Elements

By TJ Davis

"Souvenirs from Base Camp": The proprietor of a ramshackle souvenir shop located in Mt. Everest's base camp tries to lure the day's first customer.
"Toofers": A brother and sister find a bunch of buried teeth.
"The Poster": A man returns home for Christmas, and his ex-girlfriend shows up drunk and demanding an explanation for why he ended their relationship.
"Identity Theft": Agatha buys a new app that brings her lover's online personalities to life. She questions them to find out who the man sleeping in her bedroom really is.
"Soul Airlines": A day in the life of a flight attendant.
"Breath": A medical nightmare.
"The Coffee Shop": After the local coffee shop burns down, everyone confesses. The now out-of-work barista tries to figure out the truth.
"How to Revise a Story for a Social Justice Warrior": A story told twice about a caveman who just wants to do the right thing.
"Werewolf": A split narrative that alternates between a German farmer's daughter in the 16th century and a girl growing up in Midwestern America.
"Confessions and Questions in the Multiverse": A poem that summarizes an infinite number of ways to ask the world's oldest question.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TJ Davis
• Release date: Nov 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370218882

TJ Davis

TJ Davis is an international teacher from Minnesota. His published writing includes five collections of short stories, two novellas, and a travel memoir about his three years living in Myanmar. His short story “Itchy” finished in the top 16 of the Discovery Channel’s “How Stuff Works Halloween Fiction Contest.” His works have also been included in the Chicago Center of Literature and Photography and Moloko House. He currently lives in Sofia, Bulgaria.

Book preview

Special thanks to Garrard Conley and Amber Hood for their feedback, wine, and soft deadlines needed to get these stories right.

EARTH

SOUVENIRS FROM BASE CAMP

You there! Please, come over. Welcome to my humble shop. Fine morning, yes? The sky is such a beautiful blue today. Take a deep breath of this sweet mountain air. You will climb the mountain, yes? Many years now, I have sat under this tarp, at the service of people just like you. Here you can get everything you want. (Nothing you need.) Cheetos, Mentos, sunflower seeds, and instant coffees.

You must bring a gift for the goddess Miyolangsangma, the great protector of the mountain. Tenzing Norgay swore it was she that guided him to the top for Hillary's summit. Oh! You've heard of our brother Tenzing? You know much about us Nepalese, yes? You've heard of our kindness and our suffering, but do you know the true name of the mountain? Go on. What is it? (Probably only read the summary of this place in your guidebook.) We call her Sagarmatha, the Mother of the Sky.

My friend, you are looking a little pale. The altitude is getting to you already, yes? (I'm glad.) Here, have some water. No, no, no. It is free. It is on the shack. Haha! You must drink lots of water. Your blood is thicker up here. Best tasting glacier (tap) water in the world, yes? The lake where we get it is so clear you can see the reflection of an eagle's eye.

You plan to go the way of the Khumbu Icefall, yes? A dangerous place. Sixteen sherpas died there in the avalanche of 2014. (Another distant tragedy for you, but we knew each of their names.) Crushed underneath a thousand pounds of snow. Snow! Such a small thing by itself, much like you and me in the universe. Makes you think about what is important in life, yes? Would you care for a pack of mint gum?

How about an idol of the lord Buddha? You can put it in your office or your living room. (Rub its belly and snicker at our religion.) Anytime a guest compliments it, you can tell them the story of the sweet old man that sold it to you. And at a discount! (Or so you think.) Because you are such a good barterer. (Only a fool thinks they are immune to flattery.)

You are lucky to have chosen my shop. These other merchants will lie to your face. They will tell you that Tenzing Norgay once shared a kiss with their sister or gave their nephew one of his crampons. These, and many other lies, they will tell you for a few more rupees.

Perhaps you would like some prayer flags? Something light, soft, and spiritual that won't weigh you down.

Here, run your fingers over these rare coins. That one was minted by hand in Lhasa. Or perhaps you are interested in these prayer wheels? How about this engraved knife? Careful how you handle that. It's sharper than a widow's sarcasm. Be sure to put it in your checked baggage or it'll end up right back here on my shelf. Haha! Everything comes back around. It is the wheel me must ride—until we can't.

Some beaded necklaces for your sweetheart, perhaps? Why of course they are hand-made! (Factory.) Only the finest at my shop.

Where did I learn English? Why, from generous (insufferable) adventurers like yourself. I am forever indebted to people like you that let me prattle on and on before buying something just to shut me up! I'm only kidding.

The mountain, great Sagarmatha, is 29,029 feet tall, and still growing! Did you know, back in 1856, Andrew Waugh was the first to measure it? (We should have chased him away.) He calculated it to be exactly 29,000 feet. So guess what he did? He lied and said it was 29,002 feet, so people wouldn't think he was just estimating! (Imagine that? A man that has to lie to do his job.) But here's the thing: twenty-nine feet doesn't make a difference. Sagarmatha is very high with or without it, yes?

Speaking of which... you wouldn't want something a little more... how shall I say... uplifting? The finest Kathmandu kush, perhaps? Just say the word and my assistant over there can be back in fifteen minutes with a brick of hash bigger than your fitness tracker. (He's actually a policeman that will give me a cut from the bribe he squeezes out of you.) Yes, him. That man who appears to be sleeping underneath those very rare, priceless (worthless) tapestries.

Did I mention you are my first customer of the day? It's an auspicious occasion. I can't let you leave without buying something. It would be terrible luck for both of us. You might never reach the peak, and I... well, I might still be here when you come back down! I'm only kidding... only kidding.

Perhaps you'd like a young lover later tonight? (You've already had your way with our country. What's another poor young woman to you?) My friends are skilled in techniques perfected by the ancients. They will anoint with you oil before sending you to heaven. Fingers that dance. Lips that prowl. Eyes that can drown you. Just say the word, and I'll have one brought to your tent tonight.

How rude of me. You must be exhausted. Sit, sit! We still have much to discuss. There is so much time here at base camp. Most climbers struggle with the boredom more than the altitude. Our bodies are slow to change, much like our minds, yes? I have something that will help you relax (your inhibitions).

Ugh. Actually, could you help a poor old man? Right behind those wooden puppets. Yes, a little further back. See that bottle? Would you mind bringing it over here? I've got the cups.

Delicious isn't it? (Well, of course it isn't, but it's all I can afford.) I'll finish yours if you don't want it. Maybe just one more. It really is a beautiful morning.

(Nothing more than a pile of rocks. No electricity. No heat. Just a bunch of underpaid sherpas, even more underpaid merchants, and tents upon tents full of climbers that come here to conquer Sagarmatha. What you people do is barely climbing. You ride up the great mountain on the gondola of your technology and the strained backs of our men. And what do you leave behind?)

(Shit!)

(Pounds of pounds of garbage, and your own stinking waste. Some day there will be another avalanche and us merchants will die under a surge of protein bar wrappers, empty oxygen tanks, lumps of shit that have been frozen for decades, and desiccated bodies. And who's going to clean it up!)

All excellent choices. Let's see. That will be 12,000 Nepalese rupees. (Actual retail price: 2,000.) I can't believe I'm giving you such a good deal, but you are the first customer of the day. You are special.

Sorry. I can't seem to find my change. How about you come by later and I can give you what I owe you? (Nothing.) Excellent. Have a blessed day! And good luck on your climb! (I'll be down here, praying for blizzards and buzzards.)

TOOFERS

What do you do when you're at a social event, face-to-face with a person whose name you have already forgotten, while a rapidly growing wad of awkward silence threatens to swallow you whole? Here's what I ask:

When was a time something happened that you can't explain?

It's a great question for a smorgasbord of reasons. It's relatable, as in something inexplicable happens to everybody at some point. It's a better alternative than talking about the weather, their family, or their jobs, all questions we've heard so many times they ought to be outlawed. And, if you listen carefully, the answer might unearth that scarcest of treasures: the forgotten secret.

As with most questions I ask, I already know what I'm going to say when my turn comes around. It happened in the fall when I was thirteen and my little sister was eleven.

There had been a storm the previous night, one that made the roof of our Minnesota home groan with Atlassian effort. As is usually the case after a Midwestern thunderstorm, the following morning was beautiful. Everything had a washed, polished gleam to it, except the ground, of course, which was mud-splattered slick.

It was either early September or late October. Can't remember. Definitely autumn. The maple leaves had already flared yellow, browned, and fell, but the elm, oak, and birch trees were in the throes of their change. The conifers and spruces were as conservative as our parents, choosing once again to remain green the whole year through. My sister and I had gone into the woods that afternoon, either to look for bugs or ignore our homework. Minnesota winters had a way of barging in like an uninvited uncle reeking of pine needles and brandy, so it was important to get outside while the getting was good. Fall was a tenuous season, buffering the orange of summer road construction and the white barrenness of the icy months. The day we trudged into the woods required sweaters but not jackets. I can still smell the burn of an illegal leaf fire spreading from some neighbor's back yard.

We carried no cell phones, no food, no water. Just the clothes on our backs and our questionable inner compasses. Our mother probably commanded us to go outside to get our constant bickering out of earshot. There wouldn't have been a curfew for our excursion. Mom knew we would return when hunger rumbled our rapidly paling bellies.

Want to go to the fort? my sister asked.

Nah. Let's go to the river.

I don't wanna.

Well, where else is there?

Let's go up on the ridge.

It was a compromise, a rare bit of diplomacy for the two of us. In those days it was almost certain that we couldn't spend more than an hour together before violence or tears detonated, but like Alzheimer’s patients singing karaoke, we always began with the best of intentions.

We hiked through the woods behind our house, squishing through soggy leaves and mud. The sky spilled gray, nothing but crows and the occasional V of migrating birds to break-up the monotony. But the colors! The trees finalied like fireworks that day. Even the bare branches seemed to be a million middle fingers chasing away the previous night's storm. Not that there weren't casualties. Along the trail, we bore witness to the damage. Branches thicker than our little torsos sprawled over our oft-trod path, which necessitated us to help each other crawl over their slippery barks. I don't think it was cold enough to see our breaths, but I remember my fingers and toes getting that stinging feeling that comes from cold, wet hiking.

We Sisyphused our way up the ridge, a hill at the edge of our family's property that glaciers had long ago ripped down the middle to form a dizzying limestone cliff. It gave us a nice top-of-the-world perspective of the valley, with only a few trees to block the view. Actually, one less than there had been. The biggest oak on the ridge had decided to go all horizontal on us.

Did the storm do that? my sister asked.

Weird. It was the biggest tree here. Her ponytail swung left to right, never willing to take my word for anything. All of the smaller trees had only suffered minimal damage. A few branches down, a couple of roots a bit more exposed than usual from the eroding rains. Why had the biggest tree fallen over?

The roots hung like muddy hair along the edge of the cliff. We crept up and looked inside the hole that its fall had produced.

Undisturbed brown water tabled flat, three feet below the rim. No telling how deep it went. My sister took one of the fallen branches and kneeled down to poke the edges of the depression.

What you doing? I asked.

She didn't answer, a rarity. She kept poking until an invisible hole appeared, and we heard brown water splashing on the cliff below us. The water shined and slithered underneath an invisible sun. When a whirlpool appeared in the brown muck, I knelt down beside her. The water level dropped one foot, two feet, three feet. After the last gurgle of water spilled out, the bottom of the six-foot hole revealed itself, oddly jagged.

Before I could make out what was so strange about it, my sister jumped into the hole, her tennis shoes making sucking sounds when they hit bottom. She clawed into the mud with both hands, not caring about the havoc it wreaked on her fingernail polish.

What'd you find? I asked.

While keeping her eyes on that jagged bottom, she stood in the hole and lifted her hand as close as she could reach to the top of the hole. When she felt my hand cupped below hers, she dropped the contents. I brought my palm up eye-level and wiped off