Short Stories 2005-2006

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Short Stories 2005-2007
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The Stranger in the Box
ByAlyson Guthrie

The roses were red as blood, and trembled in her sweaty, shaky hands. Helen walked over to the long, black box, and placed three roses on top of it. Somehow, thirty years had gone by, and the man she thought she knew in the box, was now a stranger. She stepped back, and watched as the people started to leave the cemetery. She wanted to tell people her secret. She wanted them to know how confused and regretful she felt. Tears of melancholy trickled down her cheeks as she turned around to leave the cemetery that bright, spring morning. Helen closed her eyes, and was taken back to the beginning; back to the beginning of the end.

It started in Dr. Robinson’s office, right after Christmas. It was after that cold week in December, when the messy, confused son came home from college with a basket full of dirty laundry, and the happily married daughter came home, instead of visiting the in-laws. Everything was picture perfect, as if it came from a page of GoodHousekeeping, which Helen read and tried to emulate religiously. That unfortunate day after Christmas, Dr. Robinson said the words Helen and Tom had feared for months. “Tom, the cancer has spread. Tom, you have a few months left. Helen, it is best for you and Tom to decide where and how Tom would like to spend his time.” Helen hated the way the doctor used their names in every sentence. “Why do people do that?” Helen thought to herself. “I already know who Tom is. He’s my husband, and he’s going to die.”

The seven minute ride home from the doctor’s office was filled with nothing. No words. No looks. The somber atmosphere suffocated Helen. She looked over at Tom as he lit a cigarette, and rolled the window down. “You son of a bitch,” Helen thought to herself. Tom inhaled the pollution that was taking his life, and by the time he pulled into their driveway, Helen felt guilty for calling Tom such a cruel name. “I should have made him stop,” she thought. Helen opened the door, and looked at her perfect home. The couch, walls, and carpet blended together. There were no rings on the coffee table, no dust on the mantle, and the house smelled of potpourri and detergent. Helen’s perfect home was now contaminated with Tom’s illness, and the pressure to plan the perfect ending for what Helen thought had been a perfect marriage started to sink in.

As the days went by, Tom became more distant. He spent most days in the garage, where he had once built his daughter’s crib, polished his son’s first bike, and hid his daughter’s new car. Helen spent her days on the telephone, planning Tom’s funeral. “I wonder what kind of widow I’ll be,” Helen thought to herself as she planned the menu. “I was always such a good wife.” She thought about all of the widows she knew. There was Elizabeth, who had found a new, younger husband, Kathy, who spent her days volunteering for her church, and Sylvia. Sylvia simply disappeared. She left their little community, and never looked back. “That one won’t be me,” Helen thought. “I’ll be the devoted mother widow. Yeah, the one who’s the best mother and someday Grandmother. Oh, I can’t wait to be a Grandma. I wonder what type of Grandmother I’ll be.” Before Helen could think of all the Grandmothers she knew, her thoughts were interrupted by a loud pounding sound.

Helen looked out of her spotless, kitchen window until she found where the noise was coming from. She walked outside to the garage, and found Tom pounding on a piece of wood. “What on earth are you doing?” Helen shouted over the noise. Tom stopped pounding, and set his hammer down. He looked at his wife, standing in the doorway with her hands on her thick hips. “Who is this woman?” Tom wondered. He thought about the first time he had met Helen. As far back as Tom could remember she was a perfectionist. She always played the perfect role. She was the perfect daughter, the perfect student, and now the perfect wife. In a couple of weeks, she would be the perfect widow. Tom looked down at his piece of wood. “I’m just makin’ you something, Helen.” As he looked back up at her, she was already out the door, and back on the phone, calling the funeral director.

As Tom’s breaths became more rapid and short, he spent more and more time in the garage. The pounding and wheezing never seemed to quit, but Helen didn’t really notice. When he quit going to the garage, Helen knew it was almost time. Then one night, it happened. Helen woke up bright and early that Thursday morning to Tom’s lifeless body. As she looked at his face, she felt nothing. “Why am I so numb?” she thought. “Aren’t I supposed to cry?” She ran her hand along his face, and body. In his hand rested an envelope, with her name written on the front of it.

Helen slowly opened the envelope, and read what it said:

“My dearest Helen,

I knew that tonight would be my last, so I wrote you this letter. Over the past thirty years, we have become Helen and Tom. Our names roll off everyone’s lips so easily, and on the surface we know who we are. I am Tom. I am a father of two, a husband, and run my own carpentry business. You are Helen. You are a wife, mother, PTA member, and you work with the sisters of charity at our church. I am Tom, and you are Helen. That’s it. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t really know you. What’s your favorite book? If you could pick one place to go, where would it be? What inspires you? Helen, what is your favorite color? I don’t know. That is why I have done this. Underneath the bed, you will find a box. Inside the box will be your final instructions.”

Helen looked at the words on the paper in disbelief. Then, the tears started to flow. She rolled off of the bed, and called an ambulance in sobs. Helen hung up the phone, and threw it across the bedroom. “Who have I become?” she screamed. The ambulance workers found Helen on the floor, curled up in a ball. They helped her out of the room, and Helen spent the next few days in a haze. She got through the funeral, but could only think of the letter, and what could be under the bed. When the funeral was over, and everyone had left, Helen walked into the bedroom, got on her hands and knees, and searched for the box.

When Helen found it, she traced her fingers along the smooth, intricate wood work. The box was small, beautiful, and exhibited the talent Tom had once had. On the front of the box, Tom carved a car, a moon, and a heart. Helen slowly opened it, and found a piece of paper and a key. The paper read, “Go to the garage, and use this key to open the bottom cabinet closest to the door.” Helen forced herself to follow the instructions, and inside the cabinet she found two suitcases and another note. Helen had trouble reading the note, as tears slid onto the paper, and smeared the ink. Helen slowly read the words out loud. “This is my suitcase for the trip I always wanted. Inside you will find everything I would have needed. Will you take me there, Helen? Inside the cabinet you will find another suitcase with a map for our trip. Fill your suitcase with whatever your need. Fill it with memories and love, but most of all, fill it with you. Inside my suitcase, you will find the real me. I hope that someday, you will find the real you.”

Helen opened the suitcase, and saw the man she had married for the first time. She saw an old picture of her and Tom sipping a milk shake at the Tasty Freeze, a copy of The Catcher in the Rye, a book Helen didn’t even know Tom had read, a tape filled with Tom’s favorite songs, and a clean pair of underwear. “Okay, Tom,” Helen whispered, “Let’s go on our trip.” One week later, Helen got into her car with the two suitcases. She started the engine, set out the map, and popped Tom’s cassette into the tape player. As Helen rolled across the country, she and Tom saw everything; everything that had been hidden for the past thirty years.




Twisted Fate
By Andrew Ode

Collin’s bitter past followed him as he leaned into the raw wind.

“I’m getting out of here. I’m never coming back. No one will ever hear of Collin Blunt ever again. From now on, I’ll be Collin Stevens, a southern man from Alabama looking to explore the country. Ya… that’ll work”

“But were will I go? Washington? No, out of the contiguous states. Maybe Alaska, Canada, somewhere north of here. Well, I ain’t getting anywhere by just standing. Time to put these legs to use.”

Collin’s uneasy mind wandered and rationalized his reasons for leaving as he walked down the expansion of highway against the cruel wind. The same bitter, harsh wind that was blowing the night he witnessed his father’s brutal murder. Collin’s expression turned somber as he recalled that night.

“You owe us some money Mr. Blunt,” threatened a man with muscles bulging out of every part of his body.

Standing in this man’s shadow, “Y-y-yes, I know,” stammered Collin’s father, “b-but, but surely there must be something that we can do for the moment, seeing as I don’t quite have the money at the moment, but can get it first thing next week.”

“Ya? And that’s what you’ve been saying for the past three weeks Mr. Blunt,” added a second man, whose bulk even overshadowed the first.

“And seeing as this is business and you’ve fallen behind on your payments,” finished the first man, his scar almost flashing in the moonlight, “a price must be paid. Nothing money can help with. You see, Mr. Blunt, Mr. Miotto believes that the only true price that should get paid is pain.”

The mountain of a man interrupted, “But unfortunately for you, Mr. Miotto wants a little more payment from you than just a few broken bones.”

“And-and what-what would that be ex-exactly?” cowered Collin’s father, already knowing the answer.

Sick, twisted grins crossed both men’s faces as the first crooned, “Your life!”

Hiding in the bushes, Collin heard everything. Collin watched, horrified, as the crowbars were raised and glinted in the moonlight. Collin couldn’t move, his feet were nailed to the ground; he couldn’t scream; his voice ran away without his body; he couldn’t look away, only watch as his dad’s life was beaten out of him.

As his dad laid dying, the scarred man grinned, “Don’t worry Mr. Blunt, your son will soon share your same fate. Mr. Miotto believes in the old saying ‘Like Father, Like Son’.”

Before the final blow was dealt, Collin’s father looked up for anything to help him and caught his son’s eye by surprise. In that moment, one thought went through Collin’s mind. He could it hear as clear as if his father were whispering in his ear, “Run!”

Right then, the paralysis that held him frozen in time, broke. Collin heeded his father’s words and ran; he ran like his life depended on it, which it did. He started to hear his father’s scream, but the howling, bitter wind broke it off. He ran. He didn’t know what he was going to do, where he was going to go. But he did know he had to get out of Mr. Miotto’s grasp.

So caught up in the horrifying memory, Collin did not even realize that a semi had pulled up beside him.

“Hey, buddy, you alright?” asked the husky driver, “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Huh? Um, ya. Hey, could you give me a lift?”

“Sure, hop in, been getting lonely, could use a little company. Going anywhere specific?”

“Nope, just away from here.”

“Been there myself my friend,” the truck driver said as he put his big rig into gear. “Heading to Canada, got transferred. There’s a good job up there if you’re in the market?”

“Actually, a job in Canada sounds pretty good to me,” Collin responded, thinking his luck may change and he could come out of this whole ordeal just fine. “What kind of work?”

“Oh, you know, menial labor for this big shot. Grunt stuff, doesn’t really take any skills”

“Sounds perfect. You don’t mind if I just tag along.”

“Nope, sounds good to me.”

“Thanks, you’re a great help.”

“No problem, us little guys gotta look out for one another.” The driver smiled as he extended his big hand toward Collin. “The name’s Tim Bruscher.”

“Collin Bl-, Collin Stevens,”Collin corrected as he took the big man’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Same here, Collin”

The truck headed its long haul to the north with a shipment going to Canada with Collin’s hope for a better life in tow. On the back door of the truck, an emblem blazed in the setting sun, twin dragons entwined around a katana, below it, Miotto’s Shipping.





Bored to Death
By MacKenzie Trask

Jackie stepped one foot out of her car when she heard a hoarse shout.

“Get away from your car! Move, quickly!” The voice shouted urgently.

She had just parked her car in the bottom level of the parking garage when the man started yelling. With a bewildered look on her face, Jackie took a step back towards the car, not knowing what to expect. Suddenly she smelled it. Smoke, a long line of it running straight to her car! She screamed, grabbed for her purse and ran away as fast as she could. Her fast wasn’t fast enough however, when she collided with the arms of the stranger and was hurled into the air and backwards fifteen feet.

The man coughed and rolled over groaning. “Are you all right ma’am?” He asked in a deep raspy voice. There was no response—Jackie had passed out.

Three hours later, Jackie moaned and clutched at her head. Slowly she opened her eyes, her vision swimming unsteadily. Suddenly everything came into focus and she sat bolt upright in bed, not considering the ramifications of her wound and promptly collapsed backwards again biting her lip.

“You might want to lie still for a while, Ms. Flaun. Your head took a nasty hit on the pavement after the explosion. I’m afraid your car is gone as well.” It was the same deep raspy voice that Jackie had heard before her car blew up.

“I remember you, vaguely. I’m so sorry, but you were the man who yelled at me to get away from the car, weren’t you?” She murmured in a whisper-soft voice. When he only nodded, his smoldering brown eyes fixed on hers, Jackie blushed and averted her gaze, but not before enjoying what she had seen. The man, whoever he was, had a body like one of the ancient Roman gods. His hair was a dark silky brown and he appeared as fit as, if not more than, she. A closer look revealed carefully manicured hands and a high fashion sense befitting a man his age.

“My name is Peter, Peter Rankle. The doctor says that you have a mild concussion and some slight singeing from the explosion, but that you’ll be right as rain in a day or two. Until then, I’m just your friendly Superman here to save the day.” His cheeky grin made her laugh outright.

Surprising that I enjoy his presence so much? Jackie mused silently, or just chemistry? Who knew, but until then, this Peter seemed like a nice enough man.

Checking out of the hospital was going to be a pain, literally. Jackie groaned that thought quietly and elicited a laugh from Peter. “I’ll take care of you.”

Those five words held a wealth of meaning that stunned her a week ago, and they still affected her thinking like a powerful aphrodisiac. Their courtship had steadily progressed in that event filled week. The horror of a near-death, losing her car, falling madly in love—wait, love?

Not one to question her good fortune, Jackie took the relationship step by step, and without realizing, three weeks had gone by. She did everything she could to keep their partnership interesting.

Chancing upon Peter at a moment when his guard was down was a surefire way to get a rise out of him, however impossible it seemed to catch him. One morning, Jackie happened to catch him unawares and threw both arms exuberantly around his neck. What happened next was too fast for her to see or comprehend. Peter took one muscle bound arm and deliberately tossed Jackie to the floor.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times,” Peter shouted menacingly, “don’t interrupt me while I’m working!”

Jackie nodded contritely, her fear-filled eyes averted carefully onto the floor. Don’t do anything else stupid or you’ll really lose him, she told herself fiercely, valuing even a smile or good thought from him over her own self-esteem.

Before long, the "incident" as she had deemed to refer to the fight in her mind, had faded. Now it was all Jackie could do to keep Peter’s attention. She caught his gaze wandering lustfully, and barely kept track of the females he sought out while in her company. Peter seemed to be performing tests on her will power and endurance to see which would crack first. Then it happened.

“Happy one month anniversary, sweetheart!” Peter had brought her chocolates. Again. “I just wanted to show you how much I appreciate you.” Jackie nodded her assent, golden curls bouncing around slim shoulders.

“Peter, there’s something I need to tell you.” Abruptly her tone was frosty and very serious. “I don’t think I can keep the charade up. I love you and yet you seem bored…” Jackie broke off with a soft cry of fear at the rage filling his once handsome eyes.

“You cow! Don’t even think about ending it, not here, not now, not EVER!” His closed fist had the effect of a club being swung at her head—hard. Jackie crumpled to the floor in utter shock.

“No, Peter, no, I just wanted to tell you that your present is in the garage! Stop it now!” Jackie lay sobbing as she dragged her body over the smooth, cold tiles of the kitchen, desperately searching for any excuse to delay his unabated wrath. He kicked her again and again with a ferocious intensity that was terrifying in itself. Close to her breaking point, the last thing Jackie saw before she passed out was the mad glint in his eyes. “Please….” darkness.

Pain like a thousand knives piercing her skull woke Jackie. Instinctively she whimpered and tried curling herself up into a protective ball. The ropes binding her hands and feet made it impossible. Bounce, bounce, she whacked her protesting head on the floor and realized that she was moving. Jackie shook her head willing the awful darkness not to claim her again and succeeded barely.

The screech of tires on pavement wasn’t lost to her. Perhaps she would be let loose now? What had she done to Peter? They had been falling in love, hadn’t they? Slam! The driver’s door shut fiercely and the back door almost fell off of the hinges at the force of the jerk.

“I really did enjoy you while we lasted, but I guess we all get a little bored now and then, eh, sugar plum?” Peter, his teasing, lilting voice, once thoroughly satisfying, now desperately terrifying, slithered in and out of her ears. Jackie opened her mouth to scream, but her breath was slashed as quick as her throat.

Bemusedly, Peter watched the light brighten then fade from her eyes as if a star had died all the while wiping the machete blade off on her pants. As her life blood poured out onto the ground around him, he took a match, carefully lit it, and threw it into the back of the van soaked clear to the tank with gasoline.

One week later a woman going to her car noticed a man running towards her frantically waving his arms in the air. The smell of smoke was heavy in the air and she noticed something not right. KABOOM! Her car blew sky high in the air and she could only watch in stunned shock before the man yanked her out of the way of the flying debris.

Carefully reviewing the notes in his mind as he approached the shapely brunette Amanda, Peter hoped she’d be more of a challenge than dreary old Jackie.

“Hello, my name is Peter.”