Samantha

“I really don’t understand why we’re doing this.”

Samantha just rolled her eyes, hoisting the coil of rope higher on her shoulder.  “We’re doing this because we were told to.”

“I know, but why,” Adrian whispered.  “Why is it so important?”

Samantha was used to these questions.  She often wondered why her cousin had followed her into the service.  It was not a place to ask questions.  But always, when they were alone, Adrian would start up on “why.”  But tonight really was not the time.  In the darkness before them Samantha could make out the walls of the compound.  Reaching back she squeezed Adrian’s arm.  There was a sharp intake of breath and Samantha knew there would be no more questions.  For now at least.

Slowing her breathing, Samantha watched the walls, searching for sentries.  No torches, no movement, no guards.  Could they really be that lucky?  Samantha did not believe in luck.  It was dangerous, made you lazy.

They approached the compound, clinging to the deep shadows of the forest.  Someone had let the trees creep almost up to the walls.  For Samantha and Adrian it was a boon, for the people behind the walls it meant death.  No, not tonight, but with war on the horizon, soon.  Samantha wished she could warn them.  She had joined the service to save the innocents.  Regardless of their allegiance, they were still women and children, men who would never fight, but who would suffer.  Samantha pushed the thoughts from her head.  The war had not come yet, may never come to this secluded stronghold.  Especially if their mission was successful.

They were within feet of the rear wall of the compound.  Samantha slipped the rope from her shoulder.  Her palms warmed through her gloves as she ran the rope through her hands, feeling for the hook and keeping her eyes on the top of the wall.

A silent prayer floated up into the darkness as Samantha swung the hook.  She did not know what they would find over the wall.  Hopefully a sleeping village, but the gods only knew.

The hook bit into the hardened clay bricks of the compound wall.  Samantha tugged to set them.  Whatever awaited, it was time to find out.

Forgot Something Important

Alan touched the naked spot at the base of his ring finger with the tip of his thumb for the millionth time that evening.  No warm, hard metal. 

For twenty years he had never left the house without his wedding band.  He felt so incomplete without it now.  Like he was undressed or exposed somehow.  His thumb rubbed over the area again.

Kathy smiled across the table at him.  “How is your steak?”

“Oh, just great.  Perfect.”

“Is something wrong with your hand?  You keep rubbing your finger.”

“Oh, no.  Just an itch.”

He felt wretched for lying to Kathy.  But how could he tell her the truth.  And what about Sarah?  She would understand, he knew.  She was always so understanding.  But it was still a betrayal.  And now he was lying! 

This had all been a huge mistake.  He wasn’t ready.  He would never be ready.  He just couldn’t do this.  He had been a fool to listen to Mark!

Slowly he pushed his plate away.  “Listen, Kathy, I have had a great time but…”

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I am not very good at this.  It’s been a while since I was on a date.”

“Me too,” he admitted.

“To be honest, I almost didn’t come out tonight.  I mean, you are lovely.  I think you are a great guy, but I… I just can’t do it yet.  It’s just too soon. Mark insisted…  He said you were so wonderful.  Just my type…”

Alan stared across the table at her.  Why was she saying the exact same things he was thinking? 

She took a sip of her wine, her eyes avoiding his.   “But I am not ready for another relationship.  I shouldn’t tell you this, but my husband died.  Just a year ago.  I thought it was time to get back out there, but I am not ready.”

Alan dropped his silverware.  The sharp sound made her look up startled.

“Sarah died a year, seven months, and five days ago.  I’m not ready either.”

The Secret of Smell

I have often wondered how do dogs smell? Not the physical act of smelling, but how the brain registers and categorizes smell. A rose for example.  To me, roses smell old and bitter.  Of course they elicit thoughts of romance and love, but that is purely conditioning.  How would a rose smell to Harrison, though?  I guess this could be applied to any animal and any sense.  How does chocolate taste to a hippopotamus or silk feel to a bird?  Without reference it is difficult to comprehend. 

Does my best friend experience the same flood of memory at a whiff of Stetson as I do?  Impossible.  Perhaps similar images and memories rush through her brain, but she cannot remember hugging Popsie as we met him at the airport or snuggling up on his mattress while watching a movie with the family on Sioux Trail.  Popsie wore Stetson.  And washed with Irish Spring. 

That is the trick to being a writer.  You must take this completely individual idea of smell or taste and present it to your reader while keeping your fingers crossed that they will go with you.  You must make them taste with your character or at least believe that she is having an honest reaction.  A woman born and bred on cayenne laced crawfish in Louisiana is probably not going to balk at a tandoori chicken or fragrant curry.  Although an argument could be made for spices from other regions affecting her differently, more poignantly, than those she is used to, her palate is used to some heat and she would therefore not be knocking over glasses desperate for a gulp of mango lassi to cool her inflamed tongue.  The same goes for smell and touch. 

Each person has their own way of experiencing – a certain chain of thought linked to individual memories and emotions.  A writer must find a way to convince the reader who hates veggies that perhaps, just for a moment, they are the most wonderful food on the planet.  Even if they are brussel sprouts.  

Gods

Disgusted, Hera threw the magazine into the fire.  The glossy pages bubbled as they caught.

“Stupid, arrogant...  How could he write such lies!”

“Are they lies,” Zeus asked.  He stared innocently into his Metaxa, swirling the glass in his hand so that the ice cubes clinked softly against the glass.  “After all, our daughter is younger.  You cannot blame Paris for finding her youth more alluring.”

Hera clenched her jaw in furry.  If looks were daggers her beloved husband would be a pincushion.  She reached for her own glass on the marble mantle and finished it off in one gulp.

“Had you read the article,” she hissed, “You would know that insolent gossip monger was not comparing Aphrodite and me as we are today.  No, no, he says she is more beautiful than I ever was!”

Zeus sighed.  “My dear, you are reading too much into this.  It is just a ploy.  Sensational stories sell.”

Despite the heat of the room and fire of her anger, Hera felt cold.  She crossed her arms across her chest.  Goosebumps rose as the gold bangles on her wrists chilled her skin through the silk of her gown. 

He was seeing someone else.  But she didn’t want to tell the marriage counselor that.  She had started this process in good faith.  Actually thinking they could save their marriage.  The signs were all there, though, just like last time.  

Silence

I wasn’t concerned, at first, when the voices stopped.  Well, to be completely honest, I didn’t even notice.  There were too many things to do – too many night of reckless abandon getting drunk at the bar just sitting around a patio table chain smoking and talking about politics, religion, the state of the country today; modern day philosophers on an American Legion porch in the middle of Nowhere, USA.  But one day they were just gone. 

How long had it been?  Weeks?  Months?  Looking back, I couldn’t pinpoint when the silence would have started.  No life altering moments in my recent history.  But, perhaps that was the problem.  I shrugged it off.  They had gone quiet before.  It happens from time to time.  We just run out of things to say to each other.  They come back, though, when they’re ready – when I’m ready.

After a few more months, I began to worry.  They had never been gone this long.  At first I had been relieved.  I enjoyed the silence, my mind not constantly spinning, the voices not shouting over one another to be heard.  But now the silence frightened me. 

I have never been good at being alone.  Maybe that’s why the voices started.  Now they were quiet and I was lost.  I struggled to fill the day with more voices – real voices.  It worked most of the time.  But every night, as I lay staring at the ceiling, their absence was a sharp needle slipping through my ribs and into my heart.  I could feel the silence sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe.  What if they never came back?

From Under a Hot Pink Umbrella

Originally I posted this on my blog about living in Japan, but since I think it fits a little better here.  I was just so excited to be writing again!  You can see the influence of living in Osaka during the rainy season, though.  I never really thought about the social interactions that can happen under an umbrella before.


From Under a Hot Pink Umbrella

The rain was lighter now, a gentle tapping on his umbrella, like a woman’s fingers on a tsuzumi, with the occasional loud pom of a tsuri daiko as collected rain dropped down from the trees.  His shoes were soaked and his toes were starting to feel stiff with cold.  But somehow, they were still not leading him home.

It was a rare fall rainstorm.  He had been caught off guard.  Forced to buy an umbrella at the convenient sore, he was stuck with a hot pink one.  He smiled as he thought of how this must look to the squirrels and birds waiting out the storm in the branches above – a man in a charcoal suit, with a burgundy tie, and a hot pink umbrella.

The parks was no on his usual route home.  In fact, it was in the opposite direction.  Was it the patter patter of the rain on the umbrella or the vibrant colors brought out by the rain that had led him down a different path this evening?  Did it really matter?

He sat down on a bench.  He shivered as the rain soaked into his pants.  After the long, stifling summer it was a welcome sensation to be chilled.  The thought of a cold crossed his mind, but was quickly dismissed as a problem for tomorrow. 

           

He looked out at the park from under his hot pink umbrella.  The shelter added a warm glow to everything.  Through the curtain of rain, the park seemed more alive than on any sunny day.  The greens, what was left of them, were vibrant as the first blades of grass in spring.  The path glistened inky black as if it were liquid rather than asphalt.  The first red leaves burned among their green brethren.

He curled his toes in his shoes, trying to warm them.  It would be time to go soon.  It was already noticeably darker.  There was a little less sparkle and the further trees were harder to see.

With a grunt, he pushed himself up from the bench.  The wet spot on his pants, which had begun to warm, was suddenly icy cold.  He gasped a little in surprise.

Maybe he would stop for a hot coffee on the way home.

***

She sniffed and rubbed her nose across the back of her hand.  Wet strands of hair clung to her face.

If it had been summer, she would not have minded forgetting her umbrella at home that morning.  But it was fall and the rain was cold.  It was refreshing, but she would rather experience it from the protection of an umbrella.  Or at least a more waterproof jacket.

She pulled the flaps of her father’s old pea coat tighter around herself.  The smell of wet wool reminded her of weekends spent at the shore.  She smiled.

Across the park she noticed a man in a dark suit sitting under a hot pink umbrella.  He was staring up into the leaves, his mind far away.  She glanced up to see what he could be so interested in. 

A large drop of water hit her square in the left eye.  She flinched.

Smiling at the man who had still not seen her, she continued through the park toward home.

***

They stood at the corner, waiting for the signal to cross. 

They shivered as the rain began to fall harder. 

“Excuse me,” he said, holding the hot pink umbrella toward her.

“Oh no, I’m fine,” she replied.  “I’m already soaked through.”

           

“Please.  It’s getting cold.”

“But your suit.”

He smiled, small wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes betraying his age.  “It’s too late for me too.”

“I really couldn’t.”

“What if we shared?”

It was an interesting proposition.  In this city, one never got too close to strangers.  Even in crowded subway cars, when contact was necessary, people managed to keep a micro thin layer of personal space.

His smile tempted her.  But as the rain picked up to a steady downpour, she was compelled to take a small step toward him, into the strange pink light under the umbrella.

The sound of rain on the umbrella was a dull roar, like a speaker blasting white noise after the record has been removed but the ac is still on.  The smell of wet wool filled the small shelter.

The signal changed.  Without thinking, she took his arm as they crossed the street.

After a block, the rain began to taper off.  They did not break away from each other, though.  They had become accustomed to the slight warmth of their contact.  Night had come.  The street lights flickered to life.  They continued down the glistening street, under the warm glow of the hot pink umbrella.

Resurrection

Not a soul haunted the high street at that ungodly hour.  Fog, heavy with the smell of the sea, dripped from the buildings and made the cobbles slick and dangerous.  A lamp flickered in the gloom.  Two shadows emerged from the close, dragging a heavy burden between them.  They paused, the clouds of their ragged breath blending with the fog on that cold night.  They listened.

A skirl of pipes, accompanied by drunken singing, floated up from the World’s End.  Nothing close, no one would be out on a night like this.  Their breathing had returned to normal.  The shadows hefted the burden between them and continued on their wicked errand.

The young man paced the length of his shabby flat, a ragged nail clenched between his teeth.  His heart raced at every sound from the street below.  His other hand fingered the payment in his pocket.  A good sum, to be sure, but was it enough to buy someone’s soul?

A colleague had put him in touch with the Resurrectionists.  It had been a simple business transaction - conducted over a pint, in a pub full of unknowing witnesses.  As he hurried from the meeting, he imagined some of the patrons watching him, watching the horns sprout from his head. 

The table was cleared and spread with a cheap wool cloth.  Under the cloth, newspaper had been piled to soak up any excess fluids.  More newspaper covered the floor.  He had borrowed lanterns from his neighbors and positioned them at all corners of the table.  Candles filled every surface.  He would need as much light as possible.  But not yet.  Once the body was delivered, he would light the candles.  Not before.

He chewed at the fingernail, the moral dilemma raging in his head.  He meant to be a doctor.  It had been his dream since he was a little boy.  He had come to Edinburgh to study medicine at the finest school in the world.  His professors were some of the brightest minds in medicine.  But there were too many students and not enough bodies.  After two years he had only been three feet from a cadaver. 

He had ideas, cures that were sure to help hundreds, if he could just get his hands on a body.    Desperate, he had sought out the Resurrectionists. 

As the hour of delivery approached, however, his heart began to waiver.  It was someone’s father, brother, husband that the Resurrectionists brought to him tonight.  Even worse – it could be a young mother.  Who was he to pull this poor soul from their eternal rest just to test a theory?  A theory that might save hundreds of souls, he told himself.  What knowledge he could gleen from this one wretch could save lives.  Was that not enough to earn the mercy of the Heavenly Father?  He struggled to convince himself it was.  His motives were pure, he worked for the betterment of mankind – God’s children.  It was far more damning if he just sat by and watched them suffer when he knew he could help.  One body, one soul, was not too much to ask. 

Shoes scraped on the cobbles below.  Someone was coming.  There was the sound of people on the stairs.

The young man held his breath. 

There was a sharp rap on the door.  Hell or no, he had come too far.  He opened the door.

The smell of damp earth, whisky, and death follow the Resurrection Men into the apartment. 

“Doctor,” the taller man said.

The doctor inclined his head, his voice had failed him.

“Should we throw him on the table?”

“Yes,” the doctor whispered.

They dropped the shrouded corpse onto the floor next to the table and began to uncover it.  “Bring one of them candles closer so you can inspect the merchandise.”

The young doctor did as he was told.  He should not allow these men to speak to him that way, but he was too frightened to refuse. 

“You got the money,” the shorter of the pair asked.

“I must see how fresh it is,” the doctor replied.

“Just put him in the ground this morning,” the tall man said grabbing the corpse by the shoulders and hauling him onto the table. 

Taking a breath, the doctor stepped toward his patient.  The time for doubt and God were past, Science must rule him now.  It was a young man.  Maybe a little older than the doctor himself.  The candle light shone on the youth’s pale face.  It is a familiar face.  A face the doctor has not seen in many years, but he knew this man.  They had grown up together, gone to school together.  They had been friends.

“What’s the matter doc, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” the taller man joked. Their barking laughter ripped through the quite apartment. 

“Get out,” the doctor said, pushing them toward the door.  He shoved the payment into their open hands before they could even protest and slammed the door in their faces. 

Alone again, he stared at the body on the table.  This body, this soul, was it too much to ask?

His hands shaking, he lit the lanterns at the corners of the table.  God forgive him.  In the morning he would pray, but now there was work to be done.