July, 1960
The Rambler. They were going to drive from San Diego to Groton, Connecticut, in a 1952 Rambler station wagon. The paint had faded to the washed out blue of the summer sky at high noon, and the engine made this coughing noise going uphill, cough, then cough-cough-cough. It either died, and they had to coast to a stop and let it rest, or something inside caught and they went on their way. She had been keeping track. About half the time the Rambler died.
“We’ll have a good time, drive across the country, see the sights. It’ll be like a vacation.” He’d brought the orders home to show her along with a couple of plums from the farmer’s market to celebrate the good news. “After submarine school, I’ll put on another stripe, and maybe we’ll have enough money to get a babysitter and go out to a movie on Friday nights. Get some pizza. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
Plums and good news delivered, he pounded back down the staircase from their fourth floor apartment with a promise to tune up the Rambler.
She pictured a map in her head, one of those maps that showed the mountains and rivers and roads and bridges. How many bridges would they have to cross to get from San Diego to Groton? What about mountains? Those horrible Rockies. He knew she was afraid of driving in the mountains. She was even more afraid of driving over bridges.
“Well, I don’t know how else we’re gonna get there. You’ll be okay.” She had made enchiladas for supper, four for him, two for her, one for her big girl, just turned two. The new baby was three months old, liked to be held and rocked when she took her bottle. It was hard to find herself with ten minutes free and an empty hand. “Listen, it’s been three years since we came out here. You’re nineteen now, you know? You’re older. You’ll be okay. And I’ll drive real careful over the bridges so you won’t be scared.”
Three years since they had eloped from a tiny Texas town, run off to join the Navy and start their life. He’d been eighteen, barely, and she’d been sixteen and pregnant. And now wherever she turned in their small apartment were baby’s eyes, looking for her, and little chubby hands, reaching out for her like she was the sun.
She packed their things in the Rambler, made a nest for the girls in the big back seat. The baby was cozy down in the milk carton, resting on top of the towels, and her big girl held her doll-baby close against her neck. Fifteen minutes into the trip, and the back seat was asleep, lulled by the rocking and noise of four wheels on an American highway.
Early afternoon, and they stopped in Nevada at a roadside picnic table to eat the corned-beef sandwiches she’d packed for the trip. They were close to the mountains now. He was looking tired. They’d been driving since before dawn, and he wanted to get through the Rockies before nightfall. Her stomach was in a knot. The Rambler had been behaving, but just before they stopped she heard it again, cough, then cough-cough-cough. And now they were going into the mountains.
“You know they have Navy housing in New London. I’ve seen pictures of it. It’s real pretty, and they’ve got snow up there. I go to sub school, then sonar school, and get on a boat out of New London, we’ll be able to stay there for a while.” He was twisting the wheel, screwing it back and forth, and the narrow mountain roads didn’t have rails. Didn’t have lines. He glanced over at her. “You’re okay. These roads aren’t bad.”
He expected her to be okay. The Rambler gave a cough, then cough-cough-cough, and they were nearly up on two wheels, going around the last curve before the bridge.
The bridge spanned a river gorge that must have been a thousand feet deep, tumbled granite and gray-green scrub, an old suspension bridge that was rusty and narrow. She must have made a sound, some strangled cry caught in her throat, because the babies started crying in the back seat, and the Rambler coughed and died and they coasted to a stop.
He stared straight ahead through the windshield. She looked down, saw the river and the rocks with about a mile of air between the wheels of their car and certain death. Her babies were crying from the back seat, and she turned around, reached back. “All right, now. That’s enough. Daddy’s driving and he knows what to do. You won’t be afraid of bridges when you grow up. You’ll say, ‘Oh, this bridge is nothing! I was going over bridges twice this big when I was just a baby!’”
He reached down, gently turned the key, pumped the gas, and the Rambler started right up. She felt like she had a bird trapped in her throat, struggling to get free. He eased off the brake, and they drove slowly across. “How are my girls doing?” he said. “How about some ice cream next town we see? I bet we could all use some ice cream.”
Sarah Black is a fiction writer.
Vandy takes an orange balloon from the box and blows it up, fastens it with a piece of string he cuts from the big ball of twine he bought along with the balloons for a good price at Wal-Mart. Then he takes and blows up a green one, a blue, a yellow.
From the kitchen he hears Rosie and the girls talking and laughing while they prepare the food. Out on the porch, the grandchildren have gathered. Adults now, cousins catching up on each other’s lives. Nearly the whole family has gathered here to celebrate his eightieth.
A pink balloon, a purple.
“We need eighty,” Rosie had said. “You need help?”
“Nah, I can do it. May take awhile, but I can do it.”
He can do eighty, he thinks, without helium. He’d rather do a thousand, but that would be stretching it. A thousand would be good, though–a thousand bright balloons to celebrate a thousand bright moments in his life. Or maybe three thousand, five thousand, ten thousand? How many memories make up a lifetime?
He blows up a red balloon. For the strawberry short-cake his Mom used to make. A gold balloon for the real adult watch Dad gave him on his fourteenth birthday. A balloon for the day he finally scored a point for the high-school basketball team. Another red one for the day he came back from the War and found Rosie still waiting for him. A balloon for the day he signed his first teaching contract. A pink balloon for the birth of each of his five daughters. A blue balloon for the first grandson. One for each special moment. What a good life it has been.
The room is full of balloons now. Little Manda comes running in wearing a frilly yellow dress for the occasion. He picks out a matching yellow balloon and blows it up for her. She laughs. Finger in mouth, she gazes at all the coloured balloons bobbing around.
There is only one balloon left in the box. A black one. The only black balloon in the whole box. He looks at it, considers.
“Ah, well,” he thinks, “that’s part of it all, too.”
Vandy lifts the black balloon to his mouth and starts to blow. Manda stares, and it looks like her eyes are growing as big as the balloon.
“No, don’t!” she says suddenly and pulls with her little hand at his big one holding the balloon. “That’s not a pretty one.”
The distress in her voice surprises him, and when he sees her eyes start to fill up with tears he’s even more surprised and forgets to stop blowing.
He blows so much air into the black balloon that it bursts. The explosion startles them both.
Then he sees a smile come over Manda’s face, and he feels like his heart is about to burst, too, as she buries her face in his knees.
“I love you, Great-grandpa,” he hears her say.
Robin Vandenberg Herrnfeld grew up in California but has lived in Germany for the last twenty-some years. She studied literature in the US and Germany and started writing short stories around five years ago. Her true-life account of a Neo-Nazi victim was published in 2007.
“I’m pretty sure my little Crystal has been Called,” Kate said mournfully, stirring her tea with a honey swizzle stick.
The Team made little sympathetic noises tinged with surprise, and Lady Vengeance patted Kate’s hand and gave a compassionate head-tilt.
Captain Tiger buried his face in his teacup. His own son had been Called recently, and the young hero had spent the past months taking his father on a wild roller-coaster ride with his newfound powers, eventually resulting in a drunk-driving arrest. The Calling was often fraught with danger, as The Team knew all too well.
“She’s so young,” The Flying Terror said with disbelief and then immediately fluttered her small plump hands in nervousness as if surprised at having spoken aloud.
“I know,” Kate agreed. “She’s only nine. I shouldn’t be dealing with this yet. Not till she’s a teenager, right?”
The Team nodded in agreement, their heads bobbing in colorful unison.
“Maybe,” Samuel America said, “you’ve misread the signs?”
Captain Tiger looked hopeful and bit into a blueberry scone.
Kate waved away the thought with a dismissive gesture. “She’s been throwing ninja stars for days now. The drywall in her room is probably going to collapse into dust considering all the holes she’s made. And she won’t tell me where the shuriken are coming from.”
Captain Tiger looked as though the scone had turned to ashes in his mouth.
Water Lad nodded. “Yeah, she’s probably been Called. Have you asked her about it?”
“Of course,” Kate said defensively. “I’ve tried to drop hints. ‘Where are you getting those weapons?’ ‘Are you a ninja?’ ‘Have you ever heard of The Way of the Ancient Order?’ But she just draws that hoodie of hers even closer around her and acts as though she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.”
Lady Vengeance made a brisk tsk-ing sound. “Now, Night Ninja, this was going to happen eventually. We all knew it. A bright girl like Crystal was going to get Called, so there’s no use crying over it. After all, not everyone turned out like Captain Tiger’s delinquent.” Captain Tiger gave a choked cry and coughed scone crumbs onto the kitchen table, and Lady Vengeance shot him a silencing glare. “Well, it’s just a fact, Captain Tiger. After all, look at my Justin. He was Called three years ago, and he’s been a model hero ever since. He goes by Sir Retribution now, and his father and I couldn’t be prouder. You are The Night Ninja, Kate, so just pull it together. Crystal will make an excellent hero.” She looked around the table, daring The Team to disagree. None of them did, although Captain Tiger coughed again in what sounded like a vague protest.
The Flying Terror spoke up, her jowls jiggling as her reedy voice gained in strength. “This is the way of things, as we well know. We pass into middle age, and the younger generation gets Called. It is our job to ensure that they do not fail their Calling, that the world remains safe under their care as it continues to remain safe under ours.”
The Team stared at her in surprise. The Flying Terror rarely spoke so much. She blushed prettily, shedding pounds and years for a brief moment under the scrutiny, and then hastily started munching on a donut.
Kate sighed. “You’re right,” she said, giving The Flying Terror a weak smile. “I just wasn’t ready for this right now.”
“Hey, Night Ninja,” Water Lad said, his blue glove slipping over her hand protectively, “we’re a team. We’re The Team. And we’re here for you. Lady Vengeance is right–Crystal is going to be a great hero.”
The Team nodded in unison, their faces a picture of love and affection as they stared at their comrade in black who looked suddenly small and frail in her distress.
“I don’t know what I would do without you guys,” Kate said.
The front door slammed, and The Team started in surprise.
“She’s home early,” Kate whispered, and there was a flurry of activity as The Team collectively leapt towards the kitchen door. Kate reached for the bathrobe hung over the pantry door and drew it closed over her form-fitting black catsuit. “See you guys next Tuesday,” she called softly to the mish-mosh of spandex and capes that was currently squeezing its brightly-colored self through the back door. A rainbow of hands waved goodbye and then The Team was out in the backyard, flying and darting and stumbling away through the hedges.
Crystal entered the kitchen, her hoodie pulled low over her brow, her backpack slung heavily over her shoulder.
“You’re home early,” Kate said.
“Someone pulled the fire alarm, so we got a half-day,” her daughter replied, glancing at Captain Tiger’s half-eaten scone. “Were you having a party?”
“Not really. Bridge group.”
Crystal nodded, her eyes growing distant. She cocked her head as if she were listening intently to some unseen person.
“Mom, can we go to the zoo this afternoon? It’s important.”
“Oh? Why?”
“What?” Crystal said. “Oh, right. It’s… um… it’s for school. I have a… a project.”
“Let me just change,” Kate said agreeably. Crystal had definitely been Called. And the gods only knew what problems lay at the zoo that needed her daughter’s small hands and shuriken–but they were Crystal’s secrets and Crystal’s adventures now. She headed up to her bedroom to change clothes. In the depths of her dresser was the box of shuriken that had led to her own Calling so many years ago. She pulled it out and brushed the warm cedar lightly with her fingers, flipping it open with a quick flick of her wrist. Inside were the shining ninja stars, the beautiful shuriken, that she had once carried everywhere. After a pause, she slipped a few into her belt-case. After all, she was still The Night Ninja.
“Mom?” Crystal called impatiently.
“Coming,” she replied. My little Ninja Girl, she added to herself with a smile.
Teresa Koeppel is a fledgling writer and superhero living in Connecticut with her husband, who shares her love of fighting crime and eating scones.
I sit in my car and watch this old dude, like maybe approaching a century, drag his sorry corpse-body across the parking lot toward the bakery, staggering like the living dead straight out of vintage Romero. He is wearing these overalls and a feed hat, probably a retired farmer or whatever, although I’ve learned farmers never really retire. The bakery, Munchers, swallows this old guy into its brightly lit belly, and I muster the energy to hoist my butt out of the car.
Inside, tables-full of these peculiar old men sip on small paper cups of coffee. They all turn to look in unison when I walk in the front door. I’ve always been a connoisseur of pastries, and one sure sign of a quality donut joint was the volume of elderly that would beat the sun into the place. Munchers seems to have that market locked. I scan the glass case in front of me, and rows of shiny fried bread, dripping with glaze, stare back.
“Can I help you?” this voice says–a woman’s voice at the lower end of the register–a really sexy growl floating just beneath the words.
“I’m just checking out what you have here.” I look up and see the clerk, this cute twenty-something with her dark hair pulled back from a smooth, milky face and blue marble eyes that are fixed on mine. My brain locks up in one of those cognitive dissonance moments–why is this beautiful creature hawking donuts at six in the morning to all these walking cadavers?
“Let me know when you’re ready,” she says before moving to refill a cup of coffee. I continue to watch her as she snags pastries for a couple of the coffee club members from a rack behind the counter.
“Ready?” She catches me in the middle of my thousand-yard-stare.
“Could I get one of these,” I say, gesturing to a rather opulent-looking wad of dough drizzled with white icing.
“Good choice, the cream cheese donut–Munchers’ specialty.” She turns to the rack and stuffs one in a small paper sack. “Anything else?”
“No–yes.” My tongue launches an ambush on the rest of my mouth, and my reasoning faculties are caught asleep. “Just curious…why give the regulars the donuts from that rack?” I poke a thumb toward the special pastries and wait for her return volley.
“Oh–those have secret ingredients.” Her mouth grows into this lopsided smile as she leans forward and says quietly, in a near-whisper with that sexy voice, “Human brains.”
“Brains?”
“They look like zombies, right?” She flashes her eyes toward the old guys.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Ahem.” This ancient fellow behind me coughs into his hand as a hint to move on out.
“See you later.” She hands me the bag and I realize I haven’t paid. She winks and whispers, “My treat.”
Aaron Polson is a high school English teacher and freelance writer who dreams in black and white with Rod Serling narration. He currently resides in Lawrence, Kansas with his wife, two sons, and a rather sturdy–almost supernatural–tropical fish. His short fiction has appeared in various places, including Reflection’s Edge, GlassFire Magazine, Big Pulp, Johnny America, and Permuted Press’s Monstrous anthology. You can visit him on the web at www.frozenrobot.com.
Starting with a lame question did not impress me. When we first met, Gawain seemed different, and I was looking for different. I didn’t want weird different, where the guy lived in the basement of his mother’s house ripping Star Trek episodes from the Internet. I wanted open-minded different.
I had plans for my life, and they didn’t include children or working for a family business in small town America. I admire women who make those choices, but it’s not for me. Maybe I was arrogant and self-centered, but I had to burn off some energy. I had to try. If I never tried, I’d torture my kids with unfulfilled dreams. I wanted to be a poet.
“Come on, Erika,” Gawain said. I’d been staring at him with a puzzled look on my face for some time. “I’m serious. I want to know your favorite flower.”
“I’m not a ‘favorite flower’ kind of girl,” I said.
“You’re a poet.” He looked at me as if it were the stupidest thing for a poet not to have a favorite flower. His answer dug him out of the pit where all chauvinist pigs are sent to roast alive, but he fell right into the next one where lame poets discuss sunshine and butterflies.
“I write good poetry,” I said. If he didn’t understand my statement, I had no hope for this guy.
Gawain laughed. “If you’re going to tell me good poetry is about darkness and death, then I think you are mistaken. Consider it a challenge. If you’re a good poet, you should be able to write about a flower without being cliché.”
At least the guy had guts.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll tell you about my favorite flower. I grew up in Iowa, and when I was a little girl, my dad used to take me to the Pella Tulip Festival. I think he wanted to overcome the influence of my mom’s disdain for small towns, but he failed. I’m a big city girl through and through, and New York is a religion for me. Still, those trips were the best times I ever spent with my dad.”
“Good.” He gave a sharp nod, and seemed very pleased with this tidbit of information.
I felt a little guilty for misleading him. Actually, I liked red roses, but feared the consequences of admitting it. Even more so, I dreaded the idea of our next date. I expected a bouquet of tulips, a box of candy, and a trip to a movie. For some unknown reason I decided to give the guy one more chance to impress me.
Instead, all I got was a phone call inviting me to his apartment Sunday afternoon. He didn’t pick me up, and didn’t even bother to offer dinner. Our second date looked as if it would leave romance starving in a barren desert.
“Come in!” I heard him yell from inside his apartment. For some reason he couldn’t be troubled to open the door.
Piles of newspaper crowded an open bag of potato chips on his kitchen table. He sat there reading. Next to him lay a pile of books, atop which squatted a cut glass bowl with a single rose. Had it been a red rose, I would have suspected betrayal by my roommate, but it was a pale peach color.
He saw me looking at the flower, and smiled. “Do you like it?”
Was the guy an idiot? I told him tulips.
“Have you ever heard of Li Bai?” he asked, motioning for me to take a seat.
“Of course,” I said, eyeing the rickety chair he offered before sitting down. “One of the greatest Chinese poets ever.”
He read:
Why do I live among the mountains?
I laugh and answer not, my soul is serene;
It dwells in another heaven and earth belonging to no man,
The peach trees are in flower, and the water flows on.
“See. Flowers.” He looked like a greedy spider with a fly caught in its web. “I couldn’t find peach blossoms this time of year, so the rose is as close as I could get.”
“I said tulips.”
“Oh,” he waved me off, “we’re not ready for something like that. But maybe this.”
He pushed a brochure across the table. I didn’t pick it up, but I could see it advertised a reading by Bei Dao, the poet exiled from China after Tiananmen Square.
“I don’t understand much of it.” He tapped the pile of books. “Could you help me out?”
I began reading the titles on the spines as a pleasing warmth spread over my whole body. I had to lift the flower bowl from the top of the stack to take a book, and the scent tingled in my nose.
“You can keep the flower,” he said.
Maybe this guy had some potential after all.
Surprise! Resha Caner is a pseudonym. Since he has not yet summoned the courage to starve for the sake of beauty, by day Caner takes off his costume to work as a mild-mannered engineer. Yet, under cover of darkness, he writes. To date these efforts have yielded him selection as a semi-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest, and editor’s choice at “Bewildering Stories”. His work has also appeared in “Fear and Trembling”, “The Muse Marquee”, “Haruah”, “MindFlights”, “Constellation”, “Every Day Fiction”, “SNReview”, and “Residential Aliens”, with more to come at “Rose & Thorn”, “AlienSkin”, and “Anotherealm”.
