and then he began to walk away.

 

“You knew my father?” I demanded.

 

“Aye,” he said, his face was wet, and I wasn’t sure if it was from the rain or from weeping. “Get below deck and rest, boy.”

 

I obeyed him, but didn’t sleep. Before the Sun had risen in the East, I was already back up on the deck, and Luca was already waiting.

 

“I suppose you’d like to know about him,” Luca said. It was not a question.

 

“I don’t know,” I murmured, “why would I want to know a man who left my mother to defend me herself, and left me cursed to live as a mongrel.”

 

Luca turned to me, and now that the sky was clear, there was no doubt where the droplets on his face had come from. “First of all,” he said sternly, “your being a hybrid does not make you a mongrel. Learn that now, and learn it well, for my next lesson on the subject will not be so kind. Second, your father died to protect you and your mother, and me for that matter, so lose the attitude.”

 

I gulped and nodded. I had never seen Luca so angry. I swear he would have thrown me overboard.

 

“Who was he?” I asked.

 

“His name was Garron, and he was with me then; at the Aetherstorm. He saved me many other times before and after, but it is that one that made us famous.”

 

“Garron?” I wondered aloud, “Garron the Wise? Senator Garron, leader of the first human delegation? Impossible. HE would never have wed a woman who was half elf and half dwarf.”

 

“You know of him only what the bards sing,” Luca laughed, “Garron loved your mother. She was with us then, too, but history does not remember her so kindly as it remembers us. It’s funny how those things happen. An accident of fate, I suppose.”

 

“My mother fought in the Aetherstorm?” I wondered.

 

“Fought?” Luca smiled, “She killed more demons than I did, but being a woman and a hybrid at that… There was only so much anyone was willing to accept in those days. She withdrew and led a private life, while I became a general and your father became a Senator, but she was a good wife to him, and practically a sister to me. Sit down boy, let me tell you the story of your parents.”

 

I sat, and he did, and for the first time in my life, I knew what it might’ve felt like to have a father.

 

 

 

Inspired by a prompt on Reedsy.com – https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/

Sasha woke up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. There was sunlight filtering into the room already, and she knew she had overslept.

“Damnit,” she grumbled, hauling herself up from the bed and attempting to pull an undershirt over her head and a brush through her hair at the same time. She failed in both endeavors.

Before Sasha was a mirror; she stopped and looked into it wearily, and forced herself to breathe. From the mirror her face looked back at her, but it was not hers. Not really.

“You should have set an alarm,” her reflection chastised. This happens every time you don’t set an alarm.

“Shut up,” Sasha barked, “I don’t need to hear from you today.” She resumed brushing her hair, and the reflection followed suit… Well… Most of it did. The mouth of the reflection continued to move of its own accord.

“You do this every day,” the reflection grumbled as hair was brushed and makeup was applied to its face. “They’ll fire you this time. I can tell. We have ways of knowing these things.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Sasha snapped as she struggled to force a contact lens into her eye.

“Sometimes I wish you weren’t here at all.” The reflection frowned, and stepped away from the mirror, while Sasha remained motionless. “Stop that!” Sasha whined, “Get back here, or I’ll be even later.”

“Did you mean that?” her reflection asked, sounding hurt. “Do you wish I wasn’t here.”

“I mean…” Sasha started, and stopped. Her own face stared back at her in the mirror, but it wasn’t her. Not anymore. “I sometimes wish I couldn’t hear you. I wish you were like other people’s reflections.”

“If you don’t want me here, then I’ll go,” her reflection said, and it turned and walked away. Sasha stood dumbfounded before the mirror, and looked at her room in the glass, but she wasn’t there.

“What the…” Sasha whispered. She touched the glass, and it seemed colder somehow. Harder.

Sasha hurriedly opened a drawer and pulled a hand mirror out of it. Empty.

She sprinted down the stairs to her can, and bent beside the side mirror. Empty.

She got in the car and hauled herself up to the rearview. Empty.

Sasha felt hot tears streaming down her face, but she couldn’t see them. She hurriedly wiped off her face and started the car. She hardly noticed the drive. Someone cut her off, probably, but she was numb to it. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she had somehow done something terrible. She felt wounded deeply, and every piece of glass cut deeper. She would never see herself again. Like Narcissus in reverse.

Sasha arrived at work and there was a car in her space. It looked like her car, ironically. Same model. Same color. Had they hired someone new? She didn’t have a chance to even get mad at the slight. She was two hours late now, and still carried the bowling ball in her stomach of having lost her reflection.

When she reached the front door and pushed it open, she was expecting a rude remark from the receptionist, Stacy, but it didn’t come.

“Hi, Sasha,” Stacy chirped, “that’s funny I didn’t see you leave.”

“I… Didn’t leave” Sasha answered hesitantly. “I’m just getting in today. I had some… uh… car trouble… Made me late.”

“Oh?” Stacy blinked, and looked toward Sasha’s cubicle as though something in Sasha’s story wasn’t adding up. Stacy had always been a busybody, so Sasha dismissed the look and hurried to her cubicle. She didn’t have time to fret over that woman. Not today.

Sasha saw that in the conference room there was a meeting already underway, and she was in such a rush that when she dropped her purse on her chair, she didn’t see the identical purse already on her desk. She burst into the conference room in a huff.

“Sasha,” her boss said, smiling, “that was fast… you don’t look well, is something wrong?”

Sasha blinked at him, and looked down at herself, then back to him. “What… was fast?”

“You just left…” the suited man murmured, “to go to the restroom. Are you alright?”

“Y’know.” Sasha managed around a forced smile, “I have been a little out of it today, and believe it or not, I forgot to go. Excuse me.” She turned and went back out of the room in a panicked hurry. In the window she saw the reflection of her boss and coworkers in the window, but not her.

Sasha pressed through the office with her head down. What was happening to her? What had she done?

She opened the door to the ladies room, and there was someone else already there. A familiar face stared back at her. It was her face, but it wasn’t hers. Not really.

“Hello, Sasha,” the face smiled. Its eyes were empty.

“What the Hell,” Sasha murmured. Her reflection was here, but not in the mirror. It was right here in the open air looking at her.

“I’m here to make your wish come true, Sasha,” Sasha’s voice purred menacingly from the reflection’s mouth, “your reflection is going to be just like everyone else’s.”

The woman lunged at Sasha and grabbed her by the throat. She was strong. Stronger than Sasha. How was that possible? Sasha wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Was this real? Could it be? Sasha was already almost unconscious as she was dragged into the bathroom stall. She only passively noticed that there was no reflection in the water in the instant before her face was plunged into the toilet. Somewhere in the distance her voice was laughing, but she couldn’t laugh. She couldn’t breathe. She kicked and fought, but there was nothing she could do. The white porcelain grew more faint as darkness closed in and the sharp pain in her chest and her head told her that parts of her that needed air weren’t getting it. Soon enough there was nothing left but darkness and her own sick laughter echoing in the distance, and then there was just darkness.

Somewhere, in the darkness, Sasha heard the sound of an alarm going off. Relief filled her. It had just been a nightmare. Then her eyes opened. Had she opened them? She didn’t think so. Sasha felt her body moving, rising up out of the bed, but she was not moving it. What was going on? She tried to make her body stop, but she couldn’t it moved of its own accord toward the mirror, and once there it stopped.

Sasha felt herself pulled toward the glass, and in the mirror was her face, but it was not hers. Not really. The face smiled, and a horrified Sasha felt her face contort without her consent into the same smile.

“Like other people’s reflection.” Her voice purred, turning this way and that in the mirror, and Sasha felt herself pulled into whatever pose her reflection chose. She stood there, trapped in her already dead body, and watched through the mirror, while the imposter lived her life. But it wasn’t hers. Not really.

 

 

 

 

 

Inspired by a prompt on Reedsy.com – https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/

 

Ladies and Gentlemen,

If you have been enjoying the Aetherstorm stories here on my blog, then I would like to invite you to pre-order my upcoming Novel, Aetherstorm, which will conclude the story that started here!

It is available for pre-order at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07S41NP8B the ebook launches exclusively on Amazon on July 28th, and it will soon be available in print everywhere books are sold.

Thank you as always for your support!

In the jungle, animals generally stick together, unless one of them is different; if one is different, it is singled out, separated from the rest, alone. High school is a lot like the jungle. I’m James, and I am different. People try to be nice, but even to them I’m “The Smart Kid” or “Einstein”. That is, to everyone but Ann. To Ann, I am James, just James. I love Ann, I think; love is one of the few things that I don’t know very much about. One thing I do know about is math; I know a lot about math. I know so much about math I got to go do it at MIT, but then they wouldn’t let me do math anymore, and now I’m really different, because I’m in a little room wearing a funny shirt. Whoever made this shirt wasn’t very smart, because I can’t move my arms.

It all started about a year ago, in one moment, and in that moment I was happy, because I was with Ann, and I was nervous, because I was at a party, a real party, with normal people and everything. Then nervous turned into confused, because Ann’s friend handed me a cup and winked; who was she winking at? I can never tell. Ann gave her a dirty look, or did she give me a dirty look? No, it was her, because she smiled at me. My attention went back to the cup, it was one of the plastic ones that the country people sing about, and it had a funny brown liquid in it; I set it down without drinking.

“So, how have you been, James?” Holy crap Ann is talking to me.

“Umm… Not bad,” I managed, “I got a letter from MIT today, but I haven’t read it. It’s probably just one of those letters they send to be polite when they think your work is crap.”

“James, your math is not crap! Where’s the letter; we’ll open it together,” she barked, barked, really? She’s not a dog! Oh well, it sounded like a bark. I got the letter out of my backpack and started to read.

“Blah, blah, blah, all that polite stuff they say before they reject you, ‘it was a pleasure to’ blah, blah- wait, what? Elegant? Elegant? Ann they said my work was elegant!”

“Elegant is good?” she asked; god she’s pretty.

“Elegant is great, elegant is fantastic, elegant is the highest compliment they could possibly pay!”

“Great,” she exclaimed, “so we’re celebrating!” She handed me the cup.

“No, I don’t have time to celebrate; I need to go home and get to work on my formulas. This is the biggest opportunity of my life!” and then I ran out the door and never looked back.

2 Weeks Later

I was walking through the halls on my way to class. Things had started to go downhill. I found the first of the grey hairs that morning, and I had lost ten pounds since the party, when up walks Ann. She smiled at me, and I felt like my heart was lodged in my throat; this was the beginning of the end.

“Hey James, I haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”

“I’m alright; I’ve been working on this theory.”

“Look, James, I know this math stuff is important, but you need a life. I mean, you have a gift, but that doesn’t-“

“A gift?” I cut her off, “you think I have a gift? That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“James, what are you talking about?” she looked scared. Am I scary?

“Ann, in nature, when an organism is injured, whatever part was broken heals thicker. That’s what a scar is. That’s how muscles get bigger; when you break a bone, they can see the spot on X-rays even after your dead. I think the same thing happens in a mind. When something is broken, the mind grows thicker, stronger, and then you’re different. Genius isn’t a gift, Ann, it’s a scar,” and then I walked away, and I never saw Ann again.

1 Month Later

“James, I think you need to stop; have you eaten?”

“Just one more minute.”

“How long has he been like this?”

“48 hours now, he hasn’t slept or eaten, but from the smell of it I think he used the bathroom.”

“Did he just make a mistake? I’ve never seen him make a mistake before.”

“The mistakes started 3 o’clock yesterday afternoon; I didn’t say anything, because I was afraid of what he might do.”

“Just one more minute.”

“Get me a phonebook; we need the emergency number for the nearest mental hospital.”

2 weeks ago

“Hey James, how are we doing today?” That’s Miss Jane; I like her; she always asks about me by using “we” instead of you; I like that.

“I’m okay.”

“You got a letter today.” She said, “It’s from someone named Ann, would you like to read it?”

“Sure,” I said, and then I read it.

Dear James,

I heard about what happened to you a few weeks ago, but I wasn’t sure what to say for a long time. It’s gotten to the point now where I feel like I just need to get it out. I loved you, I really did, and I think you loved me too, at least I do now. That day in the hall I thought you were a jerk, but now I realize that you couldn’t help that. I think I understand what you meant about genius being a scar, and I want you to know that I’m sorry if I made it harder for you.

Very Truly Yours,

Ann

“Thank you Miss Jane. Can I answer her?” I asked.

“You really aren’t supposed to write anymore James. I can’t let you do that.”

“Could you write for me?”

“Do you promise there won’t be any math?”

“I promise: no math.”

“Okay then, I guess that would be alright. What do you want me to say?”

Ann

You don’t understand, but thank you.