Category: Fiction

Tears of the Cyborg

I walked through the empty rooms, no footprints visible but mine in the soil-thick dust covering the floor. My steps echoed thinly from the metal cabinets lining every wall. My ears tingled from a faint hum that could be felt more than heard, and an occasional click or whirr felt like a church bell in the silence.

Double doors, windowless and cold, jerked on clogged tracks into the wall, exposing thick darkness tinged by a faint red glow. I took a ragged breath, my chest aching with anticipation that bordered on fear. Two agonizingly slow steps carried me over the threshold, and I strained for every shred of light to illuminate the room’s contents.

The whirring and clicking surrounded me here, along with the faint gurgle of some sort of liquid, and a steady drip against a puddle. As my eyes adjusted I could make out the source of the red glow, clear tubes filled with a luminescent fluid snaked toward a single point against the far wall. I walked toward it, a shape materializing slowly as I drew near.

The whirring grew louder, and I could make out exposed gears, wires, and pulleys against a narrow strip of white somehow untouched by the dust that pervaded the place. A little closer and something moved; I jumped backward with a compulsive squeak as a pale, expressionless face rose to view, colored only by the glow of the tubes that culminated behind it.

A crack appeared at the edges of the face, and a light breeze fanned the loose hair at my neck, obviously the reason for the lack of dust on what I could now see was an old-fashioned dress collar. A drop of blood-red liquid spilled from the corner of a dark eye and rolled down the delicately human cheek to drip on the floor. Another followed it, then another. The lips parted with the whir of gears, and a mechanically female voice spoke incongruously through their stillness. “Is it the end?”

The Assignment

“Today’s writing assignment is to write a one page short story using this picture.”

“It’s a rowboat!”

“I don’t know how to write about a rowboat!”

“That’s a wooden framework, y’all.”

Now, kids, there are many elements in the picture. There’s a sunset, and water, and a boat, and you’re right, some kind of wooden building in the background. So many things to be creative with.”

“But I don’t know how to write about any of that!”

“I can’t think of anything to write!”

“Well, what does a boat on the water make you think about?”

“Nothing. I don’t know.”

“THE LAKE!”

“Oooh, I can write about what I did at the lake!”

“That’s right, you can! That sounds exciting!”

“Look, I wrote raptor three times! I did it, see?”

“I wrote my name!”

“Yes, you did, except that you skipped two letters that one time. And that is the most beautiful collection of M’s, H’s, and scribbles that I have ever seen. Great job.”

“Hey, I’m done! I wrote my whole story, I’m done.”

“No, sorry, you have to fill up the whole page. One paragraph is not near enough.”

“I have writer’s block.”

“Is this a whole paragraph?”

“Since I wrote my words can I go?”

“Sure, go play Legos.”

“I’m finished now! Look how much I wrote, a whole page! SO MUCH WRITING!”

“Great job, when everyone has finished you can read it out loud.”

“I only have two paragraphs. I’m no good at this!”

“You’re doing fine, just keep writing. Why are you moving to sit behind me?”

“I just wanted to lie down over here to write.”

“Sigh. Fine.”

“Is this enough sentences?”

“You can’t think of anything to tell me about going swimming except that it was hot and you were cold?”

“I said I was WET and cold!”

“…”

“Oh, I know, I can write about Daddy was there!”

“Sure, sounds great. Is everyone finished now? Who wants to read their story out loud? What? No, I didn’t get to write my own story for this assignment. Yes, you want to go first? Excellent, let’s hear it.”

The Test

Su Lin stood on the steps of the brick building, hands twisting the tail of her shirt into a tight knot. Today was the day. In a moment she would step through that door into the Naturalization Office. Mr. Munro would be waiting for her in his stuffy little office, a jar of pens and a bundle of handheld flags on one edge of his desk.

He would peer over the top of his reading glasses as she came through his office door, his hair sticking up in front where he had run his hand through it absently during his previous appointment. He would beckon her to a seat, tap a few keys on his laptop, and jerk a brand new test booklet from the top drawer of the filing cabinet near his shoulder. There were never pleasantries with Mr. Munro; no preliminaries, just business.

First, he would slap a sheet of written questions on the desk in front of her. He would look bored while she read them aloud, bored because after all the forms she had filled out for him he knew she could read anything he put in front of her. He would tap a few more keys and flip the page over, then shove one of the pens from the jar in her direction. She would carefully write every word he dictated to her in his squirrely voice, sure she was misspelling every other word but knowing it probably wouldn’t matter.

It was the next part of the test that knotted her shirt. Six questions that she prayed she would answer correctly, six questions that would determine where she spent the rest of her life. It was Mr. Munro’s favorite part, the only thing he seemed to get excited about.

Su Lin untwisted her shirt and took a deep breath. In half an hour, she told herself, she would walk back out that door with a brand new flag and a brand new nationality. And tomorrow, she would light a special Independence Day sparkler in celebration.

The Cafe

The Cafe was still there, tucked away in its remote little corner. The structures surrounding it had grown even older and more drably brown with time, a stark contrast to its bright colors and neat facade. In the afternoon light it almost seemed a sun unto itself.

The evening rush had not begun, and the sidewalk tables and chairs stood against the wall as if starched and ironed into perfection. The walk itself gleamed, so freshly scrubbed that dust had not had time to mar its brilliance. I smiled. Old Lydia would probably frighten the dust away anyway.

The cafe door opened and Lydia herself emerged from its dark interior, white linen towel and scrub bucket in hand. “Wouldn’t do for the tables not to gleam as brightly as the sidewalk!” I called, a wide grin spreading across my face.

The old lady nearly dropped her scrub bucket, the strongest testimony of her surprise I could ever ask for. She would have died of mortification if it had fallen or splashed onto her precious walk. “Nico!” She carefully set her cleaning implements onto the nearest table and opened her arms wide to welcome me. “How long has it been?”

“Too long, Lydia,” I admitted as I returned her embrace. Beneath my arms her shoulders, though as broad as ever, felt frail somehow. “Too long to be away from home. But with Sofia gone…” I pulled away and looked down at her. “Where else could I go but here to remember her? This place was her soul.”

The old woman’s eyes filled, and she patted my arm. “Come inside, Nico, we’ll make a cup. Sofia’s blend. She will be here with us.”

The Healer’s Daughter

FB_IMG_1592766229369It was her favorite spot, a tiny gem hidden at the base of a cliff where almost no one went. No one except herself. Her mother had shown it to her when she was just a little girl, barely old enough to be trusted on the narrow path down. It was the secret of her mother’s success as a healer; the herbs and fungi that grew down here were especially potent.

Now her mother could no longer safely walk the path, and the task of harvesting was hers alone. It was the one time a week that she could be completely alone, far away from expectations and women’s chatter. The only sound was the soft fall of the water into the pool, and the light which filtered through the heavy canopy turned leaves luminescent and created glittering jewels in the spray.

That she would be a healer was unquestioned. Thanks to her mother she knew every remedy and could find the best and rarest. Her mother’s secret recipes had long been committed to memory. She had no quarrel with her destiny; it was, after all, a much freer life than that of the girls sent to the matchmaker by the time they were of age. And as village healer she was by law protected from a fate far worse, the fate of those who caught the eye of the nobility. She had seen them, their white painted faces devoid of expression above their opulent robes. No feeling or identity could remain in that life; such would destroy a girl more surely than the demands made of her.

No, fortune smiled upon her, and not even the basket heavy with living treasure against her shoulders could make her sorry. She must put other wishes from her mind and thank the ancestors for smiling upon her. But she could not prevent his face from appearing in her mind one more time.

The Lamplighter

FB_IMG_1591483602188He walked the streets in the dusk, the invisible bringer of light. Dawn and twilight, his two-headed staff tapping the cobblestones with each step. For forty years now he had walked the streets and alleyways, the stones of the old wall familiar friends now.

Fifteen steps from lamp to lamp, his feet knew on their own every start and stop. The tiny hiss as each wick flamed marked a beat in an old song. The almost imperceptible heat of each tiny flame staved the cold growing in his bones.

Ah, there was the ivy trellis across from Mistress Burnley’s shop. Fripperies didn’t sell until the well-born young girls left their late breakfasts with nothing to do but spend their fathers’ money. Nevertheless, Mistress Burnley’s second floor window held warmth at the snuffing hour each morning and comforted him each evening. Yes, there she was, as always, a fixture same as he.

Ten more steps to the old stairs, five – no six – to the top. Imagine forgetting that after all these years! Turn left to follow the wall, but only after lighting the corner lamp. Tonight music wafted from the open windows of Master Hollywell’s townhouse just across the way. Seemed Mistress Burnley’s wares would be displayed handsomely tonight. The Hollywell dances marked the height of the season, no doubt. The merry singing of the strings and the sound of feet tapping in rhythm called out to him, keeping time with his staff.

Fifteen more steps, another welcoming hiss. On he went, marking the time unheeded, forever caught between the light and the dark.

The Mirror Image

FB_IMG_1590687230114The Mirror Image raced the storm. She was the fastest sail on the bay, but this was the greatest race of her career. A race with the wind itself.

It was a beautiful storm. The sun rose gold ahead of her, lighting the water with its false promises of the day ahead. Behind her, dark clouds loomed over the golden rays, over the Mirror Image, over the glassy surface of the bay. Sheets of water waved below them, riling the water into angry ripples like a shattered looking glass.

A fork of light split the gloom, its electricity carried through the rain to set teeth on edge. It was too close for comfort, but the sails were full. She had lost the race. Buffeted by the edge of the storm, sails dampened by spray were furled and tied. Sea anchor cranked and rattled into the depths. Her mirror image in the water dimmed and scattered as the rain caught her. She would wait, secure against the onslaught, her masts barren in salute.

The Bench

FB_IMG_1590687238016It was perfectly placed, halfway down the walking trail along the river, looking out at the park across the water. The city’s most popular view. In the morning the sun rose behind it over the skyscrapers, leaving it in the shadows as people hurried to work, but in the evenings… oh, the evenings!

The river reflected the glow of the setting sun in the sky, bathing the whole area in rose light. If there were clouds, streams of light pierced them, creating natural spotlights at the edge of the water. People would sit, sometimes absently, sometimes with intention, and leave little bits of themselves along with the fading sunlight.

First, there were children. They never sat, not for long. Their weary watchers would collapse onto the bench, calling nervously for their charges to stay away from the water. Excited chatter and daring balancing acts on the wall would be the response, often accompanied by the indignant trumpeting of geese disturbed in their placid feeding.

Then there were the starched and tied business partners, almost too busy to notice the view. Glued to cell phones, foreheads furrowed in concentration or voices raised in agitation over the status of a deal, they relaxed no more than the keepers of the children. Perched on the edge of the seat, knees jogging nervously, briefcases opened and rustled with feverish haste, they never stayed long.

Then would come the old married couples, hand in hand. With creaking joints they would settle comfortably and gaze out over the water, steadfast and quiet as if the world stood still for them. Sometimes they would talk quietly, ordinary conversations about ordinary things. Mostly they just sat, wrinkled fingers entwined with comfortable familiarity with each other and the twilight.

Finally came the young lovers. Dancing carelessly as dark shadows in the day’s final light show, they laughed and talked and played like children. Only it wasn’t the geese they played with, but the future. Soft kisses in the corner of the bench, playful chases around its back accompanied by laughing protests, whispered promises and sweet caresses echoed across the river as the night descended upon it all.

Dreamcaught

FB_IMG_1590687224460She flew above the world, reveling in the wind that buffeted her. She didn’t know how, she only knew she was. The river tossed her against the rocks; her head hurt and water filled her lungs. “Hush, dear, don’t cry,” her mother soothed, stroking her hair. “Everything will be alright, you’ll see.” She buried her head in Mother’s lap, breathing the scent of lemon and fennel lingering on her clothes. The hands stroking her hair turned to claws that raked her skull and back, drawing screams of pain and betrayal from her aching throat. She ran, the breath ragged in her lungs, her muscles seizing and tripping her. She could feel the beast’s breath on her neck and fell, strength gone, waiting for its jaws to close on her throat. Her mother’s hands picked her up and she flew.