#39 Artist at the Bus Stop

An old man in a heavy, dark blue raincoat and a faded cap stood at the country bus stop. Around his feet, what looked like a bed roll, a pack, but also a black artist’s portfolio and a glimpse of a palette splashed with color. I passed behind him on my bicycle, glancing back once, wondering where he was from and what he was doing here.

I thought about him as I sped on down the path. Did he live near here, or had he come from far away? What had he been painting? When I reached the end of the path, I turned and headed back. Far ahead, I could see him still standing there in the gray morning light, but now he had left the bus stop and crossed the path to stand at the fence. He stared out over the fields and up to the mountains wreathed in clouds. I wondered if he was studying it for a painting.

He didn’t show any sign that he saw me, though I watched him as I approached. As I sped past him I called out, “Good morning!” His face stayed grim, he didn’t move.

My eyes back on the path ahead, I thought about turning around. I could go back. I could say, “You’re a painter? What are you working on?” Maybe he would be pleased that I was interested. Maybe he would show me what was inside that black portfolio, strange and beautiful visions, in all those bright colors I had seen on the palette. Maybe he would give me his card, say he had a studio in town. Or maybe he would be a foreigner, hardly speak English, and would forever after think how friendly the people were in my country.

Or maybe he didn’t want me to bother him. My feet kept turning the pedals, my wheels kept rolling me toward home. With every fence post I passed I thought I might turn back. Turn back at any moment and discover the mystery behind me. But I didn’t want him to know how curious I was, how much I wanted to talk to him.

I am an artist too, I paint with words. There are things in my soul that I want others to see. I know how it aches, to not have anyone to show them to.

My wheels have carried me so far now, I am closer to home than to the artist at the bus stop. I could still go back, but I am tired. There are so many things to do at home.

I do not turn around. All the way to my front door. Only when I am inside again, at my kitchen table, does the tragedy strike me. I will never see that man again, I will never know what he saw in the world and spread on his canvas.

Perhaps all he needed today, in his long and lonely struggle, was for someone to ask him what he was working on. For me look through the windows he had made to his soul, and be glad at what I saw. And instead I hurried by, afraid. Afraid he would not want to talk to me.

I should have let him make that choice.

#38 Elective Treatment

The key turned so easily in the lock, it was obvious the bolt was already undone. Natalie’s brain dragged itself reluctantly back from the seismic data she’d been combing through to puzzle at this. Startled, afraid, she turned the door knob, wondering if the house had been unlocked all day.

The floor was clean. Oh, that’s right, Mom was here.

Natalie came inside and shut the door behind her, locking it out of habit. There in the front hall, Bryce’s backpack hung neatly on a hook, his shoes below lined up and ready to go for tomorrow.

How long had it taken Mom to get him to do that? Maybe Mom had done it herself.

“Hi Natalie,” Mom said from the kitchen. There were sounds of cooking. “How was your day.”

“Great,” Natalie said, excited. “There were three quakes on the pacific rim today, and we were able to give thirty minute warnings for all of them. There was only one near a population center, so they closed some bridges. Nothing went out, but it’s good they’re starting to take more precautions. It was a little tricky to work out the potential epicenters because…” Natalie launched into a long explanation of all the technical details. She realized she’d been talking for some time without checking to see if Mom was really interested. Natalie stopped and studied her mother’s face. Did she look like she was interested? Did she look like she even understood? Was she even listening? It was always so hard to tell.

“The school called again today,” Natalie’s mom said.

“Again?” Natalie’s heart sank. Bryce had been doing so well these past weeks, but then having his grandma visit had completely thrown his routine into a shambles.

“Bryce was singing in class, and he wouldn’t stop. Also, when it was time to do his seat work, he just stared at his tablet for a whole hour.”

“I told his teacher that tablets are too distracting for him. He can’t handle screens.”

“Natalie, I tried something today,” Mom said. “When I took Bryce to school, after the bell rang for him to go to class, I walked up to where he was playing on the playground. I was standing right next to him, and I told him it was time to go to class. He just kept playing. All the other kids left the playground, and he just kept playing. The second bell rang, I don’t think he even heard it.”

“You let him keep playing until the second bell?” Natalie couldn’t believe it. Mom had let Bryce be late for class.

“I wanted to give him a chance to notice on his own. You can’t always be there for him, Natalie. I wanted to see how long it would take him to realize that everyone else had left the playground. He never did. A teacher came along and got his attention and sent him to class.”

“Mom!” Natalie said.

“He doesn’t mean to be this way. I know he doesn’t. He just can’t function like other people.”

“I know,” Natalie said.

“Have you thought about getting him treated?”

“I’m not interested in that,” Natalie said, reeling. Had Mom just suggested I get Bryce a treatment?

“Have you even looked into it?”

“Of course I have!” Natalie said. “But it’s not an easy solution. The outcome is so unpredictable. I can predict earthquakes better than they can predict the outcome of a  treatment.”

“You can give him a small treatment and see if it works. See if it does anything. Maybe it will help him.”

“Mom, Bryce’s brain is different. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I couldn’t do what I do if my brain was like everyone else’s.”

“Natalie, you were never this bad.”

“He doesn’t have to be normal to be happy.”

“He’s suffering, Natalie. And there may be something you can do to help. Have you even talked to your doctor about it, at all?”

“No,” Natalie said. “It’s not that simple. They’ll want to re evaluate him. It’ll take months. I’ll have to take a lot of time off work.”

“Bryce is more important than your work.”

“He’s making progress, Mom. He can learn to do better.”

“I’m just saying it’s an option,” Mom went back to stirring the pot.

Natalie went and sat down at her desk, fuming.

There was the doctor’s phone number up on the bulletin board. She could call. She could ask for an appointment. That didn’t mean she would have to go through with getting Bryce a treatment.

Natalie picked up the phone.

#37 Disobedient Angel

There is something I need to tell you.

First, let me explain. You don’t know me. You’ve seen me on occasion, passing on the street, around the corner of the hall at school, in the distance at a game, or on the far side of the park. You think I must live here, nearby, somewhere. But we’ve never met. I’ve never introduced myself.

You are the only one who can see me.

Have you heard the stories, of someone who got in a car wreck, and they say someone pulled them from the car, but then when they looked again, no one was there? Those stories are true. That’s what I am. I’m a messenger. A task that needs to be fulfilled.

The universe was perfect when it was created, but people were given choices, and sometimes they make the wrong choice. When that happens, the universe gets broken in small ways. Those ways can add up, until things go really, really wrong. I’m a correction, a small adjustment of the course of the fate of everything.

But that’s all I am.

Once I make that adjustment in the course of time and space, I will die.

It won’t be death like you know it. You have an immortal soul. I do not. I’ll simply cease to exist. Once my task is complete, once I’ve done what I was sent here to do, I will be gone. Utterly gone.

I had something I was supposed to tell you. It was years ago when I came into being for this one task. I came and I found you, and I was about to do it. You might remember, though you probably do not. You were very young, and so I appeared as a child. A child who wanted to speak to you, but was too shy and turned away.

I wasn’t shy. I had gotten to like existing. In the short time it took me to cross the expanse from heaven to earth, I came to enjoy being alive.

Your message, I thought, could wait. And so I dallied. I wandered the earth and sky, I saw what good and evil there was among humankind, and with horror and wonder I pondered the purpose of it all. But most of the time I simply looked at things. At flowers, at clouds, at trees, at a rainbow. The ocean in its might and terror, the stately land, the deep blue ice of the north and south poles, the whales in the depths and the stars quietly watching over all. I saw all of the people, going about without seeing, for they do not know when their time is to come, their time to leave it.

But I know. It is my choice. I have been given choice too, strange enough, and that is my torment. Why have I been given this choice to make? To fulfill my purpose and pass away into nothingness, or to delay my destiny and continue to be aware of myself and everything around me.

I have not grown tired of living, but I have grown tired of being afraid. This message I have for you, it must be important. I do not know entirely what it means, but that is for you to puzzle it out. You will know what to do with the words I have for you.

I am afraid that by waiting this long, some terrible thing will come upon the world. I am a correction, a repair, I am here to undo something that should not have happened, but I was sent so long ago perhaps now it is too late. And if it is too late, should I sacrifice myself for nothing?

And if I do tell you, even though I am supposed to vanish, to cease to exist, perhaps because I have been disobedient for so long then I will not pass lightly into the void. Perhaps there is a special hell for disobedient angels. The terror of it eats at me. Perhaps I am already burning in it, and my only release will come when I finally deliver my message.

And so, now that you understand, I will ask you a question. I will leave this up to you. It is your choice now. Do you want to hear what it is that I have to tell you?

#36 Emergency Room

Even at midnight, the emergency room was crowded. Mason followed his mom a long way from the desk before they found two seats together. While Mom sat down with the clip board in her lap and started writing with a pen she took out of her purse, Mason curled up in the chair next to her and tried to get his head comfortable on the plastic seat back.

“Oh, Mason, sweetie, don’t put your face on that,” Mom said. “We don’t know if its clean.” Mom tugged a corner of Mason’s blanket up to cover the back of the chair, then tucked the rest of it around him better.

Mason snuggled down in his blanket, shivering. He wished they didn’t keep this room so cold, or so bright. His head hurt, and with every rapid beat of his heart his knee throbbed like someone was whacking it with a baseball bat. All around him sat other people with empty, sad faces. He wondered if any of them were as sick as he was.

On the front door of the emergency room, Mason noticed a bronze panel decorated with two snakes twined around a pole. As he watched, the snakes seemed to twist and move. Their bronze eyes grew brighter, and they slithered round the pole in a slow dance, then came down from the door and moved toward him across the floor.

Mason gave a whimper and curled up tighter in his blanket.

“It’s okay, honey,” Mom said, still scribbling on the clipboard. “Everything’s going to be okay.” As if she couldn’t see the snakes sliding over the white tile floor.

“Don’t be afraid,” the snakes hissed. “Do not fear us. We will do you no harm.”

Mason blinked at them, then glanced at the door. There were still two snakes on the door, coiled around the pole, but here they were in front of him, too, weaving their heads back and forth like cobras.

“Welcome to our realm,” the snakes said. “Do not fear. You are safe in this place. Our servants have taken an oath. First do no harm.”

Mason drew his feet up, his knees tight against his chest, trying to get further away from those long, bronze bodies.

“Do not fear us,” the snakes  slid up the legs of Mason’s chair. One of them put it’s metal nose near Mason’s face. It’s eyes flashed. “It is death you should fear.”

“Yes, fear death. Flee it. Come to us and we will save you,” The other snake coiled on the floor.

“But,” Mason said, “People die here.”

The snakes sighed. “Some come to us too late, some can not be saved. But many, many others, are well again. They buy more life, more days, more months, more years. They pay dearly for it, for death is to be greatly feared!”

Mason choked out the words in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”

“No, sweetheart, you’re going to be fine,” Mom said. “We’re here at the hospital now, the doctors will take care of you.”

Mason glanced at his Mom, her worried face staring down at the clipboard, then looked again for the snakes, but they had vanished.

#35 Snow Angel

The snow danced lightly down from the sky. One flake at a time, it twirled and drifted, appearing somewhere high above as a tiny speck, then growing, falling. Some landed on the tall, dark pines, caught in the great drifts already on their branches. Some fell on the ground, slowly building the soft mounds of white even higher than they already were. Some fell on her cheeks, on her nose, on her forehead. Now and then one of the tiny flakes tried to kiss her eyes. Then she would blink them away. It was the only movement she made as she watched their mesmerizing dance.

She felt no cold. The soft drifts around her cradled her heavy body. Her bed of white feathers beckoned her to sleep. The snowflakes above danced a lullaby against the twilight winter sky. The woods smelled of cold, of ice, a sweet and peaceful breath.

“Sarah!”

She heard a voice somewhere in the distance, a sorrowful cry, barely rising above the gentle whisper of the falling snow. She took another slow breath, then rested again. That voice sounded familiar, but she could not understand why.

She wanted to sleep, to drift back into that lovely dream. It had been summer, and she had been able to fly! But then she had decided to wake up and found herself here. For a long time she had wandered, lost, in the cold, until she had gotten so weary she had to rest a while. Now she could not even remember what she had been searching for.

“Sarah!” the call came again. So lost, it sounded, so hopeless. Sarah. That was her name. She remembered now. The voice was calling for her. She would stand up, and go and find them.

After another moment. Now she was tired. She closed her eyes. The snow caressed her face.

Another sound, an excited yelping, a dog’s bark. Sarah opened her eyes again, startled, as she heard the footfalls in the snow. Then there was a dark nose, a warm tongue burning against her cheek, and the sound of barking in her ears.

“Sarah!” Now the voice was right beside her. Someone picked her up and held her close.

 

#34 Dream Cat

Zeb crept between the cardboard moving boxes, his whiskers twitching. This old house had to be full of nightmares. He could smell it. Where were they hiding?

He paced the perimeter of the room, glancing back often to make sure Leisl still slept peacefully in her bed. For a moment he longed to go curl up on the blanket by her feet and take a nap, but that wouldn’t do. Right now was hunting time. The nightmares would be on the prowl. Where were they? Hadn’t they figured out that a little child had moved in?

Zeb knew he ought to stay in Leisl's room, but he couldn’t just sit there and wait for the nightmares to come to him. They were out there, lurking, somewhere in the big old house, waiting for him to let down his guard before they pounced. Well, he’d just take the fight to them, wherever they were.

Out in the hall, the place smelled of fresh paint. That made it hard for Zeb to know if there were any nightmares close by or not. He scanned the hallway, eyes wide in the dark, ears pricked, tail twitching. Then he saw one.

A velvet pool of darkness lurked along the baseboards, slowly creeping in and out of the shadows made by the streetlight shining through the trees out the window. It was a clever nightmare, trying to blend in with those wind-tossed patches of shadow. Zeb pretended he didn’t see it gradually moving closer and closer to Leisl’s bedroom door.

When the nightmare paused, as if finally realizing there was a cat in the hall, Zeb pounced.

The nightmare had been ready. It streaked down the hall with Zeb just behind it, racing over the floor, it’s misty black shape sometimes rat-like, sometimes snake-like, sometimes with wings of bat or bird, it was all the dark creatures of the world rolled into one. A claw shot out from the blackest part and snatched at the stair railing to make a sharp turn. Zeb skidded on the hall floor, then streaked down the stairs after it.

The nightmare made straight for the front door. Zeb watched it squeeze under the small crack and disappear. A cat-grin spread across Zeb’s face. That might have worked in Zeb’s last house, but this house had a cat door. That nightmare was going down.

Zeb leapt through the cat door, leaving it swinging behind him. Out in the windy night, the howling air filled his ears, so he flattened them back against his head and used his eyes and his nose to find where the nightmare had run to. He spotted it puddled among the roots of a tree, moving like a careless fog, just shifting a little.

Zeb slid into the hedge and moved silently along the outside wall of the house. As he got closer to the nightmare, it showed no sign that it had seen him. Closer, closer, close enough to strike, Zeb curled up and got ready to spring.

 

 

#33 The Audition

Cynthia checked herself in the front hall mirror one last time. Everything was perfect. Her hair, shiny black in a stylish cut that came down to just below her chin, her make-up she’d spent over an hour and washed it off twice to start over again but it was finally perfect. She’d picked out the outfit carefully to look casual and fun but still be dressy enough for this audition. She gave herself a nod and put her purse strap up on her shoulder. She was going to rock this.

“Come give me a hug before you go,” Cynthia’s mom called from the kitchen. Cynthia checked her watch. She had twenty seconds.

Mom was making dinner, carrot bits flying from the wok as she stirred hard and fast. Cynthia didn’t want to get too close. It wouldn’t look good to have greasy vegetable shreds on her blouse when she was doing her monologue.

"Bye, mom.” Cynthia waited until her mom stopped stirring and leaned over to give her a hug and a kiss.

“Drive safe, and good luck.”

“Thanks.” Cynthia wasn’t sure if her mom meant that part about good luck. Mom had always enjoyed going to Cynthia’s plays, but as soon as Cynthia said she wanted to audition for the arts magnet school, mom had got a little scared. "You don’t really want to be an actress," Mom had said. "What a terrible profession, especially for a woman!"

Cynthia stuffed down her irritation at the memory of her mom’s words, and instead let her monologue run through her mind. Can’t we all look at one another… goodbye to clocks ticking… do any human beings ever realize life while they live it… maybe she shouldn’t do something from Our Town. It was so last millennium. No, she liked it, and it was kind of classy. At least her musical selection was something modern, and she wasn’t singing something from Wicked like everyone else on the planet.

Cynthia pulled her car keys out of her purse and opened the front door. She was half-way to the parking lot when she noticed something was wrong.

Her car was gone. All the cars were gone. There was nothing in the parking lot but a big truck with a hose out the back of it, and some guy spraying water on the asphalt.

Bewildered, Cynthia stood and stared. Then she ran back to the house. “Mom! The car is gone!”

“What?” Mom hurried past her to take a look out the front door. “Oh! The repaving. That was today? Well, they could have…” Mom stalked across the parking lot and cornered the guy with the hose. I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the spray of the water, but Mom was giving him a good shout-down.

Mom came back at a run. “Your car’s been towed over to the visitor lot by the office.”

“What?” I wailed. That was half a block away.

“Come on,” Mom said. “I’ll drive you. I’m faster.”

I ran after Mom across the empty parking lot, headed toward the apartment offices. My perfect hair was going to be a wreck. Someday, if I ever had to play someone who was about to loose everything she ever wanted, I could come back to the absolute desperation of this moment.

 

 

#32 In Training

Jasper sat on the hard floor, his back very straight and his chin up. He hoped that if he looked confident and proud, like all the other boys, that no one would notice his tattered uniform, the patches that his grandmother had stitched in so that he could still use it. No one would guess his grandfather had sold their land to pay for his first year at this school.

One year. All he had was one year to prove he was one of the best. Then the school would let him continue to study without having to pay. He could become a soldier of the imperial army. If he didn’t make it, he’d be sent home.

The teacher’s footsteps sounded at the back of the room. Jasper didn’t turn his head, but kept staring straight toward the front. The man came in sight, his robes gently brushing the smooth wooden floor, the small white top-knot on his head bobbing solemnly.

When the man reached the front of the room he turned and looked out over the students. Jasper tried to blend in, to be like the others, for now. Soon he would want to be standing out, but not today, not when the only noticeable distinction was his poverty.

“I want you to close your eyes,” the teacher said.

Good, Jasper thought. Less chance for others to see that I’m wearing a second-hand uniform.

“Your mind is like a great, empty plain. Dry, packed earth baked under the sun. When the rains come, the water has nowhere to go. It spreads itself in an insignificant, shallow pool and then soaks in and vanishes.”

Jasper wrinkled his nose, trying hard to make a picture of a desert plain drinking up rainwater.

“Now, you stand alone in the midst of this plain, with nothing but a single, small twig. I want you to dig a mighty river, so that the water may flow swift and strong. How will you do it?”

No one answered.

“How will you do it?” the teacher raised his voice. “Tell me?”

Jasper imagined himself standing on the plain, with nothing but a tiny stick in his hand. What to do, to create a whole river with just the scratching of a stick? It seemed impossible.

But he began. He drew a line in the dirt, one single line. The water rushed in where his stick had made its mark, digging it deeper. He made the line longer, and longer, and the water followed, flowing, growing stronger. Like an irrigation canal at grandfather’s farm.

“HOW WILL YOU DO IT?” the teacher shouted.

Jasper stood up. “Sir, one stroke of the stick will channel the water, and then little by little the channel will grow.”

“YES!” the teacher said. “Your mind is like this. You will make small strokes, and your thoughts will follow. The rivers of your mind will grow and deepen, until they become a mighty current of action and power. You will learn the ways of the sword, stroke by stroke,” the teacher cast aside his robe, drew his sword, and performed a basic motion. “Until you can do this,” the motion became a whirlwind, a twirl, a flourish, a flip in the air.

The class gasped, awed.

“Any of you has the power to become a master,” the teacher said. “It will all depend on where you draw those first, simple lines in the desert of your mind. Now, get up! I will show you how we stand.”

#31 The Quest Emporium

The shop bell rang. I looked up from organizing a gleaming display of hunting knives to see a shy-looking boy walk into the shop. His eyes grew wider and wider as he took in the impressive array of equipment lining the walls.

“Good morning!” I sang out. “And how can I help you today?”

“I need some things for going on a quest,” the boy said in a quiet, hesitant voice.

“Then you’ve come to the right place!” I came around the counter and thumped him on the back. “Welcome to the ultimate quest emporium, we supply all your needs. Quest big or small, we’ll outfit them all! Now, first I’ll need to know exactly what kind of quest you’re going on.”

The boy looked confused.

“Oh, there’s all sorts of quests,” I said. “I’ve got a whole catalog here.” I thumped the large book on the counter. He gave it a look that made me think he wasn’t the reading sort, so I began to enumerate the possibilities. “First of all we need to know what size of party you’ll be traveling with. Small group, medium group, small army, large army, an entire nation, or…” I put my arm around his shoulders and gave him a wink, “An army of one, aye?”

He didn’t respond, so I kept going.

“Once we know that, we can order up your mode of transportation. Will you be going on foot? Always popular, cheap option that, recommend it if you’re questing with an entire nation, but I’ve got horses, wagons, camels, dragons…” As if to punctuate my pitch, a screech and a bright burst of flame shot in through the back window. “All in the stables out back. Sorry, I’m fresh out of giant eagles, the last fellow who came in bought the lot of them.”

The boy frowned.

“I’ll also need to know what your objective is,” I said. “Are you going to fetch something? Or perhaps deliver something? Do you know exactly where you’re headed, or is your final destination a mystery? Is your questing target stationary, or will it be moving about? Will it matter if you return, or is it imperative that you stay once you reach your goal? Also, what’s the scope of your quest? Will you be saving the kingdom? The world? Your own village? Or perhaps just one person?”

The boy swallowed. “Just one person,” He said. “And I’m the only one going, really.” He dug a very unimpressive pile of copper coins from a small pouch at his belt. “It’s my sister. I have to find her. We think the fairies took her.”

#30 The Rescue

I saw a bee floating in the water.

At first I thought it was dead, but as it drifted closer on the ocean swells I could see it was still struggling, sending out tiny ripples as it tried to beat its wings.

I wanted to help it, but I didn’t want to get stung. A leaf was drifting in the waves nearby, so I picked it up and fished the bee out of the water. It climbed onto the leaf, but would not sit still and ride. Instead, it climbed over and over the wet, slippery surface. I kept turning the leaf, gently, trying to keep the bee away from my fingers without shaking it off the leaf.

I had to move slowly toward shore, I was concentrating so hard on the strange dance of leaf and bee. At first my toes could just barely touch bottom, but soon I was walking waist-high in the water. The bee slipped and fell, and so I dangled the leaf close again so it could climb back on. It crawled and crawled, I guess trying to get as far from the water as possible, trying to find the stem that belonged to this plant that had reached down and rescued it. Only the leaf kept turning over and over, forcing it to keep changing direction.

I reached the place where the waves were breaking around my knees. Only a few more feet and I could leave the bee safely on the sand to dry its wings in the sun and ocean breeze.

The bee fell off the leaf.

This time, instead of landing in gentle ocean swells, it was swallowed by a hungry line of white surf. The churning water rushed past my feet, erasing the bee from sight. I stood and watched for a long time, but none of the bits of debris were a mostly-drowned honey bee. Twigs, leaves, that’s all I saw. The bee I had tried to save was gone.

I had made things worse. While the bee was out farther from the surf, it still had a chance. If only I hadn’t been so afraid of a sting, maybe I could have cupped it in my hands. Maybe I could have brought it safe to shore and watched it fly away. Maybe if I’d been more patient I could have found a larger leaf, or a piece of driftwood, instead of the first tiny leaf that had floated by.

In the end, I gave up searching and went back to swimming in the gentle ocean.