Desperate Threads

By Mark Morrell

Author Mark Morrell invites you to experience 13 haunting fictional tales, along with the author's own true account of his experience on leaving Manhattan on 9/11/2001, in Desperate Threads. This collection of stories weaves together characters digging beneath the surface of their own tribulations and dark burdens to uncover the truths about the world in which we all live.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Morrell
• Release date: Aug 21, 2010

Mark Morrell

Mark Thomas Morrell is a graduate of the New York University School of Education. He holds a BS in Communication and Culture. He has worked in varying production roles for academic book publishers and currently works as a Print Production Manager for a small trade publisher. Mark is a native of the New York area and resides in the suburbs of New Jersey. Desperate Threads is his first published collection of short stories which is now available on Smashwords fore-book readers. Visit this website for more information on the author's works: www.dreamdrivenbooks.com.

Book preview

Desperate

Threads

Mark Thomas Morrell

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2010 Mark Thomas Morrell

Interior Type Design by Mark T. Morrell

Cover Design by Mark T. Morrell

Published by Mark T. Morrell at Smashwords

This book is available in print at www.amazon.com

This Ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Image photo: © 2010 Mark T. Morrell

Cover author photo: © 2010 Mark T. Morrell

E-ISBN:

Bound ISBN: 1-4392-6370-1

Produced as a published bound book in the United States of America

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009912520

To believing in one’s self and never giving up on a dream; to those

who never had faith in me but for those who did.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Preface

Execution of a Suicide

Room 48 at the Shut-Eye Inn

Best for Everyone

The Auction of the Man in Black

New York Minute

Connection and Conversations

Dead on the Tracks-A Tale of Midlife Crisis

Always on Duty

Thread’s End—Discovery

Purgatory

Snow Globe

Abduction

The View from Above

Similar Features

Reflections of the World Trade Center and 9/11—A Personal Journey Out

of New York the Day the Towers Fell

Nine, One, One

Author’s Note

Foreword

To write is nothing other than being able to communicate but it does involve the ability to share with others and be open. I have long wanted to speak of characters who are desperate because it is a common theme to the common man. All of us, no matter where we come from, feel desperation tugging at our inner being at some time in our life and when we think we’ve reached the last exit on the long highway we grasp at the only threads we can to survive. In most cases, it’s all we have. Desperate Threads are all we have; they weave us a tale, a life, or a bond but most of all they weave.

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank Carolyn Cuba—my other half, Mom, Dad, my brother Lewis Morrell, my sister LuAnn and her husband Ed Critchley, Bill and Lynne Devine, Bill and Ellen Devine, Larry and Christine Triguero, the Morrell family—Grandma Marge, Uncle John, Robert, Mike, and John and Frank, to all my friends who have been a part of my life and shared their time and laughter, and to friends yet to come, all the professors at New York University for opening my mind to another world, and Pat @ O’Lunneys Tavern who keeps me and Carolyn laughing when the world gets strange. The following list are entertainers and places that have touched my life enough to leave a burn: Chris Matthews, Las Vegas, the Eagles, Don Henley, U2, the Beatles, John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison, Ringo Starr, Robert Plant, Jimmy Page, Concrete Blonde, Coldplay, Neil Young, The Who, Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Hunter S. Thompson, Clive Barker, Johnny Depp, Joe Walsh, Sean Penn, Robert DeNiro, New York City, Ronald Reagan, Mitch Hedberg, George Carlin, Bill Hicks, Bob Dylan, Atlantic City, Green Day, Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Jonny Lang, New Orleans, Ray Charles, and Tom Petty, Finally, to Marshall Katzman who helped a young idiot get a second chance (I’m in your debt for the opportunity you provided) and to this world for giving me the perseverance to make it through all the disbelief and disgrace and still be happy about what I can accomplish.

Preface

After reading these stories many people may reflect on them as though they are depressing; they are not if you have read between the lines. All of these stories are about love—the desperate threads of love. There are threads of love to the things in our life that we have lost and can never seem to recapture. It’s a constant theme no matter who you are and I hope that these stories make you recognize the real reason why we exist—it has nothing to do with memorials, or with the fact that we’re forever trying to replace what’s lost; it has to do with what we have the ability to see beyond, become, build, and maintain. There’s a truth hidden in the fabric beneath the desperate thread that keeps us real because we cling to it no matter how obscured it may become from the sins of greed, deception, and hate that constantly present themselves. Life is to be loved while we exist and we are the keepers of the Desperate Threads.

EXECUTION OF A SUICIDE

© 2000 Mark T. Morrell

This is the very first story I ever truly wrote that felt 100% complete. It was written in 1995 (the copyright was attached when I finally had it in its final form) and I wrote it while attending New York University during some free time in between classes while in the bottom floor of the library. NYU was a great source of inspiration because of the surrounding areas. There has been a lot of bad press for NYU over the last few years due to a rash of suicides but I don’t believe those incidents take anything away from the reputation of this fine school. It is a place where my mind was opened, expanded, and challenged daily by some great and competent professors. I cherish my time from those days and sometimes wish I could re-capture the great power of knowledge and creativity that I was able to resource those many years ago. Oddly enough, the following story is about a suicide (hence, the name).

Black clouds are rolling in, and the night is about to take its turn. We’ve been patrolling the area of New York University in an unmarked car for over three weeks on stakeout patrol. It’s a job that has nights that can be really boring.

And then, there are other nights that just pass by with a possible petty event; like some college students getting drunk and letting off some steam. However, tonight I’m getting a strange feeling. I don’t know, maybe it’s the thunder above, or it could be the roar of Tom’s stomach from the passenger seat, but I know something is definitely different.

A lot of people with backpacks and briefcases, Tom says, no way of knowing who’s got what inside them, as he grabs his gun from its holster, pulls out the chamber, and carefully eyes that every chamber contain a bullet.

Well, let’s just hope we find out where and who this guy is before a catastrophe happens, I cut in, as the sound of Tom’s chamber snapping back into the body of the gun seems to add a question mark to my statement.

The silence again comes back between us, as is usually the case when you’re working stake out assignments. The guy in question, whom we had been trying to nail for over a month, had been sending letters on a regular basis to a police occupied apartment on East 12th Street. The letters were coming everyday, and had been persistent for three weeks straight, but they had mysteriously stopped little over a week ago. Each one told of various clues, and the nature of their presentation was indicating that we were looking for someone resembling a student, or a student, who was possibly holding back a lot of rage. Therefore, the main problem had become trying to find this person before the rage was let loose on some unsuspecting victims. I could always feel the blood racing through my veins, sipping on my coffee, and thinking about the situations that might play out. I distracted my thought away for a second to take a quick gaze over at Tom. He’s falling asleep, and I notice he placed his gun on the floor.

THUMP! THUMP! Startled, I look out the driver side window to see a face glaring in at mine. I see the outline of the mouth moving, and faintly hear the voice through the glass asking where the closest subway station is. Funny, but because of this, my initial grasp of fear begins to subside and I roll down the window. I stop it about a quarter of the way down.

Hi, could you tell me where the closest subway station is? The voice says in a high, raspy tone as curls of smoke radiating from a cigarette seep in through the window.

Sixth Ave., I reply, and from quickly studying his face, I see he’s confused. Head west here on 4th and about two blocks up, hook a right, that's 6th Avenue. Go down about three more blocks and the station comes up on your right.

Thank you.

I took a picture of his face as I started to roll the window back up. Don’t ask me why, but something was striking me rather odd about the cheekbones on that guy. Maybe it was because the lips looked like they had smeared lipstick, or it could have been the teased eyebrows, but whatever it was, I let it go. After all, the night had come on so strong, and there are so many different people in New York who are into so many different things. For me, that reasoning was acceptable enough, and I didn’t think much more about it.

I look over at Tom, and he’s sleeping. That guy doesn’t wake up for anything. My eyes peer up into the rear view mirror so I can watch my visitor walk away. The mysteriousness of this man continues, his walk, for instance, is very strange. As he passes under the street lamp, I notice a backpack, and his walk takes on a feminine air. His strides are very hypnotic, but then, in a blink, I see him fade into a mist that is beginning to fall.

In the distance, a crack of thunder breaks the stillness of the calm, dry, New York summer heat. My watch reads 8:20 PM, and the crowd around Bobst Library begins to thin out. A flash of lightning in the distance still has enough power to light up the pitch-black sky, and a steady rain begins to heavily pound against the windshield of our detective cruiser. Except for the steadfast beat of the rain, I ponder the thought that maybe this will be a quiet night after all. I decide to look over the paperwork on the seat between Tom and myself, and take focus on the calendar of events for Bobst library. It looks as though 8:30 PM is the last public gathering of the day, the schedule indicating that a political seminar on the main floor will be held by a group of students, nothing of importance. The thunder and lightning are moving quickly, and it seems as though it’s directly above us as brief flashes of lightning illuminate Washington Square Park and distract me away from my light reading. At the telephone on the corner, I see the outlines of a figure standing there that looks familiar. I think about shining the spotlight, but then I vote against it because it might blow our cover.

A second flash of lightning streaks across the sky, making the picture out my window look like a grainy black and white film negative. Flash bulb still frames reveal that the figure really isn’t that far away. He’s now crouching on one knee and thumbing through a bag. My adrenaline begins to rush as a third strike of lightning and a roar of thunder echo an explanation point to my own internal suspicions. The third strike of lightning also gives me the knowledge of what I previously suspected; the figure is definitely the man I gave directions to. For some unknown reason, I feel drawn towards him, my instincts telling me that something about this guy isn’t right. Before I know it, the door to the cruiser is open, and my feet swing out on to the wet pavement. I shut the door and slam it a little harder than I want to. Tom is startled from his sleep, but I’m too focused and already walking towards the figure.

Behind me, I hear the sound of a car door opening and, as I get to the corner, I can see from the glow of the street light above a ponytail of hair escaping from underneath the hat and running down the backside of a T-shirt. My mind goes through all the possible scenarios: Maybe he got lost and came back through the park, or maybe he wanted to double check on his directions with a friend. After all, he’s standing right next to the telephone booth; thumbing through that backpack.

A door behind me shuts, and then a voice, Sonny, where are you going?

In a flash, I see the revolving doors of Bobst library start to spin and people begin to file out. The figure before me now pulls his hand out of his bag and from behind me I hear running footsteps pounding the puddles of the pavement. Then, my concentration is shattered as I see the image of a gun in front of me.

Sonny, she’s got a gun!

A silhouetted figure now swings toward me; apparently startled by Tom’s voice. Screams radiate through the air, and I duck to the ground as the splintering of gunfire cuts through the night. I still hear approaching footsteps; reassuring me that Tom’s still coming forward. I turn around to catch a glimpse of his approach, and see him reach for his holster. Only his gun isn’t there. I watch in frozen awe, as bullet after bullet mows down the big Irishman. I crawl over to a tree as the bullets continue to whiz through the air. Many of them are in my direction, and pieces of bark from above fall into my lap. From where I sit, I notice Tom is motionless. Looking forward, my vision sees only a swinging ponytail and the gun from the figure changing direction, and his focus and aim is now on the screaming individuals at Bobst. Just then, the click of the empty chambers still firing resonates. I come out from my position; Stop or I’ll shoot! New York police!

More screams as the crowd across the street runs wildly, afraid of an ensuing gunfight in the street like the fables of the ones in the old west. The silhouetted figure turns back toward me, and I have no choice. A few feet more and my chances will be lost because of the commotion, and I’ll never get a shot off. I fire three quick rounds just as the nameless and faceless figure before me turns to run. Each bullet enters the back of the victim and blood sprays the pavement. The first bullet breaks the skin as the figure begins the stride of his fleeing dash, the second enters as the arms rise up into the air, and the third one pierces the head and causes the legs to collapse. The final scream of pain comes in a high pitched voice that cuts through my spine and sends shivers of lightning up my skin as the face of my culprit pounds the cold, wet New York sidewalk and the bloody baseball hat flies into the river strewn gutter.

I run up to the assailant with my gun in front of my eye waiting for the next motion; my heart pumping harder than a subway train rattling through the tunnels below, shaking the streets with life. But nothing moves, this figure is motionless. Only now, it isn’t just a figure, but in clear view, under the street lamp, and with the pounding rain of the heavens having ended, I gaze into the face of a troubled nineteen year old girl. A gun lies by the telephone, near the end of her feet, and a puddle of blood is protruding from wounds. In the palm of her hand, I find a crumpled piece of paper.

Although I’m not supposed to touch anything, my nerves are beyond control, and I pry her fingers open. I open the blood spattered paper and read the following: It’s a sin to commit suicide, but only if you do it yourself. If someone else has a reason for your life to end, then you can’t be considered a sinner in the eyes of God.

I know it sounds crazy, but I was the object of someone else’s desire. On that hot, rainy night, I unknowingly played the part of an executioner, and it was all so someone else could plant herself six feet under.

The letters to the abandoned apartment were nothing more than a cry for someone else’s attention, a lure if you will. Well, we took it hook, line, and sinker. Fooled, but acting in the right manner. Shooting in order to save the sacrifice of others, the instigator knows that we have to make a split-second decision. Well, I made mine, and it brought to end the Execution of a perfectly planned suicide.

ROOM 48 AT THE SHUT-EYE INN

© 2002 Mark T. Morrell

Traveling home from vacation in summer of 2002 from Montreal, Canada, and had a great trip that was made all the much better by the beautiful landscape of upstate New York. The enjoyable and peaceful ride both to and from Montreal happened during the day when traffic was light and a lot of the traffic were just trucks making deliveries. There were signs for lodging, restaurants, and gas but much of what was seen from the car made the areas off the highway look as though we were riding through the middle of America. A lot of undeveloped space exists up in those areas and it made me consider the possibility of changing careers to escape to the peaceful surroundings. Ideas abounded and suddenly I saw an Inn where a dark secret never escaped.

Rooms in hotels breathe with life, and I suspect that is what drew me to the Shut-Eye Inn. It sits on an open stretch of land just off Exit 35 on Route 87 in upstate New York; a quaint and cozy little spot where many people come to stay to take a break from the long, rhythmic drone of the highway. However, I came here after working as a C.P.A. in a big firm for over 10 years in Manhattan. And if anything is a long, rhythmic drone, it’s office work, the environment is a killer. Everyday, you see the same people, you talk about the same things every damn day—even if it means discussing the same nonsensical small bull getting tossed back and forth. But like many of us, I went and tried to make it be interesting until it sank in that interesting is what it can never be, and that’s when I decided a change was needed. I stumbled on to the Shut-Eye Inn by accident, and my intention for staying had been to just