Pockets and Other Unusual Stories

By M.R. Hyde

A man reacts angrily to the contents of some pockets. A castle is built of filing cabinets. A man awakens in a fire storm. A tiny tailor finds an alternate universe. A god makes unusual choices regarding his powers. A fat angel eats lunch in a corporate courtyard. A surprise defense explodes for a deaf girl. A girl shaped like a bean pod gets lost in a storm. These and other subjects comprise this volume of fantasy stories by M.R. Hyde dealing with legacies, injustice, hatred, love, redemption and otherworldliness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.R. Hyde
• Release date: Mar 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310438226

M.R. Hyde

M.R. Hyde celebrates and explores the known and spiritual world by writing for Christian religious purposes and by penning fiction for the sheer joy of words. She is also an active artist.View the online gallery now at https://www.redbubble.com/people/mrHydeArt/shop.

Book preview

Pockets

and

Other Unusual Stories

M.R. Hyde

2015

Copyright 2015 M.R. Hyde

Discover other titles by M.R. Hyde at Smashwords.com.

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

About the Author

With one foot firmly planted on the West coast and the other in the Rocky Mountains of the author’s youth, M.R.Hyde celebrates and explores the known and spiritual world through words. M.R.Hyde has written for religious purposes for nearly three decades and writes fiction for the sheer joy of words.

http://hydewords.blogspot.com

Table of Contents

Part 1: Pockets

Part 2: The Castle of Pyotr Illusovitch

Part 3: The Guardians

Part 4: The Tailor of Suffolk Street

Part 5: The Fifth Floor

Part 6: Gehenna

Part 7: a Misspent god

Part 8: The Spoil Hastens

Part 9: Twins

Part 10: Hortensia and Old Joe

Part 11: The First Citizen

Other Books by M.R. Hyde

Part 1: Pockets

The room was long, quite long, and grew dark rapidly as one looked deeper into it. It smelled of old wood and linseed oil, but unlike the musty antiques shops in small towns where merchandise never moved. This was a clean, old smell.

Roger held the card tightly between his thumb and forefinger, an indicator that his purpose in coming was rather serious. Without noticing the tingling in his two fingers, the nerves reacting to their over-extended use, his eye gambled along the knobs, hundreds and hundreds of knobs shining on their outer edges. The late afternoon sun was pouring in and getting caught on the knobs. The yellow light made them appear golden.

Mr. Whiggity padded forward on his felt-bottomed house shoes. He observed the man as he moved toward the front of the shop. The man appeared nervous, as most did, when they came. As Whiggity drew near, the man shifted his gaze from the knobs to the man he had been told to seek.

Are you Roger Barrows? The mouse-man had an unusually large voice for such a small body. His voice bounced dully against the drawers with several reverberations before it rested in the dark at the end of the hall.

Yes, um, yes I am. Are you Mr. Whiggity?

Yes. You've come for her things. May I have the ticket please?

Of course. Only when he released the note did Roger finally feel the pain associated with the extended pinching of the card.

Ah yes, Whiggity sighed. It's so near closing time. I only wish you had come earlier.

So sorry. I got caught in a rather nasty thunderstorm on the way.

Thunder or no thunder the roads were certainly clear enough to have been here earlier. Whiggity’s tone was quite severe despite the narrow smile on his face.

Yes, so sorry.

Follow me! The demand ran down the hall in front of them.

Roger was fascinated at first by the enormous number of drawers to his right and to his left. Some were a hands-breath wide, others just inches across, and none were more than four inches high. A pair of men's shoes appeared suddenly up on his right. This rather frightened Roger, the shoes appearing ghostlike in the fading light, until he saw the root ends of a dark ladder with wheels pressing into the wooden floor.

We are going to have to stay late, Rudolf. This gentleman has just arrived.

What?

Whiggity made a full stop, with Roger nearly stepping on him, turned abruptly and yelled even louder, Staying late! He jammed his thumb in the air in Roger's direction. A large wide face leaned down out of the dusk and came uncomfortably close.

Hullo. Nice to meet cha! A grin the size of the Grand Canyon spread across the face. Half tuh finish my work now. Evenin’. The head disappeared upward while Roger wondered how long the man's arms must be to allow him to hang down so low on the ladder. Before he had time to calculate that fact he discovered that Whiggity was disappearing fast in front of him. He raced to catch up before Whiggity was lost to sight.

Marian! Whiggity’s voice rang out like a cannon shot. Roger’s heart raced with a sudden rush of adrenaline.

Marian! A lamp clicked on and an orb of light appeared small in the distance.

Whiggity, I have no time for your antics tonight. This had better be good! All Roger could make out was a massive outline of a large woman.

I've got a client here, Marian. You'd best change that tone. Marian's voice was quite altered when she spoke again.

I'm so sorry, Mr. Whiggity. How may I help you?

When they arrived at the lamp Roger could see it was resting on a large wooden table, unornamented and heavy. It reminded him of the tables in the libraries of his childhood. Roger comprehended then that they had passed perhaps seventy-five to one hundred of these tables on the way toward the light.

Roger sat down gingerly. Marian's hand hovered in the small circle of lamplight. The light barely penetrated up through the shade making it difficult to make out Marian's face. But her thick and chubby fingers were quite alive beneath the lamplight. Roger had stared at them a bit too long and now had white specters moving through his line of vision.

Give me the ticket and I will find the drawer. Whiggity handed the ticket to Marian and invited Roger to take a seat.

Oh, dear! Mr. Whiggity, I will need some assistance here.

Rudolph! Roger’s adrenaline jump-started his heart again.

A distant voice responded as at the ready. Yes, suh! I'll be right there, suh!

A great clacking and whirring began in the distance. Whiggity screamed, Rudolf, slow down! The whirring subsided some, but regained its intensity very soon. Roger turned in his chair to see Rudolph's legs wrapped through the great rolling ladder. Rudolf’s arms were grabbing wildly at knobs, pulling himself faster and faster towards them. A great deep laugh, remarkably juvenile for its depth, preceded Rudolph as he drew closer.

Rudolph!

Roger, not sure of the outcome, jumped from his chair and tried to back against the opposite wall. Instead he backed into the large breasts and belly of Marian.

Oh, I'm so sorry ma'am. I didn't realize you were there!

Oh no, excuse me, Mr. Barrows. I should have alerted you to my whereabouts. Not knowing which way to go, Roger moved back to his chair while the whirring and clanging grew louder and louder.

Rudolph, if you do not slow down this instant . . . Rudolph's fingers could be heard thumping against the knobs as he attempted to slow down. The wheels rattled against the wood floor as they rolled to a stop inches from the table. The great feet clumped to the floor and eel-like arms with elbows plopped onto the table. Rudolph's face appeared in the lamplight full of joy and self-satisfaction. Mr. Whiggity’s hand caressed the top of Rudolph's head. You do scare us to death sometimes.

It's just fun, Ms. Marian. Just fun!

Whiggity became impatient after the crisis. Rudolph, it’s East number 4211. Rudolph lumbered over to the other wall of drawers, scanned the numbers going up. Marian pushed another ladder near him. In seconds he disappeared. Roger could barely see the heels of his shoes.

Rudolph, remember to pull it carefully out and don't hurry down. Marian was firm and gentle at the same time. Roger could hear the drawer slide open. The ladder creaked as Rudolph merged back into the lamplight. He carefully handed the drawer to Marian who placed it on the table near Roger's elbow. Mr. Whiggity’s voice was almost reverent and much quieter. We'll give you some time alone now. Before he could tell them not to leave, the three had gone through a large door letting a brief expanse of light expose their backs. Roger could hear whispering.

Okay. I'll lock up. You two go on home. The door stood slightly ajar and Roger realized that Mr. Whiggity was waiting on the other side. Roger pulled the drawer closer and his fingers fumbled with the few objects inside. There was an old cheap watch, three nickels and a penny, some lint with white cat hair poking out, half of a used toothpick and one faux gold coin depicting the national capital in Washington, D.C. He sat there stunned.

Is this all there is? he said in almost a whisper. Mr. Whiggity.

Mr. Whiggity appeared promptly across the table from Roger. He looked closely at Roger's face. Yes?

Is this all there is?

Yes, yes. As you can see her drawer is quite small.

I can see that! Anger was rising up in Roger. I drove three hundred miles for this!

Why, yes.

I don't understand.

Mr. Whiggity replied with practiced words, All we do is collect what are in the pockets of the deceased and notify the next of kin. It is not ours to know or determine if these items are of value to you.

What happened to the remainder of her household?

As with all people, it is destroyed in the Central Fire Depot. We are only required to keep what are in the pockets of the deceased.

Roger sat stunned. After his aunt’s death he had hoped to at least gain some monetary reward. Sixteen cents was astonishing.

May I? Mr. Whiggity’s fingers hovered over the box.

Of course.

Mr. Whiggity turned the faux gold piece over and over.

Do you have any idea why she would keep this in her pocket?

I vaguely remember her telling a story of how much she loved her trip to Washington, D.C. My father said she always wanted to go back.

There was a long silence. Roger did not really know what to do. His father’s single sister had always been a fragment of his life. For some reason she had written his name in the To Be Notified section of her will.

Well, Mr. Whiggity, I hardly know what to say.

You may take these things if you wish.

If I don’t?

They will remain here.

Just remain?

Yes, just remain.

Roger pocketed the faux gold coin and the sixteen cents and then rose from his chair.

I’d like to go now.

Certainly.

Mr. Whiggity led the long way back to the front door. All was very still now. Dusk had finally and fully taken over.

Good evening, Mr. Barrows.

Good evening, Mr. Whiggity. Thank you.

The key turned in the lock behind him and Roger was left standing on the sidewalk. He fumbled in his pockets for his car keys. He stopped for a moment contemplating the contents in his own pockets. He pulled out a paperclip, a piece of gum, a folded business card with his blind-date’s number on it and his car keys.

This is not how I will be remembered! he asserted to himself. He tossed the gold coin on the dashboard as he drove away.

Part 2: The Castle of Pyotr Illusovitch

Pyotr Illusovitch

To some it was anathema, to others an eyesore, and to most it was at least intriguing. The castle sat high atop the westernmost hill, dominating their horizon by its boxy geometric angles with matted reflections of the natural light by day and the town's dim and unnatural light by night. It was a kaleidoscope of earthen and black tones. Few dared to venture up near its convoluted ramparts. When the sounds of clanging metal echoed into the valley below no one looked up, flinched or blinked. This had been a part of their life for some time. A few grunted or huffed in habitual frustration. They were the older ones who remembered the stillness before the time of the castle.

The time of the castle did not happen suddenly. It happened some time after Pyotr Illusovitch quietly acquired the hill country. He was an unassuming man and most people could not recall anything much that was distinguishable thing about him—only that he had dark, thick, curly hair that seemed to be an animal unto itself.

That Pyotr Illusovitch, he has wild hair, people would say. Then they would glance up into the hilly horizon trying to recall anything more about him. But then they dismissed the thought of Pyotr Illusovitch and returned to their practice of living without him.

Pyotr Illusovitch was born in the hills. His parents were lonely strangers who had migrated silently from the West. Only shopkeepers knew their names. Pyotr Illusovitch’s father was a bear of a man—broad, dark and brooding. It was clear he could survive any storm. And survive he did. He provided for his small family by delivering lumber to one merchant, Yuri Petrovitch, who gladly accepted his wagons full of timber. Few words were required during these transactions for it was clear in the elder Illusovitch’s face if he was pleased or displeased with what was offered.

His tiny wife, Katya, stood in her husband’s shadow confident, protected and fragile. Few had seen her in all the years that they lived on the hill towering over the small town. Only when Pyotr was born did one or two see her waddle into the midwife's home to seek help in the birth of her child. No one knew the particulars of the birth because the midwife was, uncommonly, closed-mouth. Everyone knew that they would get nothing from her except