Little Chicken

I was in my bed when the sky fell. Almost everyone I have ever met remembers where they were when the sky fell. I was in my bed. I lay there and looked up and watched as it slowly sank through my ceiling. It was translucent but I could reach up and feel its almost silk like quality as it slipped through my fingers. It was black, and shimmery and seemed to waft down slowly until it had sunk through the floor of my room.

I think I would have been more shocked, more upset, and above all else more observant of that important matter had I actually believed myself to be awake. Instead I decided that this was far too strange to have actually happened and went back to sleep. It was only later that night when I heard the house surrounded my sirens and people's screams. I ran out of my bed room, which was windowless, and into the living room to see what was going on. It was only once I was around windows that I could see that something was very wrong. There was a strong white light that was shining through every window of the house.

There were houses on fire, there were people screaming and wailing in the street and I was fairly sure that I could see at least one person who was hanging from one of the lampposts. It was the sky that seemed far more important however. No matter what chaos reigned on earth I had always had the idea the sky would last forever, now however it was nothing but a blank shining white. It was as if everything around the earth had been erased, completely cleared of everything.

Now that it has been a couple of years, scientists have been trying to explain everything, though all they really have what people at the time observed. It all happened so quickly that there were no actual scientific observations taken. It was a sad fact but no one even could say what caused the sky, which had been up for so long, had suddenly decided to fall. What they could say was that what we had always thought of as being an endless expanse had in fact been a cloth like cover around our world, that floated around us with a bluish half and a black half. What we had always thought of as clouds and stars had been tares in that fabric of the sky. Now that the sky was gone the background was revealed for what it was, a shining colorless place that we now were forced to accept for how things were.

Adjustments had to be made to our lifestyles, we had never considered things that we were now forced to deal with every day. The lack of day and night was a good example of this, the hours were indistinguishable and it caused huge psychological strain and damage and caused several new mental diseases to be created. In response screens that faked the changes of light quality they had had at one time were created. It was a inadequate way to deal with the problem but it was something.

To be continued...

Rules to Live By II

To be honest at all times had been easy for Rick, it had been in his nature to began with. To be considerate to everyone was more difficult for him. It was so simple to lose his temper a little and find himself wanting to say things that he knew he would regret. If he was to do something like swear to be considerate to everyone he was going to do it all the time and that was where he found himself having trouble. If it was only considerate to some people, or those people who were considerate to him, Rick would have had no difficulties. It was to be considerate to all people all the time that he found himself wishing he had never thought of. There were times in school in particular that he found himself wanting to say things that he knew that while certainly honest, would break his other rule. He gained a reputation for being a quiet kid and he could deal with that what was more upsetting that he couldn't vent.

Quiet, sophisticated, and gentlemanly, that was the reputation that Rick graduated high school with. It didn't get him anywhere and it didn't grant him any happiness but it was a start. It wasn't until he reached the world of adults that his way of life started to net him results. Even in high school though he had discovered that his new personal rules was a good way to attract girls. Girls seemed to like gentlemen but that did not meant that Rick enjoyed dating. One of the things that he discovered was that girls would take advantage of his kindness so he avoided dating in general after the first couple of times.

This led to his final rule, he wasn't going to let himself get taken advantage of. It was difficult to be a nice person without offending people. Still he seemed to manage. It was his final rule, to do what was right for him, to be honest, and to be considerate to others, there seemed to be very little to add to that. Many years later he told all of this to his son and his son stared at him like he was crazy. A few years later though, Rick was humored to find that his son had become a lot more considerate. It was a circle that would continue through the generations and it spread until their clan was almost famous in the country. Doors were open, they gained important positions, and through their philosophies their name would give you friends even if they had never known you yourself.

Rules to Live By

“Make your own rules, if you make your own rules you'll stay right,” the man laughed and leaned back. The only other person in the room was a young man, leaning against the opposite wall, he looked like he was almost asleep but the man knew he was paying attention. “You know what I'm saying Rick?”

“Yeah, don't follow other people's rules,” said the young man in his sleepy voice.

“No, no, you don't get it at all,” said the man. “I'm not telling you to go off a rebel. That won't get you anywhere in this world.”

“So what did you mean?” asked Rick lazily.

“I mean you've got to have your own code you live by.”

“What sort of code?” asked the young man. He still didn't seem very interested by the other man had known him his whole life and knew that was just his way. His nephew had been born looking bored the man suspected.

“What code you live by is up to you, that's what makes it yours,” said the man. Then he stood, patted his nephew on the back and went into the kitchen to say goodbye to his sister, the young man's mother.

The next day the man got onto the army airplane and left for war. He is considered among the many dead of the war, though they never found an actual body. This was the last conversation he had with his nephew, the last words they spoke to one another, which is perhaps the reason the young man thought about them so much. Thinking about them as much as he did he made them his own, they became his words to live by. Don't be a rebel but have a code, one that's all yours.

The young man didn't rush his choices about how to live and he didn't create his list all at once. He thought about each and inspected every one, tasting them and getting their feel. By his second year of high school he had found the first thing he considered to be important enough to put on the list, honesty

It wasn't as if the young man had ever been much of a liar to start with. He had always told the truth so long as the truth wouldn't do him any harm. Like everyone else though when it looked like telling the truth would get him in trouble he would stretch it and manipulate it to his convenience. This only worked for so long. Soon people started to ask questions that Rick would rather not answer and when he would tell them something other then the truth he would discover they had known the truth the whole time and were just testing him. It was these multiple traps that people set for him that had him finally decide it was easier to get yelled at right away then make people more angry and get yelled at later.

This policy of honesty started to transfer over to other things. It soon became honesty in general and it hadn't even been with the intention of finding something to live his life by that he started to live in as much honesty as is possible for a imperfect human. It was only one day that he was once again thinking about his uncle's parting words that the young man discovered that he had a entry in his code of rules already, honesty had become a way of life.

With his first rule quickly came the second, they fed into one another, his second rule caused by his first. Honesty in life is a good thing until you start saying things in a hurtful way, or when it isn't solicited, honest or not. There was a difference between being an honest person and being cruel and Rick started to become unpopular. He was forced to reassess what he had been doing, he was young, and didn't always see things right away but it didn't take long for him to realize that it was bad to say things just because they were what you were thinking. It wasn't any less honest to just say nothing at all.

To be continued...

AGAIN?!

As is the fate of anyone who can't afford high quality electronics I am having technical difficulties again, which is why this hasn't been updated for a time. I am sorry but I will be up again in a couple of days with any luck.

The Pirates' Cooper VI

“You are the only man who has any wood working skill on this ship? Your carpenter is dead?” The gun was now trained on me and I felt like I could already feel the bullet enter my skin and smell the gunpowder.

“Yes sir, that’s right.” At this moment Jack came out of the cabin, still shaking and pale. He didn’t speak a word to us but went to the pirate side of the ship and sat down without looking anywhere but the deck. The pirates guffawed and cracked jokes and I could only think that I was next. I was not mistaken.

“Your turn,” announced the quarter master motioning to the door to the captain’s quarters. I didn’t even bother to look to see if there was still a gun pointed at me, I knew that there would be. I turned and faced the gate of hell and slowly I walked to the door, feeling like my feet had turned into lead.

The captain of the pirates was seated behind the desk of Captain Johansson which had been cleared of all its usual clutter. The only things on it were a lamp, a document with a quill and a pistol.

“You are the cooper?” asked the captain. I nodded, I had become mute in this mans presence.

“Do you have a wife, or children?” he demanded. I shook my head.

“Do you have a tongue?”

“Yes sir,” I spoke in a whisper.

“Then you will speak. Are you a married man?”

“No sir.”

“Then you have nothing to tie you to shore and you will join us,” declared the captain.

“No sir. I have a father to take care of; please don’t deprive him of my income. Would you see my father starve?”

“If he is your father then he must be old and then due to die. Why live to miserable old age when you can live a short, glorious life? No, you shall not be spared for the life of your parent for we have use of a cooper. You see,” the captain gave a dry smile, “we do lots of trade and a cooper is a person we do not yet have on our ship. If your carpenter was still alive we might have passed over you but now it cannot be.” I actually fell to my knees.

“Please, I could not live knowing that my father was slowly fading away with no one to provide for him. Do you have no compassion?”

“So you wish to die?” asked the captain coldly. “Do you understand the meaning of the pistol on this desk?” I shook my head though I could form a fairly good idea.

“It means that you either sign our articles or I shoot you, choose as you like.”

Slowly I stood and picked up the quill. I was just about to sign when the captain yanked the paper from me.

“Now, now, we wouldn’t want you to sign a contract you didn’t understand. It would be horrible to think that you might be forced into agreeing to something you didn’t like.” His smile told me that he was going to milk this for all it was worth.

“Article one: Every man shall keep his arms in condition for engagement at all times and neglecting in this shall result in losing his share in the next prize.

Article two: On meeting a virtuous woman any man who should meddle with her shall suffer death.

To be continued...

The Pirates' Cooper V

Now the Captain of the pirates stood in front of us again. He had taken on an almost god like air to most of us. He was the man who had taken on the unbeatable and won. He had freed us, if only for a moment, from tyranny.

“The life of a pirate frees you from men such as him. No man gets more food then another, no man gets special privileges, every man gets a say in what happens on the ship. No man can treat you like that. Who will join us?”

I watched as my crewmates mulled over this proposition. There were a few feet of deck between our crew and the pirate crew but it seemed to me to be the line between life and death. Slowly the cabin boy shuffled forward in total silence. I was a little surprised, he was only a boy after all, nearly fifteen, and he had never struck me as a vicious or bloody minded person. Emboldened by the boy’s action three more men walked forward, they were bolder acting then the boy. They sauntered over to stand with the pirates and one of them even spit in the direction of the captain but not a one of them looked our crew in the face. The captain of the pirates nodded his approval and strode into Captain Johansson’s cabin. A few minuets later the men who had agreed to join the pirates were ushered one by one into the cabin.

The man who I took to be the quarter master of the pirates continued to stand in front of us, watching us carefully. He had been the first to board our ship and he was by far the one most on guard in the pirates. While the pirates gloated over the wealth they had discovered and talked about which port they should sell the fabric in for the best price. The quarter master seemed to be the only man unaffected by the loot. Eventually one of the men who had just left our crew brought him the ships book and the quarter master opened it. He ran his finger down the list of names I knew to be at the front of the book. I had seen the captain enter my name on that very list when I had signed aboard.

His finger paused halfway down the list. “Jack Thatcher, you play the fiddle?”

I thought Jack was going to die right there and he nearly did. When he didn’t respond at first a man from the pirate crew drew his pistol and pointed it at him. It was obvious enough who was Jack, he was the one who had turned pale and was shaking.

“Answer the question,” demanded the pirate with the gun.

“I do,” Jack looked around at the rest of us, looking for a rescue but human nature is not so kind. We all stood, looking straight ahead and hoping against hope that we were not the next people to attract the man’s attention.

“Go into the cabin, the captain would like to ask you some questions.” Jack looked for a second at the pistol’s barrel and then walked into the captain’s quarters like a man walking to the scaffold. That was a bad thought; he might be doing just that. I would have prayed for his safety but at that moment I was to busy with concerns of my own safety. I watched with bated breath as the quartermaster’s finger ran down the list again, and then stop.

“Mark Stutter, the cooper, step forward.” I froze, I swear I couldn’t have moved from that spot had God himself commanded me to. “Mark Stutter will step forward or by the Devil I will start shooting you one by one until he does,” bellowed the quarter master and he looked as if he meant it. My neighbors, in an act of self preservation, pushed me forward.

To be continued...

The Pirates' Cooper IV

After a time the Captain of the pirates boarded our ship as well but our own Captain didn’t return. The Captain of the pirates paced in front of us while two of his crew trained their pistols at us. Suddenly he rounded on us.

“How does your captain treat you,” he demanded. We blinked, this was an unexpected question and it was met with some hesitation.

“Come on, speak up, and if I find that you have been lying to me I will shoot you. There is nothing I hate more then being lied to.” He pulled out his pistol and one bold man stepped forward.

“He treats us rather poorly sir.” The man flinched as if he expected the Captain to shoot him but the Captain surprised him by suddenly going friendly.

“Really, how does he treat you badly,” he purred.

“He beats us for no reason at all sometime except that he is in a bad mood,” spoke up the man standing before him.

“And he eats well but put us on half rations, claming there isn’t enough food,” spoke up another man clearly made brave by the fact that our companion had not yet been killed. The list of complaints from the round robin soon surfaced.

“He nearly killed Thomas.”

“He swore he would put me onto a navy ship before he paid me my wages.”

The Captain listened to all of this with a grim smile on his lips and then beckoned over the man who had been in charge of the men when they first came over.

“I think it’s time to bring this Captain Johansson back to his ship, what do you think?”

“Yes sir,” replied the man and he took a couple of men and returned to the pirate ship. Now that it was closer I could see the words The Ranger inscribed on its bow. They soon returned with Captain Johansson with them. He looked pale and he could barely climb up the side of the ship to the deck which made him the item of much hilarity amongst the pirates. I wished the Captain would show a little more courage in front of the savages or they would think the whole crew weak for letting such a man lord over them. No sooner did Captain Johansson stand on deck but the Pirate captain floored him with one powerful blow to the face.

“Do you know why men like me become pirates?” Demanded the pirate captain, standing over Captain Johansson like an avenging angel, “it’s captains like you. You think that you can do what ever you want because the law won’t punish you but I’ll be damned if I don’t make you rue the day that you were born.” He turned to his crew. “Do what you want to him.”

The pirates fell onto Captain Johansson and striped him to the waist and tied him up. They then set candles up around the mast and lit them. They placed the captain next to the mast and surrounded him and then lit all of the candles. We watched in fascination and some horror as they made the Captain run around the mast inside the circle of lit candles and pricked him with the tips of their swords. The Captain was soon sobbing with exhaustion and pain but they kept at him as blood and sweat splattered the deck as he ran. Finally he fell, unable to move another step; they dragged him up, tied him to the mast and turned their attention to us. I don’t think there was one among us who didn’t feel a little pity for the captain but I also don’t think there was one among us who didn’t feel a little triumph. The source of our misery was now reduced to a half-conscious, sobbing mess.

To be continued...

The Pirates' Cooper III

As the cruse continued the captain grew more and more paranoid, perhaps he was in the right as far as that was concerned. The crew couldn’t take much more of his abuse. He beat one man about the head until he was only half senseless and then sent him up the mast. Everyone agreed that it was a miracle the man didn’t fall. The carpenter had fallen overboard; supposedly, but he had been an experienced sailor and it seemed unlikely that he would do such a thing. It was generally agreed that falling overboard on a clear night without a cloud in sight was a mistake that only inexperienced sailors made. It was a well known fact that the carpenter had been very outspoken in his dislike for the captain. A round robin had started to be passed around though most of the crew hadn’t reached that point yet. More names were added to it by the day however and it looked as if there would be a confrontation in the near future if we didn’t reach a port soon. A port would solve all of our problems all we would have to do is leave ship and never return to her. It would mean that we wouldn’t get paid but it would be worth it to get away from the tyrant of a captain. We showed no sign of stopping at a harbor however.

The round robin had been going around for a week when another ship came into sight. Tension was pretty high on the ship at this point. The captain knew that something was up and was being, if anything more brutal and cruel then before. In response to this more and more people signed the round robin which was hid in a different man’s chest each night. I suppose that it was resentment against the captain that caused the man on watch to not report the other ships presence immediately. Instead he waited until he could see more then just the mast before he ran to the captain.

The captain instantly pulled out his glass and looked to see what flag the ship sported. No one was really concerned about what nation the country was from, England was at peace, but if it was a ship from England then we would hail each other and trade gossip which appealed to us all. We all crowded the rails and for once the Captain allowed us to without a shout or a cuff. This was the first time we had seen another ship since we had left the harbor. As the ship came closer to us however, the English flag was lowered and fear gripped us. In the place of the Union Jack a black flag was slowly raised and we could see men with swords and muskets waiting until we were in range of their weapons.

Captain Johansson surrendered without a fight. All it took was the Captain of the pirate ship to hail us across the water to stand down and Johansson ordered our flag to be lowered. My heart sank, most of the crew seemed satisfied with the Captain’s decision to fight but then they didn’t run much risk this way. Who among them would have a reason to fight and perhaps die for the owner’s money? They would get paid anyway and pirates were notoriously cruel to people who resisted. I however ran a great amount of danger from our capture. It was a well known fact that pirates were always looking for skilled crafts men to join their crews and they didn’t always ask nicely.

The captain of the pirate ship ordered that Captain Johansson come across to his ship so several of the crew lowered a boat and the Captain stepped in a was rowed in. As soon as he stepped on board the pirate ship some of them jumped into our ship’s boat and made our men row them over. The pirates boarded our ships with swords and guns in hand and they lined us up on the deck. I had considered hiding below deck until they went away and only fear that they would catch me stopped me from doing so. I was thankful I hadn’t. The first thing they did once they had us all lined up was to tare the insides of the ship apart to gather everything of value around the mast, they would have quickly found any man who was trying to escape their clutches in the hold. There wasn’t a place on the ship that escaped the scavengers.

There was a bit of commotion when they entered the Captain’s rooms. We watched as all of the money that had been allotted to trade as well as the Captain’s fine wine was added to the heap on the deck. Also added to the pile was a kettle, the medicine chest, three spare outfits of the Captain’s, a spare sail and rigging, one of the galleys pans, a large portion of the ships provisions, and our entire cargo of fabric. I was surprised to see the weapons were kept in a separate pile; it was also the only pile anyone took anything from. One man walked up and took the Captain’s dueling pistols from the stack and no one stopped him. Other then that however the piles were only added to and not once did I see anyone pocket so much as a copper.

To be continued...

The Pirates' Cooper II

As for my pay I was earning far more then I had ever expected to make when I was living on land. At first I saved my pay like my father, a thrifty man, had taught me. Unfortunately I soon set my behavior by the example of my companions and my savings disappeared. I took to gambling in my free time with the rest of the crew and several times did I lose the entirety of my pay in this way. When I didn’t lose all of my pay through bad luck with dice I lost it in taverns and brothels soon after we would put to shore. It didn’t matter where we landed, by the end of the week my money would be gone and even I couldn’t tell where. The only portion of my money that didn’t go this was the money that I set aside out of every pay to send to my brothers to assist in the support of my father. I couldn’t think of not helping them while I had money in my pockets and not even the prettiest girl in town could have pried that money from my hand. I might not consider my fathers house to be my home anymore but I still had my duty to him as his son.

I was in this destitute state one day and decided to take a walk down to the Sign of the Mermaid. It was one of those taverns that sits next to the harbor and thrives on the sea trade. Sailors found their way there when they were looking for work and captains found their way there when they we short on hands. It was also a good place to check and see that a captain you were considering sailing with treated his crew in a proper fashion. I had sailed with a bad captain once before and it was a mistake I never wanted to repeat if I had a choice. That night I heard that Captain Johansson was looking for an entire crew. He was a fresh new captain with a fresh new ship and no one really knew much about either of them but I needed the money so I went in search of the man at his lodgings.

I can’t say that I was impressed by Captain Johansson. He was too inexperienced and far too eager to prove himself. Such captains tend to be over eager to assert their authority as well. Had I been in a better position financially I would waited until I could find a better job but I was one meal away from starvation. Besides, who knew when there would be another ship, the industry was in a slump and people who had a job were holding on to them. I moved my sea chest on board that very night.

We sailed that very Friday which caused a bit of talk on board the ship. It is a well known fact that sailing on a Friday is bad luck but the captain dismissed our comments and declared he wasn’t going to fall behind schedule for a superstition. We raised our eyebrows at this but said nothing. It hadn’t got bad yet, it would and later people would say that we had all been punished for our foolish sailing day.

I had been right about the captain; he was a very overbearing man once we were at sea. The crew grew to hate him very quickly but there is very little that a crew can do at sea about their captain, or on land for that matter. The captain’s word is law and he reigns higher then God for most sailors, after all he can dictate that we work on Sundays and holds the power of life and death for those who disobey him. He is a man above the law and every sailor must acknowledge this. I just did my job and kept out of his way, I was lucky; my job meant that I rarely crossed his path. The only time that this wasn’t the case was when all hands was piped; it was then that I felt the lash across my back. I make a very poor sailor. My knowledge of ships continues to be only of their barrels and wood and when asked to assist in the working of one I made a very clumsy and slow hand. More then once did I feel the blows of the quarter master but I still got off better then most on that ship.

To be continued...

The Pirates' Cooper

I am sorry to leave off in the middle of a story, and I know I already posted a story with this title so let me explain. This is the kick off for National Novel Writing Month, and I participate every year. So I have yet to finish a complete novel in the month as it is and I sure don't have the time to also write a page a day of short stories. So I will post a page a day of my first Nanowrimo story instead. I had more pages then there are days in a month so I thought I would start posting now. Thank you for your understanding.

I watched as the ship disappeared into the distance with more despair then I can even begin to describe. At this point it would be better to just jump off the ship and drown myself. I had been on that ship two hours before, three hours ago it had been sailing peacefully through the waves and I had been going about my day to day business. I had been on better ships in the past but at the moment I would be willing to give up all payment and work twenty four hours a day until it reached port just to be back on it.

After such a dramatic declaration I suppose that it would be best to explain what had happened. I am only a normal man and unused to telling stories so I pray that the reader will excuse the clumsy and uneducated way that I tell my tale and will indulge me.

My father was a cooper and he taught my brothers and I well. I had three brothers but one died when he was twelve due to sickness and suddenly I was the youngest of the family. My father had a fine business but it couldn’t support three men so as we got older it became more and more obvious one of us would have to leave. There wasn’t any discussion about it, no one ever mentioned that belts had to be tightened and there wasn’t enough work for us all but we kept watching one another and it soon became obvious to me that I would be the one who would have leave. It was only natural since I was the youngest and the less experienced.

It wasn’t easy finding work in the city. There were already plenty of coopers around and many of them were looking for work. The money that could be made reflected this and even had someone been willing to hire a journeyman cooper I couldn’t have lived on what I would have been paid. I couldn’t let this stop my resolution to leave my fathers house though, I couldn’t be a burden on my brother any longer and so I wandered down to the docks. This was truly a last resort. Ships coming in and out of the harbor were always looking for coopers but it was hard work surrounded by hard men. It was only the thought of my brothers that enabled me walk up to a ships captain I had heard was looking for help and offer my services. I wasn’t sure if I was happy or not when he accepted me in spite of my inexperience. My brothers didn’t come to see me off but they did each give me a quick hug as I left the house for the last time and my father gave me a nod, a reward for having done the right thing. I never returned to that house.

The next few years were spent accustoming myself to the new world that I lived in. At first I only went on short voyages, around England nearby countries. As I grew more accustomed to life aboard merchant ships I traveled farther and farther from home. During this time I learned all that was expected of me. During the constant movement of the ship damage occurred to the barrels in the hold. It was my duty to replace destroyed casks and repair the ones that were damaged. I also sometimes helped the ships carpenter with his work and when all hands were called I had to report with the rest. For the most part I was in an enviable position however. While the sailors were forced battle all weather I was rarely forced to come above deck if I didn’t wish to. I was also able to keep slightly more regular hours which was a relief.

To be continued...

The Godfry Kidnapping

I realized when I was looking through the stories I have put on here that I have a lot about criminals and none about the enforcers of laws. I thought I would change that.

“Come out calmly, with your hands in the air,” I said, even though I didn’t expect the guy inside to actually listen to me, he didn’t. There were some things that they made us say even when it wouldn’t do any good. That was one of them. I mean it wasn’t like I was good at talking anyway, that wasn’t part of the job really. I was part of the kidnap squad of the city’s police force and most of the communication that went through my hands was either police reports or ransom notes, in both cases they were generally poorly written. Neither job, cop nor gangster, required a lot of literacy. I have to admit that most of the time I liked reading the ransom notes more, some of them were amazingly creative and it was always a challenge to think of ways to get around the conditions they would place on the delivery of the ransom money. I don’t want to make it seem like I was on the kidnappers side, ever, I hate kidnapping passionately but police reports have a form behind them that gangsters don’t have to follow.

“I don’t want to have to shoot,” I said, and I was telling the truth. Every time I opened fire I got an earful from the chief about alarming neighborhoods. There was also always the risk that I would accidentally shoot the kidnapped victim which would be a public relations nightmare.

I waited for some noise from inside the apartment I was facing but all was silent. Someone had responded to my knock a few minutes before so I knew I wasn’t on a wild goose chase but I wasn’t getting anywhere talking to someone who wouldn’t respond anyway. This was the only lead I had had on the kidnappers the whole week and I wasn’t about to let anything get in my way. I kept my gun in one hand as I tried the door handle with the other. The officers behind me tensed, ready to shoot if anyone tried to take my head off.

The room was empty, with a window at the far end of the hall open onto the fire escape. I swore, I hadn’t checked out the house enough, I hadn’t considered back ways that needed watching as well. Not that I had enough men to watch all of them even if I had thought of it. It wouldn’t change the fact that I was going to get a earful when I got back to headquarters. I could see a car pull out of the garage below me but I couldn’t shoot, I had no idea if the victim was in the car and while I was an amazing shot I couldn’t risk a stray bullet. All it would take was one and I could have the blood of an innocent on my hands.

“I got the license plate number,” said the man next to me. He was my second in command and as close to a friend as I had but I was in a foul mood and in no mood to have anyone talk to me. I whirled on him.

“What good do you think that will do George?” I snapped. “They’ll have changed them within three miles as likely as not. We’ve lost them.”

“Yes, sir,” said George, slipping the paper with the license number to a police officer next to him. It would be spread through the city police within the hour I was sure, even in my anger, George would see to it that it was looked for, just in case. He was meticulous while I was reckless, the perfect balance to my personality.

To be continued...

The Artist IV

Brent never considered himself to be a good judge of his own art but as he stepped back he couldn’t avoid the feeling of satisfaction of a job well done. It had taken him two weeks but it had been worth the effort. After all a part of that had been waiting for layers of paint to dry, which wasn’t really work. He wrapped the painting in brown paper to protect it from what the elements might throw at it, and once again ventured out of his lair. It was vanity on his part, he knew, to want to once again show a painting to someone who would appreciate it and have it displayed in the proper setting.

Brent reveled in the way that the women in the shop cooed over his painting, though he was a little concerned when they kept saying that it looked just like him. Though it had been a self portrait he hadn’t meant it to be too good. Still these had been the experiences he had dreamed of at one time; he had wanted nothing more then to have people praise his talent and now it was happening, again.

The winter streets seemed slightly more comfortable then they had for the last several months and Brent decided that rather then go back to his basement room right away like he usually did he would go out to eat. He had the money, though normally he hated to spend it, it seemed like a time of celebration some how though he couldn’t have said exactly what it was he was celebrating. It wasn’t really the new painting hanging in the gallery with the name Michael on the bottom and what he was assured really was his face looking at customers. Instead it was a feeling that he was celebrating, a feeling he hadn’t had in a long time. Like a dream Brent floated through dinner and drifted off for home.

Brent tried to run when he walked into the gallery a week later to find his agent looking at his self portrait thoughtfully, but he was far too late. The moment that he had walked into the art gallery the cage had been closed and the trap had been sprung. People who Brent recognized as close friends and family members came from all sides to block the exit and his agent turned to look at him.

“This is by far one of your better pieces of work. It was only by chance that I saw it of course. I still go through art galleries looking for talent. It’s a shame you didn’t sign it with your real name, it diminishes the value.”

“I don’t want to go back to that life,” Brent said, trying to back away from all of the familiar faces. The gallery owner seemed to be watching bemused.

“I understand it was stressful for you dear, we really should have found a psychologist for you, you have been having problems haven’t you?” asked his mother, trying to throw her arm around his neck. Brent ducked neatly away and found himself facing his best friend, who still had his cigarette in hand in spite of the no smoking sign on the door of the shop.

“That’s what they’re saying Brent, you know. They are saying that you’ve cracked, let the pressure get to you. That not everyone can be the greatest artist of our generation, and you let it get to you.”

“I suppose I did let the pressure get to me. Well I just don’t like it,” Brent admitted. “So I’ve left it, goodbye,” he tried to head for the door but his way was blocked.

“Your talent will find you out you know,” his agent said. “You can’t resist painting and you can’t resist sharing your paintings with the world. So long as you show such talent the world will find you and place you in a spot of importance.”

As they carried him away, Brent considered this. He paused only for a second to sign the self portrait with his real name and give the gallery owner permission to keep it before his was whisked away to wherever they kept truly talented artists. Except for one thing, Brent never painted again, he had reached his decision and if he would never be allowed his peace while painting he would surrender it. The self portrait still hangs in the gallery, insured for millions of dollars, as Brent’s last painting before he just sort of dried up, and arguably one of his best.

The Artist III

Brent now made his way to the art gallery through the frozen streets of the city, winding between the shadows of men who he failed to truly see. They were not people that he cared about; they were not part of his world. His world was small, and select and it allowed him to do as he pleased, which counted for a lot.

“You do yourself no justice selling things like this,” Brent said, running a hand down the frame of a low priced painting and looking at it critically. “I am not saying that I expect every one of your pieces to be done by masters but this looks like hotel art. I could have done better at twelve.”

“You’re an artist?” asked the owner of the gallery. She never argued with his appraisal of her art pieces, mostly because usually she agreed with them. She was not very surprised to hear him talk of doing some form of art; she had suspected it all along from the way that he talked about art. For him it seemed to be a type of love, he showed more interest in a painting then he ever showed in a person. Even now he was looking at the painting instead of her, even though they were having a conversation.

“I have done some painting,” Brent admitted, though the less people knew about him the happier he was.

“You should bring one of your pieces in for me to sell,” the gallery owner suggested. “It couldn’t hurt to try and I would be happy to sell it for you.” Brent considered this. He didn’t want anyone to see his work, he knew that he was good, but it was still drawing attention to himself. On the other hand he needed some new clothing and that cost money. He would also need some more paints and he knew that he couldn’t earn enough at pawnshops to get that sort of money. It was hard enough to find a pawnshop that would take his paintings at all. Most of them weren’t willing to take art of any sort. The ones that were, weren’t willing to pay much for the pieces. It would be a risk to his status but the more he thought about the more of a good move it seemed.

“I’ll bring in a painting for you to look at in a couple of weeks,” Brent promised the owner of the gallery, thinking of the blank canvass at home and what he could do with it. Ideas were already swirling through his head as he walked back to his easel in the basement of the abandoned building.

Brent realized that he hadn’t done a self portrait in a long time. Of course that would simply add to his chance of recognition but he doubted that too many people would see it or connect it to his face. It would give him something to work with. He didn’t own a mirror which helped comfort him. He was going to have to paint something from his memories, how he imagined himself, and whatever it was he saw in passing these days when he passed store windows. He doubted that it would look anything like him when he was done but it was something to do, and people tended to like pictures of people so long as they were done. They liked landscapes better but Brent and never painted just for the public and he was bored of landscapes. They were easy to mass produce if you didn’t care about quality but to do a good self portrait would be a true evaluation of his talent.

To be continued...

The Artist II

The oil pants were stacked next to the space heater so they wouldn’t freeze and get ruined. The paints were old and battered but well taken care of, speaking of a time when money had been spent in more plentiful amounts then it was now. Next to them was a series of brushes, carefully cleaned and arranged according to size. Brent used an old knife instead of a spatula, he found it worked just as well and he had never had any problem roughing it when he had to. He had known people in art school who had insisted on only the finest materials and had insisted that roughing it would damage the quality of the work. Brent had been willing to admit that good paints, over poor ones, and good canvas was important but he had become just as good with an old knife as one of the blunt spatulas they sold for artists to use. He liked to think of it as a testing of his boundaries and abilities as an artist that he could work on a short budget and in difficult conditions. Sometimes when he thought of the elaborate studios with their fancy lighting that he had been in he started to laugh.

Clothing was something of less importance to Brent then his paints but society frowned on not possessing any, and besides it was growing cold, so there was a box off to one side of his space that had some clothing neatly folded. When he wanted to wash them he would go to the laundry mat and search under the washers and driers until he found enough quarters to wash and dry his clothing. At one time he had just tried washing them and bringing them back to air dry but there hadn’t been enough air circulation to dry the clothes in his basement. They were not the clothing of a homeless man mostly because he didn’t want to look like one. He didn’t mind the lifestyle but he did mind being labeled and he really didn’t like being offered charity. That was one thing that he never did, he never begged, it didn’t seem right. He also didn’t like the way that people treated homeless people and had no interest in enduring that. When he got dressed in his slacks and button up shirt with his long over coat anyone on the street would think him just another business man in the city. The city swallowed up humanity like a creature and formed instead a single entity that rarely changed, even in the dead of winter. It was an easy place to blend in and never be notice. People would notice the details of a homeless man because they were a smaller community, but a businessman was a mindless corporate drone who could pass through walls without comment.

Brent was always very careful when he went up to the world above. He didn’t want to be discovered and dragged from his precious shelter. Technically he was trespassing but no one really had cared yet and he was hoping they never did. There was an art gallery nearby and they knew him by name there, not his name, he never liked giving people his real name when he was out wandering around, but they knew him by name just the same. In the art gallery he went by the pseudonym Michael, and they loved him even though he never bought anything. He would just wander the halls of the gallery and look at the pictures and sometimes make a comment about one of them that showed a broader knowledge of art then most art critics. For that the gallery owner was willing to forgive him for never actually pouring money into her businesses coffers. They were in no need of money anyway, they made enough money off of people who knew nothing of art but wanted to look the part. The owner of the gallery felt that the class of the establishment rose every time that Brent walked in simply because he knew and truly loved the art that she sold.

To be continued...

The Artist

Winter set in, and with it came that steady feeling that the world was asleep. The trees were, the animals were, the only thing that didn’t have the good sense to lay still under the blanket of snow were the people, who ventured out of their cave like houses against everything that nature ever intended. Deep in the caverns of the city there was someone who did sleep, and at the moment he was just waking up. He had been asleep for several days now but he didn’t know it yet and even if he did know it wouldn’t have made a difference.

Brent led what could be considered a blessed existence, one which could live in comfort anywhere and knew where to find what he wanted without ever having to work for it. Even his home, the tiny room in the basement of an abandoned building no one had entered for a year, had just come to him when he had needed a home. There were only two things that he had bought in the entire room, one of them was a space heater, he could have gone to a shelter or charity for it but he knew that they would ask questions and try to keep track of him and he liked his freedom. The second was a painter’s easel that stood in the corner away from the wall, which poured water during rainy days. The easel now had a blank canvass on it. The painting that had stood on it before had been sold at a pawn shop for enough money for the space heater and the new canvas. It was a life of breaking even but Brent didn’t mind it at all. It was how he liked things.

Food was getting to be more of a problem now that the snow was covering the world, but at least it kept it fresh. He made tours of the local groceries dumpsters where they threw away things that were past expiration. He had gotten food poisoning a couple of times but not bad enough to deter him. In some ways the cold weather was a blessing because it meant that the food would stay fresher for longer, during the summer produce left out for a day would be well cooked and start to smell.

To be continued...

Just Knowing II

The train came from nowhere, not out of the sky, but along a track and hadn’t been there before. It appeared under the train’s wheels and disappeared behind it. No one seemed to notice it except Kristy and her sister who watched it come and knew what it was. It wasn’t one of those new trains, slick cold and shiny. It was an old fashioned steam engine, though on looking closely Kristy couldn’t see an engineer or a tender car. That didn’t seem like a surprise however, she hadn’t expected the grim reaper, though she couldn’t have said what it was that she did expect.

Kristy’s sister knew that she was seeing something that she shouldn’t be, but that only added to her curiosity. Kristy turned and nodded to her and she knew that this was it. Kristy took a deep breath and stepped onto the train as it stopped in front of them. At that moment she took on the feeling of being something different. She was still Kristy but at the same time she wasn’t. There was going to be a body, somewhere, Kristy’s sister knew. There would be a funeral and crying, and stories, but at this moment it wasn’t sad, it was just Kristy moving on and the world was fine with this.

Kristy’s sister peered inside the car that her sister had entered while Kristy searched for a seat. Just like every other moment of this who strange event she knew that the other passenger were refugees from world war two. She couldn’t help but wonder how long they would ride before finally coming to rest but then she had to admit that spending forever in one place wouldn’t be any more entertaining. Kristy had always wanted to travel and now she would.

As the train built up speed Kristy’s sister could see the flashes of passengers, living their lives if that was how it could be phrased, inside. Then the train was gone and she was left there standing alone. She knew that she could have grabbed on to the back of it, or she could have stepped on when Kristy got on, it would have been so simple. For a second she felt regret but somehow she also knew that she didn’t belong on the train, at least not yet and maybe not ever. She shrugged to herself and then walked away to face the rest of her life, while the train sped on into the unknown.

Just Knowing

Everyone knew that Kristy was going to die, even complete strangers on the street. Kristy herself knew that she was going to die. However if you asked anyone, and again that included Kristy, how they knew none of them would be able to tell you. It was known just the same and no one ever doubted it. It was because of this that Kristy went back to where her family lived for what she knew to be her last days.

There was very little fuss, the definite nature of what was going to happen removed all that. Her mother cried a little, her sister patted her on the shoulder and that was that. Kristy herself didn’t do anything except quit her job, it seemed kind of pointless all in all. She wasn’t as upset as she would have thought she would be, the aura that surrounded her was one of peace and acceptance and people who normally would have been upset were calmed the moment that they saw her.

The only thing that Kristy’s father insisted was that she went to a doctor and get looked over but the doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with her. They didn’t understand it themselves but they couldn’t help but have the same feeling that everyone else did that she wasn’t going to live longer then another few days. It filled those scientific men with frustration that they couldn’t label it, or say what gave them that feeling but that was how things stood.

And so, since she knew she was going to die, Kristy got to the business of tying up loose threads and taking care of final pieces of business. She gave away everything that she had, and what she had left she donated to charities. It meant no one would be fighting over the stuff and she could see the looks on their faces when they got it. The only things she kept were a couple of changes of clothing and toiletries. She didn’t think anyone would want her half used toiletries anyway.

Kristy spent a lot of her time with her family; they went out to eat, watched movies together and carefully avoided the entire subject of death. Kristy had always scorned the movies where the family bounded around someone’s sickness or their eminent demise but she was forced to admit that it happened. She and her sister grew particularly close with one another over those few days and her sister took some time off of work “so she could be there” as she said. Though she didn’t say be there for what, Kristy knew.

It was a glorious summer day that the entire house woke up knowing that this was the day Kristy was going to die. It was almost a relief after all the suspense and tension Kristy yawned and stretched luxuriously in her bed, it was the same bed she had slept in her entire childhood. Her parents had always kept her room the way that she had left it, with its posters of strange boy band singers, and its tasteless clothing items. She looked around it with satisfaction and put on the outfit she had been saving for the big day, her favorite.

Kristy’s mother had lain out all of Kristy’s favorite foods for breakfast and then, searching for anything to do, her sister suggested that they go for a walk since it was such a nice day. It did seem like a shame to be inside, and somehow Kristy knew that she had to be outside anyway. They walked hand in hand by the lake front just like they had when they were really little and hadn’t cared what people would think.

To be continued...

The Old Man V

The next day the old man got his coffee right away but he didn’t go to his table like normal. Instead, as I wiped trays so I was doing something and couldn’t have anyone complain, he continued with his story. He spoke in his quiet voice, but it sounded earnest. It was the sort of voice that makes you want to lean forward to catch every word.

“I was telling you before about how I dropped my future wife off at the house she lived and drove home myself, but having agreed to see her again. After a week I started to worry that she had just blown me off but then I got a phone call from her. I don’t think my feet touched the ground from happiness. She wanted to see me that Saturday, and she offered to meet me at the same dance hall we had been at before. I was all slicked up when I went that Saturday, and she was mighty fancy that night too.”

“So did you keep going out together?” I asked, liking the romance of the story so far.

“Not for as long as you might thing. At the end of that month she lost her job and her savings only lasted her about two months after that. She was desperate with no money for rent or food when I offered to marry her. That was all I could do you see, back in those days you didn’t just offer a unmarried woman a room in your house, it was best if you were married first or there would be all sorts of talk. I didn’t have the money to pay for her rent and food unless she lived with me either. So after dating for all of three months we decided to get married.”

“Didn’t your mother object to such a short romance?” I asked, remembering that the old man had said that was the parent that he had still living at that point.

“Not at all, she was overjoyed that I had found a nice girl to marry, even if she was a foreigner and usually my mother had nothing good to say about people from other countries. So that was that, we lived together until she died and while we did have our fights I have never loved another woman,” the old man looked sad again, and went to go sit down. I snuck him a refill of coffee when my bosses weren’t looking and put money for it in the till just in case the owner was staring at his video cameras. Random acts of kindness were considered bad business practice.

I started to feel almost like a granddaughter of the old man. Having opened up to me he continued to be filled with warmth towards me and it made going to work something to look forward to. I never found out where it was he lived or what his name was, and he only knew my name from my name tag, but we were still firm friends. There was no need for us to know anything else about each other since we saw each other every day and knew where to find the other one if we wanted to talk. I gave him a pair of socks for Christmas that I had knit myself, and to my surprise he had a present for me, a wooden spoon he had whittled out of pine.

One day the old man didn’t come to the restaurant and though I looked for the white cowboy hat the next couple of weeks it never came again. I supposed I knew he was dead, but not knowing his name I couldn’t even go to the funeral home or look in the obituaries. After the third week I just shrugged, walked up to the manager, and quit. If an old man could live like he had with only a middle school education could manage to have the life that he had then I figured I could do better if I tried. I haven’t looked back since.

The Old Man IV

“You never did get to tell me how it was your wife came to this country,” I reminded the old man as he waited for his coffee.

“She came across with a family to watch their children. She left her own children with her mother. She couldn’t afford their trip over here and once we did have the money they didn’t want to come over here. They had grown to love Hungary and they wanted to stay with their grandmother. I wonder if they weren’t also scared of me, a strange American man that their mother had married half out of necessity.”

“Half out of necessity?” I asked. The way that he spoke of his wife I could only imagine the old man being very much in love with his wife, and I hadn’t imagined that it had been anything but love that had brought them together. Instead now he was being extremely blunt about it being at least a small amount a marriage of convenience.

“Her bosses had thought that they would do better in America, they had spent a lot of money it turns out that they didn’t have and so they had to let go of their servants. They had just given my wife her month’s notice when she decided to have a bit of a fling to get her mind off of things and went out dancing. I was at the dance hall that night too, and we got to talking.”

“So you were a farmer?” I asked, I knew I was interrupting but I wanted to clarify.

“That’s right. My father was already dead and so I was the one running the farm, though my mother was still alive. I was in my thirties and unmarried, she was starting to wonder what was wrong with me. I had mostly gone to the dance to make her happy, I’m not big on the social scene, I sure didn’t expect to meet someone I would love the rest of my life,” the old man sounded wistful.

“How did you start talking to her?” I asked.

“I asked her to dance; she was standing so sad and lonely up against the wall that anyone would have felt sorry for her. After the dance I took her back to her seat and we started talking, in a polite way. I asked her if she was married, she told me that she had been at one time. Back then it meant the man had died, and nothing else, there was none of this divorce thing going around, or at least not a lot of it. I asked her if she had any children and she burst into tears. It made me awkward let me tell you, I had no idea why she had started crying but people had started to stare so I offered to take her outside until she had calmed down and she welcomed the suggestion. While we were standing out there under the moon, in the very chilly night she told me everything. About how she had been forced to leave her children, about the fact she was about to lose her job. I just listened to her talk and at the end of the night I drove her home.”

“How did her bursting into tears and having to be taken home lead to you getting married to her?” I asked.

“Well we talked in the car then too, and by the time we got to where she lived I knew I liked her and had the courage to ask her if she would go out with me again her next week off to go dancing again. She agreed, I think she liked me at least a little too.”

I wanted to hear more but the coffee was done and I couldn’t hang around any longer. The owner of the store had video cameras set up to watch us and if I wasted enough time I knew I would be called into the office and yelled at. So I handed the old man his coffee and he went to go sit down like always.

To be continued...