Unrequited Love- David's Take

Hospitals Are Unpleasant: A Love Story

By David Franklin

 

She couldn’t remember much about the accident, but the Nurse told her it had been bad.

 

            “Almost lost the pair of you! We sure did!” she sobbed, and tear rolled down her face.

 

            “Oh,” said June groggily. She smiled faintly, touched by the strange woman’s concern. “So Kenny’s okay then? When can I see him?”

 

            The Nurse furrowed her brow at the name. “Kenny?”

 

            “Yes, my husband Kenneth. I guess he was in the… accident with me, but you’re telling me he’s okay? Can I see him soon?”

 

            “Oh! Your husband! Certainly, I’ll go get him.”

 

            June was confused.

 

            The Nurse disappeared from sight as she turned into the hall. June heard her footsteps disappear. The hospital was silent.

 

            June rose from her bed with effort, bracing herself against the wall as she surveyed her room. The larger portion contained the bed and side table, a television, medical equipment, a few chairs for guests, and the restroom door.

 

            A new set of footsteps echoed from the hallway, and June returned to her bed. They grew louder, and her door opened. Kenneth smiled.

 

 

June’s sister Cynthia lived in Milwaukee, and though she and her sister hadn’t spoken in years, Cynthia called June the next day.

 

“I know you must be lonely in that hospital room,” she said, concerned. “I just want to make sure you’re keeping up your spirits. Are you feeling healthy?”

 

“Thank you, Cynthia. That’s very considerate. And yes, I, uh, feel very healthy.”

 

“What a relief!” Cynthia cried. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you both!”

 

“Oh! Well thanks, sis... I’m glad to hear you changed your mind about Kenny.”

 

There was silence.

 

“Kenny?” said the voice on the other end.

 

“Yes. You said ‘you both.’”

 

“Oh.”

 

Cynthia said nothing else, and June eventually hung up.

 

The Nurse reentered.

 

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            June supposed the hospital must be very crowded, but the Nurse seemed to spend an unusual amount of time with her, and she never heard anyone else besides Kenneth. The other patients must be sleeping while she was awake. Perhaps that wasn’t odd. She herself had been comatose for a week after the accident, Kenneth told her.

 

It was probably the impact trauma and the drugs, but there had been… nightmares. Mouths and eyes. She had dreamt of mouths and eyes. Far too many, and in places where they shouldn’t have been. Mouths that took away her husband, piece by wet piece. Eyes that gazed on her next with greed…

 

Kenneth had cried when she told him, as if he had been the one trapped in that inchoate hellscape. Bewildered, June had consoled him as best she could.

 

            “Sorry, it’s stupid. I just love you so much. You know that?”

 

            “You’re a ridiculous man. You know I know that.”

 

            “You really don’t.” Kenneth looked very severe. “No one has ever loved you so much and in as many ways as have I.”

 

            “You’re a cheeseball.”

           

            As June reached to tug his hair affectionately, Kenneth caught her wrist sharply.

 

            “Ow. Kenny?”

 

            He kissed her hand and placed it on her belly, intertwining his fingers with hers.

           

            “Sorry. I- I think I might be losing my hair, so please don’t pull it,” he said seriously.

 

            She stared at him askance, then chuckled at him deprecatingly. “Uh, okay grampa.”

 

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After the next morning’s checkup, the Nurse opened left to get June’s breakfast. She was never alone for very long. The Nurse checked her vitals incessantly and made sure she ate everything she was given.

 

“Shouldn’t I be up and walking by now? Are there exercises I should be doing?” June asked.

 

“Oh certainly not. Mustn’t strain yourself,” the Nurse replied.

 

 Kenneth kept her company after work, and Cynthia called several times a week. During one such call, June brought up the nightmares.

 

“You poor thing!” exclaimed Cynthia.

 

            “It seemed so real…”

 

            “That’s how dreams are,” interrupted her sister. “It’s perfectly normal though. There’s no need to upset yourself and risk coming down with something. You have such lovely health.”

 

            “Um, thanks?”

 

            “Besides, Kenneth visits you every day after work. You have very good evidence that he’s perfectly fine.”

 

            “That’s true I guess… Do you guys talk often?” asked June.

 

            “Whatever do you mean?”

 

            “Kenny obviously told you when he comes to visit, I mean. Don’t get me wrong, I’m just glad my sister and husband are finally getting along.”

 

            “Indeed. We are very close,” replied Cynthia evenly.

 

            “That’s awesome! Hang on, Kenny’s out in the hall. I’ll go get him, and we can talk on speaker.”

 

            “No! You mustn’t strain yourself!” Cythia said sharply.

 

            June still felt very weak, but she pulled herself along the wall.

 

            “It’s cool. I could do with the exercise.”

 

            June opened the hallway door.

 

            “June! Return to your bed immediately!” screamed a voice that was certainly not Cynthia’s.

           

            The voice came both from the phone and from down the hall, and in the dim fluorescent light, she saw a shape from her nightmares, barely contained by the Nurse’s uniform. Kenneth’s empty face hung limply from an eyestalk.

 

            June screamed as she backed into her room. A clattering sound echoed from the hall as the Creature pulled itself along on knobs of bone.

 

            “No need to upset yourself,” said Cynthia’s voice from one of the Mouths. “I don’t know what I’d do without you both.”

 

            “Mustn’t strain yourself!” said the Nurse’s voice from another Mouth. “The baby’s very sensitive. Almost lost the pair of you! We sure did!”

 

            “I told you,” said the Mouth from under Kenny’s face, “No one has ever loved you so much and in as many ways as have I.”

 

            And all of the Eyes wept with joy.

 

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            Three years later, June awoke as her abdomen burst open. Mouths and eyes.

           

Unconventional Sorcery- Jenny's Take

 

Muffy Winthrop loved her children.

She’d even woken up a little earlier than usual expressly to see their shining faces arrive home from school. Slinking through the marble hallway, away from the master suite, she admired a few portraits she’d commissioned of the beloved family pets last winter. They were stunning works, even though the be-tutued shih tzu was a little on the chubby side. This had been a point of mild outrage for Muffy in the past, but now was a minor irksome detail. She paused a moment to see if any annoyance surfaced from under the leagues of apathy. When none emerged, she decided against downing another Valium and meandered on.

Perfectly manicured toes made no sound as the cold stone rose to meet her feet. The lengthy hallway widened into the delta of a grand staircase that swept downward to an even grander foyer. A pristine alabaster soaked the walls and the floors of marble were as colorless as her country club. The house’s pallor pleased her… or at least the decorator’s tightly-fitted trousers pleased her and that had been all the incentive she’d needed to green light the 4 month and $350,000 redesign.

Standing elegantly at the top of the stairs, Muffy was a queen surveying her land. Diamond clad hands slithered up her silk drenched frame and she noticed, with what coral would register as elation, that her hipbones were protruding a little more than yesterday. Her overly ripe lips attempted a smile.

The quiet pressed against her like a lover. She filled her lungs with it, sucking at the vacant air. Impossibly blue eyes rolled back into her head as she savored the solace that was soon to be broken by the fruit of her loins. The darlings. She’d birthed them through a tastefully drugged C-section almost 13 years before. Twins! Can you imagine?! Such a handful and yet such a blessing.

Stretching her slender arms in the air, she embraced the light streaming through the crystalline chandelier. She knew it was gaudy (her decorator had expressed this in so many indeterminable words), but didn’t care. The light glinting through the drops pleased her to no end and in so much silence one could almost hear the beams dancing with slippered feet upon the—

BAM. A door crashed open and then…

“Shut your beaver, AVA!”

“At least I have a beaver and not a dick, you fucking man.”

Ah. The children were home.

Muffy unclenched her jaw, fists, and pelvic floor respectively, swept a taloned hand through her butter highlights and prepared to glide down the staircase. But as soon as her foot fell upon the top step, a jarring scream erupted from the kitchen below.

“You CUNT!”

Muffy sauntered down the stairs with all the swiftness she could muster and strode lightly into the dining area. There she found her two daughters trying to scalp each other with butter knives.

“Blake. Avery. What is going on here?” Muffy sternly murmured. The din continued unaffected.

“Get the fuck off me you crazy dyke!”

Blake had gotten the upper hand and was wrapping her sister’s hair around her forearm as one might a rope during a particularly nasty game of tug-o-war. She squatted and plopped all of her weight down onto Avery’s squirming back and pressed the edge of the “blade” firmly upon the girl’s forehead.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re crazy! GET OFF ME!”

“Not until you fucking pay me! I was saving that shit for this weekend and you flushed it?!”

Blake wrenched her elbow back leaving a faint pink line zigging zags across Avery’s flesh. In response, Avery yowled, bucked, and sent Blake flying backwards on to the smooth stone floor. Blake let out a cry to add to the cacophony of curses spewing from Avery’s foul mouth.

“You fucked up, bitch! You fucked up good! I’m going to MURDER you with your own boot laces you muff munching, orange-is-the-new-black-loving, shit faced whore!”

“You mean I fucked up well, you illiterate cocksucker!”

“BLAKE.” A third voice boomed like cannon fire in the air and the caterwauling was silenced almost as if by magic.

Lupe, the nanny, had entered from the garage carrying the day’s groceries. She was a petite woman with a figure to make lonely housewives kill. Long black hair complimented her flawless caramel skin and immense obsidian eyes that burned like coal. Muffy would’ve hated her, but the numerous SSRI’s mixed with recreational anorexia numbed pretty much anything and who really cares anyway she was the kitten of the is there food?

Lupe stepped slowly toward the two trembling tweens.

“Blake. What did you just call your own flesh and blood?”

“Nothing.”

“Do NOT lie to me, because I can smell it on you.” The words fired from the Latina’s crimson mouth like a singular bullet.

The twins shuffled in place, two dogs cowering with their noses pressed to the soiled carpet. Lupe set the organic, cage-free kale on the counter followed by three bottles of Ketel One and sucked her cheeks in. She spoke slowly and deliberately, making certain that every tongue flick, roll, and wag could be heard.

“I know… that no young lady of mine would ever be caught with such disgusting language on her tongue. You know how I know this?”

Silence.

“I said: you know how I know this?”

Identical whispers. “No, ma’am.”

“I know this, because young ladies of mine would be too afraid of the consequences to ever say something as ignorant as ‘cocksucker’ to their sister. So, since you both are not my young ladies but two little cerdos waddling around with filth covered mouths, you won’t mind me taking away your cellphones.”

1000 shrieking cats lent their voices to the upsurge of tweenrage that threatened to Jericho the whitewashed walls. Muffy drifted back and found herself at the foot of the stairs once more. Blake and Avery were united in a force to rival bulls running through Pamplona and Lupe was helpless against them. The Cuban with a Brazilian had made a fatal mistake and now that the twins were brandishing the same semi-automatic blind hatred, Lupe’s magic was useless. The screeching reached a deafening pitch and desperately Lupe looked up and straight into Muffy’s wan face, beseeching some kind, any kind of assistance.

When it came to parenting, Muffy was a last resort; because, despite having carried the twins to term, Muffy had never expressed any interest in their lives. But as the shrieks of those two little blessings promised to burst eardrums, Lupe hoped to use her peacemaking powers to form a bond of motherhood with her employer. What Lupe didn’t know was that Muffy too had a magical gift.

Slowly, Muffy turned from the imploring eyes of her servant and placed a delicate foot on an icy stair. She floated up the ascent of stonework, past the immortalized canines, into the master suite and finally came to the threshold of the master bath. It was there that she concocted a special potion; a brew to rid her serenity of yowling ingratitude and Latin-American judgment. You see, Muffy had a gift for mixing substances and she’d saved the very last of her favorite bottle of Chateau Margaux ’95 for just an enchanted afternoon.

Two parts red wine and one parts Ambien, the concoction was know in the waspiest circles as the “Mayer Mollifier”.

She held the chalice aloft and recited the appropriate incantation: “Fucking botched vasectomy.”

And like magic, her children disappeared.

Unrequited Love- Connor's Take

Never Listen to the Milk

by Connor Hammond

 

I promised myself I wouldn’t be put in this place again. The place where I’m willing to give anything, change anything, just to have you look at me for a second. I don’t know when that became a currency. I don’t know what other people have that they can get your attention so easily while the exchange rate is crushing me. I have waking dreams where my skin is the same color as that wallpaper you hate in the bathroom and I’ve almost tried to peel it off. I’m having that right now. Would you look at me with more than a passing glance if I started peeling my skin off while you sit perched next to the sink eating cereal? Instead of the cat!! I used to love that cat but now it is the easiest way for you to avoid me. All you do for the brief moments you are here is stare at that cat. ALL THE CAT DOES IS STARE AT THE WALLS!! If I stared at the walls would you watch me all day?

 

Of course none of this was articulated. John’s silent tirade was only outwardly represented by the occasional clenching of his jaw while he leaned, in what he hoped was a casual manner, against the refrigerator. He had chosen to lean against the fridge because while Alice ate cereal she always kept the milk next to her so that she could add small amounts from time to time. John knew that she would eventually have to put the milk back in the fridge and would be forced to ask him to move. He also knew that if he feigned distraction at just that moment Alice would simply nudge him out of the way.

 

He lived for those moments.

 

Alice finished her cereal, set the bowl down in the sink next to her, hopped off the counter, and reached to pick up the milk.

 

John prepared himself. The cat also prepared himself to go lap up whatever milk might remain in the bowl. As the cat jumped from the small dining table where it had been sitting, to the counter the animal stupidly misjudged the distance and instead crashed headfirst into the oven door and skittered into the next room.

 

Alice burst out laughing then followed after the cat making consolatory noises. The milk sat forgotten on the counter.

 

John took a long even breath, his jaw clenched and unclenched. Several moments passed between John and the milk. John still leaned, somewhat abjectly now, against the fridge looking at the milk. The milk sat on the counter looking at John; as if to say, “Sorry old pal, we did our best. What more can we do?”

 

Having perceived to have received his own consolation John answered the milk’s question by striding into the next room, taking the cat from Alice’s arms, continuing past her out onto the balcony, and decidedly dropping the cat over the railing.

Unrequited Love- Jenny's Take

Rolling Hobos Gather No Moss

By Jenny Holden

 

 

Gacy was the tallest bum in Poncey-Highlands. He towered over the hustle and bustle like an obelisk of bad smells and worse choices.

Not unlike many of the destitute denizens of Atlanta, Gacy was a nomadic tramp who traipsed up and down the smut covered grid like a lion prowling the boundaries of his enclosure. He liked the ebb and flow of people from block to block and how different their reactions were to his gap-toothed grin. If he walked down Peachtree, the Buckhead Bettys would dive in to their golden SUVs and step on the gas, whereas in Little Five Points he might get a handshake with a friendly “how the heck are ya?”

His actual name and place of spawning Gacy couldn’t recall. It was as if he’d been birthed from ye olde AIDS hospital on Ponce, spat out onto the curb, and commenced to bumming at the ripe old age of “iunno”. But, that was about 37 near-death experiences past and who the hell could remember back that far?

Gacy wore a long maybe-green–maybe-black trench coat, melanoid fetish pants that had seen their fair share of Chevron bathroom floors, singed fingerless gloves, a dingy gray sweater with the phrase “somebody, somewhere, is tired of her shit” emblazoned on the front, overly large black boots and a mustard beanie. But all of this appeared almost charming compared to Gacy’s mug. Deep caverns were carved in the leather stretched around his empty mud colored eyes. A bubbling bulbous nose with flared puce nostrils sat atop a nightmarish grin. Gnarled and chapped lips spread wide to reveal no more than 7 serrated “teeth,” much like that of a geriatric shark. But this lack of bicuspids was only a fraction of the reason pedestrians sprinted through oncoming traffic to avoid him. Caking his gaping maw were layers upon layers of maroon; dried gore smeared haphazardly along the halitosis-ridden canyon like a macabre Ben Nye advertisement. The effect was terror-inducing to be sure, but Gacy always seemed puzzled when his smirk was met with Watership-Down-eyes and mace.

Some are born wicked, some achieve wickedness, and some have wickedness thrust upon them. Gacy considered himself to be all three. He often also considered himself to be a giant glass of whole milk, but who’s counting chickens before they’re in the bush? No one, that’s who.

As a foodie amongst hobos, Gacy had perfected his dining habits and refined his palate enough that he could enjoy all manner of urban-foraged bounty with the addition of a simple key ingredient…

Pigeon.

In his experience, there existed no dish that could not benefit from the “intellectually satisfying” acridity of the rodent of flight. Gacy put pigeon in everything. Pigeon a la burger king wrapper, pigeon & pintos, stoned pigeon soup, pub pigeon, he even added pigeon blood to the occasional batch of porto-potty wine. He was cuckoo for pigeon. Which is why Gacy was forced to reevaluate everything he had ever believed about himself one fateful morning.

It was a day of a week. Which day? Doesn’t matter. Gacy was a hobo.

Morning came at sunrise that day and Gacy was up like a shot. A good feeling buzzed in his skull and banged around looking for an upbeat song to play on repeat. Finding nothing, the feeling started bantering with the other inhabitants of Chez du Fucking Nuts, getting into a pretty heated debate about whether or not the cats roaming the backstreets of Poncey-Highlands were demons. Gacy pulled on a lopsided grimace of jubilation, tugged his sweater and coat over his head and brained the glass partition of his favorite Marta stop for good luck. Today was a fucking miracle and Gacy could not wait to seize it. He had so much to do and so little time.

The near seven foot drifter sprinted at a breakneck pace down Ponce until he reached his first stop of the morning. The parking lot of Murder Kroger was a puzzle to be solved. Shopping carts did as they pleased, rolling this way and that with no consideration for the feelings of others or the rules. There were rules in this world, god damn it, and there were no free rides; even for the blue plastic peasants wheeling willy nilly before him. In this game of war, Gacy was GOD. His eyes settled onto his first victim, but just as he was about to declare dominion over the cowering cart, Gacy laid eyes on the loveliest being he’d ever seen.

She wore grey and black, smooth and without pretention. She walked slowly toward the cobalt POW and its keeper, eyeing the pair with content scrutiny. Her gaze narrowed upon arrival to focus solely on Gacy. Cocking her head to the side, she considered for a moment the heap of horror before her and to his surprise and arousal, her expression never faltered. The comeliest countenance the vagrant had ever beheld harbored neither terror nor disgust. Something akin to the warmth he felt after yelling at cyclists on the beltline bubbled deep within. It was a strange feeling and for the first time the voices in his head were not crying out for blood, nay, but for something else much more taboo. Something he never thought in a million years he’d have the good fortune to feel. The weight of emotion brought Gacy to his knees before this exquisite creature, and while she regarded him with comfortable compassion, joy burst through his every capillary. Gacy’s rubicund face deepened to burgundy and from within his yawning gullet burbled a girlish giggle. Love flooded his senses and due to the glaucoma he was nearly blinded by the sensation.

It is said that while love corrupts, absolute love corrupts absolutely. Gacy had never been more absolute in his life. For the first time, he wanted to harm no one and a different hunger consumed him.  He was a changed man and his mind was made up.

He was going to fuck this pigeon.

Gacy was unsure of how to broach such a sensitive subject with a complete stranger, so he did the only logical thing he could think of… a mating dance*.

Two bloodshot pools of mud rolled back into his dented skull, two scarred boughs reached up into the air and entwined themselves like boa constrictors, and one raw lower lip was sucked into his second most important orifice. He sighed.

“Let us begin.”

The full body gyration began at the pinnacle of Gacy’s stance. Slowly at first, clasped hands began to whirl and weave, followed by overlong arms, grubby head, chest, and finally his birthing hips. The spiraling was now at a rapid pace, revolving faster and faster like a tilt-a-whirl of sex. He licked his lips and began to vocalize in time with the gyration.

Mmmmuggh, uuuugh, uh, uh, uggggh.

Although Gacy usually found it disingenuous to break focus during such a vulnerable moment, he couldn’t help but to peek through his sparse lashes in an effort to both convey coy while simultaneously gauge his ladylove’s seduction status.

A shock ran through his body and his bedroom eyes snapped open. Instead of the soaring fire of his heart’s desire all that met his stunned gaze were cracked asphalt and cigarette butts. His hips stopped mid-revolution and he began to twist about, searching desperately.

Had it been a dream? Was she the Whore of Babylon?  Isn’t that something you tell someone before forcing them to fall in love with you? Was there a way he could trade his sperm for two forks? His brain cup overflowed with questions, all valuable and yet all meaningless in the face of his despair.

He prepared himself to brain the asphalt when a cooing from behind gave him pause.

Could it be?  It could! She was still there! She must have flown around to get a better view! Relief aerated his tamped soul and he turned to give her a wide toothless grin. But, as he turned, his heart dropped once more and melted through the pavement, deep into Beelzebub’s blazing pit.  There his paramour, his light, his love sat in the belly of the blue beast.

It was clear to Gacy then that she had led him on in order to get closer to that contemptuous cart.

The warmth that had simmered pleasantly in his gut before began to boil and a shriek from the pit of his soul revved like a freight train and erupted from his tattered, tortured larynx. The rage and hurt flew like bits of hot coal out of the smoke stack* and he staggered to his feet, the howl unbroken.  Hatred shot from his finger tips as he wheeled around to face the siren and her suitor.  He raised both arms and willed the godforsaken cart to come to him for destruction.  He stood there in his bloodrage for at least ten minutes screaming his betrayal all the while casting summoning spells.

When the cart would not oblige him, Gacy stepped forward and looked at his once-best-friend-and-lover.  Who’d of thunk it?  After all this time, his feelings were still there.  He found that even though they had their disagreements and that she had cheated on him with one of his many subjects, she was still the same lady.   Beautiful and compassionate and wondrous in her existence.  Gacy knew it was time to move on.  He had so much to give to this world and he was, he thought with a sad smile, ready to love again. 

He reached down, caressed her cheek fondly, and then in one swift motion of his hand he broke her neck.  Lifting her to his mouth, Gacy planted a chaste kiss on the tip of her beak.  He parted his lips once more and took a bite out of her face like an apple.

You know what they say… A bird in the hand makes lunch good when she’s the bitch who broke your heart.

The End

*Did you honestly think that we would get through a short story about a hobo named GACY fucking a pigeon with no dance sequence?

*Gacy and Jenny have no knowledge of train structure.  They have also never been seen in the same room.

And then Connor came to play...

Connor's take on unconventional sources of magic...

The Place Time Forgot

[Or flip-flop]

 

Meandering through the Appalachian Mountains is a state route that is exclusively traveled by the very lost. Squatting alongside this road is a dusty antiques shop. It is in this antiques shop that Time finally caught up with Mr. Phillip D. Félope.

 

At first Mr. Félope had thought it no more than a chill breeze that caused hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end but as he straightened his aged and aching back he glanced at his watch.

 

Phillip D. Félope didn't know why he did this, the hands had not moved in... Well, no one really knows how long. Yet he found his tired eyes focusing on the watch, regarding it old face to old face. His breath caught. The second hand was moving; gliding along in that otherworldly way that only very expensive old Rolexes do, daring his frail bones to do the same.

He did his best, striding across the jumbled antiques of the shop Phillip made for a glass case that stood by the door. Mr. Phillip D. Félope was concerned but choosing not to panic. A man does not live to the extreme old age that Phillip D Félope has without gaining a little wisdom. That wisdom was telling him not to panic. Yet.

 

It might pass. He told himself. He reminded himself that he had chosen to open the shop because he had heard that it was exactly the sort of place time passed by. And so it had for quite a long time. But now? Why Now? His mind was beginning to race as he reached the case. Resting his wrinkled hands on the musty glass he peered in. Within sat four rows of assorted timepieces. Wristwatches and pocket watches sat staring up at him. Were they moving? Phillip D. Félope couldn't tell through the dust. He closed his eyes and pressed his ear to the case.

Tick tick tick tick tick tic-

He straightened from the case, his brow furrowing. It was time for action and despite uncounted spans of sedentary life Phillip D. Félope was still a man of action. He moved to a rickety coatrack that leaned precariously beside the door. Took a walking stick off a hook and then a worn, wide brimmed fedora. Placed the first on his head and held the other firmly in his hand. A moment later he was rubbing a bump on his head and reversed the items. Phillip then crossed away from the door passing several grandfather clocks and slid a window open. Time always had an eye on doors. You could lose as much as 3 minutes just by exiting a door. Not a noticeable amount of time to most, but enough time to allow the pasta you were cooking to boil over, or be the difference between on time and late, or perhaps, thought Phillip D. Félope, life or death.

 

There was one loud tick, a half a pause like an inhalation of breath, and just as the clocks began to chime Phillip Félope slipped out the window and reentered the world.

 

The lush green of the mountains around Phillip Félope seemed unchanged from his memories of before. He checked his watch. Hmm, Before, when Lucy gave him this watch. His wrist had looked much younger then. He could still see her hands as she slipped it around his wrist, told him to find some time for her, fastened the clasp, and left.

 

Phillip cleared his throat and shook his head slightly to clear away the memory. He regarded the woods with a grimace. Too dangerous, travel any distance among these beautiful trees and time will just fly by.

 

There was a flash of light. It was the sun glinting off a shiny car as it came in and out of view through the trees. Perfect. Phillip made his way to the edge of the road in front of the shop and as the car came back in view it slowed to a stop just in front of Phillip. Phillip began to cross to the driver’s side but the passenger window slide down despite there being no one occupying that seat. Phillip grunted to himself. Time. He thought, or perhaps said, because a voice came from inside the car,

 

“excuse me? What was that?”

 

The voice sounded polite and as Phillip Félope bent down to look across to the driver he found him to be a very polite looking young man. Phillip peered at him doing everything he could to keep his face placid and not think about how much time he had left despite the fact the he could feel the restored life coursing though the watch on his wrist.

 

After a moment of silence the young man spoke again,

“um okay. Do you know how to get to the interstate from here?”

 

“Yes” replied Phillip, despite having no idea what an interstate might be. “I’ll take you” he added and reached for the door, pulled it open, and sat down before the polite young man could get out another “Um okay”

 

“Turn around” instructed Phillip.

 

“Yes I thought it might be back the way I came,” returned the Young Man, again really quite politely.

 

And so the car was reversed and turned, and forward, and turned.

 

“What is your name?” inquired the Young Man.

 

“Mr. Phillip D. Félope”

 

“Mr. Flipflop?” The Young Man asked with the politest of tones that said oh please do correct me if I am pronouncing it incorrectly

 

Phillip grunted and the Young Man introduced himself but Phillip wasn’t listening. He was thinking. This was perfect. The painfully slow passage of time that comes from being in a car with a stranger just might get him… where? Where was he going? The only thing he knew was to get lost. He had really thought he had found the place that Lucy would return to.

 

“That’s a pretty neat old watch what kind is-”

 

“It was a gift, it is personal, and don’t look at It. I mean I’d rather not talk about it” interrupted Phillip trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He mustn’t encourage anything that would pass the time: no music, and absolutely no small talk. Despite himself Phillip glanced at his watch; the second hand was speeding around the face. Damn. He didn’t have much time and for some reason being in this car was only accelerating it. Phillip’s head was spinning and he could feel sweat beading on his wrinkled brow. He took his hat off and fanned himself with it. There was a sharp painful lurching inside his chest as if his heart had decided to kick one of his ribs.

 

“Stop, let me out” Phillip moaned

 

“What was that” The young man’s voice was confused and concerned.

 

“NOW!” bellowed Phillip. The car came to a screeching halt and Phillip burst out the door, immediately collapsing to his knees. His vision was swimming

 

“What’s happening?!” cried the Young Man from inside the car.

 

“I’m…” Mustn’t name it “Going mad” Phillip lied, must get away from him “and I’m dangerous” Phillip D Félope reached behind him and, gripping the door jab, summoned his strength, spun around, and hurled his walking stick at the young driver. There was a shriek and as the car peeled away the door slammed against on Phillip’s hand.

 

Phillip D. Félope staggered away from the road. No longer caring about the danger of these beautiful woods.

 

Cursing, sweating, and cradling his now bleeding hand, Phillip burst into a clearing and collapsed panting. Tears swelled in his eyes a combination of frustration and misery. Phillip D. Félope then did something that he had never done before with his time. He simply took some. He thought of all the ways he had filled his time as a young man, not wanting any of it to be wasted. It all had to mean something, build up to something. Then he thought of his time after Lucy left and how bitterly he had tried to cheat time. Then after the anger and bitterness had faded came his ages of hiding from time. Just trying to fall through the cracks long enough for her to find him.

 

His tears fell upon the face of the watch all the hands slowly moving to join together.

 

Phillip raised his head, his breath slowly becoming more even, and as his eyes cleared he finally saw that he was not the only thing in the clearing. There was a house.

 

Again Phillips breath caught. The house was old. Two stories in the Victorian style and there wasn’t a wall that was clear of climbing ivy, the boards of the large front porch were beginning to rot or split.

 

Phillip was drawn towards the house. First crawling then scrabbling to his feet he reached the steps of the porch. The front door was standing open. Had he not noticed that or was it shut before?

 

As Phillip D. Félope gingerly climbed the steps a light seemed to grow inside the doorway. For some reason the light made him fell safe and sad. Tears once more came to his eyes.

 

As he crossed the threshold the light seemed to spill down from a stairway just in front of him. There was a very quiet click and then a soft thud. Phillip stopped and glanced down to see his watch lying face up on the floorboards next to his foot. A small smile came to his lips. The hands were stopped.

 

The sound of creaking boards came from the top of the stairs causing Phillip to look up from his watch. Phillip D. Félope’s smile spread slowly across his face. A woman’s voice said.

 

“Hello Phil”