Working Title: Secrets Old Men Keep

The Secrets Old Men Keep

***

Some background information:

The Hapsburgs dominated the Austro-Hungarian Empire. In the early 19^th century, Emperor Francis I died. He was very well liked by the people, often going into the streets without any entourage to talk to the common folk. It was very unusual for a monarch to be so safe without guards. He also regularly held open court, so anyone could bring petitions, or just come see the emperor. His only son, Ferdinand I, was simple. The family tried to keep the mental condition of the heir a secret. The greatest power in the hugely bureaucratic government, especially after Francis’ death, was Francis’ brother, Prince Metternich, High Chancellor of the Empire. It was a time when the old monarchies feared that the violent revolutions of France would spread to their own countries. The conservative traditionalists reacted strongly to any sign of revolt, stifling the press and any sign of dissent.

***

13 Nov, 1935

It has been six months now since the Heir Ferdinand I was coroneted Holy Roman Emperor Ferdinand I. People have moved on, trade continues, old feuds are brought before the new king. I am doing as I always have: keeping the Royal Library in order. My job has hardly changed in all these years I've been doing it. Almost no one uses the vast resources here. The old King did though. He liked that it was so quiet and empty. He would come by sometimes, after I had shut the main doors for the night. His entrance was the one I myself favored, one no one really is supposed to know about, because it's not supposed to be there.

Once in a while, he would ask me to look for an old record or journal if he couldn't locate it himself, but for the most part he would browse the shelves quietly, gently lifting books down from their spaces and returning them with just as much care. Sometimes he would sit by the back window, writing letters while I puttered about, lighting lamps, putting books from that day in their beds, and even until I returned to put out the lights again.

The new king has yet to come, and I miss the quiet evenings. It is strange, perhaps, and perhaps a bit pretentious, but I felt I got to know the King Francis when he came here. It was nice knowing. Knowing that the King sought out a quiet, still place to read the just as any of us might. To know that the King cared for the Empire even while his people slept.

The new Emperor does not seem interested in the knowledge held here nor the serenity of books in the evening, for he has not come here yet. He is not as close to the books and the quiet as the old King. And I worry he will not love the people and land as well as the King Francis did.

He has yet to hold the Common Court, and my friends outside the castle tell me that the people are getting restless. They want to know their king, not just look up at him.

It is time to close the portals for the night. Perhaps it is time to train a new librarian. I move more slowly now, despite my efforts to deny age its claims. Lighting and damping lamps would be easier on a young back. And I would not like to leave my books in untrained hands.

M.

The stiff scratching of the librarian’s pen ceased. A wrinkled, crooked hand carefully returned the pen to its place. He rose slowly from the ancient oak desk and shuffled patiently through the shelves, gently snuffing the lamps that guard the books. The library was empty, as it was most evenings, so there was no one to chase out. The great door creaked closed, its hinges groaning in sympathy of the old man’s joints.

It was not so easy a job for an old man, remembering where each tome belonged, keeping records, and returning each small chest of knowledge to its particular throne. But it was not a difficult job, if one liked books.

And it was clear that he loved the books. Lifting them gently, one and two at a time to bear them back to the shelves. Even in the dim light from the moon was enough for him to find each book’s place and fill it. Then back to the desk for more, until the small pile was gone and the desk crouched under the massive windows, ready for the next day.

He returned once more to the desk, and checked that the ink he had just laid down was dry. It was not a daily account that he kept, but one that he began years and many journals before; a memory to leave of himself and what he learned, there in the library he lived in. A place for thoughts and important happenings. The journal closed, and he placed it in the proper drawer with the same care he gave all books.

***

14 Nov, 1935

I received an unexpected visitor last night, just as I was heading to my room to retire. I had reached the small entrance by the fireplace, it opened rather suddenly – I admit to being quite startled. I had thought no one… – but it was Prince Metternich, and I suppose the head of intelligence would know about a simple hidden door. Perhaps his brother told him before he died. He was quite polite, and did not comment on my rather undignified reaction, merely picked up my dropped candle and relit it for me from his own.

It made me a bit nervous, having him here. It was nice to have company again, but the Prince, he is not always so understanding about books. There are many empty places on the Library’s shelves now, because of him and his censorship. He stayed until well after four in the morning, and I sat at my desk, notating my biography of the Emperor’s great-grandfather. Just a few more visits as long, and I may be ready to publish! Whatever people may say about the Chancellor’s policies, never have I heard anyone deny that he works hard for the Empire.

Today I will perhaps speak to the Head of Household about getting an assistant. Ah, but my joints do ache this morning, and autumn has hardly touched the trees. I do not think I can linger for a midnight visitor as easily as I once did. Yes, I will see about an assistant today.

And I cannot help but wonder what other secrets about the Library the Prince knows.

M.

The Librarian rose from his desk, hobbling over to the table in the back left corner. It was next to the shelf of census records, and it was not the location that the old King had preferred. The only signs that there had been a late night visitor were a few books on the table and an empty teacup. He picked up the books, examining their titles. Censorship laws from recent years. Restrictions on printing newspapers and pamphlets. He moved blindly to the shelves, placing each tome in its place.

“It seems that the Department of the Interior will be tightening its hold on the literary world once more.” He spoke to himself and to the books. “’To prevent revolution’, they say, ‘to prevent another Napoleon.’ I do not see how such a stranglehold will prevent revolt.” A sigh. “But it is not wise to say such things.” The silent empty places in the bookshelves agreed.

***

That night, the old man sat working at his desk, compiling a report that the Department of the Census had requested. Behind him, the secret door swung quietly open. He did not seem to notice at first, absorbed by the treasures buried in the time before him. The Librarian was becoming familiar with his visitor. He looked up as the Chancellor passed his desk.

“Good evening, my lord,” he said.

“If it is still early enough to be called evening,” the Chancellor mused, humor crinkling the tired circles under his eyes, “then a good evening to you as well, Matthias.”

“I was about to put on a pot of tea. Would you care for a cup?”

“Please.” The Prince smiled his politician’s smile.

The librarian rose to do so, carefully setting the water to boil while the Chancellor made his way through the shelves to his favored table. When Matthias brought the steaming cups back to the corner, Metternich thanked him, and inquired, “but it is quite late. Do you always stay so long? I would not want you to stay on my account.”

The old librarian regarded the Chancellor’s own white hair and replied with some humor, “I am not so much older than you, my lord, that it is too late for me to work when you stay late yourself.” A touch of reprimand hummed beneath the gentle tone. Metternich toasted him with a smile more sincere than his last had been.

“I stand rebuked. But surely your assistant could stay to attend late visitors?”

“I have only recently begun to feel my age. This is not a terribly strenuous position for the body, and my mind is sharp as it ever was. I placed a request for an assistant with the Head of Household just this morning. But why are you here so late, my lord? Surely,” the old man’s eyes twinkled, “you have assistants aplenty to stay awake all hours of the night?”

“Perhaps, yes, but -,” the Prince paused, waving for Matthias to take a seat in the empty chair, “- but some matters require my own attention.”

The librarian hesitated before replying. “But I had not thought that there were any significant movements at the moment. Even my more radical acquaintances at the University admit that the students and revolutionaries are still subdued after His Highness’ death.”

“It is a constant battle,” the Chancellor declared firmly. “The revolutionaries have merely retreated underground for a time. We cannot afford to become complacent.”

“Yes, they seem to be waiting to see what our new Emperor will do. It is strange,” Matthias mused, “to have such quiet for six months. From both the revolutionary forces and the King. Not that it is my place to judge his actions,” he quickly added.

Metternich waved it away with a wry smile. “You were an a first name standing with my brother, I know. Please, speak your mind. He valued your company greatly.” The smile turned a touch wistful. “He encouraged me to work here on late nights. ‘Few persons have such a firm grasp of both sides of this new age,’ he said, ‘or such good tea.’” He sipped again from his cup. “I must agree with my brother’s opinion.”

“Thank you.” They sat under the quiet watch of the Census and Law records until their tea was gone. Then Matthias rose, taking the cups, and left the Chancellor to his work.

***

The next morning, the early sun streamed cool and crisp through the tall eastern windows, catching sharply on gilt titles here and there. Shortly after Matthias opened the main door, a tall, upright man entered the library. He had not been there before, and he eyed the books with a displeased air, trying to find fault in the dustless shelves. He clicked his heels against the floor briskly, straight up to the librarian’s desk.

“Good day. I am Johan Kolowratt. I’m here representing the Censorship on orders from Chancellor Metternich. You are Matthias, I presume?” A hand appeared in front of the old man.

“Yes. Matthias Schäfer,” he said, taking the offered hand in his frail one. “So, I meet the new censor officer at last. How may I be of assistance?”

“It has come to the Censor’s attention that although we have been quite thorough in preventing new subversive texts, there still exist many that we passed over originally for being already quite old. The writings of such men as John Locke, for example. We are now beginning to rectify this grievous error before it endangers both our Great Emperor and the Holy Empire.”

It was all very civilized. Johan told the librarian what he needed, adding that another man would be down to do a cursory check to ensure that there were no unlisted books on the shelves (a mere formality, he was sure, but a necessary one). And as soon as the old man was able to shuffle over to the large cabinet of indexes, the efficient man and his assistants had taken them out and away to be torn apart, analyzed, and copied.

Later that afternoon, they returned the indexes, and also gave him a list of the books the Censor wished removed from public use. “I will return in a week for them. Here is a box,” Johan waved over his shoulder, where some men were bringing in a crate, “to place them in.” He hesitated, taking in the sparse white hair and twisted arthritic joints. “Shall I send up one of our assistants to aid you?”

“No. No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”

The efficient man gave a sharp, satisfied nod, and turned to go.

“Wait.” The librarian stopped him partway through his turn.

“Yes?”

“What will happen to these books? The ones you’re taking?”

“They will be placed in the attics at the censorship, to await a time when they are either considered less dangerous or it is deemed necessary to permanently rid ourselves of them. The Censor does not wish to needlessly destroy the King’s books. It would be quite costly to replace them.” He smiled as he lied.

“I see. Thank you.”

And the man left.

The librarian stared at the list the Censor had left. The books on the shelves pressed inwards toward him, anxious to know whose knowledge was to be removed this time. He was impassive, regarding the note like a man who had at last received bad news that he had suspected for a long while. Stony, accepting.

He turned it facedown to the desk and proceeded to ignore it for the remainder of the afternoon. An oppressive stillness pervaded the library. The few patrons that came to peruse the shelves did not linger. The old man’s eyes seemed to catch and linger on the empty places in the shelves, holes made the last time a Censor official called upon him.

When night fell, the old man went to the door, and carefully but no more quickly than was his habit sealed the great portal against visitors. He began making rounds through the stacks, dragging each marked tome to his desk, shoulders bowed with the weight of a great decision.

The crate squatted by the fire, maw stretched wide open, eager to be fed.

When each of the required titles was removed from the shelves, Matthias paused, listening to the stillness. Only the cackling of the fire broke the library’s sacred calm. He was alone with the books.

Then, as swiftly as an old man might, he went to the fire place. Drawing a key from his pocket, he revealed a second door, this one to the left of the flames, opposite his secret entrance. It grumbled and squeaked, protesting the movement. The noise only made the old man’s movements more nervous, and when it was opened just wide enough for his bent form to squeeze through, he rushed back to the books.

While the silent rows of texts stood guard, the librarian rushed the books, five, six at a time through the door, shoving them haphazardly onto the already bursting shelf revealed therein. His usual care was abandoned, for safety and secrecy was his only concern. But as much as he rushed, he still only seemed to crawl. He was too old, too slow, to do this again and again as he had in his younger years.

Minutes passed. Time ran hard at his heels.

At last the desk was cleared, and the old Librarian locked the secret room away, tucking the key back into his pocket. He stilled and drooped, tired by his exertions. But he could only rest a moment. The empty box sat large and hungry, angry at being deprived of its sacrifice.

Matthias stirred again. With pained, practiced movements, he stacked logs meant for the fire into the crate, filling it. More seconds, more time, until the heavy lid slammed home.

The door to the right of the fire slid open, and the High Chancellor stepped through. His eyes flicked to the crate, recognition passing through his eyes. Matthias faced Metternich across the fire, the slam echoing between them.

“Good evening, Chancellor.” Matthias said at last.

“And to you,” the politician replied. But the tension did not dissipate. Metternich walked stiffly to his usual seat, enthroning himself beneath the Laws and Provisions he held so dear. Many had been written by his own hand through the years, to hold the empire against those revolutionaries and radicals that sought to take and change his country.

The Library was quiet, its new wounds gaping and obvious holes, sucking in the light of the lamps.

The Librarian sat at his desk, a quiet and experienced guardian of knowledge.

15 Nov 1835

I have packed away the Censorship’s latest demands. I must admit that I do not understand how disposing of books, some over a hundred years in print already, will curb this younger generation of radial reformists. Actions like this by the censorship serve only to provoke more conservative intellectuals.

Ah, I am too angry to write much this night. I must admit, the Chancellor’s visit is not as pleasing to me this night as I normally find it. Tomorrow I will find humor in the irony of the Head of the Censor seeking peace here in my Library. But tonight, the thought is not so diverting as it usually is.

M.

***

Precisely a week later, a pair of men came to the Library to take away the crate. They did not seem to find anything unusual about it, and, under the watchful eye of the Librarian, removed the offending object with the same efficiency with which it had been placed there.

Three young men, a tall, a middling, and a dark, approached the door from the side, pausing to allow the box to pass before cautiously entering the library. They had never been to this library before.

The middling one raised a knuckle to deliver a firm announcement of their presence as they passed through the frame. “Come in, come in,” a quiet voice called. They walked a tad stiffly, over cautious and proud, in their desire to make a good impression. From his desk, the librarian watched their approach.

One was a yellow haired giant. Lanky limbs and long fingers accentuated his tall frame, and sleeves and pants that did not quite reach as far as they should stretched the illusion further. He would not need a ladder to reach even the highest shelves in the library.

The one who had knocked walked with a confident step, just slightly ahead of his companions, and he eyed the shelves with an air of calculated interest. He was expectant and dressed a fair bit better than his peers.

The last, the dark one, was clearly of Slavic descent, a sharp contrast to his German-blond fellows. He regarded the empty slots in the shelves with satisfied interest.

By the time they reached the desk, the librarian seemed just a touch less welcoming than he might normally be. “May I be of assistance?” he asked.

“Good day sir,” the middling one replied before the others opened their mouths. “Might you be Librarian Schäfer?”

“Yes, but Matthias is fine, lad.”

This informality unbalance the young man a bit, but he quickly regained his footing. “Ah. Yes, well, we have been sent as prospective candidates for the position of Assistant Librarian.”

“Sent?” This puzzled the old man. “By whom?”

“The Head of the Household informed the Censor of your need for a qualified assistant.”

“And they sent all three of you? At the same time?” Matthias shook his head. “Very odd.”

“We each have specialized in different areas.” Their self-appointed spokesman replied. “The Head of Household said that you were not specific as to your needs.”

The old man huffed. “What is there to specify? You can read? Write?” The young men nodded hesitantly when he paused for their answers. “Then you are qualified. It is merely a matter of whether you want to work in the library. In truth, I had expected to use my contacts at the University to find an eager graduate, not have the Censor send me researchers.”

“I see.” The spokesman was rather perplexed. “The Household was quite certain you had requested that they find an assistant. A mere misunderstanding, I’m sure.”

“Indeed, indeed,” Matthias chuckled. “It is surely not a common request, for I was the last assistant for the Library, and it has been more years than I care to count since that particular request was made. Ah well. Really, it is merely a matter of finding someone who would enjoy the work.”

The giant spoke up hesitantly, “What duties would this position require of us?”

“Hah. An intelligent question. Here,” the old man grunted, gaining his feet painfully, “Allow me to give you a tour.” The stiff stances of the men relaxed as the Librarian took them through the stacks, explaining chores they would need to perform to keep the library in working order, and other tasks such as compiling records and writing reports. The librarian’s sharp eyes caught each reaction to the explanation.

He took them around the main stacks, and then through a door to the larger archives, where most patrons were not permitted.

By the time they returned to the old man’s desk, he seemed to have put them quite at ease. “That is all for now, I believe. Feel free to return to your current duties,” Matthias told them. “I will contact the Censorship when I have made a decision.” They left quickly, and the old man settled into his seat with a sigh. Leaning back, he thought out loud, “Such stiff boys. They will do well at the censorship.” A chuckle. “Goodness. I don’t believe I ever got their names.”

Just as he was beginning to settle back into his seat, another young man rushed into the library, walking so quickly that it was nearly improper. He honed in immediately on the librarian, his neat eager steps bringing him straightly and quickly to the desk.

“Good day sir.” He thrust out his hand. “I’m Josef Richter. I’m here about the position.”

Matthias, surprised by his sudden appearance, could only blink at him.

***

His sigh echoed of constant pain, exacerbated by the storm outside. But the books swallowed up the sound before it could echo through the empty hall, softening it. Though his face bore the lines of many years, his eyes were clear and not weary. The librarian looked across his dominion of tomes, at last set to rights, and picked up his pen.

22 Nov, 1935

Today I was presented with three candidates for my assistantship, and must admit that I suspect Chancellor Metternich’s hand in this. Never has a request been pushed through the bureaucracy of the Household in a mere week. The candidates were each well qualified, and had a wide range of knowledge both in the areas of Law and History. I did not insult them by asking for writing samples to prove the quality of their penmanship, for they were all employed by the censorship department, and would have been required to meet strict standards to be hired there. I suspect that they would even be able to imitate even my hand, given examples to follow.

And yet, none of them seemed to quite fit with the library. Blame it on an old man’s quirks, but censorship seems to make men regard books almost as prey, not the art they are meant to be.

Shortly after those first three left, a fourth young man came, of the name Josef, claiming to have heard that I needed help. He has potential, though I do not know if I can put up with his odd ideas. As well, I think there is such a thing as too much energy. While I was showing him around the library, he began waxing poetic about a new method of ordering the shelves, and suddenly got the idea in his head that I needed a physical demonstration!

He started running about spouting some nonsense about arranging the books by a numerical system, pulling books from shelves to demonstrate how they are ‘related.’ It was completely ridiculous. This library has been ordered in the classical manner for nearly its entire existence, and never has there been any complaint. It took me nearly an hour to put things in their proper order once Josef finally left!

I must pause now, for it seems I have another visitor. A man, and not here for the job or the library, I should think. What an uncommonly busy day!

M.

The shelves breathed in the flickering lamplights, shadows blowing in and out. Clumbering steps from the hall echoed between the books. A man sidled up to the doorway, peering around the corner. He almost didn’t enter, but whatever was in the hallway was worse even than books. Jaw set, he slid into the room with a glance backwards. The wind whined outside, and seemed to spook him even more as he went further into the rows. He edged heavily through the aisles, wary as a colt without its mother, and just as awkward. He did not glance at titles, nor did a flash of gilt seem to catch his eye. In and in the man came, until his thunking brought him at last out of the stacks to loom over the old librarian.

Only then did the Librarian look up from his work. As he took in the younger man’s face, his eyes tried to flicker with recognition, but his furrowed brow decided that there was something off, something too large in the forehead and too jutting in the jaw.

“Are you lost?”Matthias asked kindly.

The man thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head furiously. “No!” came the answer, a child with a man’s whine.

“Oh. May I help you find something, then?”

This confounded the simple creature’s mind, and so he cast wildly about, until at last his eyes landed on the far wall, where the drapes were pulled over the window to ward off the draft of the storm. A thick finger of triumph swung up to point at those closed portals. “Windows.” He looked expectantly at the old man then, finger still hovering at those portals.

“Very well,” the old man. “Just one moment.” Matthias carefully set down the rest of his thought, then put his pen away. He laboriously rose, and pushed off from his desk to begin the long shuffle down to the windows.

The man hovered anxiously at his shoulder, worrying at the librarian’s slowness. This seemed to amuse Matthias, but there was a sad edge in his eyes. “We will get there, do not fear. Sometimes I think I should use that cane Francis left for me. But then,” he chuckled reaching for the first drape pull, “I think the weight of it would be more of a hindrance than the cane could make up for.” He tugged, and with a whoosh, the curtains peeled back to reveal the storm outside. He looked at the childlike man, with the protruding jaw and strange forehead, glittering eyes transfixed by droplets running down the wavy glass. “And what is your name, lab?” curiosity overtaking him at last.

The halfwit ignored him, instead stepping closer to press his nose and hands to the cold panes, eyes wide with awe.

Again, that gentle smile tugged at the librarian’s lips. “Would that we all still held such wonder for simple rain. Perhaps then we would be troubled only by aching joints.” He then began making fastidious rounds through the books, carefully trimming wicks and filling nearly lamps. Sometimes he would straighten a book.

Eventually he stepped out from the massive shelves and made his way to a small corner behind his great desk . Here, on a small low set of shelves, was his personal collection. He bent down, painfully slowly, reaching down past books from his school days, and theses his friends had written, down even beyond foreign texts in languages most men could not decipher, reaching until his fingers could grasp just the very of a dark leather corner. But the hand hesitated, and instead chose the tome immediately to the left. It tipped out slowly with a whisper of farewell to its companions, reluctant to awaken after forty so long years. He carried it up to his nose, and turned through the pages. “Hmmm…. Yes. I should have seen that sooner.” His feet carried him automatically back to his desk, where he placed the book down with old knowing hands.

The white head turned once more to the window, and knees and feet followed. They brought him once more to his guest who stood tracing lines in the ghosts his breath left on the glass.

“What is your name?”

This time the halfwit turned to stare at him. The librarian repeated his question his question a third time, and after a brow harrowing moment, the mouth opened and pronounced “Ferd’and.”

“It is nice to meet you, Ferdinand. I am Matthias.” But Ferdinand’s attention had wandered back to the shapes he found in the glass.

The rain continued to rattle the glass at Matthias returned to his desk and wrote a short note in his careful hand. He sealed it, and then shuffled to the door to call a servant. When the Prince rushed in, he found the old Librarian at his desk once more, watching the fire as ink dried in his pen.

No words were spoken between them as Matthias pointed the two large nurses toward the window. Metternich stayed even after their calm, coaxing voices had long faded from the shelves. Smudged grey turned into true evening darkness in the window, and at last the dead king’s brother spoke, “I will not bore you with the justifications the family gave the court. You understand why?”

The old Librarian raised a creaking bony hand to calm him. “I had heard rumors.” The voice came from the hollow of the large chair, heavy with knowledge of the library and history. “And I will not add to them.”

Metternich looked at him shrewdly, weighing a heavy decision behind his eyes. After a few moments filled only with the silence of the books, he spoke, “You keep many secrets.” He pointedly looked just to the side of the fireplace, and Matthias followed his glance. “And you may keep your secrets, if you keep this one as well.” He turned to go, but paused. “I believe you would get on well with Josef. He holds similar views on books.”

Then, not waiting for a reply, the chancellor nodded to him, and left.

“I did not agree to keep your secret,” Matthias told Metternich, who was no longer there, “but no one will learn of this first from me.”

“After all,” Matthias continued to the silent stands of books, “I did not bother to read the last librarian’s journals until I was very old. I am certain my replacement will be the same.” This amused him somewhat, and he returned to the journal at his desk, abandoned hours earlier. Ancient fingers grasped their pen, and words slowly made their stiff and creaking way across the page once more. The book the Librarian had taken from the corner shelf rested heavily by his knobby elbow, and the steady light of the lamp picked out some familiar spidery letters, put down more than forty years prior by a younger hand:

19 April 1793

His Highness King Francis’ first child is a son, christened Ferdinand I. All those who hope for peaceful successions in these turbulent times will breathe more easily tonight. But I fear this excellent news is tempered by a slightly troubling visit I received but a few moments ago. The good Doctor Rudolph, a friend of mine from University, attended the birthing. He has confided in me that ill health is a grave possibility for this child. The young prince has a strangely misshapen head. But I do not think it necessary to overmuch worry. Such physical problems are common amongst the great families. And indeed, his parents were quite closely related: he has but four great-grandparents, where most have eight.

M.

Stories

So both of these came from exercises in my book that I'm working through. The first one just said "Start a story with the sentence: "I was the only one who recognized him." The second comes from a protagonist who wishes to hide something. In both of these I attempted to go for a more dark type of humor that I'm normally not good at, but I'm pretty sure I failed.

Here we go!
Story 1:

I was the only one who recognized him. Well… recognize would be the wrong word. I had just finished serving drinks to a few senators and CEOs when I laid eyes on him. I had never met him personally before, only seen him on the news with “WANTED,” “DANGEROUS: DO NOT APPROACH,” and “TIM” plastered on them. I didn’t know why he was dangerous honestly, all I knew was that everyone acted like Tim was the most dangerous criminal to walk the land since Leeroy the Hatchet (and you did not want to meet THAT guy).
Now it may have been the fact that no one who has an income high enough to attend this party read newspapers, or perhaps they just pay people to do that for them, but I was positive the man who I had just offered a deviled egg to held a striking resemblance to the grinning countenance with greasy black hair on the WANTED posters I’d been seeing on the news. Clearly a logical impossibility – people like this do not go to the convocation party for the Mayor’s daughter – at least I thought they didn’t. Yet here he was, champagne in one hand, white tuxedo with matching running shoes, and looking as natural as a flamingo among a group of peacocks. They say the human brain has amazing powers to ignore the odd occurrences in reality so it can cope with daily stress – that had to be what was going on here. There was a logical impossibility that this man could be at the party; therefore it was just someone who looked like him.
“Benjamin Sarner!” Raul hissed into my ear, “You’re not getting paid to talk with them; you’re getting paid to serve them. Now get back to work!”
“Yes sir.” I watched Raul roll off. My boss was a perfect role model for Santa Claus; a man who, after coming to a full stop, the rest of his body took a while to get the message and kept wobbling about, each pound futilely attempting to keep its momentum. He was right though, I was daydreaming again, and daydreaming doesn’t get me paid. It was a bad habit from the Los Angeles Film School, where my teachers taught that, “Adventures of the mind turn into adventures in reality!” which was a tempting enough tagline given that all I wanted to be was be an adventurous pirate, detective, or any other adventure movie occupation.
I ambled back to the kitchen for a refill of champagne to make sure our guests couldn’t possibly worry about anything in a few hours. The party was specifically for the mayor’s daughter’s convocation. Well, that’s what it said on the invite at least. It most likely just another opportunity for one high-roller to meet another and pass on pearls of wisdom, or stories about their boats, or whatever a person like that does when they meet someone similar. I worked my way back around the room, futility attempting to keep an eye on Tim – since he was obscured by at least twenty people every few seconds. I had to hand it to the mayor at least; he had made the right connections and knew how to throw a party. He rented out the entire ballroom of the Plaza New York Hotel and filled it to the brim with people. If there were any signs about the carrying capacity of the building, they had been ignored. It was my job to make sure that every single man woman and child (well except the children, since they weren’t invited to this party) was kept satisfied in every means necessary. It was easier said than done really, it was starting to feel like a sauna in the room, even with the AC on full blast. The AC wasn’t exactly quiet either, so the average volume of the party had increased ever since. Thankfully, by this point, most of the guests had lost their voices from attempting to yell over the hustle and bustle, and it was starting to quiet while folks started shuffling into their seats. Now that I could finally maneuver again, I strolled past table 28 as naturally as possible, looking for a hint of suspicion as to why Tim was here. Aside from his slightly odd getup though, he acted just like any other of the partygoers. Hob-knobbing with the rich and famous just like the best of them.
Finally, about 7 minutes (Raul was big on the synchronized watches deal) from when the mayor was about to introduce his daughter to all the other high-society flops when I watched him get up and cross the entire hall, hands in pockets, whistling a tune to himself when the thought popped into my head. It was a terrible, spontaneous thought that most likely made my entire family spin in their graves.
Do I really need to get paid today?
With a question like that, I knew that I could only come to regret the answer I’d decide on. As I noticed that my feet already heading across the hall, I decided to resign myself to poverty this month. An adventure, I told myself, is worth starving for. An adventure I was already building in my mind into a movie plot. I had been stuck in a rut for quite some time, writing like mad and realizing I had somehow made ink and paper into garbage. This was it though, I could feel it. This man was going to lead me to something interesting. No, something amazing that I could use. With a quick glance to make sure Raul wasn’t in sight, I set down my tray and politely excused myself to whomever was listening, trotted across the party floor, all the while wondering if I could somehow concoct a soup out of leftover burrito and ramen.
He had quite a good head start on me, as I was only halfway across the dance floor when I saw the tail end of a pant leg and a Nike running shoe disappear behind the hallway door. I sped up, grinning to myself now, worries, but more importantly hopes, piling up in my head. My adventure was starting, and I couldn’t stop it now. That’s not even entirely true. I didn’t want it to stop. I felt that this was it. This was going to give me my inspiration I needed.
With a silent prayer of, “Academy Awards, save that Oscar for me,” I step through the portal of where I’m supposed to be to where I am most definitely not allowed to be and find exactly who I didn’t want to find; Goon A and Suit B idling down at the end of the hall. As unobservant as they usually are, sadly, they saw me. Thankfully, it could’ve been worse… it could’ve been Raul. The one wondrous property I’ve learned about a proper uniform and a quick tongue, it is the greatest weapon against any trouble that may befall you whilst exploring, which happened to be my one (of many) vice on the job. Every new Richie Rich’s pad has something new and exciting, even more so when they had security on the premises. After all, it was security’s job to keep you out of the interesting places. But I digress. All you have to do is act like you’re meant to be there, and name the proper authority, and voila, instant access! I could see Goon A preparing the inevitable stock and store so I had to prepare fast. “I was simply looking for the kitchen sir,” wouldn’t work; that would have me escorted back out the doors I just entered. “My boss sent me to fetch,” … Nah. Raul is only terrifying if he’s signing your paychecks. As the first word left his mouth, I felt the hallway grow brighter as the proverbial light bulb lit up over my head.
“What are you doing here?” Goon A boomed as he strolled down the hallway.
“The Mayor told me to report to him on the alterations to the cake,” I flat out lied. They shared a glance at this statement. They knew the Mayor loved doting on his daughter, and they knew his daughter loved doting on her cake. By doting, I mean eating. That one glance which holds the same information that every guard I’ve seen give it before; ‘He’s only a waiter, what harm could he do?’ ‘I don’t want the boss to be angry with me for ruining his party,’ ‘I only got this job because I failed every class but gym.’
Ok, maybe they don’t think that last one, but I like to think they do.
Suit B grunted what I think was assent, but Suit A hesitated a little. I almost broke into a sweat, but his radio gurgled out something as unintelligible as always, and he relented. Years upon years of improving technology, and walkie talkies are still as indecipherable as the day of their invention. However, they seemed to understand the gist of it, as they grumpily waved me on, and started walking away. As they exited into a door on the right, I started to wonder, how did Tim slip by these guys? I smiled to myself, a good mystery and the rush of satisfaction from outsmarting someone just made this day get better. My next thought was: Now where exactly did Tim go?
I discovered the answer quite fast. As my walk started breaking into a run from excitement, I turned the corner and found myself face to face with the man. Or well, it was more at arm’s length with the man, and instead face to face with one of those things that goes bang.
He stood still for a moment, and then smiled the most evil smile I had ever seen.
“You act like you’ve never seen a gun before.”
“Only in the movies sir,” I said, realizing my hope for survival relied on the goodwill of someone who presently had no reason to have any.
“Ah, well, don’t worry; you don’t usually suffer as much in real life. In fact, death is pretty much instantaneous at this range.”
“Meep.” I said.
Laugher erupted from Tim, far more boisterous than I expected. I heard footsteps from around the corner, and prayed to whatever god my Mom believed in that it was Goon A and Suit B to my rescue. I promised that I would never make fun of guards again, and that I’d be a good boy, and I’d start doing my job correctly, and never do anything bad ever again, if only they would help me.
“Everything O.K. boss?” Suit B said as he plodded into view
“Do you need us to take care of this?” Goon A said it as if remarking about removing a stain from a mediocre shirt. After that, all my hopes I once had sunk faster and deeper than a rowboat hit by a cannonball.
“Hehehe… Heh… hehhhhh,” said Tim as he wiped away a tear from his eye, “Naaaah. I like this kid. He’s got guts, everyone I made eye contact with shied away; he just kept starin’ at me. Plus I love deviled eggs.”
Goon A and Suit B exchanged a shrug, “Well, everything’s in place, so we’re headed out. You should too.”
“And so a wonderful evening comes to an end,” Tim sighed. With that he gave what appeared to be a wave goodbye with his gun, and promptly placed a shot right next to my ear, making sure my ears as well as the pants I was wearing were ruined.
The shot rang out and I just ran. I ran past Raul, only seeing his jaw flap up and down. I ran past the party goers, starting into a panic after hearing what could only be a gunshot and witnessing a terrified waiter sprint like his life was on the line. I felt like it was at least… I ran out of the party, out of the building, out of my mind. Next thing I remember is the police knocking down the door while I was sobbing uncontrollably. I’ve told them this story as I’m telling you now as I’ve told all the news stations. I didn’t know about the bombs, I didn’t know why they did it; I didn’t even know I was the only survivor. I learned all that afterwards. Now all I have left is a story, and a bad memory. It may have turned out differently, had I called the cops, had I warned people, had I wrestled him to the ground and taken his gun… But I ask you, can you be as brave as they are in the movies? I wanted to be.
I really wanted to be.

Story 2:
“DECK THE HALLS WITH BOUGHS OF HOLLY, FA LA LA LA LA, LA LA LA LA. TIS THE…”
Dillan pulled the phone out of his pocket and sighed. Trisha’s face with the familiar number plastered the screen as the Christmas ringtone blared. Dillan took a deep breath and wrenched his face into a smile.
“Hello dear.”
“Hiiii honeybun,” the voice from the speaker exploded, “how’s your shopping going?!”
“It’s… going.”
“Have you bought me my present yet?”
“Not yet dear.”
“Well it better be good ok!? And don’t forget the new battery for my baby!”
“Oh don’t worry de-” Dillan grunted as a stampede erupted from the nearby Macy’s, headed to the next nearest Christmas sale. “I won’t forget. Dear, do you mind if I call you back? I can barely hear you right now” he lied.
“Sure thing sweetie!” Trisha exclaimed in her shrill voice, soon accompanied by a thankful *click*. Dillan smiled to himself, now able to get back to the goal of shopping. The smile didn’t last long however, as the Christmas spirit attempted to force its way back into the minds of all the shoppers as the loudspeaker announced another sale announcement. Dillan groaned and rubbed his chest, he was pretty sure one of the soccer moms had shouldered him in the chest. Buy a battery for her baby, he thought to himself. He hated how she used that word for her car. Trisha’s beloved 2009 pink Lexus (Last years’ preset from her parents) lay in the garage – it never went out, mostly because every time it did Trisha left the lights on and drained the battery, and now it finally had died. Not that Dillan minded. As a mechanic, he considered her treatment of the thing sickening. The thing was an eyesore honestly, and the way she started using baby only after what had happened.
Shaking his head, Dillan decided to shamble over to the Caribou Coffee for a quick break. Hescanned the selections for something without peppermint. Unable to find anything, he resolved to see if they just had an average hot chocolate. Waiting in the cluster that supposedly resembled a line he got an irresistible urge to find the person in charge of the music and put some Heavy Metal on… or at least something that didn’t offend human sensibilities like Christmas carols did.
“Can I take your order?” an overly peppy voice said, drawing his attention to the counter.
“Uhh… Just a medium regular hot chocolate please.”
“Alright, will you have anything else?” the peppy voice said.
“No, that’s fine.”
“Alright, that’ll be $3.59, have a Merry Christmas!”
“Yeah… right.” He muttered as he deposited his money into her hand. As he told his friends daily every time this time of year rolled around, he hated Christmas with a passion that would have made any fanatic jealous. Dillan moseyed around to the pick-up area and leaned against a pillar while he waited for his drink. This Christmas was especially bad. Not only did his sister get laid-off a few weeks ago, but there was the recent scuffle with Trisha to deal with, and the whole deal with his baby, Ripper. Not that the scuffles were anything new, of course. Crinkling his nose in disgust he was starting to realize the minty smell of the pine trees was already getting overpowered by smelly last second shopper, furthermore, the skylight wasn’t exactly making spirits bright with all the overcast clouds that had been hanging around lately. Dillan was determined to get this over with today though. His shoulders straightened as he regained his resolve. Hearing his named called from the counter; he marched over and grabbed his drink without missing a beat, and charged forward into the masses, already with the perfect gifts in mind.
Dillan took a sip of his drink and his shoulders slumped immediately. Without turning he tossed it in the trash can with the skill that would have made any basketball player proud.
“God-damnned-fucking peppermint.”
***
“How’d shopping go today honey!” Trisha’s voice greeted Dillan as he crumbled through the door, throwing his wet jacket on the ground. Without missing a beat she went on, “On second thought, I already know, since you were out there shopping Christmas Eve. I’ll go make you something. How does a peppermint hot cocoa sound?” She bounced up from her couch, happy her toy had made it back in one piece, and hopped into the kitchen not even waiting for a reply.
Dillan muttered something imperceptible under his breath. He had told her thousands of times, “I hate peppermint,” or “No thanks, I’m not a fan,” but he knew it was futile; she remembered what she wanted to remember – things that related to her. It used to be different, but now she mainly cared about herself, clothes, her car, herself, her hair, money, and the poor – oh wait, no, that last one was a lie.
“That sounds wonderful dear,” he forced out with a grin, “and as for the shopping, I’m all done. Got my mom a new set of china, after her cat managed to tip her cabinet with them inside over. Got my sis a few pick me up liqueurs along with this cute stuffed animal that I think will go with her collection. And I got you the best gift.”
“Ooh! What is it what is it?” she said as her head popped into the doorframe for just a moment. “Can I guess?”
“You can guess all you want, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna tell you.” He smiled slyly.
“It’s not electronics.” She said.
“Well duh.”
“Could it be furniture?” she asked.
“Am I really that boring?”
“Oh oh, I know,” she said, completely ignoring the question, “you went and got us cruise tickets to Hawaii!”
“Really now,” Dillan said, “You’re not going to guess this one, so you might as well quit now.”
“Fine,” she sighed, “Your hot cocoa is pretty much ready anyway.” She entered the room already pouting. Dillan knew she hated surprises, but he was going through extra efforts to make sure this one wasn’t spoiled. He had been planning giving this to her for a while, and nothing was going to get in his way. “Ooh ooh, one more guess,” she said, pointing her finger to the sky, positive she was right this time. “A ring.”
Dillan’s stomach did a barrel roll, and this time it wasn’t from the smell of peppermint. Thankfully, high school drama class was about to pay off, recovering marvelously to smirk a small, “Perhaps… perhaps,” out.
Trisha’s face went crooked for a second as she glared at him. “You’re hiding something.”
Dillan almost let a frown flash on his mouth, but caught it. Unfortunately not before she noticed his mouth twitch. She was the inept at relationships that didn’t pertain to her, but at some times she had the ability to read him like a book. Which was an accomplishment considering she didn’t read all that often. Dillan decided the best course of action was to stay silent this time, and just defuse her with a smile.
Then the frown came. Oh Dillan knew that frown. She didn’t like something that had happened today, and he was going to pay for it. “Speaking of your sister, she called today. Saying something about how you were going home for Christmas?”
Oh god, why sis… why would you do that? Dillan instantly thought.
“You said we were spending it together this year. Are you hiding something from me?” She said, twisting her face into a mocking caricature of a puppy dog. Dillan hated that face. He used to fall for it so hard, but not anymore. This time though, he’d let her have her way. She would win this one without a fight, even though he also had promised his sister and mom that he would be home for Christmas.
“I think she must be confused. I’m visiting them after Christmas dear.”
“Good.” She smiled, content. She had won an easy victory this time. She liked those.
“I wouldn’t miss this Christmas for the world dear… not for the world.”
It was the first truly sincere sentence he had said that night.
***
The cold air made his throat sting, as he watched his cloudy breaths rise into the night sky, which was finally clearing up. Just in time for Christmas Day, Dillan thought to himself. He rubbed his hands as he finished stuffing his bag full of his clothes next to the china, liqueurs, and stuffed animal in his crappy, yet faithful, 1990 Corolla. He had been secretly sneaking the rest of his belongings out for the past few weeks. She had only just started getting suspicious. Now the final thing he had to do was prepare her gift. He had only thought of it a few weeks back, almost right after the last straw. She had been getting worse over the past few months, caring less and less about him and his family, but he thought it was just a phase. At least, until he had to go away for the week.
“Alright Trisha,” he had said, “All you gotta do is take her for a walk every day, and give her her bits. She can handle the rest by herself for a week.”
“Alright dear,” she said, not paying attention. He knew she wasn’t but figured no harm could come from it.
“Oh, and make sure she doesn’t get into the pantry, and you don’t feed her any leftovers – human food can be very bad for dogs.”
“I wouldn’t ever do that dear.” She said, clearly thinking of something else. He didn’t mind, after all, she couldn’t fuck up something so simple… right?
“Treat Trishy nice, ya hear baby?” He had said, turning my attention to Ripper. Ripper, named her before he knew she was a girl (He thought it was hilarious at the time). Ripper – a glorious, 7 year old Golden Retriever. Ripper, as Dillan said, was his baby. That was the last time Dillan had called Trisha Trishy.
Not even two days in Trisha had a night out with the ladies. She drove, she left the lights on when she parked the car, and she brought the chocolate cake they hadn’t finished back with her. She of course hadn’t fed Ripper that day. She couldn’t be bothered. Well, look at that – she had food she wasn’t going to finish, and here was this hungry dog.
“Chocolate. Everyone knows chocolate was bad for dogs.” He had even left of list of what not to feed his baby. “Fuck, was it that hard to read a fucking list?” now speaking aloud to himself.
The thing Dillan hated the most wasn’t the fact that she hadn’t realized she’d killed Ripper until two days later. It wasn’t even the fact that she hadn’t called the vet when she realized Ripper wasn’t moving. It was the fact that she tried to hide it from him. She didn’t call him. Didn’t mention it when he got back. Didn’t answer when he asked where she was. All there was was a fresh patch of dirt in the backyard, as if someone had buried some treasure. His baby was gone. Perhaps the biggest insult wasn’t even the event itself. It was how afterwards, only sometimes at first, she used baby to describe her car. To say that made him angry was an understatement.
Well he was angry now. He usually was a calm guy – never doing anything rash or stupid. He wanted rash and stupid now; he wanted to be mad… madder… madderest.
He thought of peppermint, and then walked into the garage where her baby sat.
***
Dillan cracked open the door to the bedroom, letting the smell of freshly baked cornflake crusted French Toast, smothered in chocolate sauce waft into the bedroom, the speakers from the living room playing, “You’re A Mean One, Mr. Grinch.”
“Merry Christmas,” he said softly, waking Trisha up. “Rise and shine.” A grin plastered on his face.
“What’s got you so happy?” Trisha grumbled. Mornings did not agree with her, not even Christmas ones.
“Your gift,” Dillan smiled slyly.
He almost skipped back to the kitchen as Trisha groaned like a zombie approaching the breakfast table. She sat down and froze, raising an eyebrow. “Something is up.”
“Nothing is up dear, it’s just Christmas, can’t I spoil you on Christmas?” His smile didn’t
“No… something is up… what is it?” her face suddenly getting serious.
“I’m just excited about your present dear.”
“Mmmm,” she smiled, thankfully distracted by the thought of presents, “It’s Christmas, can’t you tell me what it is now?”
“Patience will make this one all better dear.” Dillan was playing the part of a fisherman now; reeling her along with as gently as possible.
“I HATE it when you hide things from me.” Trisha started to shriek. Dillan sighed. Not even more than fifteen minutes awake and already she was already firing up bitch mode.
“Alright dear, you win,” he consented, “Your big present is in the living room.”
A loud eeeeeeeeeee followed by a suddenly rejuvenated girl sped off through the house to the living room. Dillan slowly stood up, turned off the stove, and walked out to the garage.
There sat one of those overly large presents, just for hiding cars. Well, underneath this one wasn’t exactly a new car. Soon enough Trisha would have unwrapped the first box in the living room. Inside that was a smaller box, and so on, until she would come to her old battery, and a note saying; “Got your new battery – and your real present is in the garage.”
He peeked under the box one last time, admiring his handiwork once more, and walked out the side door of the garage. As Trisha would soon find out, underneath the box in the garage lay only a new battery and a note saying to go outside.
He glanced back one last time and saluted. On the lawn lay a dismantled engine, pointing only to the roof. On roof lay the pieces of her baby, smashed glass, sliced tired, dismantled car, all spelling out the message: “Goodbye baby.” He turned around and started strolling down the street (he had parked his car a block away) when he heard the scream. A bloodcurdling terrifying screech, one that seemed to be attempting to form words but didn’t have the capacity to do so.
As Dillan turned the corner, he did something he thought’d he would never do.
“Tis the season to be jolly fa la la la la, la la la la…”

A two minute writing exercise: on the passage of time

I sat back as the boat pulled away from the dock. The sun rose as the green fields rocked in my vision, the sailors straining against the waves, pulling me farther and farther from my home. I had nothing now. Nothing but my father’s book and the spare set of clothes I’d grabbed when Maria came to warn me. The ashes of my home would be cooling by now. Gone, after the hundreds of generations that had loved its halls and windows.

“Revolution,” Jacques whispered bitterly next to me. I could not tear my eyes away from the slowly receding shore. “To think we wanted it.”

And the sailors rowed on.

*****

Years later, I stand on the shore, looking south. Jacques has gone on, on to a new country, to the French Americas. I cannot: my land is France, and I am not welcome there. Our cousins here in England were kind enough to take us in at first, until we got over the shock and loss. Now I work for a bank, and I have a son who has gone off into the army.

I still come here, each day, to look for my Lady, my France, through the fog over the channel. But never have I seen it.