Deja-vu

By Edmond Alcid

I remember, remembering that I have repeated my past over and over, and over.

For what reasons are there, to explain why one’s life is in need of a repeat.

Do we repeat life, for the purpose of getting it right, to correct a past mistake, to change the outcome of a situation to suit our egos?

For what-ever reasons, we do re-live moments of our lives.

Some of us have fleeting memories of those moments.

I remember, remembering to rewrite these lines, or did I?

Or is it only my mind playing visual games?

For moments like this we use the Déjà vu.

Quotes:
Shivers up my spine after, during the reading of every short story.

I will have nightmares . . ., thanks!

Goose-bumps, shivers and a constant look over my should when reading these stories in an empty house.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moose Hide Books imprint of Moose Enterprise Publishing
• Release date: Mar 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781927393413

Book preview

Deja-vu

DAJA VU

Déjà vu

by

Edmond Alcid

MOOSE HIDE BOOKS

imprint of

MOOSE ENTERPRISE PUBLISHING

PRINCE TOWNSHIP

ONTARIO, CANADA

cover illustration by Rick Mousseau

Déjà vu

by

EDMOND ALCID

COPYRIGHT DECEMBER 21, 2001

PUBLISHED FEBRUARY 2002

by

MOOSE HIDE BOOKS

Imprint of

MOOSE ENTERPRISES PUBLISHING

684 WALLS ROAD

PRINCE TOWNSHIP

ONTARIO, CANADA

P6A 6K4

web site www.moosehidebooks.com

NO VENTURE UNATTAINABLE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED, THIS INCLUDES STORING IN RETRIEVAL SYSTEM OR TRANSMITTED IN ANY FORM BY ELECTRONIC MEANS, MECHANICAL, PHOTOCOPYING, RECORDING OR OTHER, WITHOUT THE WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM THIS PUBLISHER.

THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION, NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES AND INCIDENTS ARE EITHER PRODUCTS OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR ARE USED FICTITIOUSLY. ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL EVENTS OR LOCALES OR PERSONS, LIVING OR DECEASED, IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.

CREATED IN CANADA

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Alcid, Edmond, 1953-

[Déjàvue]

Déjà vu / by Edmond Alcid

Previously published under title; Déjàvue.

Short stories

ISBN 978-1-894650-13-7 (paperback).—ISBN 978-1-927393-41-3(PDF)

I. Title. II. Title; Déjàvue.–Fiction.

PS8576.0977D44 2002    C813'.54C2002-900177-3

PR9199.3.M674D44 2002

PS8576.0977D44 2017C813’.54C2017-901549-4

Déjà vu

Déjà vu

HOMESTEADERS      Pg 5

LIVE FAST      Pg 13

BED and BREAKFAST      Pg 19 

THE INTERVIEW      Pg 31

REPRODUCTION      Pg 35

A LOTTERY OF NECESSITY      Pg 43

DINNER GUEST      Pg 51

SELECTIVE HARVEST      Pg 61

FORGIVENESS      Pg 63

FOOD SOURCE      Pg 69

A BURIED PAST      Pg 77

NOTES

Dinner Guest is based on an idea suggestion by

Miss Lisa Dinesmor

HOMESTEADERS

Someone is there, Sue-Anne’s voice echoed through the emptiness of the barn. A man is milking a cow.

A shudder of cold air drove through Richard’s body. Every hair stood on end on the damp back of his neck. Dust-filled air shimmered like flecks of gold on beams of light. He saw nothing in the lower part of the barn. Maybe Sue had a better view through the open door at the centre of the barn’s floor. Her eyes darted into the dimness of the milking stalls below. She showed braveness in her eyes, but she shivered and cowered behind a dry bail of hay.

There is no one there, assured Rick, his voice cracking as if his voice was changing through adolescence. This place has been abandoned for over one-hundred and fifty years. No one has or wants to live here since eighteen-fifty, since . . . since . . . this was not the place or time to tell Sue a ghost story.

Rick’s voice cracked again. Clearing his voice, his seventeen-year-old tenor voice returned. Adolescence had surely arrived. Bringing Sue to the barn to explore was an excuse. A playful time rolling in loose hay might lead to a little petting. Rick had hoped. Wanting brown eyes watched Sue’s loose stretch top heave at each breath. Some ghost had to spoil his chances, his first chance to maybe touch those breasts hidden beneath yellow cloth.

Since . . . since . . . what? Green eyes dashed a question to Rick. Tell me, demanded Sue.

Sue was always demanding, and she always spoke her mind. Five-foot-six, thin, sandy blonde hair, she lured Rick’s eyes. Only she could bring a boy of six-feet-one to his knees. It was not her physical strength, it was just a glare, a turn of her head, the whiff of her light perfume that brought him down.

It was not the ghost of the homesteader that froze Rick on the spot, it was the turn of Sue’s head. Beams of light poking through the barn board wall back-lite slight curves of her body. He was sure, straining to focus his eyes, he was sure he could see the outline of erect nipples pressing against the stretched fabric of her top. The thought, pulsated blood to his groin. Was she being turned on by him?

I saw a man milking a cow, she said with confirmed proof.

Tiptoeing along a floor board, attempting not to step on a crack between the boards, Rick inched towards Sue. Blinking eyes down into the dimness of the lower barn, he began to ask. Was he a tall man, about twenty years of age, with a flat round hat, just a beard, no mustache, a small mole on his cheek? Rick held back a laugh, and held back suggesting more details.

I just saw a glimpse of him, he did not stop long enough for me to see his every detail. Turning, she saw Rick’s blank glare, she knew he was teasing. Oh, I suppose you know the man and his mole personally?

He had thought about saying yes but he just raised an eye brow a bit. With hands, deep into pockets, he tugged at his jockey shorts attempting to hide a growing bulge from becoming visible. Bravely, he walked away towards the barn’s end wall where an open door overlooked the farm house and distant fields. With one last glance, Sue peered down into the lower barn before hurrying to place a hand at the back of Rick’s belt. He liked the slight tug. A smile creased the corner of his lip, again he sensed the surge of blood enlarging his penis.

Leaning close to Rick’s warm body, Sue placed her crossed arms on the door sill, imitating his stance. So, what is it with this place, and the guy down below? She glanced back at the open trap door. Maybe I was dreaming, but I saw something. I believe in spirits.

Good, because they say there is a whole family of spirits on this place. Rick nodded his head as he viewed the farm set up. Look around, take in an overview of the place. Tell me what you see.

From the corner of his eyes, he watched Sue while she twisted her head from side to side. She was looking but not seeing. I see a house, trees, a barn. A firm brave hand slapped the sill. Old farm things, a well, normal things.

You are not seeing what is important, you are just looking. Slowly lifting his arm, as if it was weighted down by lead, he pointed down to the farm yard. Sue, look into each and every object.

Sue tired of this and of Rick’s way of talking around in circles. Opening her eyes with exaggeration, leaning forward, she mimicked Richard’s mannerisms. I see a fly sitting in a tiny rocking chair on top of a fence post.

Cute! It is not a fly, it is a flea, mocked Rick.

Ha . . . ha . . . Ha. Her laughter was not given with humor, it was cold and hard. It was not that she found Rick not funny, but there was something here, she felt it, it touched every fiber of her body. Initially, when Rick asked her to come exploring in an old barn, she envisioned a friendly romp in the hay. At fifteen and three-quarters, she urged to feel his warm body touching hers. She wanted to feel that bulge in his pants pressing against her. Now, here, everything had changed. This place was different, something was in the air. A cool breath touched her bare shoulders. Rick was with her, so there was no need to be frightened. Never in her wildest dreams would she adventure to a place like this by herself.

What do you see, tell me what you see in this place? asked Sue, her body leaning against Rick’s warm arms. Her eyes glanced to her shoulder where a cool breath had just touched.

Under the heavy weight on his arm, Rick lowered it, letting it hang limply down the side of the barn. This place has been vacant for a hundred and fifty years. No one, I mean, no one has spent a whole night in this place. Look at all of the real-estate for-sale signs on the other side of the fence. Some are fifty or sixty-years old.

They look brand-new, bright and colourful.

Exactly. Look at the far mountains and tree. They are full of colour. As if offering the dead, a bouquet of flowers, Rick reached out his arm with palms open upward. Now look at this place, the green house, a red barn, the golden-brown fields and the little red wagon. They all have colour but it is as if the colour is seen through a black and white filter.

Sue’s lips parted slightly, she shivered her shoulders tightly against her neck. I see, the colours look dull. Then excitedly she pointed to a garden by the house. There is nothing growing in the garden, no plants, no weeds, yet the rows are straight and neat.

The fields are the same, there is not a weed in among the wheat and barley. Every year the wheat and barley grow. Sue, no one plants it.

So, what is the story? Green eyes pried for information.

Taking a deep breath, Rick paused, wondering if he should tell her the story, the version he was told. Like all stories, events, names and meanings change over the years. He thought that he would tell Sue that he had seen blurred shadows. He withdrew this idea. In no way, would she ever believe in him. She might think he was off his rocker. Never would he tell her that he actually, moved hay in the barn, hoed the garden and tinkered