by Gavin Boyter

“Break-time’s over lads!  Come on Godfrey, put that out, you goddamn goldbricker!”

The way he conducted himself, you’d think work detail leader Brad Knight was a platoon sergeant in a WWII movie.  Will Godfrey stubbed his cigarette into a nearby glob of something disgusting and stuffed the cotton wool balls back up his nose.  Two more days of this and he’d finally be free from the dumb sentence the judge had ordered for Will’s latest heinous crime.  When the gavel had gone down in court three months ago, Will found himself laughing at the judge’s order: a $1000 fine and twelve weekends of working for the department of sanitation, all for emptying out a deep fat fryer into a public drain behind the restaurant where he worked as a pot-washer.  Admittedly he’d argued with a cop about it and called him a “fat fucker” and, fair enough, Will had a colourful rap sheet including brawling, breaking and entering and stealing a pretzel wagon (drunken teenage hi-jinks), but twelve weeks in a sewer, battling “fatbergs” and solidified drifts of toilet tissue, human excrement and hair was excessive.  Godfrey considered appealing the ruling, but his attorney advised against it.  In fact, he’d practically forbidden it: “Just do your service, pay your fine and put this behind you.” 

Good advice, for sure, but Will would love to see the judge down here in the horrific old Chicago sewer, prising used tampons and diapers out of a wall of yellow fat.  Will had spent the first three days gagging and being sick.  He had learned not to eat before noon.

As he set to work with his protective gear, high-pressure hose and “harpoon”, as he called the metal tool used to scrape free persistent agglomerations, Will was literally counting the hours.  He hardly spoke to any of his fellow sewage workers, around half of them recidivists like himself.  He just got on with the task in hand and showered for at least thirty minutes at the end of each day. 

“Let’s get this little honeypot broken up and go home, boys!” shouted Mr Knight, attempting camaraderie.

‘This little honeypot’ was a fatberg big enough to earn its own postal code.  Will was hard at work, spraying it with a solvent that dissipated the fat, then prising chunks free.  He was at the head of the line, on the far side of a brick bulwark, away from the others.  Abruptly he lowered his hose, having seen something sparkle amongst the gristly grey berg.  Will reached out to prise it free.  It looked metallic.  He managed to hook a piece of coloured fabric attached to it. 

“Fuck me!” he felt the need to exclaim.  He held in his gloved hand a surprisingly well-preserved Purple Heart, the unmistakable profile of George Washington standing out against the dark background.  Quickly remembering what kind of individual he spent his days with, Will shoved the medal into the pocket of his jumpsuit and got on with his work, heart thumping.

The following Monday, as he sat in the public library going through the job advertisements, planning for his fat-free future, Will took the purple heart out of his pocket.  On its reverse was an engraving motto: “For Military Merit” and then, in a different typeface: Harold D. Buckley.  Having a curious nature (part of the reason for his extensive rap sheet; Will couldn’t resist letting himself in through open windows) Will Googled the name. 

There it was, in a list of awarded WWII servicemen.  Buckley had been awarded the Purple Heart for his role in the 1945 Battle of Corregidor, in which US troops had retaken the island from the Japanese.  He’d led a group of men who’d attacked a Japanese gun emplacement shelling the island’s military hospital.  For his efforts, Buckley ended up in that self-same hospital, and had to have his left leg amputated, but the battle was won.

Learning this, Will felt a pang of guilt.  He’d already searched several online auction sites and militaria suppliers, for the resale value of the medal, and had been disappointed to discover he’d be lucky to get $40 for it.  Over a million were issued during the second world war.  Not only would it be far from profitable to sell the medal, Will realised that, given that it had been engraved and he knew who it belonged to, it would be wrong to do so.  His natural inquisitiveness and a new sensation he supposed was honour led Will to a firm conclusion – he would give the medal back.

It took just one more hour of online database research for Will to unearth the address of Buckley’s widow, who could be found in assisted living accommodation in Lafayette, Indianapolis.  Just a three-and-a-half-hour journey on two Greyhounds; practically next door.  Let’s face it, what else did he have to do?

The next day, Buckley was in Lafayette, wandering up and down South Street, trying to locate the Seven Elms Retirement Village.  He found it up a shady, tree-lined lane.  Number 47 was a cute bungalow with a porch and wheelchair ramp zig-zagging up to the front door.  It took three insistent knocks before a hunched figure appeared behind the screen door, clutching a walking frame.

“Mrs Ida Buckley?” Will asked, half expecting a shake of the head and to have the door slammed in in his face.  Instead, the sprightly nonagenarian invited him in for cookies and home-made lemonade.  Will began to suspect Ida had mistaken him for her home help, but at least it got him in the door.

When he explained himself and presented her with the Purple Heart that had belonged to her long-deceased husband, Ida’s face did not break into the radiant glow Will had imagined on the coach ride from the windy city.  Instead she scowled, her liver-spotted and gnarled hand batting Will’s away.

“I threw that away for a reason.  Don’t want the darn thing back.”

It transpired that Ida had attended a special celebration event for war widows in Chicago in 2015, to mark the sixtieth anniversary of the Far Eastern campaign.  There she’d been shocked to meet a woman called Annabelle Nguyen, apparently her late husband’s daughter by a woman called Rose he’d met in Manila during his six-month recuperation in 1945.  For all his heroism, Buckley had fallen in love with his nurse, led a secret life, fathered a child, and Ida had known nothing about it.  That night, in her hotel, she’d wept for the first time in years, and had flushed the medal down the lavatory, pushing it around the U-bend with her walking stick.

Two hours later, Will sat in a local bar, downing his fifth Bud and wondering if the awful country covers band would stop murdering Waylon Jennings songs anytime soon.  It took another couple of beers before they did.  Nothing had gone according to plan and Will felt more than a little foolish.  Didn’t anyone want to be reminded of Serviceman Harold D. Buckley’s sacrifice?

Will was probably still a little drunk the following morning as he sat in an internet café and bought himself a return ticket to Manila, all but draining his bank account in so doing.  He’d never previously journeyed further than Florida, and here he was going eight thousand miles on a probable wild goose chase.  Still, it wasn’t as if Will had a busy social calendar ahead of him.  Why not have an adventure?  Will obtained the necessary documents and shots, packed a raggedy suitcase and was an All Nippon Airways flight to the Philippines three days later. 

Arriving at Ninoy Aquino International Airport on 31^st June, Will was assaulted by a wall of moist heat.  Taxi drivers jostled for his business, but he waved them away and grabbed a tuktuk to his mid-priced hotel in Makati, one he couldn’t really afford but had chosen very carefully, nevertheless.  Will didn’t draw attention to himself on arrival, just crashed onto his bed with the air-con on full.  Chicagoans aren’t made for mid-thirties humidity.  It would take Will several days to adjust to everything about this chaotic, fragrant and beautiful country.  He walked the lively streets, jogged along the baywalk, visited Fort Santiago and some of the war memorials, drank sickly cocktails, bided his time.

Four days later, what Will had been waiting for finally occurred.  A woman came into the hotel lobby where Will was sipping a coffee and pretending to read a three-day old New York Times.  The woman was extraordinarily petite, not quite five feet tall, in her mid-twenties and wore wide-rimmed glasses that gave her pretty face an owlish cast. She began to tend to the plants in the lobby, removing dead leaves, spraying insecticide, watering everything.  Will surreptitiously watched her, sliding along the banquette seating to allow her access to a bold display of orchids.  As she was completing her rounds and packing away her equipment, Will lowered his paper.

“Cherry Nguyen?”

The woman’s response was almost comic – she jumped back, pushing her glasses up her nose and looking panic-stricken.

“No, no,” will said quickly.  “I’m a friend.  Well, I come in peace.  I mean… sorry, this is stupid.  I have something for you.  Something from your grandfather.  Look.”

Flustered, blushing unexpectedly, Will handed over the presentation box he’d sourced online.  Christ, this was ridiculous.  What was he trying to prove, and why had he sprung it on her like that?

Cherry took the gift with a perplexed smile and opened it, sitting down edge of a large circular planter.  Inside, of course, was the Purple Heart, newly polished.  Will had had plenty of time to work on its restoration, unpicking the seam on the ribbon so it could be separately dry-cleaned, then stitching it back together.  When Cherry turned the medal over, she gasped audibly, and then she did something that helped Will understand that nothing he’d done in the last ten days had been stupid.  She smiled, an expression of surprise and joy that filled Will with something he’d not felt for months – uncomplicated happiness. 

“Amazing!”, Cherry said, “Thank you so much.  But… how?”

Will bade Cherry join him at his table, ordered them two cool drinks and told her his story, leaving nothing out, not even his crimes. 

“I’m Will Godley,” he began “and I have made many mistakes.” 

Gavin is a Scottish writer and filmmaker living in London. He has published two travel memoirs about running ludicrously long distances, Downhill from Here and Running the Orient. The latter charts his 2300 mile run from Paris to Istanbul, following the 1883 route of the Orient Express.

by Bryan Grafton

The little shepherd boy had lost a sheep and didn’t know where to find him. He sat there on a rock, his staff in his hand, and wept as Jesus approached him.

     “What is the matter my son?” asked Jesus.

     “Oh kind sir I have lost a lamb and don’t know where to find him and if I return home this evening without him my father will beat me to within an inch of my life. I am doomed.”

     Jesus looked at the little shepherd boy who was but ten or eleven and small for his age. Then he looked at his flock of sheep. It was small too. A flock of only six sheep and the loss of one would be a big loss indeed for the boy’s father.  Jesus took pity upon the youth, placed his fatherly hand upon the boy’s shoulder, and said unto him, “You stay here and guard your flock my son. I will go retrieve your lost lamb for you and be back shortly.”

    “Thank you kind sir,” said the youth, wiping away his tears, forcing a smile.

    Jesus walked out into the wilderness and out of sight. He knew where the lamb was and went directly to it. It too was caught between some rocks.  Its right front foot  wedged in a crevice. The lamb upon seeing Jesus let out a weak bleat calling out unto Jesus to come rescue him. Jesus went over to the lamb and freed it. Then he carried it back to the little shepherd boy.

    He handed the lamb to the youth and said, “He was lost but now he is found.”

    “Thank you kind sir,” said the youth, “for you have saved not only me from a beating but  my lamb too from a predator.” The boy set the lamb down and gave it a gentle push in the direction of the flock. The lamb took one step and fell to the ground bleating in pain.

    “Oh no,” wailed the boy, “its leg is broken and now we will have to sell it and it will not bring as much as a healthy lamb. My father will beat me now for sure.”  

    “I can fix him for you,” said Jesus.

    “What are you a magician or something,” snidely questioned the boy.

    “Some say I am,” said Jesus, “and some say I am a miracle worker.”

    In fact Jesus was on his way to the next village to cure a lame man when he happened upon the little shepherd boy.

    Jesus reached in his pocket and took out a small bag. “I have some magic salve here that will cure his injury,” he said to the youth.

     “Sure you do,” said the youth.

     Jesus applied some salve to the lamb’s injured leg.  

    “There,” said Jesus, “give it some time for the magic to work and the lamb will be able to walk as good as new again after a while. I must be on my way now son. I have work to do in the next village.”

     “What is your name  sir?” asked the boy.

     “I am Jesus of Nazareth.”

     “I have heard of you, Jesus of Nazareth. They say that you are a magician. That you can work miracles. I hope you have worked one for me.”

      “I have son,” said Jesus and Jesus left.

      The youth set the lamb down expecting it to walk but it crumpled to the ground again. Then he remembered that Jesus said it took some time for the magic medicine to work. So he gathered up the lamb and clutched it against his chest.  But by doing so the salve that Jesus had applied to the lamb’s leg rubbed off onto the boy’s clothing and thus did not get absorbed into the lamb’s leg.

      It was getting late so the boy carried  the lamb in his arms the whole way home. His father upon seeing him asked him why he was doing so. To which the boy replied, “I am holding it because it ran off and it took me forever to find it and this way that wouldn’t happen again,” said the boy not exactly coming clean with the truth.

     The boy set the lamb down. But instead of it getting up and running away, the lamb fell  down. The father went over to it and set it upright on all four feet. But the lamb fell again. The father did so a second time and this time he gave it a not so gentle kick to get it to move. But the lamb let out a pathetic bleat and crumpled to the ground in a broken heap.

     “Oh great,” said the father, “it’s leg is broken. The lamb will not bring full price. Someone will  buy it to butcher it, not for breeding stock. This is your fault my son. You weren’t paying attention again now were you?”

    The youth hung his head in shame and began to sob.

    “You take this lamb to the market tomorrow and you better  get a fair price for it or you will receive a beating,” growled his father. “You got that?”

    “Yes father,” whimpered the boy.

    The boy left the first thing the following morning with the lamb. The market happened to be in the village where Jesus had worked his miracle the night before making a lame man walk. There in the market Jesus came upon the little shepherd boy offering his lamb for sale.  But before Jesus could say anything to him the little shepherd boy spoke up.

   “Well Jesus your magic almost got me a beating last night and if I don’t get a fair price for this  lamb today, I will get one tonight.”

    Jesus could see  what had happened. He could see that the salve had rubbed off the sheep and onto the boy’s clothing for he saw its greasy brown colored spot on the boy’s chest.

    “This animal is still lame miracle worker. What are you going to do about it? And no no more magic, I’ve had enough of your so-called magic. What I need is money, not magic.”

     Jesus dug into his pocket but there was no money there for Jesus was dependent upon the generosity of others for his support. So he closed his eyes, recited a chant, pulled out his hand, and opened it. There before the boy he presented a fistful of coins. The boy scooped them up before Jesus could say a word.

    “Well,” said the boy after counting the coins, giving Jesus a dirty look. “Well,” he repeated. This being  his not so subtle hint that he was wanted more.

    Jesus reached in his pocket again, took out another piece of silver, and handed it to the boy. The deal was struck and the boy handed Jesus the lamb. The boy had received far more than a healthy lamb would have brought but that was alright with Jesus for he had saved the boy from a beating. Jesus then raised his eyes heavenward, said a prayer, and the lamb was heeled.

    Since Jesus had no use for the lamb he decided he’d give it to  the first shepherd he came upon whom he deemed worthy. But until then he needed to keep the lamb under control. So he reached in his pocket and took out a small rope. He tied it around the lamb’s neck and set the animal down.  But the lamb was a devilish little fellow and quickly slipped the noose, ran off, and disappeared into the crowd.

   The little shepherd boy saw all this and hollered mockingly at Jesus, “So you can cure him for yourself but not for me huh? Deserves you right Jesus the magical miracle worker.”

    Jesus was offended by the boy’s crude remark and said a prayer for the boy.

    Jesus found his lamb in the clutches of a cute little seven year old girl. She was on her knees, her arms around the lamb’s neck, her cheek against the lamb’s cheek, hugging it ever so dearly, so sweetly. The man standing next to her Jesus recognized as the man whose lameness he had cured yesterday.  The man came forward, took Jesus’s hand, and shook it profusely. “Thank you. Thank you ever so much my Lord for curing me for this is the first time in years, thanks to you, that I have been able to walk to the market by myself.”

    “You are more than welcome,” said Jesus staring at the little girl cuddling his lamb.

    “It seems that my daughter has fallen in love with it,” said the man, “but I told her that we must find its owner and return it to him because that is the right thing to do.”

     “The owner has found you,” said Jesus, “for I am the owner.”

     The father went over to his daughter and told her to give the lamb to Jesus. But she refused to do so and clung even tighter to the animal. The father repeated his command and again the little girl refused to give up the lamb. So he forcefully pulled the lamb from her and gave it to Jesus. The little girl began to cry and Jesus, being a softie at heart, could not bear it. He melted. He caved and handed her back the lamb saying, “Here Sweetie you can have it.”

    Immediately the little girl grabbed it, hugged it, and smothered it with kisses.

    “Thank you ever so much,” said the man, “I am in your debt again now my Lord and must make it right with you for all you have done for me and my daughter. Therefore please sup with us this evening as my way of showing you my appreciation, my gratitude.”

    As said Jesus was dependent on the generosity of others for his sustenance and since he knew where the man lived and since he hadn’t eaten today, Jesus accepted his offer. The two men parted company.

     That evening Jesus appeared at the man’s hovel of an abode for the man was quite poor having been restricted in his way of making  a living because of his lameness. The man greeted Jesus and guided him to his dining table. He seated Jesus at the head of the table and himself at his right hand side. Jesus wondered where the man’s daughter was for he did not see her anywhere and he asked the man, “Where is your little girl?”

     “Oh she is in the back crying and won’t come out,” said the man. Jesus wondered why the little girl was crying but when the man’s wife brought out a platter of roast lamb he knew why.

     “We are poor,” said the man, “and the lamb was all we could offer you by way of a feast to thank you for all you have done for us. Don’t worry she’ll get over it. Eat up.”

     “Jesus,” said Jesus to himself. No Jesus wasn’t taking his own name in vain. He was addressing himself as if he was a third person. “Jesus,” he repeated, “what is it with you anyway? “Try to help people and it all goes to hell on you.”

    Thus that was the parable Jesus took with him from his meal that evening. That and a full belly.

The author is a retired attorney who started writing for something to do in his rusting years.

by Suzanne Eaton

He gave me the most alluring water fountain–tan rocks and blue crystals layered on a bed of sparkling sand. The water pooled and swirled from side to side and fell from minature pools to medium-sized pools before spilling into the lower basin and returning to the top.

For years it sat on my desk, surrounded by delicate plants that seemed to flourish in the babbling sounds that it made. In the background of my day, I could always hear the water moving over the little rocks. Sometimes it seemed to trickle, other times it would rush and then flow softly, but it always sounded alive and passionate.

The plants and I were a bit more alive as its constant vibrations sang to our souls. Others would stop by my office, pause and breathe in the calm.  Prayers of the heart seemed to wash up and thoughts became crystal clear. Every week, I cleaned it, filled it and plugged it back in. When I pushed the button on the power strip it was renewed as was I.

I set the fountain aside one day to make room on my desktop for tear sheets that came from the press. Just out of sight, I did not notice as it began to gather dust. My project grew and the plants and fountain moved again–across the room–I dusted and filled it less frequently. The plants flourished, but sounds of the life-giving water were far off and I could not drink them in. In time, dust and hard water deposits stole its beauty.

It ran dry as I looked the other way and busied myself with the matters of the office. One day, I boxed up the little fountain, “just for a while,” and one-by-one, my plants turned inside out and died. I plugged in a radio where the fountain had been and allowed its vibrations to set my subliminal ebb and flow. –Without even noticing, I too ran dry—serenity and peace were fleeting and the songs on the radio seemed to soak up energy rather than provide it.

I searched for hope in empty lyrics and topical chatter and every distraction that came through my door seemed strident and unwelcome.  Momentary prayers seemed to fall flat to the floor, no one paused to sit with me and smile. It was as if I was unplugged and in turth, I became less productive—I could not access my power strip.

I left the job, we moved away, and I began setting up a smaller office. While unpacking, I opened a box to find the muted, dusty fountain. I remembered the peace and stillness it brought—I longed for its fresh and rapturous sound. A remembrance of grace filled my soul and I knew that I was unplugged from my living water—suffering from an inner drought. My wiring was brittle and just like the plants, I’d wilted and dropped my leaves.

Years had passed since those thriving days when the plants and I were green and content. But, as I started the fountain soaking in water-scale remover, hope returned. Urgently, I sought to plug in, to drink and cleanse my soul—revive in life-giving water.  The vibrations of a higher power could surely help me renew.  I prayed for the clarity and strength to flip the switch on my own power strip–for what good is an empty fountain—set aside and dry? 

Suzanne S. Eaton is an author and marketing consultant. She has written many corporate stories and magazines. She authored the book “Chinese Herbs,” reprinted by Harmony Press seven times. In her early days of writing, she was the first woman to get a feature article in Off Road Magazine and has been published in various magazines and anthologies. Most recently, Down in the Dirt Magazine, Writer Shed Stories and Seaborne Magazine have selected her work for publication.
https://www.facebook.com/zan.eaton.5
Twitter: @SuzanneSEaton7
Instagram: eaton9191

by Rachel Racette

Today is a good day.

Today I woke with the sun and spent a few minutes basking under its warm glow. (It felt like your smile. The gentle brush of your fingers across my scalp.) Then rose and cleaned the grime I’d accumulated from the last three days from my skin, washed down the drain and put out of mind. My reflection shows my face full of color once again.

Today’s a new day. I roll my shoulders the heavy cloak of yesterday falls. I stand tall, breathe deeply, and a smile seems to have made permanent residence on my face. Today will be a good day, I feel it in my bones.

(Not like yesterday. Yesterday was a bad day. I woke to the fading memory of you. A dream that should have been a dream, not the tainted and bitter nightmare it became. I sobbed until my chest ached and I couldn’t breathe. Again.

Raised my voice like a killer’s dagger at my loved ones and snapped at every little thing. I wanted to bury myself and fought with teeth when they tried to draw me out into the light. I screamed, and your name fell like a curse from my lips.

Yesterday I remembered and missed you, and my emotions thrashed me like a violent thunderstorm. Yesterday was a bad day.)

Today I apologise and mean it. I make breakfast for my family, and their understanding and sympathetic smiles don’t dig like hooks under my skin. I smile, and my spirit bends under the relief in their eyes. I finish my plate, press kisses to my parents’ cheeks, and slip out, throwing my bag over my shoulder.

I walk, not stomp or run out the door, down the walkway. Birds sing, and when I pass my little sister, I let her pull me down and press flowers into my hair. She grins, a bright wonderful thing as I ruffle her hair, beating a hasty retreat when she reaches for me again. She laughs, and I laugh with her.

(Without a lie in my throat. Without the echo of your sound to bring me down. Anger doesn’t rise, and my mood brightens even more.)

I stroll down main street, flowers still in my hair. The elderly woman who lives next door looks up from examining the fresh fruit and waves. She’s always one of the few up so early, always the first customer on the block.

“Good morning!” She calls.

“Isn’t it just?” I reply. Her eyes gleam and she nods, turning to finish selecting the last of her groceries. I pause, the ghost of hands brush my shoulder, and I offer to help her carry her goods. She accepts, and I find I enjoy the detour.

Her house smells of lavender, and her big fluffy cat welcomes my pets without hesitation. She offers a peach, and I step out the door swallowing sweet juice and tender flesh. I dig around in my bag, find an abandoned zip lock and pocket the pit.

(You used to laugh at my oddities. My choice in books, clothes, the pieces of life I kept that people normally threw away. It turned you off more than a few times, until you saw what I did with those pieces.)

I rush back to main street, slip into the back of the only craft store for miles, and clip on my nametag and hat. The slip the flowers from my hair into another zip lock, this one filled with a variety of dried flowers. I wheel out with new and replacement supplies and immediately get to work. My co-worker watches from the till, her usual painted smile reaching her eyes.

Today is a good day for me. So it should be a great day for everyone else.

The rest of the morning passes by quickly, the steady buzz ruined only when two boys nearly knock over a display. They stutter apologies while the mother sighs. I stand tall, twisting my hat back as I brush off their worries, ushering them towards the kits on display, asking how they feel about knight and dragons.

The two leave weaving words excitedly as only children can, the mother’s face a bit brighter, a bit calmer than before, and rushes after her children, smiling and shaking her head at their backs.

(You used to shake your head like that at me, when I rushed through my words like there was never enough time to say it all.

There wasn’t, in the end. The sad thing I’m realising is; I think few people reach the end having said all they wanted to say. I wonder if you were one of them, if there were things you wished you’d told me when you still had the time.

I wonder what they would have been.)

Late afternoon comes and I walk home under yellow fading warmth. Home smells of the promise of a hearty dinner. I call out and am welcomed by a throng of voices; my parents from the kitchen, dancing around the tiles like they’re the Gods of this little place of pot and spices; from my younger sister before she rushed up the steps; from my even younger sister and brother drawing and playing in the living room.

I make my way to my room, shutting the door gently behind me. (I don’t turn the lock. There’s no silence ringing click. You told me I shouldn’t lock out the world.) I drag out the box from underneath my bed. Inside, are my tools; paintbrushes and paints, little bits of metal and rocks, carving tools and a mini-glue gun, wire and string and buttons. Inside there are dried flowers and crafts formed from collected and carved wood, horns, and a dozen other little odds and ends. Such as little figurines carved from peach pits.

I cross my legs and dig through the box, the pit sitting, waiting at my side. Something crinkles under my supplies and I stop. I shuffle things around and from the bottom, a little wrinkled and splattered with paint drips; is a picture of you and me. Smiling, holding each other close.

(It hurts, even after so long. A terrible inescapable pain I never knew could exist. Time feels so slow and too fast without you. Colors look duller, music feels lifeless, and there is a cold void in my heart where you had made a place for yourself. Life, is… difficult.

But– 

Today was a good day. Tearful memories will not make it untrue.)

The sun has set, and through my open window I stare up at the stars, praying tomorrow will be okay. Hoping the hole where you used to live is easier to bare tomorrow. I have loved you and will love you till the end of my days, but I will learn to live without you, because life is wonderful. You taught me that. (I’m trying not to forget it.)

Today was a good day. Tomorrow is uncertain, but I have a good feeling, because today, today I was made a little more whole.

Rachel Racette, born 1999 in Balcarres, Sask. Loves writing characters and creating new worlds. Has always loved books of fantasy and science fiction as well as comics. Published in The Spelunkers: A Chipper Press Anthology.
E-mail: rachelracette@yahoo.com
Website: www.racheldotsdot.wordpress.com

by Bryan Grafton

    
“How much farther Grandpa?”

“It should be up ahead just a little ways. Not too much farther.”

He wondered if his grandfather could remember. If they were even on the right road at all. After all his grandfather was eighty eight and getting forgetful at times.

He had the job now of looking after his grandfather since his father had passed away last month.  He had driven all the way down here from Hoffman Estates to this god forsaken rural community in west central Illinois that mockingly called itself Forgottonia, nothing but dried up little towns and field after field of corn and beans. He had gotten his grandfather from the Happy Endings Nursing home, and now was taking him out, per his request, for a nostalgic trip down memory lane, a ride in the country to see the old family farm where he had grown up. He had never been there so he was relying on his grandfather to show him the way.

      They had driven for quite some distance in silence when his grandfather suddenly spoke up and said, “Stop. Stop here please.”

      He brought the car to a stop in the middle of nowhere on a dusty gravel road.

     “Grandpa there’s nothing but that old abandoned building over there. That can’t be where you grew up. That doesn’t even look like a farm to me.”

     “It’s not. That’s where I went to school.”

     “In that little dilapidated old falling down building? You’re kidding me.”

     “Graduated eighth grade there.”

     He knew his grandfather had never graduated high school. There was no need to then if one was going to be a farmer and his grandfather had been one all his life. When he got too old to farm his father had tried to get him to come live with him in Barrington. But Grandpa refused. Consequently his father trekked down here to ‘Forgottonia’ once a month to visit him and now that responsibility fell on him.

     “Do you want to get out and go take a look, Grandpa.”  He asked more out of politeness than practicality for he knew his grandfather would say no since he was semi mobile and they hadn’t brought his wheelchair.

    “No that’s okay.”

    “Well tell me about it then Grandpa.” He knew his grandfather was dying to tell him. After all that was the whole purpose of this trip to begin with, to harken back. 

    “Okay, I will,” he said a smile upon his face. “See how the school is oblong shaped. See the windows there only being on the east side, the whole east side. There’s no windows on the west. That’s to avoid the afternoon sun making the place too hot. Morning sun on the east side wasn’t so intense and let in enough light so we could do our lessons.”

    “Well that makes sense,” he commented, beginning to take an interest in this now.  “How many kids went there Grandpa?”

     “Forty give or take a few.  First through eighth grades.”

     “What’s that metal thing sticking up out of the ground there?” he asked pointing to it.

     “Oh that’s the pump. That’s where we got our water. Drank it straight out of the ground. Had a long wooden trough in front of it to prevent a mud puddle from forming under the spout.”

    “You mean you didn’t have running water inside back then?”

    “Yep. That’s exactly what I mean.  Didn’t have flush toilets either. Just kind of had outhouses inside the schoolhouse.”

    “You’re putting me on Grandpa.”

    “No I’m not. When you came in the front door you entered the cloak room where we hung our coats and left our muddy boots but off to the right was the boys room and off to the left the girls. No flush toilet. No wash sink either. Just had a stool over a hole in the ground. Teacher used to dump chemicals down it every so often as to keep the stink down.”

   “Suppose you didn’t have electricity back then either huh Grandpa.”

   “Yep. Didn’t have central heat back then either. Had a wood burning stove. The back room of the school was the woodshed. Kind of got a little cold in the winter at times. Had to keep your coat on all day.”

    His curiosity was definitely aroused now. He wanted to see for himself so he said, “Mind if I get out and go take a look around and in the window Grandpa.”

    “Don’t believe me do ya?”

    “I do. I just want to see that’s all.”

    “Okay go ahead then.”

    He got out of the car and entered the school yard.

    “There used to be a couple of swing sets and a slide over there,” his grandfather hollered, pointing to the east side of the school.

    “Where there’s none here now,” he hollered back.

    “You’ll see the old footings where they used to be. Take a look.”

    He went to the old well first and tried the pump handle. It was frozen in time and didn’t move. The ten foot long or so wooden trough was there just like his grandfather said, rotting away. It was hard for him to believe they drank unfiltered water straight from the ground. No government regulations back then evidently.

    He saw the concrete footings that once had anchored the swings and slide in place. Someone must have stolen them for scrap metal he thought.

    He went up to the window and pressed his nose against it.  There was nothing in there. Whatever had been there was long gone. Probably someone had stolen all the old desks too he thought and sold them as antiques. He could see a hole in the wall where the smoke stack used to be. To the front he could see the open door that led to the cloak room but he couldn’t see the doors to the inside outhouses. He wanted to see them.

    He went around to the back of the building first though to the door to the back room. It was falling off its hinges and as he swung it open it fell completely off. There in the back were some old broken damaged desks that evidently no one thought worth stealing. The kind that had an inkwell in them, no ball point pens back then. The kind where one was attached to the one in front of it so that the boy behind the girl could stick her pigtails in his inkwell.  There was also a pile of cut wood. He could tell varmints had been living in it; their dried droppings were everywhere. He went around to the front door, tried it, it didn’t budge. Oh well forget it. He’d seen enough. He better get going and take Grandpa to his old farm house.

   “Well it was just like you said Grandpa,” he informed him as he got in the car and started off down the road to yesteryear.

   “It was called Kingdom School,” his grandfather announced.

    “Kingdom? Why that Grandpa?” He knew his grandfather was having a good time and so was he now.

    “The original man that owned the land here back in the 1830’s was a some kind of disposed or deposed royalty from England. So he came to this country to establish his own little kingdom right here in Illinois.  Story is he actually called his farm his ‘Kingdom.’ Back in those days there were no public school systems but everyone wanted a school and since he owned most of the land in the center of the township he agreed to give up that little tract there for a schoolhouse since it was centrally located. It pained him though to part with part of his ‘Kingdom.’ So he put a clause in the deed that if the ground wasn’t used as school, it would revert back to him, or his heirs, if he was dead.  The locals jokingly named the school Kingdom since it was located in his ‘Kingdom’. The school was closed back in the fifties when they started busing the kids to school in town here. Anyway the school was supposed to go back to this supposed land baron. Course he had been dead some seventy years by then and nobody knew who his heirs were. That’s why the school’s just sat there and fallen apart. Nobody’s ever come forth claiming to be an heir.”

   They rode in silence for a while.

   “How much further Grandpa?’

   “Not much.  I used to walk to school every day. There was no bus service back then you know.”

    He drove on a ways then, “Slow down, it’s just up ahead.”

   “I don’t see anything Grandpa. You sure?”

    “Slow down. Stop right here at the intersection.’  

    He did as ordered. Again they were all alone out there in the middle of nowhere by themselves.

    “There’s just a cornfield here Grandpa.”

    “Well it was here. Right on the southeast corner here. That big corporate farm I sold out to must have torn everything down. Aren’t many family farms left anymore.”

    The grandfather wiped his eyes, took in and blew out a deep breath, straightened himself upright. “Well we might as well go back now.”

   They got back to the nursing home. He helped his grandfather inside.

   “Grandpa, I had a good time today but I better get going now. I got a long drive ahead of me. I’ll try to get back sooner next time.”

    “Your father came once a month you know.”

    “Yah I know but he never took you out to see the old place did he?”

    “No he thought it would be too hard on me. Thank you. I really do appreciate you doing that for me.”

    ”Oh you’re more than welcome Grandpa.”

   “You know next time I think I’ll have you wheel me up to the window there and help me stand up so I can take a look inside. Okay?”

    “Okay Grandpa we’ll do that,” He went up to his grandfather and gave him a big hug, fighting back the tears welling up inside him.

    The next time came one month to the day. They went to the school again and his grandfather got his look inside. He died the next day.

     He cremated his grandfather per his prearranged instructions and buried his ashes next to those of his grandmother in the little burg there. Didn’t bury all of them though. No he held some back and scattered them at Kingdom School. Did that just by himself as he said goodbye to his Grandfather.

Bryan Grafton is a retired attorney.

by Caroline Harris

She rose as a sproutling in the garden bed. Birthed from the dirt, and rain and sun—or so the believed. The baby’s screams rang inside the small house and a woman, now a mother, rushed from inside to stand before her newly sprouted flowers, surprised at the sight of a dirt-covered baby with a small bloom of white babies breath tucked behind her little ear.

The mother scooped the child up into her arms, cradling the baby girl’s soft head that smelled like violets. Screams diminished to whimpers and morphed into coos as the child snuggled into the mother’s arms. She figured someone must have dropped her off, given her up, for there was no logic behind the growth of a child in her garden bed. She’d planted those spring buds a few days ago, and there was nothing unusual about the seeds. So, she brought the child inside and named her Flora.

Day by day Flora grew and with her longer legs and her thicker hair there came more and more flowers. The puff of baby’s breath was still tucked behind her ear, but next came the roses, then the daisies, the lavender, the peonies, and violets. The petals cascaded down and around the child’s shoulders and grew atop her head like a crown.

The mother had tried to snip off the overgrowth, the new buds still forming, but Flora would scream in so loud an octave she would put the scissors away and primp the flowers decorating her daughter instead.

After a month, Flora had grown so tall she reached her mother’s waist. Her hair was a shade of auburn orange, long and twisted, and freckles dashed across her rosy cheeks. To no surprise, more blooms continued to grow, cascading down her child’s arms and legs. Twisting vines of ivy, bluebells scattered between Flora’s fingers. There were bleeding hearts wrapped up around her legs and poppies littering the locks of her hair.

The mother had grown unabashed at her daughter’s unique traits. The townspeople had more than enough to say on the matter, but in her own opinion, Flora was the most beautiful child there ever was. It was only ever her solemn thought at how fast Flora continued to grow. In just over two months, Flora was the same heights as the mother, her youthful cheeks and still rose red and her hair longer than ever. But the mother wondered how long this would last.

Spring slowly settled into summer. Days stretched long and the sunshine filled their days with laughter and love. Flora’s mother would braid her hair with the flowers that continued to grow. Flora would sing familiar melodies as they trudged up the flower beds in front of the house. The mother couldn’t believe that Flora had sprouted here only a few months ago.

But the happiness only lasted until the trees began to change color. Green leaves shifted to yellow, red, orange, and Flora began to feel awfully tired. Her mother no longer heard her tinkling laughter inside the house, and the woven flowers grown along Flora’s body ceased to grow. Instead, the lavender lost its smell, the roses began to wilt, and the ivy slowly uncurled from Flora’s legs.

Cool winds swept into the small house and the mother wept as she watched the color drain from Flora’s cheeks. There was so little time left and the mother didn’t know what to say. But Flora took her mother’s hand. Her skin was cold to the touch. She whispered to her mother to bury her in her birthplace and all will grow a new. Flora’s chest ceased to move. Her hand fell limp, and the mother screamed at the loss of her daughter, taken from her too fast.

Days filled the mother’s aching heart and tears stained her cheeks as blush used to stain Flora’s. A cavity had formed in her heart for Flora was there one minute and gone the next. And Despite her sorrow, she had heard her daughter’s final wish.

The mother spent her morning digging. Dirt piled high, dead flowers pulled from the bed where Flora had been brought to her. The sun arched high in the blue sky only to fall hours later, and finally, the mother carried out her daughter, weightless in death. She rested her porcelain skin against the soft darkness of the dirt.

The flowers that once radiated with life now hung brown and crisp, petals drooping in colorless absence. The mother took one last look at her daughter, peaceful in rest, for that is what the mother wished for her. She primped Flora’s flowers in a way in which she knew she would like. Her daughter always giggled when her mother touched the blooms that had sprouted from her body.

The mother packed the garden bed, covering Flora from head to toe. She bent her head and said a few words only she would know and embrace the short memories she had had with the daughter she’d never expected.

With the loss of Flora, winter arrived in a full flesh of white powdered snow. It covered everything it touched with an added chill, and the mother began to gaze from her window, down at the covered flowerbed where her daughter laid. She wondered if she was cold, or lonely, or if she could feel anything at all. Flurried rained down in slanted lines for months on end. The mother began to free the flowerbed of snow after each night, for she didn’t want Flora to feel trapped or numb beneath the blanket of white.

There were moments, when time pushed towards the end of the snow, the end of the cold, when the greens of grass would peak up from dreariness. When the bushes and trees would begin to sprout small bits of hope from beneath the ground, as if this winter they were only sleeping. It was in those little moments of hope the mother found herself watering the bed where her daughter rested, for she was sure her daughter would return to her come springtime.

Caroline Harris is from Powell, Ohio, and is currently living in Chicago. She is working as a writing instructor and full-time graduate student in Fiction writing at Columbia College Chicago and is a lover of all things books and writing. She tends to get lost within the stacks and spends hours wandering the aisles of her local bookstore. She has been previously published in ioLiterary, Sondor Midwest, and The Helix Magazine.

by Daniel Deisinger

“Come now, Cornelius, this shouldn’t be an issue for you. You made a machine to tilt your teacup for you. No locked door can keep you out!” The professor grunted and wheezed, rattling the key inside the lock until, at last, the door gave way, and he tumbled into his office. His papers spilled into the room, his cane bounced away, and his hat ended up crushed under his back, collapsed like a bellows.

He rolled to his knees and retrieved it, shaking his head. “I must complete the hat de-crusher I’ve been working on.” He found his feet and switched on the light. Electric lamps sprang to life around him as he shut the door.

Someone opened it back up. “Professor Cogsworth?” the man said. He had a pair of goggles resting on his bowler, as well as a second pair about his neck.

     “Yes?” Cornelius said, bending and gathering his papers. “Something I can help you with? Office hours are on Wednesdays.”

     “I’m not a student, sir.” The man removed his hat. “I’m with the church, actually.” He lifted the goggled around his neck, revealing a smudged clerical collar. “Parson Whiplish.”

     He put his hand forward, and Cornelius shook it, smiling. “A pleasure to meet you! Won’t you sit? A cup of tea, perhaps? You won’t even have to tilt it yourself! I’ve a machine for that.”

     “Yes, Father Russet said you have a knack.” The parson stepped into the room.

     “Father Russet! How is the old gent? Getting on?”

     “Getting on, professor.”

     “Excellent!” Cornelius gathered his papers, then put the kettle on. “To what do I owe the pleasure, parson?” His face fell. “I haven’t committed a heresy, have I?”

     The parson shook his head, chuckling. “Nothing of the sort, professor. In fact, the Father recommended you. You see, we have a bit of a mystery on our hands.”

     Cornelius fiddled the modified dials on his hot plate. The wall above had a large scorch mark. “A mystery? Surely you should contact the police? The only mysteries I tackle have to do with how certain students got into the university. Would you mind finding my cane? It’s about somewhere.”

     “That’s the thing, professor. We went to them first, but there have been no crimes committed, far as we can tell.” The parson picked up the cane. “They’ve got a man there, but he’s doing little more than wasting his time. So he says, anyway.”

     “Hm.” Cornelius looked up and took out his pocket watch. “Oh blast.” He took out his other pocket watch and used it to set the first. Both watches pocketed, he held out his hand. “My cane?”

     The parson placed it his palm, and the Cornelius aimed the end at the opening into the teapot. He pressed a button; leaves fired out the cane, and Cornelius covered the pot. “Where is there?”

     “The parsonage park. It’s on Lonsbury Lane? Gethsemane Gardens, it’s called.”

     “Of course! Wonderful walking I’ve had there. Ah, trees. Almost as lovely as a fine bit of gearwork. Now, what about it?”

     The parson took a breath. “Well, that’s just the thing. Gears.”

     Cornelius perked up. “Gears you say?”

     “That’s right, professor. The caretaker has found them scattered about. Every morning. I wouldn’t know them from Jack, but Father Russet suggested you could come and take a look.” He stepped forward. “I know the school year has just begun, but…we need an expert, you see. I’m not as knowledgeable in how all those things work.”

     “Hm. Gears strewn about? Any discernible pattern?” Cornelius asked. Whiplish shook his head. “Well then. I suppose I could make time in my schedule. Things are usually quiet this early. It isn’t until the end of the term students start badgering me. Tomorrow morning? I’ll drop by ’round nine. Oh, tell your man not to clean up any of the gears, will you?”

     “Yes, professor. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

     “Of course you will. Won’t you stay for tea?”

     “I’m afraid I must return to my work. God keeps us busy.”

     “Right-o. Tomorrow then!”

     Parson Whiplish backed out of the room and closed the door. The frosted glass window read Cornelius Cogsworth, Professor Emeritus of Steam Studies.

#

     Cornelius strolled to the park a few minutes before nine. His cane danced over the sidewalk, and his going-out goggles reflected the fresh sunshine in hazy globs of light. He pulled out one pocket watch, then the second, clicked both shut, and resumed his stroll through the Gethsemane Garden gates.

     A police officer, wearing a sharp gray uniform–standard-issue police goggles perched on his brow–nodded at him, and Cornelius nodded back.

     Sun peeked through the leaves. Random circles of sunlight danced on the ground, and gears flashed. Like pennies they glittered, some hiding on their own and others piled together. Cornelius gazed at them, mouth mulling in a circle under his curled mustache until a voice hailed him from behind.

     “Professor, good morning,” Whiplish said.

     “And a good morning to you too, parson! I suspect this is the gent who’s been keeping an eye on things?” Cornelius indicated the officer.

     “That’s right.” As Whiplish spoke, the officer stepped close. “Professor, may I introduce Sergeant Tillibrim. Sergeant, Professor Cornelius Cogsworth.”

     “Hm.” Cornelius and Tillibrim shook hands. “A pleasure, my good man. The parson has asked if I would take a look at things to see if there is an explanation for all this.” Cornelius indicated the gears.

     “It’s probably nothing,” Tillibrim said. Cornelius crouched and picked one of the gears up. “Youth, pro’ly. Being reckless and such. Taking some of the cast-off gears from the shops and doing what have you with them.”

     “How long have you been here, Sergeant?” Cornelius asked, turning the gear over in his hand.

     “All night. Didn’t hear a thing. They’re sneaky, these days.”

     “That they are, my good sir, that they are.” Cornelius stood, bringing the little gear into the sunlight. “Hm.” He bent and scooped up a few more. “Hm.”

     “What is it?” Whiplish asked.

     “Take a look and see,” Cornelius said, and the two men crowded around him. “The gears aren’t uniform. This one-” he lifted the first- “is round, with sharp teeth. This second one is more oval, with flat teeth, and finally this one is almost square, with rounded teeth.”

     “What’d I tell you?” Tillibrim said. “They gather up the cast-offs, and throw them over the wall.”

     “But the gears have been appearing every night for a week,” the parson said. He fiddled the goggles around his neck. “If a child does something once, on a lark, it’s mischief. If he does it every night for a week-“

     “It becomes a chore.” Cornelius regarded Whiplish. “Child antithesis. Parson, have the gears been appearing every night?”

     “I suppose I don’t know for certain,” Whiplish said. “But Morris would know. He’s the groundskeeper.”

     “Let’s speak with him next,” Cornelius said. He turned to Tillibrim. “Good day, officer. I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

     Whiplish led him to a corner of the park. Piles of gears lay under every tree, scattered across the paths and around bushes. “It couldn’t be children,” Cornelius said. “There are thousands.” He stopped and bent again. “And every one is unique–number of teeth, size, even slight variations of color.” He bounced a few in his hand, then slipped them into his pocket. He stood, stretching his back and chewing on his mustache. He leaned forward on his cane. “Have there been any other mysteries here, parson?”

     “Mysteries?” Whiplish rubbed his chin. “No, nothing. Pests, I suppose. But that’s all.”

     “Hm.” Cornelius nodded. “Well, lead on.”

     A few minutes later they arrived at a large, open shed. Numerous sharp tools hung on pegs against the wall. Wheelbarrows, pots, and buckets took up the floor. Saplings, sprouts, and sacks of soil piled on workbenches against the walls. A man wearing grimy overalls, grimy gloves, and grimy goggles stood with his back to them, transferring shoots from large pots to smaller ones.

     Whiplish knocked on the open door. “Morris? Do you have a moment?”

     The man spun, revealing a grimy face. He left his workbench, meeting them at the entrance. “This is Professor Cogsworth,” Whiplish said. Cornelius tipped his rumpled hat. “He’s taking a look at all those gears you’ve been finding to see if he can figure out where they’re coming from.”

     Morris grunted, slapping off his gloves. “Darnedest thing,” he said, mouth rolling under his grimy mustache. “Just showed up ’bout a week ago, all over. I swept ’em up, course, but next morning there were more even than before.”

     “Every morning?” Cornelius asked.

     “Yessir.” Morris crossed his arms. “All this steam and gear such-and-such. It’s not right, I tell you.”

     “Sir.” Cornelius drew himself up, hands clamped atop his cane. “The preponderance of steam power has done wonders for our modern world! Travel is quicker, goods are cheaper, jobs are safer, and food is tastier! As a professor of steam studies at the university, it’s my job to further this realm of realistic magic! Haven’t you ever seen the dancing towers of North Umbric? Perhaps the New Parthenon in Athens? Stirring, I’m told. Ah, and if you’ve ever had the chance to witness-“

     “My job is plants,” Morris said, grimy face wrinkling. “And the plants don’t like the gears.”

     “Then I’ll do my best to figure out where they’re coming from. Anything else you can tell me?”

     “Not a thing.” Morris turned back to his workbench. “‘Scuse me. I’ve work.”

     “Of course. I didn’t mean to detain you.”

     “Quiet gent, isn’t he?” Cornelius asked as they left the shed.

     “He’s a good man,” Whiplish said. “Does his work well. So?” He asked. “Do you know where the gears are coming from?”

     “I have a few ideas,” Cornelius said. “But nothing I can say with any confidence.” Cornelius took out his pocket watch, grunted, and took out his second. “Blast it all! I’ll have to open these little rascals up and tinker a bit once I get back.” He nodded toward the chain leading to one of the parson’s pockets. “Do you have the time?”

     Grinning, the parson reached into his pocket and revealed the chain ended at a brass hole in the cover of a bound Bible. “Ah. Well, perhaps a bit of wisdom from the good book, eh?”

     Whiplish opened the Bible and read: “‘So Hiram gave Solomon cedar trees and fir trees according to all his desire.'”

     “A favorite of yours?” Cornelius asked as Whiplish pocketed the Bible.

     The parson shrugged. “Something I spotted a few days ago.” He cleared his throat. “What are you going to do next?”

     “An old friend of mine may have a bit of wisdom to impart,” Cornelius said. “I’ll visit him. Who knows? He may give me a clue.” Cornelius glanced down at his hands, full of faulty pocket watches. “I wonder If I can catch the 11:01.”

#

     Professor Cogsworth stepped off the train at 11:17 and arranged his coat into place. The train hooted and sprayed steam into the sky, and Cornelius forged on through the crowds, making way for mothers dragging children, businessmen wearing the latest goggles, and old ladies wearing gear earrings and necklaces of brass chain. He stopped at a crowded watch vendor and inquired about the winter models, but they weren’t in yet.

     He and the other pedestrians stood at the curb as the corner pole lifted a “cross now” sign. Cornelius passed panting horses of the flesh-and-blood as well as the gear-and-steam variety and started toward his friend’s home.

     After triggering the bell, Cornelius adjusted his cravat and got his watch chains untangled as a tune tinkled inside the building. He tried to smooth out his hat, but the wrinkles remained when the door swung open and the butler welcomed him in.

     “Tea, sir?” the butler asked, and when he brought the hot water Cornelius had already made himself comfortable. “The master will be done momentarily.”

     “No rush,” Cornelius said, smiling.

     A few minutes later a great big man came in, the strained buttons on his stretched, rounded waistcoat leading the way. The sunshine reflected off his bald head above a pair of monocles, and his cheeks flushed red. The professor rose and clasped the other man’s hands in his. “Willard, how good to see you.”

     “Cornelius, you always know just when to drop by,” Willard said. “I was just admitting to Benjamin a bit of a malaise, and here you are, come to brighten my day.”

     “I am at your service, my friend.” Cornelius bowed, and sat, as did Willard. “My watches have been acting all sorts of out-of-sorts these days.”

     Willard shook his head. “Spring models?” Cornelius nodded. “You know what they say: ‘Gears in spring, sprung by fall.’ You can see it at a glance. The winter styles have some superb models, I must say.”

     Cornelius leaned forward. “You’ve seen them?”

     Willard winked and revealed a large watch from his pocket, its guts spinning and second hand ticking away. He handed it over. “Wonderful,” Cornelius said. He spun the watch. The mechanisms danced around each other through the clear glass back. “You’re a lucky man.”

     The other man tapped the side of his nose. “Just between us, of course. Dear Synelda procured it for me, but asked I don’t show it in public until they go ‘en marche.'” He pocketed the watch. “Now, what was it you came to see me about?”

     “Too clever you are, gent.” Cornelius leaned forward, hands atop his cane, smiling. “It’s the most curious thing. the local parsonage has a park, Gethsemane Garden. Every night, gears appear everywhere. On the path, in the bushes, in the grass.” He took them out of his pocket. “See. They are abnormal. Not one is identical.”

     Willard spread them on his large hand as Cornelius fired tea leaves into his hot water. Water splashed, and after Cornelius had finished cleaning and again taken his seat, Willard returned the gears. “Curious indeed. I imagine you have the same thought I do.”

     “I imagine so.” Cornelius took a sip of tea. “But it’s impossible. It’s never even been seen on a small scale, and this is quite large.”

     “Things move quickly.” Willard hoisted himself up and carried his teacup to the window. He sipped. “Who knows? Perhaps Tesla has come up with something even more ‘shocking’ and ‘world-changing’ than before.” Willard made finger quotes around the words. Both men laughed. “We’ll have to ask him on his next ‘world tour.'”

     “Oh Willard, you do tickle me,” Cornelius said. He sipped. “Could it be true?”

     Willard gazed out the window. His bulk turned the rest of the room dark. “It’s all too possible. If it is….” He hesitated, then returned to his chair. “You must investigate, Cornelius. You must. Old Tesla will be shunted out of the limelight if it’s true, and you know how much he hates that.”

     “His fans would have to find someone else to cover in bloomers.”

     “Perhaps it could be you?”

     “Pshhaw.” Cornelius swiped the suggestion away. “I’m far too old for bloomers.”

#

     When the train pulled back into his home station, clouds had formed, and people disembarking glanced up, concerned, some muttering about how they should have brought their rain goggles. “Must visit Willard more often,” Cornelius said to himself, as he exited the station. “All alone in that big house of his, children off in Europe.” He shook his head. “Shame.”

     He stopped at his house to change out his pocket watches, double-checking their replacements ticked as they should. He went back to Gethsemane Garden, passing through the gate as several people left.

     “Going to be raining soon, guv,” Tillibrim’s replacement said as Cornelius entered. The officer glanced at the clouds. “Could be a bad one.”

     Cornelius made his way through the park until he got to the old stone building the parson used. Morris must have cleared the gears away; Cornelius couldn’t find a single one.

     The parson was writing a letter in his office when Cornelius knocked on the open door. “Ah, professor. Do come in.”

     “I may have an explanation,” Cornelius said. “But I will need to do some more investigating. Would you allow me to stay here overnight, to study?”

     “So you don’t think it’s children?”

     “Children? No, no, I’d say it most likely isn’t.” Cornelius leaned forward. “If what my friend and I think is correct, this may be a very important discovery.”

     “Important discovery?” the parson said, leaning back. “Gears on the ground? How could such a thing be important?”

     “It is not the gears, my friend,” Cornelius said, pacing. “But where they have come from. Have you ever heard of something called ‘Deus Scintilla’?”

     “It’s Latin…God spark?”

     “Or close enough. It’s a wild theory a few researchers came up with. They think all the power we’re using is enough to change the physical world itself. Birds go from feathered friends to little flying machines of lightweight metal. Fish change from scales to mail.” Cornelius looked Whiplish in the eye. “Trees change from wood and leaves to brass and gears.”

     “But that can’t be!” Whiplish stood. “The trees haven’t changed a whit! You can see for yourself!” He pointed out the window. The clouds had grown, and the sun had sunk, darkening the park. “Look! They’re blowing in the wind. Something can’t just…change.”

     “It isn’t a proven theory, not yet,” Cornelius said. “But I’d like the chance to study the park regardless.”

     Whiplish nodded. “I suppose there’s no harm. Overnight, you said?”

     “Yes. It may have something to do with light, or temperature. When does the park close?”

     “Eight o’clock in the evening.” The parson led Cornelius to the door. “Could it really be, professor?”

     “Hard to say, gent,” Cornelius donned his hat. “But we shall see.”

#

     Cornelius returned to the gates of Gethsemane Garden a few minutes before eight, so his pocket watches told him. He wore a heavy overcoat and his rain goggles, and even they helped only so much. Rain sheeted down, washing away the clouds of steam issuing out of factories, river trawlers, homes, businesses, cafes, museums, steam parlors, and baby carriages.

     However, it turned the night black and strong, requiring either fanciful two-man hand-torches–one to hold and the other to turn the crank–or old-fashioned flames in covered lanterns. And even they illuminated a few insignificant feet, so when Cornelius stepped inside he found a shivering Whiplish and a miserable Tillibrim.

     “What man, in his right mind, would choose to be out here in this madness?” Tillibrim said, as Whiplish ushered Cornelius in and let himself out, holding a ring of heavy keys. “I’ll never understand you steam-punks.”

     Cornelius blanched. “Officer, such language is beneath your station. I am a scientist, and I flare at the chance of discovery. Besides–you’ll be here all night as well, yes?”

     “With complaints.”

     “Only Morris and I have keys,” Whiplish said. “Hopefully this weather clears before too long. But Tillibrim will be outside the gate all night if you need assistance.” He and Tillibrim pulled the gates shut and peered through the bars at Cornelius. “Good luck professor!” Whiplish locked the gates and hurried away. Tillibrim found what shelter he could under a signpost, and Cornelius lifted his covered lantern, turning toward the trees and pulling his coat tight.

     He explored the grounds like he had in the morning, peering at the ground for gears. “Rain’s washed them away, if there were any,” he said, wiping the rain from his goggles. He lifted the lantern higher and scanned around himself. The trees cast shadows in whatever light remained, enriching the darkness beneath them. The constant rain muted the rest of nature as it struck paved path, grass, branch, and leaf. Wind gusted his coat around his ankles, sending chill waves through him.

     He found a good tree and hung his lantern on a low branch, out of most of the rain. He fell to his knees and hunted through the grass, hoping for a finger to strike a gear. He found only frigid rain, and sat back, scowling, huddled in his coat.

     A few hours later the rain had turned away, though sprinkles came running through the branches above Cornelius to smear across his goggles or dampen his coat. The trees had done nothing but dance in the wind and soak up the rain since he had sat down, and aside from the storm, Cornelius could have fallen asleep.

     Sometime, perhaps midnight–Cornelius refused to take his watches out in such unfriendly weather, and thus perhaps preserve them–a new noise filtered through the drips and drops all around him. Cornelius perked up and turned his head, trying to find the source, and lowered his lantern from the branch to the ground. He crept around the tree. A murky figure moved beyond the rain.

     Cornelius squinted, but the figure blurred. It repeated a motion several times before moving closer. Cornelius snuck behind a bush to get a better view.

     The figure moved its arm close to its body, then whipped it out. It made the motion several more times, then came even closer to Cornelius.

     Hand gripping his hat, Cornelius crept out from behind the bush, crouched, and slid toward the figure. It became clearer the closer he got.

     “Morris!” he said, and the man jumped, spilling his planter’s pot. Its contents scattered across the path, tinkling.

     Morris shrank back, fists raised until Cornelius tore the goggles off his face. “What in God’s name are you doing out here, in this weather, at this hour, spreading-” he looked at his feet. Hundreds of small, mismatched gears littered the path, chiming as rain struck them. “What are you doing with these?”

     Morris seized his coat. “You shouldn’t be here! The garden is closed!”

     “Pardon?”

     Morris dragged him through the rain, in the direction of the main gate. “You can’t stay!”

     Cornelius swatted his hand away and adjusted his coat. Water poured off his hat. “Explain yourself, my good man! You go about scattering these gears, and then you say you know nothing of them! I will be speaking to the parson about this!”

     “It isn’t what you think,” Morris said. He splashed back to the planter’s pot, slipping in the deep puddles. “It’s my fault–don’t worry yourself!”

     “Oh, but I am!” Cornelius followed him across the soaked lawn, shouting over the growing rain. “The parson asked me to investigate!” His cane lodged in mud, and as he tried to wrench it out, Morris scurried away. “Morris! Come back here!”

     The groundskeeper disappeared into the returning storm. Once he freed his cane, Cornelius ran after him. He’d left his lantern on the tree, and so stumbled through the park blind. Rain-heavy branches hung low in front of his path, and his shoes slid on slick stones.

     He glanced around, trying to see through the rain. “Morris!” His foot scattered a pile of gears. “Morris! Come out! Tell me what’s going on!” A structure loomed past the next hill, and Cornelius made for it.

     He pushed the door open and entered, dripping rivers off his coat. “Morris?” He looked around. He’d entered the groundskeeper’s shed once more. A few electric lamps gave light, the storm pounded on the roof, and one of the benches stood in the middle of the room, revealing a small hole in the wall. “What in gray blazes?”

     The hole lead into the ground, and Cornelius had to squeeze himself in to enter. Crude steps led down, and heat fled the air. He pulled his coat tight. The steps wound in an arc, descending ever farther, and darkness came as the electric lamps from the shed dwindled. Cornelius teased each step out carefully, and then natural light–orange, flickering–grew ahead of him.

     Something scuffled over stone, and a muttered voice, tense and high, came to Cornelius’s ears. The clinging sound of many gears rolling over one another began, and Cornelius pressed himself against the side of the tunnel, next to the exit.

     He peered around the corner, and his mouth dropped open. His cane fell from his hand.

     Morris whirled, holding another planter’s pot. Tiny, misshapen gears filled it, as well as the corners of the small, crude room. A lantern sat at Morris’s feet. Cornelius ignored it, however, in favor of the small metallic tree in the center. Skinny brown limbs hung like vines, tiny gears dotting them. Dirty, rusted roots wound out from the trunk, breaking up the ground and burrowing down.

     “Professor!”

     “Deus scintilla!” Cornelius said, coming out from the tunnel, gazing at the tree. “I can’t believe it…Morris, do you know what this means?”

     “You can’t tell anyone, professor!” Morris said, falling to his knees. The planter’s pot fell from his arms, spilling the gears into those already littering the ground. “I didn’t know what else to do!”

     “There’s no need to fear, my good man! Tell me-” Cornelius peered at the metal trunk- “when did you discover it?”

     “Discover it?” Morris frowned. “I didn’t! I built it!”

     Cornelius turned on him. “What?”

     “I…I attended the university, years ago, but…I failed out. But I kept it up, you see. In secret. Nobody liked my designs, so I never showed anyone.” Morris gestured at the tree. “I built this over the years, refinin’ it and improvin’ it. I wanted to make a tree.”

     “You made it yourself,” Cornelius whispered, going back to the tree. Tiny, pea-sized gears hung on the small limbs. “And the gears?”

     “They’ve been collectin’,” Morris said. He pointed at the corners, full of the gears in varying shapes and sizes. “I was running out of room. I had to get rid of ’em, but…if people saw me taking them out, they’d think I stole ’em. So a week ago I went out at night and started spreadin’ ’em, and then I would clean ’em up during the day. I didn’t know what else to do.”

     “The tree is growing the gears. Incredible. Let’s see.” Cornelius ran his hands over the trunk. “It takes materials from the earth and builds the gears itself?” Morris nodded. “A fine design. Morris, you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m sure the parson will need an explanation, and you may want to apologize to Officer Tillibrim, but this is quite an ingenious design. And to think the university kicked you out! You’d be welcome in my class any day!”

     “I couldn’t,” Morris said. He rose and picked up the planter, scooping gears into it.

     “I think you could. Look at what you made! You could teach, Morris! I’ll speak to the parson. We should be able to get that little tree of yours out into the sun. I bet the parson would welcome it! You won’t have to make this mess every night.”

     Cornelius convinced Morris to leave the gears for later. They stood just inside the shed. The storm still pounded. “You should be proud, Morris. I’ve seen a lot in my time at the university, but you really gave me a surprise.” He squeezed some of the water out of his coat. “Would you be so kind as to unlock the front gate for me?”

     Morris nodded, scowling at the ground, and they splashed through the park to the gate. “Scientists will come from far abroad to study your tree, Morris,” Cornelius said as Morris lagged behind. “Your little tree will make you famous!”

     A blow felled him, and he splashed forward as pain filled his head. He spun around in the water as Morris advanced, hands curled into fists. “Morris!”

     “They can’t know!” He jumped onto the professor and reached for his throat.

     Cornelius brought his cane around, but Morris grabbed it. They struggled together, rolling in a puddle, and then Cornelius triggered the tea leaves.

     The groundskeeper reared back, yelling and brushing at his face. He sneezed, and Cornelius jumped to his feet. Morris’s keys had fallen onto the ground, and he seized them, dashing into the rain.

     A small light drew him forward, and he came to his lantern, still swinging from its branch. He ran past it, rain pushing him down and shouts from behind urging him onward.

     He found the fence around the park, and followed it, avoiding the streetlights on the other side, and eventually came to the locked gate. Tillibrim shivered, scowling out at the street. “Officer!”

     Tillibrim jumped and spun, wielding his nightstick. “Professor!”

     Cornelius fumbled the keys and shoved one into the gate’s lock. “It’s Morris. He attacked me!”

     “Did he now? Well, open up and let me teach him a lesson!”

     “Bah!” Cornelius tried another key. “Come on!” He looked over his shoulder; a figure splashing toward him.

     “Is that him?” Tillibrim asked.

     The third key unlocked the gate, and Cornelius sprinted out. Tillibrim rushed in and tackled Morris, knocking the groundskeeper over.

     Cornelius panted, standing in the middle of the street. He groaned and rubbed his neck as Tillibrim sat on top of Morris. “I’ve had a brilliant idea for a machine, officer. It unlocks doors for you.”

     He brought his hand to his head, and couldn’t find his hat. Broken watch parts tinkled in his pockets.

#

     “It isn’t Deus Scintilla?” the parson said in the morning. The sun shined on the still-dripping Gethsemane Gardens. Whiplish and Cornelius sat in the parson’s office. “Are you sure?”

     “Certain,” Cornelius said. He sat, flipping one leg over the other, hands on his cane, crushed hat in his lap. “I’ve seen the designs Morris had hidden away. They’re original, artificial to the highest degree–and brilliant. He made his own tree.”

     “Morris.” Whiplish sighed, shaking his head. “I don’t understand why he would act in such a way.”

     “He feels terrible.” Cornelius rubbed the back of his neck. “I shan’t press charges. He was scared and worried.”

     Whiplish smiled. “I’m glad to hear that, professor. As is written: ‘Forbearing one another, and forgiving one another, if any man have a quarrel against any: even as Christ forgave you, so also do ye.’ And…the tree?”

     “Morris would prefer to keep it hidden away.” Cornelius rose and buttoned his coat. “For the time being, at least.”

     “What are you going to do now?”

     The professor turned. “The job is done, isn’t it? The mystery of the gears has been revealed. I must return to my duties. I am, in fact, still a professor, after all.” He leaned across the desk. “Keep in touch, my good man.” They shook, and Cornelius departed.

     He returned to the university, battled his door again, and tripped over a pile of mail inside. He muttered to himself about building a mail collector, then spotted one of the envelopes, from Willard.

     He read it, and then lowered it to the table, gazing at the wall, mind adrift. “The air over Athens,” he whispered.

Daniel lives in Minnesota and writes for work and fun. His work has appeared in over a dozen publications, and his book “The Woman Who Walked Among the Stars” is available on Kindle. His twitter is @Danny_Deisinger, and his website is saturdaystory-Time.weebly.com.