Select writings from Eric Bonholtzer from the book Duality

Eric Bonholtzer’s work has appeared in numerous publications. He is a recent graduate of the University of Southern California with a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing and is currently working on a Master’s Program in English and pursuing his craft. An avid writer, Eric has written over forty short stories and is hard at work on a novel. He has received numerous awards for his writing and several of his stories have appeared in anthologies. His first book, Remnants and Shadows, a collection of poetry, was recently released and is now available, and a new collection of short mystery and suspense stories will soon be published. More information can be found at www.ericbonholtzer.com. Eric is also involved in the acting field, having appeared in several television shows and movies. He resides in the Los Angeles area.

The Outsider

Zan’s stomach churned and knotted, his fingers on the door. When it opened, there would be a new beginning. No more being an outcast. No more ridicule. He had had enough of that to last a lifetime. The heavy metal door represented an escape, a chance at a new life. What will they think? He wondered. Will they torment me too? He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think so. These were different people, an entirely different situation. No more taunting. Nor more lost lunch money or being an outsider. When you are young things like that still seem significant.
I’ll always be an outsider, he thought, his fingers making a hasty retreat. Indecision gripped him. No, you didn’t come all this way just to give up now. And how far he had come, he reflected. Seems like a trillion miles. His long index digit wrapped the door handle. This is a breakthrough, Zan thought to himself. The door to the space shuttle door opened and Zan stepped out, feeling the reassuring texture of the solid Earth beneath his claws.
“A new beginning,” he muttered, with a slim smile, the setting sun glinting off his pale green skin, “A new beginning.” He trudged forward, his tail trailing behind with high expectations.

Children Farm

“I’m really so excited Father,” the plaid skirted one crooned, her pigtails flapping wildly as she sat at the kitchen table with her father and sister.

“I’m excited too, Father,” the blonde, Lisa, said with a smile.
“You know what a responsibility it is, right?” The man they called “Father” asked with a stern consternating glare. “This isn’t all fun and games.”
“I know that, Father, it’s just that, well, we’re of age now, and wellºjust a little eager.” It was Lisa, a faint glimmer of anticipation in her crystal clear blue eyes.
Father ruffled the girl’s hair in what could be said was an affectionate way. “Well don’t be too eager, and don’t pick the first man you see.”
“I know Father, you’ve taught us well.” Michelle’s pigtails made her look that much more childlike, her tone mimicking her look.
“Don’t bat your lashes, you look like a whore.”
“Sorry, Father.” Michelle was properly cowed.
“Remember what I said,” Father cautioned.
“He has to be rich.” Lisa was eager to chime in with an answer.
“Yes, for both of you. I don’t want either of you barefoot and pregnant without support.”
Lisa came to her father’s side. She had always been the favorite and she knew it. “You’ve raised us well. Don’t think we’ll ever forget it. When we get men of our own, it’ll be our turn to take care of you.”
Well that’s the plan, he thought to himself, but chose his words carefully, “You know I’m going to be gone all day. I’ve got to make a stop by Shady Vale.”
“Can I go too, Daddy?” A meek voice came from behind the kitchen door.
“Sara is that you?” the father asked. A tender girl who looked no more than twelve stepped into the room. “Now what did I tell you about listening to Father when he’s talking to someone else?”
The cherub-faced little girl cringed, not wanting to disappoint her father. “I don’t know.”
“Yes you do,” Lisa interjected. “Father’s warned you not to do it. You’d better start listening to him or you’re going to grow up to be a bad girl.”
Not to be left out, in that wonderful way siblings constantly seek to outdo one another, Michelle added, “Yeah, after all Father’s done for us. Why would you want to go back to Shady Vale anyway? There’s nothing there but bad memories.”
“But it’s my home,” Sara said softly.
Father took a step forward and the older daughters could tell he was getting righteously angry. “No, your home is here now until you turn eighteen and find a nice man. And I told you, it’s Father, not Daddy. Daddy is what babies say.”
“Yes, Father’s right,” Lisa said, stifling any argument from the younger sister.
“Now go to your room, Sara, and think about what I’ve said. That orphanage is all in the past.” The young girl curtsied and departed, leaving Father with a lot to think about. I’ll have to keep an eye on that one, she looks like the rebellious type. Father turned to his two oldest. “Isn’t it great news that your big sister, Natalie, is expecting?” They both nodded their heads. They knew this all too well, and Father was just speaking to illustrate his point. “Her husband’s a doctor, you know. Already sent me twenty five thousand to help his dear old father-in-law out.”
They all smiled at this. “Now get going,” he admonished, “you’re not getting any younger.” The pair departed with a spry spring in their step and left Father to his thoughts. He would go to Shady Vale later after he had a good long talk with Sara. He crept up the stairs to the bedroom, looking in at his three littlest, still in bed. “Wake up girls, I’ve got good news. Today you’re going to get a new baby sister.” The three girls ranging in age from six to eleven, all stirred eagerly, their eyes holding a promise of a new addition to the family, and sleep was a long way returning, as excitement swirled in their quiet impressionable heads.

Home Sweet Home When You’re Not Alone

“Your call cannot be completed as dialed. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please hang up and try your call again.” The impassive robotic voice repeated itself until Petie finally hung up the phone, slowly, trying to keep his hands from shaking.
Why didn’t I just go to movies? Petie thought grimly as he searched the shadows, every nook and cranny seeming to hold its own threat, every slight movement caught from the corner of his eye signaling potential danger. He could have gone with his parents. It was just down the street. He’d even sort of wanted to see the film, but a rebellious inner voice yearning for more independence won out, convincing him that staying home alone was an essential part of growing up. Feverishly peering into the dark recesses of the family room, trying to see if anything had snuck inside and was now lying in wait, Petie wished he’d just told that voice to mind its own business. Now he was alone, horribly, horribly alone in a house, with something or some things coming for him.
He’d heard the noise, the awful scampering just outside the front door about fifteen minutes after the rain had really started coming down. He’d been sitting back enjoying a violent TV show he wasn’t supposed to be watching when he’d first heard it, a scratching sound that had the ten year old boy’s imagination running wild. Then there were footsteps outside the window and deep squashing noises as mud was disturbed. Petie’s thin legs trembled when he’d heard that, becoming certain that something was definitely out there, his Mickey Mouse flannel pajamas fluttering as his knees creaked together and his stomach knotted. And by the third time he’d called his parent’s cell phones and was unable to get through, he was so scared he wanted to cry. Never before in his life had he missed the comforting grasp of his mother’s arms around him more than he did right now.
“Help me,” he whispered through chattering teeth. Heart heavy, Petie cautiously approached the window, mustering every ounce of his courage, figuring that doing something was better than just standing there and letting his mind draw its own conclusions. The shuttered white window frame stood like a portal into a world of danger, a thin barrier to the unknown. I’m the bravest kid in the world. I’m the bravest kid in the world. He repeated the thought over and over in his head, trying desperately to believe it. This time he couldn’t keep his hands from shaking as he cracked the shutters open, just a hair, and peered out.
The wind had taken on a feverish pitch, the storm transformed from a seasonal drizzle to torrential downpour. Petie couldn’t help but wonder, as he stared into the darkness trying to make out anything in the rain, just why his parents had left him here, alone in this storm. But a voice, one that sounded suspiciously like the voice which convinced him to stay home in the first place, spoke the truth, one Petie desperately didn’t want to hear. You brought this on yourself.
The boy breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with air that seemed suffocating. Petie didn’t realize, until it was too late, just what a mistake he was making, opening the shutter in a lit room so he could look out into the darkness when the only thing that would be seen was him. Petie still tried to squint and catch a glimpse of just what was out there, leaning closer and closer to the window, searching.
BANG!
Petie jumped back and the window shook violently as it was rapped upon, once, then twice, hard and fierce, a shattering thump so strong Petie thought the window might shatter. Then he heard the calls. It was difficult to make them out over the howl of the wind and rain, but the words, distorted as they sounded, were unmistakable, “Petie… Petie… Petie...”
His legs wouldn’t respond to his mind’s frantic commands, the whole time thinking, it knows my name. Then the voice spoke again, screaming, the wind whipping and cutting off the words, but the message was clear, “LET US INNNN....”
Finally Petie’s unresponsive limbs obeyed and he was off running, grabbing the cordless phone as he went. He desperately tried to press the buttons to summon help, as he raced through the house, praying his fingers hit the right ones.
The message was different than when he’d tried his parent’s cell phone, but equally disturbing. “All circuits are busy, please try your call again later.” A horrifying thought came to Petie as he ran, wondering if he’d remembered to lock the front door. His parents had latched it when they’d left, throwing the deadbolt, but Petie had gone outside when it first started raining to feel the cool wetness on his tongue. Now he wished he hadn’t. He knew he got careless sometimes and forgot to relock it. He desperately hoped that this wasn’t one of those times, so he headed in that direction to make sure.
It seemed as if luck was on his side because the door was locked. Petie breathed an expansive sigh of relief, but it was short lived. The voice came again, this time just beyond the door. “LET US IN PETIE!”
The boy’s teeth chattered, his eyes going wide as he saw the bolt turning, the door unlocking. Petie would’ve dropped the phone if his fingers hadn’t been so tightly clenched, and it wasn’t until he had punched in the entire number of his dad’s cell that he realized the line was dead.
The lock turned over and then the door was opening. Petie didn’t hesitate, tearing off down the hallway. He couldn’t hear anything except for the frantic beating of his heart, filling his ears with its rapid-fire thump. The intruder was close behind, the thing that knew his name, and it was coming for him. His mind blocked out everything except his room, and the sanctuary he thought it could provide. He couldn’t have looked back if he wanted to, the door just ahead, the thing just behind. Then his hand was on the knob and he was inside. He shuddered, realizing there was no latch as he slammed it shut, diving into his bed and crawling under the covers.
There was nothing else he could do, shivering in the same little fortress he’d made hundreds of times before to guard against imaginary monsters, hoping that somehow the thin layer of his comforter and sheets would magically protect him from this very real monster. He could hear the foot falls just beyond the door.
“PETIE...” The voice muffled, his mind unable to make sense of it. Why was it here? Why was it coming for him? But more importantly, the rebellious voice screaming at him, why didn’t you just listen to Mom and Dad?
He wished he had. The door was opening again. The footsteps drawing closer now. One, then another, plodding up to the bed. Through the covers he could almost see the hand reaching out for him, grasping the blanket and throwing it back. Exposed, Petie screamed as he had never screamed before, a passionate wail that a siren would envy.
His eyes were closed. But when moments passed, painfully tense moments where he expected any second to feel the sharp sting of claws digging into him and nothing happened, Petie opened his eyes.
Dimly, he realized he was being shaken. Waking from the waking nightmare that had become his life ever since his parents had left, Petie was astonished to find that he was in the arms of his mother, encircled just like he’d been praying for. She was saying things to him, and he could hear them and make sense of them, but it was a slow process. All Petie could feel was a palpable sense of relief, mixed with love, as the tears streamed down his cheeks. He hugged his mom tightly, not letting go, telling her again and again that he loved her.
After he’d calmed down a little, she told him just what had happened. How Dad had locked his keys in the car at the theater and how they had walked back in the rain. They’d tried to knock and call out to Petie but he hadn’t answered, and they’d figured he’d fallen asleep. Then his mom remembered the spare key tucked away for emergencies. But she still couldn’t understand why Petie was crying until he finally told her. She smiled, kissed him on the forehead and told him again and again that his parents wouldn’t ever allow anything to harm their precious little angel. Petie finally relaxed, it all making sense now, and his mom concluded by asking if he’d like to go to the movies with them next time.
Petie smiled through his tears, sweeter words never having been spoken and said, “I’d love too.”

A Matter of Perspective on a Cold New Orleans Night

Mark knew he should have been enjoying himself. The bright lights, the scents and sounds of the New Orleans festivities greeting him at every turn. All the candy a fourteen-year-old could stomach, and the overwhelming air of enjoyment filling the night. But, despite it all, Mark Underhill couldn’t shake a feeling of impending disaster. He had tried to tell himself it was just the masks, the All Hollow’s Eve costumes and the way they twisted and leered, but he wasn’t convinced. Deep in the recesses of his mind, as much as he tried to deny it, Mark knew what he has seen. It had been the thing, the physical manifestation of the thing, he was sure of it. As much as he would have liked to believe it was just some incredible coincidence, some reveler’s outfit resembling the witch’s artifact or some trick of his imagination, Mark knew better. What he had seen had looked too much like the voodoo doll for it to be anything but the wicked embodiment of arcane magic.
All Hollow’s Eve had never been Mark’s favorite holiday, but tonight had turned from a mediocre time on the town to a complete and utter nightmare. But, as much as Mark desperately wanted to go home, desperately wanted to call it a night, he just couldn’t. Doing that would prove that his mother was right, that he was still too young to be out with no curfew. Mark shuddered despite the warmth of the evening, knowing with the prideful certainty of an adolescent that he had to see things through to the end, no matter what.
A bump at his shoulder made him jump, and Mark turned in a flash, certain that the thing had found him. His eyes wide with fear, Mark found himself greeted only by the sight of an inebriated elf walking with an unsteady gait, who kept himself from falling only by the aid of his prop long bow. Mark tried to laugh it off, chiding himself for being so on edge. He was supposed to be enjoying himself. It was a holiday. But Mark assumed that anyone who’d seen what he had seen would feel the same way.
The evening had started off on such a good note. A sweet sugar rush from too much candy filling him, and a beautiful young woman in a cat outfit giving him a smile. The feline-attired femme had looked at least a few years older than Mark, but it was obvious from the seductive cat calls she made that she was interested. Mark had approached her with a bolster in his step, feeling big and wanting to impress, and that was when the night had taken its first wrong turn. Crossing the cobblestone of the French Quarter, Mark plowed headlong into a very authentically-attired witch, the woman’s ancient appearance seemingly not attributed to make-up, her gnarled cane looking as if it came from another world.
Normally such a polite young man, it shocked even Mark when he heard the words coming out of his mouth, his normally polite ‘excuse me’ became a rude, ‘out of my way lady’. He had wanted to show that he was tough, that he was cool. The elderly witch had leered at Mark, appearing as if she’d just been struck physically. Politely, almost regally, in a manner from a forgotten time, the woman admonished Mark to mind his manners, fixing him with a cataract stare. At the time Mark had laughed, uttering a dismissive, “Whatever,” as he turned to look for the feline-costumed girl of his dreams. That was when things had gotten weird, the sorceress stranger saying nothing more as she reached out and pressed a tiny object into Mark’s hand. With that, she seemed to disappear into the night, a faint smile cresting her lips, a knowing smile.
For a second, Mark just watched her go, his hands clasping the object, completely baffled by the strange turn of events. Pushing the bizarre encounter from his mind, Mark had tried to once again find the young girl in cat attire only to realize that she, too, was gone.
Uttering a curse, Mark had set his sights to the prospect of other girls and more candy, only remembering, almost as an afterthought, the object the witch had imparted upon him. He glanced down with frustration, but when he saw what he held in his hand, an instant shudder of revulsion and fear surged through his body. It appeared transparent, translucent to the point of insubstantiality, and Mark knew what he was seeing. Living in New Orleans his whole life, Mark had encountered voodoo dolls before, but never one like this. There was a texture to the doll, but to the naked eye it appeared as if there was nothing in his hand whatsoever. It was only when the light caught it at certain angles that there even appeared to be anything there at all, a shimmer the only telltale sign of its existence. Turning his hand to drop the object, Mark felt an icy stab of pain as he realized the doll wouldn’t come free, the tiny object seeming to cling to his flesh, almost becoming a part of it. Mark shook harder and finally the witch’s doll fell to the ground. Now in the grip of panic, Mark didn’t even look back as he set off for another section of town, a sudden and overwhelming need to be as far away from this strange encounter and all it portended filling him as he headed off into the night.

An hour later, with a bellyful of candy nestled safely in his stomach, Mark was starting to feel okay again, thoughts of the strange woman and the doll having faded to an almost distant memory. He was leaning against a store window, watching the humorous belligerents who’d had more than a few too many and taking in the flavor of the city, when he had first seen the thing. At first, it had seemed to be just a shimmer in the crowd, a strange trick of lighting, but as the phenomena of illumination continued, Mark realized that there was definitely something happening in the street. And with a sinking feeling, Mark realized just how much the strange shimmering sensation reminded him of the voodoo doll, only on a much larger scale. It seemed as if the texture and the fabric of the street was taking human form, the strange translucent thing heading in Mark’s direction. Mark dropped his candy, thinking of the strange witch and her gift, and the horrible similarities. This can’t be happening, he thought; but despite his mind’s attempt to rationalize, the apparition was definitely coming closer, becoming more and more tangible with each step. The very air itself seemed to congeal into substance, a creature, which was fast approaching.
Run, his mind told him, and Mark listened, taking off down the street, ducking and dodging through crowds in a city he knew like the back of his hand. When the throngs of people grew too thick, alleyways presented new avenues of escape, as Mark rode the waves of people through street after street trying to elude whatever it was that was following close behind. Every so often, Mark would think that he had lost his pursuer, only to see a translucent glint or glimmer under a street light. Mark knew he couldn’t go home. Not only would that prove that his mother was right, but it also would lead the thing right to his door step. No, Mark knew that option was out, and so was calling the police. As much as he desperately wanted to, especially as fatigue began to wear him down and the ache in his legs became more than just a minor pain, Mark knew he couldn’t really tell anyone because, quite frankly, who would believe him? Mark wasn’t even sure if he believed himself. People would think he was drunk, or worse, insane.
After taking a few sharp corners, Mark leaned up against a wall, bathing himself in shadows as he momentarily tried to calm his ragged breathing. There had been no sign of a shimmer for several minutes. Mark, however, didn’t want to press his luck, and as soon as he got his wind, lost himself in a crowd, the whole time trying to stay relaxed. A few minutes passed, a time of constant searching, in which Mark saw nothing. Not a single glimmer or shimmer to disturb the night. Minutes ticked by and the young man was almost beginning to convince himself that he had imagined the whole thing, jumping at things that weren’t there. That was when Mark saw it again, faint, still far off, but approaching nonetheless, and with a speed that was frightening. It’s so quick, Mark thought, but he didn’t have time to contemplate it at all as he once again took off running.
Glancing behind as he fled, Mark wondered if the thing would even be able to grab him if it got close enough, the apparition seeming to be made of nothing more than air and light. But thoughts of the substantiality of the voodoo doll made Mark sure that if the thing got its hands on him, he was done for.
People seemed to fill the night in a swirl of colors and masks, and Mark felt stifled by them as he made his way through the crowd. A green devil laughed groggily, groping at an overly-tall mermaid leaning against a wall. A ruddy dwarf lay prostrate in the street forcing people to go around, over, or through him. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum locked arm-and-arm heaved dryly onto the concrete. It was a mass of confusion and Mark capitalized upon it. Picking up the pace, he wended his way through the crowd. His head throbbed as exhaustion tugged at him, everything seeming to blend into a kaleidoscopic montage as he went. A man on stilts, blended with a man covered coated head to toe with paint, in Mark’s mind. A black vampire coalesced with a soccer player, and the whole world seemed to be swirling in a blender.
To Mark, it appeared as if he were watching the whole thing from afar, his body not really his, as fatigue tore away at him. The tired adolescent could hear someone screaming for ‘candy’, a person or food, Mark didn’t know. The lighting of the streets grew dimmer, and as Mark trudged on and he knew that he was slowly wending his way off the main thoroughfare, though there seemed to be little he could do about it, backward glances telling him that the thing was close, very close. Mark ducked down one alley and then another, and veered into another still.
A half-conscious bum called out to him, “What’s a matter boy, seen a ghost?” Mark could hear the laughter trailing after him as he continued on. He kept running, legs positively burning as he went. “Hey kid watch it!” He heard a terse voice saying, and it took Mark a minute to realize that he’d run headlong into someone.
Mark didn’t hesitate, “Listen, you’ve gotta help me. There’s this thing after me. Some crazy lady sent it, and oh, I’m so sorry...I just want her to know I’m sorry...I didn’t mean it...I was trying to be a big man.. and I...” His words ran together, coming out between winded breaths, tears welling in his eyes.
Mark was silenced by the same voice as before, the tone gruff and implacable. “Look kid, everything’s gonna be just fine okay, now just listen to me, all right?” Mark smiled, looking up at the man. There was confidence in the stranger’s posture and Mark knew that this was someone who could help, someone who could stand up to the thing.
Mark tried to calm himself. He had reached the end of the line and he was exhausted. He almost couldn’t believe it. Things were going to be okay, the man had said. Mark was going to get help. The stranger ran his tongue over a gilded incisor as he spoke, tugging at the twill of his coat. “Look, kid, everything’s going to be okay now.” The man reached out a meaty palm and tenderly ran his hands over the young man’s shoulders. Mark looked behind him and saw that horrible, familiar shimmer at the end of the alleyway. He knew, the thing had found him.
Time seemed to blur, happening with an incredible speed. In one second, Mark was whipped around and slammed up against the wall by his would-be hero. He felt the man’s body pressed up against his, the smell of sweat and day-old gin assailing his senses. “Everything’s gonna be just fine, kid. Just do exactly what I tell you.” Mark was being smothered, constricted by this man’s presence.
Mark was incredibly confused by the change in the man’s demeanor but, still felt safe. This was a man in control. “Now listen, you do exactly what I say. We’ve gotta make this quick.” Relief surged through Mark, knowing that this was a man of action. “If you’re lucky kid, and you do everything I tell you, maybe I won’t kill you when its over. Give me all your money, right now...” It was only after a moment that Mark realized the full import of the words.
“I’m not messing around kid, now, I said..” A faint shimmer grew around the horrible betrayer’s neck, and Mark heard his next words choked off with a faint gurgle. Suddenly, Mark was free of the pressure but still found himself trapped between the robber and the shimmering thing. Mark tried to move but found every escape attempt blocked by the struggle, the man who had tried to rob him finally ceasing his frantic writing and falling to the ground in a heap. Mark shivered, feeling as if he had just hopped out of the frying pan and into the fire, backing up against the wall as far as he could, alone with the thing. And now Mark knew what it was capable of.
Mark closed his eyes, not wanting to see what would come next, wishing desperately that he could just see his mom and be held by her one more time. Mark knew if he were able to someway escape that his life would change. He wouldn’t argue so much, he would help every old woman across the street, anything, if he could just see another day. Mark’s imminent death brought a moment of clarity as he realized that all the possibilities for good, all the possibilities to help wouldn’t be always be there. It was something most people didn’t think about, especially when they were young and had their whole lives ahead of them, but Mark thought about it. And, as time progressed and he didn’t feel pressure around his neck, Mark Underhill hesitantly opened his eyes.
Mark found himself alone, wonderfully, wonderfully alone in the alleyway, the sounds of merriment far in the distance sounding nothing so much like cries of joy and promises of second chances and possibilities. Perhaps, Mark wondered, that was what tonight had really been all about, what the woman had been trying to instill in him, the knowledge that he always had a choice and sometimes a single act could affect so many other things. Honestly, Mark didn’t know, but he did know that he owed an apology to his mother and it was one he would be happy to deliver. With a broad smile on his face that seemed to shimmer in the moonlight, Mark started home.

Not a Pretty Picture

“I just don’t know what we’re going to do.” Mary said it with emphasis, an overdue bill from the ever-growing stack nestled in her hand, waving it as a conductor might.
“Look, getting upset isn’t going to help anything.” Mike tried to console his wife. Throughout this whole ordeal he’d been a voice of reason, and that wasn’t about to change. “We’ll get through this. It’s just a tough time. Something will be provided for us, it always happens that way.”
“Yeah, well what if it doesn’t happen this time? What if we lose our house, Mike? What then? It’s been three months and nothing...”
Mike rose from his chair, a worn leather one he’d never had the heart to part with, and came to stand beside his wife. He looked at the house they’d called their own for the past twenty years, the spot on the rug where their older daughter had taken her first steps, the antique green couch where their younger daughter loved to nap, and thought about how they might lose it all. “I know it’s difficult, but it’s not like were not trying. We’ve been submitting applications. And at least I got that job at 7-11 and you’re getting some part time work at the library.”
“But it’s not enough money, Mike.” Now the tears did come, and Mike was sorely tempted to just join in the misery. But instead, he gained more resolve, letting her vent, his arms wrapped around her, feeling the plush softness of the sweater he’d bought her two Christmases ago, back when he’d had his career, before the company downsizing.
“I know, and I’m going down to Macy’s today and...”
“It just isn’t going to cover our house payment and with Nana’s medical bills, I just don’t know what we’re going to do.”
“Yeah, but at least it’s a...”
Mary didn’t let him finish. “What about the car payments? And tuition for the kids?”
“We’re trying our best, sweetheart. We just have to have believe something good will happen.”
Mary smiled a little bit, resting her head on Mike’s shoulder. She was all cried out. Mike thought about the mounting stack of bills, having gone from the past due stage to the final notices. “Look, Mary. I love you. And this is a really difficult time for us, I’ll admit. I wish we had some rich parents or friends who we could ask for a little help, but the fact is we don’t. And crying about it isn’t going to help matters. Maybe you’ll get that teaching job...” He let the words trail off. It had been almost three weeks and the truth was that if they were going to hear back, they probably would have already. Mary had left the teaching profession years ago to stay home and raise the kids and at that time the principal was practically begging her to stay; now they didn’t want her back because of budget cuts. “We’ll get through this. No matter what happens, we have each other, and that’s enough.”
“But what about the kids, their school?” Both their daughters were away at college, one an aspiring novelist, the other a scientist, different as the seasons.
“We’ll figure something out. Maybe they’ll just have to put their education on hold for a little bit...”
Mike was cut off mid-sentence by a ring of the doorbell. He shook his head, irritated. He was in no mood for visitors. The interruption did prove to be one blessing: it took their attention off the troubles. Mary was already daubing her eyes and preparing for company, always the consummate hostess, even in times such as these.
As they walked to the door, Mike tried for a little levity. “Hey, if things get really desperate we can always hawk the heirloom.” He smiled as he pointed to the absurd avant-garde painting that someone had deemed ‘art’. It was a running joke. Bought years ago by Mary’s grandfather, it had been passed down through the kids hands until it graced Mary and Mike’s mantle, the painting so ugly, so incredibly bizarre it had become the centerpiece of conversation because of its sheer gaudiness. Mike’s comment did its job, eliciting a smile from Mary, something that had been scarcely seen for the past few months.
“And part with that masterpiece?” she replied jokingly. “We’ll lose the house first.” It was Mike’s turn to smile, and with slightly lifted spirits, he opened the door.
The man standing before them looked deeply troubled. Tears streamed down his young face, through a beard that was rough cut, a style that was becoming more popular these days. Mike could tell something was very wrong with this picture. The man was shaking, visibly pale, and he favored one side, his left leg looking awkward and damaged. His t-shirt had a visible rip in the side, and the skin showed through the tear.
“Are you all right?” Mary rushed forward, placing one arm on the young man’s shoulder, steadying him, as the new arrival looked like he might collapse at any moment. The man was unresponsive, seemingly in a daze. “Mike, why don’t you see if you can see what’s wrong? I’ll get him some water.”
And with that, Mary left, at a near run, her problems temporarily forgotten in her need to help. Alone with this stranger, Mike felt the urge to hug the man, tell him that everything would be okay. But then he realized that he didn’t even know what the problem was. “Are you all right son?” Mike could think of nothing better to say. “Look, my wife’s going to get you something to drink. What’s wrong?”
The man just stood there blankly for a second, blinking rapidly, and for an instant Mike wondered if this man was intoxicated or on some kind of medication. He certainly didn’t look right. Then the stranger spoke. “I’m sorry...Look at me...I’m so sorry.” Mike was taken aback. He didn’t know how to respond. Luckily no response was needed, as the man broke into a fit of sobbing, spilling out what had happened. “There was an accident. Up the street...I think...I think someone’s hurt...” Mike could barely make out the words through the hysteria, but something tugged at him deep inside. His wife was back with a cup of water in hand, forcing the man to slow down and take a few sips. “My leg...” The man rambled something incoherent, then continued on, “I tried one of the other houses...empty...” The man pointed across the street, “That house told me...‘get lost hippie.’”
Mike followed the man’s finger and was shocked. That was the McCallister’s home, good people who Mike and Mary had known for years. He sincerely doubted that their close friends would say such a thing, but the stranger was adamant. “No one will help me, please help me...” He was imploring.
Mike patted the man on the back. “It’s okay, son. Now, calm down, it’s going to be all right.” He turned to Mary and said, “Call the police, tell them we need an ambulance up here right away.”
That was when the stranger started screaming, getting even more agitated. He even went so far as to grab the front of Mike’s shirt, the fabric bunching in his hands. “No, there’s no time. You have to help them now. You have to. There’s no time.” Mike shot his wife a quick glance, as if to say maybe he’s right.
In a split second they made their decision. “All right. Show us where it is.” In an instant Mary was out the door beside her husband.
The stranger pointed, “It’s up there a couple of blocks up.” Mike marveled, wondering just how far this guy had had to drag himself for help before someone opened the door.
“Can you take us there?” Mary asked it, looking at her husband who was already starting down the driveway.
The stranger shook his head, pointing to his leg, bending to the side to add emphasis to his pained state. He sank down against the side wall of Mike and Mary’s front porch, leaning his head against the wall and beginning once again to cry. No more words were necessary as the heroic couple was already in the street, taking off at a run, leaving the stranger on their doorstep to himself.

***

“It was everything we had.” Mary was sobbing deeply into the couch. At least they had left the furniture, which was probably too heavy to move. Three days had passed, a time of sorrow with heartfelt condolences from friends, including the McCallisters, but despite it all, the thoughts of betrayal and grief hadn’t left.
“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Mike was sitting beside Mary, one hand on her leg, as he stared off into space. An insurance adjustor would be there soon and Mike vowed that he was done with tears. He thought of his friends and the well wishers in the neighborhood who were starting a collection, and he could almost smile. Almost.
“I just can’t believe someone would do that...” Mary left the rest of the words unsaid especially to people who were already in need.
“I know,” Mike said, not knowing what else to say.
There had been no accident, no trouble a couple of streets up. The stranger had been a phony, a thief with a good act who distracted people long enough, playing on their sympathy and humanity, to rob them. Mike and Mary had just been the latest victims. They’d searched two streets up and then three and then four, thinking the whole time that perhaps the man had been so confused he couldn’t tell where the accident had occurred, with each street the fact becoming more painfully obvious that they’d been duped. Then they had rushed home, only to find their house thoroughly ransacked. The rest had been a nightmare that they wished desperately they could awaken from. Still no great job had surfaced and Mary and Mike had been cleaned out of just about everything of value.
A ring at the door jolted them from their misery, painfully reminiscent of the same bell that began their nightmare just days before. Mike could almost picture it being the bearded stranger at the door as he opened it, returning to the scene of the crime. But it wasn’t, it was the insurance adjuster and Mike was less than optimistic. They’d dropped down their coverage last year to save a few bucks when Mike had taken his first pay cut, a precursor to the layoff.
The insurance man was tall and thin, the stereotype of an accountant down to the horn rimmed glasses, and Mike was not in a welcoming mood.
“Come on in to our home sweet home, which probably won’t be our home for much longer.” He was bitter, and made an expansive gesture taking in just how much had been stolen from them.
Mary greeted the man politely, the bills on the kitchen table glimpsed out of the corner of her eye. The thief hadn’t had the courtesy to take those too.
“I’m really sorry about your loss. They informed me of your financial situation. It’s terrible when thieves pick on good honest people, especially people in need.” He said it with compassion, but from the look Mike saw in his eyes, he knew the adjuster did this kind of thing so much it was becoming more of a rehearsed recitation than a genuine display of sympathy. “My name’s Luke White. I’ll be taking down all the information on what you lost. Generally these things are kind of difficult for the parties involved.”
Parties involved, Mike thought to himself, he’s already reducing us to a statistic.
The man was droning on and Mike turned his head to the mantle and its rings of dust formed around where their trinkets and keepsakes had once sat. Mr. White was going on about some procedural nonsense and Mike was fuming. He felt anger at the horrible thieves who took advantage of kind people like himself and Mary. He even felt anger at this impassionate adjustor who was rambling on as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Mr. White was asking a question and lost in his ire, Mike had scarcely heard. “What?”
“I was just going over it with your wife and I was asking you, ‘what exactly did you lose?’”
Mike stared at him, dumbfounded, wondering if this guy was blind, feeling a prickling seething emotion that made him angry at himself. “Can’t you see we lost everything except for some furniture and that stupid painting?!” He gestured to the running joke.
Mike was about to say something else until he caught the look in the adjustor’s eyes. Mr. White was staring, as if in shock, a look very similar to the one on the stranger’s face from a few days before. “Is that...a...”
Mike just wanted to scream at him, what you can’t talk either, like that thief? Is there some kind of dumbness that’s being spread in the water?
“That isn’t an original is it?” Mr. White stepped forward, touching the frame.
Mary had taken notice of the strange tone in the insurance adjustor’s voice and her interest was piqued. “That? That’s just some old painting that my grandfather bought. Ugly, isn’t it?”
Mr. White stared at her as if she had just said Mona Lisa was a mere artist’s doodling. “You’re kidding, right? Do you have any idea how much this thing is worth of it’s an authentic Pollack? Several of his originals turned up missing years ago and have been discovered at various obscure places over time, including yard sales. And if your grandfather bought this...” He stepped closer, examining the surface.
Mike went over to his wife, gripping her hands tightly. If only what he was saying was true... But somehow deep inside they knew this wasn’t just some random set of occurrences. It was a sign, it had to be.
Mr. White turned to them with a little smile and said, “Um..I think that your financial troubles may be over. I’m no art expert, but I’d bet anything that this is an original. And that means...well I don’t think you’ll ever have to worry about money again.”

***

Mary turned to her husband and hugged him tight, thinking of all the time they’d joked about the painting. She thought about how they’d gotten through their problems and grown stronger because of it, the entire time the answer to their situation hanging above the mantle, turning out to be an authentic Pollack. But most of all she thought about the reasons behind the reasons, the big picture made their lives fit together. Mike and Mary embraced, warmth shared between them in their newly furnished living room, and smiled, thinking of all the good for the community and for themselves they would do, all because of a long running joke that turned out to be a painting of gold.

Noble

Grace Noble held the vial above her head with a profound look of triumph, an overwhelming sense of wonder filling her. And they said it wasn’t possible, she thought and couldn’t help but feel a tinge of smug vindication as the years of experimentation and harsh trial and error were finally paying off. After the seed had taken root in Grace’s mind, the project had become not just a passion, but an obsession.
The substance she’d created had a greenish tint to it, looking unpleasantly like radioactive waste, but Grace scoffed at its foul appearance, knowing that the effect far outweighed anything else. One month and everyone will be drinking it, Grace thought, picking up the phone, nearly too excited to dial, still trying to decide who among her close circle of friends would get to try the miracle serum first. “Agnes,” she said aloud, already pressing the buttons, “She was the catalyst for the whole thing.”

Grace had been having lunch with Agnes when the idea was spawned. “I still tell you plants are superior in every way.” Agnes Wright, who worked in the same botany laboratory Grace had labored in for the past five years, spoke with her usual cynical flair.
Grace smiled good-naturedly. “I swear Agnes, sometimes I think you spend so much time in that garden of yours, you’re going to marry that patch of lilies you’re always fawning over.”
“Gracie, don’t get me started on how plants are superior to men, or we’ll be here all day.” She gazed out at the scenery, the veranda on which they were dining overlooking the pleasant vistas of Napa Valley, one of the main reasons the restaurant stayed in business. “And you should be one to talk. It was your research that gave new life to the grapevine’s crop cycle at the expense of a year of your life. In case you’ve forgotten.”
“Oh, I haven’t forgotten.” Grace chuckled to herself, still almost unable to understand how she’d done such a thing, being transformed almost overnight from a routine plant specialist to a superstar in the world of modern agriculture. “Well, it was really a simple matter once I stopped and thought about it. Empirical evidence just filled in the blanks for me.”
“I wouldn’t call a full page write up in Scientific America ‘a simple matter’.”
“I have to admit that was pretty exciting.”
Agnes languidly sipped her glass of iced tea, enjoying the cool morning breeze. “I still don’t fully understand how you figured it out and you’ve told me at least ten times.”
“Honestly, it was really simple. I knew that some unknown agent had been leaching the nutrients from the coastline for at least the past ten years. Well, a little digging and some shale analysis proved it for me. I knew there was a severe zinc and iron sulfide deficiency. Underground erosion of salt and calcium deposits affected the deep soil, and the trickle-down effect meant the topsoil was losing its nutrients too. No nutrients, no good crops. See it is simple.”
“Yeah, maybe that part is, but formulating the chemical compound to stabilize the minerals sure isn’t. And that’s why you’re the botanist extraordinaire.” Agnes made a grandiose saluting gesture. Everything Agnes did was exaggerated for theatrical effect.
“Yes, well, can we please talk about something else? I think all this flattery is going to my head. I think I’d rather hear you rant about how plants are better than men.”
“Not just better than men, better than all mankind, womankind included.” Agnes had a glimmer of delight in her eye as she spoke as if she’d unearthed the greatest life-altering truth.
“Okay, I’ll humor you.” Grace looked at her friend through a half-drained wine glass, marveling at the refraction of light in it, framing her lunch companion, and wondering just how excited someone must have been to discover what silica could become. “But I’m only asking because I know you want me to.”
“Desire,” Agnes answered. “Or more accurately, lack of desire. That’s what makes plants superior to humans. They don’t desire. That’s why they don’t have wars. Desire is what makes people unhappy. It’s what makes people want to lose weight, what makes people fight over things. Want. I swear sometimes I think Buddhists are onto something. No attachments. And what do you think Heaven is? A place where no desire is necessary because everyone has everything they could possibly want right there. No desire. That equals happiness, I tell you. Why do you think that plants don’t fight?”
Grace smiled, with genuine warmth this time. “Perhaps because they don’t have any means of holding weapons?” Agnes raised a quizzical eyebrow, in a look of mock disdain. “Actually,” Grace continued, the scientist at heart speaking, “plants do fight, constantly. They compete for air, that’s why they grow higher and bigger, constantly trying to adapt to get sunlight for photosynthesis. Even their roots try to strangle each other to get enough nutrients. Not to mention the fact that the oxygen they emit as a byproduct, that we all love so much, is really a poison.”
Agnes was nonplused. “Well, I stand by it. If you eliminated desire you’d have peace.”
Though their banter went on, a deep-seeded idea had already been planted, burrowing into the fertile landscape of Grace’s subconscious, and that solitary supposition formed the centerpiece of everything she did for the next twelve years. It was why Grace left the botany field and became a chemist. It was why she never married, and some said why she became a recluse: Desire.

Dr. Doris Step was the invited guest to arrive at Grace’s house, a broad smile on her lips, hiding internal jealousy. Doris had been a chemical engineer for six years at Cal Tech before making a northward migration. Although she’d been working in the same field as Grace for most of her adult life, in the short amount of time Grace had spent at the research lab, the young upstart had eclipsed Doris’ achievements by a broad margin. Now in her late fifties, Doris hid her disappointment behind a mask of affable tolerance.
“So what’s this miracle serum?” Doris was a straight-to-the-point kind of person.
“Uh-uh, not until the rest of the company gets here.” Grace smiled mirthfully, seeming about to explode from the magnitude of her secret. Doris made an exasperated gesture, as she sat down on the overstuffed couch.
Douglas O’Brien was next to arrive. He comprised the only relationship, other than the professional kind, that Grace had experienced in the past twelve years and it had ended miserably. When Grace’s desires as a scientist had superceded desire for human interest, Dr. O’Brien had called the whole thing off, telling Grace she was too cold, too absorbed for anything meaningful. He now had two children and a beautiful wife, though he and Grace had stayed close friends.
Another knock at the door brought Joyce Rivers to Grace’s home. Dr. Rivers, a standoffish woman who Grace had never liked, was the oldest and most revered scientist in the Chemical Research Department at the lab, and on the eve of such a momentous occasion, Grace felt obligated to include her.
Agnes came last, entering with her usual flair, flinging her dark trench coat to the side, saying, “The party can begin now that I’ve arrived.” Dr. O’Brien laughed politely, but the two other women stared in silence, Doris constantly checking her watch. “This better be good to get me out here this hour of night,” Agnes continued with a smile. Doris’ ears perked up at the comment, as if Agnes had just given voice to what she’d been thinking all along.
“Believe me, this will be well worth the trip,” Grace assured them, trying to keep the overwhelming excitement out of her voice. Now that everyone had finally gathered, she almost couldn’t control herself, thoughts of the famous Peace Prize running through her head.
The group gathered in the living room, huddled like children who’d discovered their parents’ secret stash of booze. There was a taboo feeling to the night that no one could precisely put a finger on. Grace broke the tension by withdrawing a beaker of serum made from the formula she’d been so carefully honing and perfecting all these years. “What you see right here will revolutionize the world. It’s been my dream and my goal since a very special friend of mine gave me the idea, what seemed like a lifetime ago.” She nodded to Agnes who actually bowed slightly. “Some say it’s been my obsession, but I’ve gathered you all here tonight to show you the future. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.” Doris couldn’t suppress a yawn, though she ostensibly tried to hide it. “What you’re going to experience tonight will be the wave of the new world. One of peace, love, and prosperity.” She couldn’t help but think how she sounded like someone at a Woodstock revival but Grace was way too jazzed to care. “You’re going to be my test group for my miracle serum.”
Dr. O’Brien didn’t like the sound of that one bit and voiced his objection. “Grace, you of all people should know that there are procedures to be followed. There’s FDA, regulated double blind groups, you can’t just whisk us over here and hope to use us as guinea pigs.”
Grace snapped at him, “And is that what Madame Curie thought?”
Doris interjected, “She died of radiation poisoning from her own experiments.”
Grace was not dissuaded, “Okay, is that what Jonas Salk thought when he cured the world of Polio? And friends, I tell you, I’m curing the world of something much more important than that.” Her words were clipped and ran together like she was hyped up on stimulants. “Much more important.”
It was Joyce Rivers who spoke up, one of the first things she’d said the entire night, seeming intrigued, “Oh really, and what is that?”
Grace didn’t hesitate. “Desire.”
There was a uniform chorus of ‘oh brother’ and ‘give me a break’. Grace, however, was not deterred. “I’m not joking with you. And I have Agnes to thank for it all. Before any of you object, just hear me out, and then if any of you don’t want to take part, it’s your choice, but I can guarantee you in a month or less everyone will be taking this stuff. And I don’t care what the FDA has to say about it.”
Again, Dr. O’Brien interjected, “But long term trials, resultant factors...”
Grace held up her hand. “Just give me a chance. You see, it all leads back to desire. Addiction, sorrow, depression, rage. I’ve been taking this drug for three weeks now. One more week and it will take full effect.”
Dr. O’Brien muttered under his breath, “Well, that explains a lot.”
Grace didn’t stop. “Like every drug, there’s is a short spike at the beginning, a period of heightened intensity. With this drug, it’s relatively brief; but Douglas, you mentioned clinical trials, and I can tell you I’ve done extensive trials myself and I’ve formulated this thing perfectly. Initially, I wanted it to be a one-shot dose, but that was way too powerful, too unpredictable. Believe me I’ve got a hundred placid, perfectly happy hamsters at the lab who’ve been given he perfect dosage. I formulated a reduced potency, one that was safe for humans. Right now I’m in the down phase. The drug is changing the chemical balance in my brain, slowly, so that there’s no damage to my equilibrium. Like other synthetic drugs, this miracle, which I call ‘Peace,’ affects the levels of dopamine, testosterone and estrogen in the body, while at the same time stabilizing the dangerous surges in serotonin, which is the primary cause for mood altering effects. Basically, ‘Peace’ equalizes the hormones, balancing the testosterone and estrogen levels as well as administering a regulated constant supply of dopamine which, as you all know, regulates happiness and thereby placidity, making people peaceful, content, to the point where desire is eliminated. And the effects are even more far-reaching than that. It can eliminate sorrow. It can stabilize brainwaves which could help many people with mental afflictions like bipolar disorder and manic depression. Perhaps with alterations it can affect the palsy that strikes the brain at old age causing strokes, or regulate healthy circulatory functions to avoid embolisms. The possibilities are endless...”
Grace couldn’t help but smile, a sweet victorious grin. “In effect this will eliminate the need for religion, for money. I have the power to create a new world.”
“But what if someone doesn’t want this?” It was Dr. O’Brien.
“You’re just the eternal cynic aren’t you, Doug? Well, if that’s the case then they don’t have to. I’m not forcing this on anyone.”
“But you’ve got to think of the ramifications...” He continued on, but Grace was no longer listening, turning her attention to Agnes who had her hand raised like a school child aching to go to the restroom.
“Agnes.”
“Yes, well, I think this thing is great, but you say there is a down phase?”
“Yes, temporarily. It allows for the body and the mind to harmonize. There’s a huge spike, a full effect with the first dose, which all you active participants are going to experience in a few minutes, but then after a little bit it wears down, bringing you back. It’s less of a shock that way. Then, with regular doses, the effect can last longer until it becomes permanent. Like I said earlier, it takes about a month. Otherwise, I’d be peaceful as can be, but I’ve still got a week to go. But I’ve become used to the downs. The dose is great and I can’t wait to feel it all the time, but I have to be safe. I don’t know what exceeding the dosage would do.”
Doris voiced her opinion. “I would have to say, Grace, it does sound exciting, but what if someone uses other drugs like cocaine or Prozac? Won’t that affect it?”
Grace felt on top of the world. She’d done her research, thought this through from every aspect of attack. She was ready. “Yes. Only temporarily. Cocaine would release greater quantities of dopamine and serotonin but ‘Peace’ would eventually equal it out. Same thing with Prozac as that drug has a similar balancing effect, and with other anti depressants drugs that inhibit the release of MAOI. But these are all really moot points because you have to understand that once someone takes ‘Peace’ they’re not going to want to take any of those other drugs. They’re not going to need to.”
“And the supply?” Doris was a realist and a worrisome one at that.
“Indefinite. That’s the beauty of it. I built off of known chemical substances readily found in plants. Why do you think so many societies have relied on medicinal herbs for so long? The beauty of it is, since it’s organically based, the supply is self replicating.”
An awed silence fell over the room. Grace went to the counter and grabbed four glasses. “Now, since there are no more questions. Let’s drink up. I’ve already had my dose for the day, and I have to tell you, I’m a little jealous.” She couldn’t conceal her smile. She poured the beaker equally into the glasses, the amount little more than a shot of liquor. The four invitees, feeling a part of something beyond their control, swept up their drinks, Dr. O’Brien the most hesitant of the group. In the end, peer pressure and curiosity finally wore down any last barriers he had erected.
In typical fashion, Agnes called a toast. “To ‘Peace’,” she said with a wide eyed smile, and the four drained their glasses.

Agnes thought she was in Heaven, the sheer euphoria wrapping her like a tightly woven cocoon of good feelings, the individual threads all delightfully lifting emotions she didn’t even know she had. I wonder if this is why they say we only use ten percent of our brain, the thought fluttered to her, and she made a mental note that she’d have to tell Grace. The only way she’d ever be able to describe it was to say that she felt like she was flying when she was standing still. The only problem with that analogy was that it was all too accurate, her descent rapid, and very unsettling.
“More,” was the first word out of her mouth. The down was so intense, so crushing that she felt as if she’d lost her ability to think rationally all together. It was as if she’d seen the true face of euphoria only to be ripped away as she was about to touch it. It wasn’t fair. “More, more now,” she repeated. Grace backed up a step, unsure about her friend’s rapid change in demeanor. Grace was baffled, nothing like this had happened in her personal experience with the drug. Dr. O’Brien was joining in the chant, almost zombie-like, staggering toward her.
“Agnes is right, Gracie, you have to give us more.” Dr. O’Brien was actually salivating. “It was so remarkable, so beautiful, I have to have more.” Doris joined in the call, stripping off her blouse for some unknown reason.
It was Joyce Rivers who broke the chant-like spell of “More...More...More...” screaming out viciously and lashing at Doris with grasping hands.
Joyce was obviously older, but she had the advantage of surprise, pushing the younger woman to the floor. “She has some,” the crazed woman was shouting, “I know she has some and I need to get it. Now. I have to go back. I have to...” she screamed, still clawing at Doris who attempted to fight back.
Dr. O’Brien was within a few footsteps. Grace retreated until her back was pressed against the wall. Scared, terrified, by the sudden and unexpected change of events, she threw the empty beaker at Doug. “Here, take it, I don’t care,” she screamed, trying to keep the fear from her voice, but failing. With greedy hands O’Brien snatched the container and licked the insides for the remnants of the serum. A glazed look began to fill his eyes as he relaxed, but it was short-lived as Agnes jumped on him, grabbing for the beaker. O’Brien did not hesitate, striking back with hate-filled force. Grace tried to run, but only made it three steps before she felt the glass of the beaker shatter against the back of her head. As her vision dimmed she could see Agnes staring at her unrecognizably, kicking at her screaming for more, the group of well-educated doctors degenerated into a scene of carnage and death, all searching for Peace.