Running Wild Anthology of Stories: Volume 5

By Running Wild Press

For the fifth year in a row, Running Wild Press brings together fantastic stories from well-established to up-and-coming authors to bring you the best cross genre stories that don't fit neatly in a box. This collection is comprised of 39 stories that arrived at Running Wild Press from all over the world from Hawaii to India, from Indiana to Scotland, and represents an eclectic gathering of storytelling talent. With twists and turns, these stories will take you through shared - and unshared - experiences of human endeavors, possibilities, impossibilities, and imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Running Wild Press
• Release date: Sep 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781947041912

Book preview

Movie Magic

Lauren Lang

I was conceived in a writer’s mind, a monster in a film he hoped would become a cult classic. I had no concept of my birth. I floated in stages of semi-consciousness as I was written and rewritten. Much like a child in the womb, I could hear my creator and understand his intent through the two-dimensional wall that separated us.

For a while, I was a vague notion of a demonic predator stalking the streets of a vast city, searching for victims. The writer wasn’t particularly firm on exactly what I looked like. I was a conglomeration of things humanity fears. He added teeth and claws to my description because creatures with those things have preyed on humans, but I was little more than a trope.

The job of turning me into a truly terrifying threat fell to the storyboard artist. I came to life the first time my form was drawn. I could feel myself evolving with each stroke of the artist’s pencil. He gave me the characteristics the words called for, but at the urging of others, he added a half-meter-long prehensile tail and made me nearly eight feet tall. I was a fearsome bipedal beast inspired by demons of religious lore, but that wasn’t frightening enough. They took me back for a rewrite. New writers envisioned an even more monstrous creature.

In my second incarnation, the artist dropped me to all fours, and I could feel bones grow and rearrange themselves as the gears of his mind sought the most reprehensible creation they could envision.

The strokes of the pencil came strong and sure this time as the artist began to craft me as more creature than character. It’s hard to speak with teeth that are several inches long, and the underbite required for the audience to be able to see them would render me all but mute. I knew I could growl, hiss, and roar with that mouth, but nothing more.

They needed me to be fast—more deadly to the film’s protagonists because of my speed. The artist gave me rippling muscles to run but failed to draw retractable claws. I’d be expected to race on razors. This was of no concern to my creators, for I was nothing more than a romantic plot device needed to drive the teenage leads together.

To make me uglier, the artist determined I should be naked, my sagging skin a stark white due to living in the darkness I was to crawl out of to haunt nightmares and sell tickets. The creative team added a huge set of round, glowing red eyes in the front of an oval head and a short, broad snout that took up too much of my thin face. I was described as a cross between a naked mole-rat and a deformed hyena; the combination of mismatched creatures making me truly grotesque.

I, of course, was starving in the script, which is what would drive me to chase our hero on my malformed paws; so hungry my bones poked through my flesh at odd angles as I ran. I only had a vague idea of what hunger was, but I was meant to be insatiable, and ravenousness would make me act a certain way.

The writers decided real terror wasn’t just about physical danger. I had to put the protagonists in mental peril as well.

They decided that the glowing orbs they’d gifted me wouldn’t just be for ascetic value. They gave me the ability to hypnotize my victims with my eyes, allowing me to get close enough to touch them, at which point I could imbue them with my demonic energy and possess them. This was determined to be the way I would reproduce, to spread further terror across the set and into the theater. The power inside those I took would cause them to shapeshift, eventually becoming like me, but not before being driven insane. I was to be the stuff of nightmares, preying on my victim’s worst fears and inspiring the same terror the actors portrayed onscreen.

Budget constraints meant I was intended to be little more than a shadowy figure through much of the film, though moviegoers would eventually have to see me. My big reveal would come as I gave chase to the teen protagonists, catching our hero’s mentor and transforming him into my first offspring. It would be the most gut-wrenching scene in the film.

I could not be invincible. After all, the hero would have to find some way to defeat me. The writers had to give me weaknesses. Sleek and muscular as I was, I had to be clumsy enough to be loud.

The clack of my claws on cement, against asphalt, down the brick-lined back alleys of the city I terrorized would be heard from blocks away, and my creators relished the suspense that was meant to build. I’d be more heard than seen, the ever-present threat that could come from any direction at any time, but under the right circumstances, my claws would give away my position.

I was also mortal. Unlike many demons of lore, I could be injured, or even killed, by something as simple as a bullet. The writers made it abundantly clear that I would bleed. Should I be sent back to hell, my spawn would follow, thus ridding the world of the threat I created.

Over months, I was transformed. My creators talked, and I listened. Though their voices were always faraway, their thoughts were not. I was in their minds just as they intended me to be, following along as the script morphed.

I knew what they knew about the world they wanted to portray. Every line of the script, every set, even down to the way the film would be physically made became familiar to me.

As the project moved forward and more people became involved, the cast grew, and my understanding of the production expanded with them. I lived in the original writer, and the men hired to rewrite me. I was with the artist as he drew me, the director as he read the script for the first time, and finally, the actors as they tried out for their parts. Everyone that came onto the project expanded my knowledge of the world we were building together. I jumped from consciousness to consciousness as they thought of me. It simply wasn’t time for me to be physically a part of their world.

Not yet.

The task of bringing me to the silver screen would be complicated and potentially expensive, which caused the delay in my physical formation. The script contained several scenes where I would be all Computer-Generated Imagery (CGI), mainly parts that featured my unnatural speed. However, the parts that showed me stalking the actors could be created through special effects, make-up, and costuming. For that, the studio had prosthetics fabricated.

Despite the number of times the director reviewed the storyboards, he was unprepared to see me for the first time. Silicone, paint, and a little bit of movie magic gave me shape. When the lights in the prop room flickered on, and I was revealed on the manikin, he gasped. That’s when my essence was finally able to cross the barrier from the two-dimensional world to the three-dimensional universe. As I became real in his mind for the first time, I became real in his world as well.

As my consciousness transferred into the costume, I felt my connection with my creators slip away. I was still on their minds, but I was no longer in them. I was a physical being now. Because of the way I was written, I had to touch them to possess them and know their thoughts. Lacking muscles, I had no way to reach out and force contact with anyone involved in the production.

Not yet.

The mask already has a…lifelike quality, doesn’t it? The director asked as he turned to a woman I had never encountered.

It really does, she said. The facial prosthetics are amazing. The make-up won’t take as much work as I thought.

That day, I was appraised, applauded, and ultimately plunged back into darkness to await the actor who would give my character expression. I could hear the director musing about my vocalizations as the pair closed the door to the cabinet and walked away.

Would they have to hire an actor who could also create my sound effects, or would my snarls and snaps be added digitally during editing?

The director still hadn’t decided, but I had.

I, not the actor, would be delivering my lines.

I doubt they would have let Clayton Thompson, the man they had cast to play me, wear the prosthetics if anyone had known the silicone had become sentient. I certainly did not give any indication as they brought the actor into the make-up room sometime later.

Clayton was clad in a skintight white spandex bodysuit when he sat in the artist’s chair to begin his transformation. His athletic build and relatively flat, tan face would be hidden by my own, so all I would have to focus on was melding my silicone parts to him and modifying the rest of his body to become what the artist had envisioned.

Just as I had been erased and redrawn until perfect, I would use the abilities I had been given to do the same to him.

I began as soon as the prosthetics contacted his skin.

Gloria, Gloria I can’t breathe in this thing, Clayton told the make-up artist after she placed the prosthetic facial extensions over his features.

The designer adjusted me, tugging at my sagging flesh as if it were separate from the human beneath it.

Her ministrations hurt, but I ignored the pain.

Clayton was easy to possess; such was his terror at being asphyxiated.

While his immediate fear of bodily harm was an entry point, I soon felt as if I needed a more-lasting way to control him.

The writers had given me this ability, but they didn’t give me any indication of how I was supposed to use it.

That, I would have to learn on my own.

Thankfully, the young man felt a great deal of anxiety about his future in the industry.

The budding actor worried the film’s script was poorly written.

He worried that this role might damage his career, but he needed to pay rent, so he took the job against his better judgment.

He was filled with self-doubt, often telling himself that D-list movies were the only work he would ever get.

The negativity made him weak and vulnerable. As I advanced into Clayton’s mind, I nudged him toward the most terrifying vision of his future, the one where he returned home to his family a failure rather than become homeless on the streets of Los Angeles. Consumed by fear, his thoughts ceased to make sense, and I was able to push anything that was him aside, which left me in full control of his body.

The entire possession only took minutes.

Free to act, I flung myself from the make-up chair. I dropped to the ground on all fours and snarled, just as my creators had imagined I would.

The writers’ and artist’s intentions were so clear that the created movement was instinctual.

The sudden change in my demeanor and the guttural sound shocked the make-up artist.

She jumped back in fright. Jesus, Clayton. You’re taking this gig a little seriously, aren’t you? Gloria said, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with a trembling hand.

I ignored her and peered around the make-up trailer. This would be an appropriate place to make the changes to Clayton’s body. It was isolated, and I was alone with the woman.

With the integration in process, the sweet scent of her surprise and shock began to assault my nostrils. I tried to ignore the intoxicating aroma and proceed with the modifications.

The blood had already drained from Clayton’s skin, and his hands were clammy from fear, making him turn closer to my distinctive white color.

I focused on his flesh, using my transformative powers to encourage the tone to shift further. The bodysuit obscured what I was doing, and the woman turned from me to grab something off her tray of tools. I remained crouched despite her nervousness.

That allowed me to begin changing my eyes. I could feel them drying and becoming as bloodshot and red as they were supposed to be.

The woman fiddled with her instruments for a moment before she turned back, apparently having regained her composure.

Let’s get you back in the chair so we can finish up, she said, stepping towards me. Her fingers paused in mid-air when she noticed my eyes. She laughed anxiously before adding, You know, the character really is creepy.

My bones cracked as I began guiding the change to Clayton’s hands, determined the razor-sharp claws I was to have would be the first thing to grow. I could feel Clayton’s fingers elongate as his hands shifted to a more-pawlike shape and his nails grew into talons.

Clayton, are you okay? Gloria asked, taking several steps back.

She must have caught sight of my legs and feet, which were beginning to twist in an unnatural way as I realigned Clayton’s human knees, reversing their orientation to give me the speed my creators wanted.

As I finalized the changes to my vision, the room shifted and took on a green tint. The woman became no more than an outline that glowed more brightly than the inanimate objects around her. My creators had never planned to shoot any scenes from my perspective, so all I had to rely on was their idea of night vision when deciding how I would experience sight. I could see the uncertainty on Gloria’s face as she searched for a logical explanation to the changes taking place before her.

You know, I think I’d better…go get the director, She said, haltingly, He’ll…want to take a look…at our…progress.

I could hear panic rising in her voice, and it excited me. I was created to instill fear, and here I was, fulfilling my purpose! I was the reason terror was painted across the woman’s face, her pupils dilated, her breathing quick. Terror mixed with sweat dripped from her pores. It made me drunk with exhilaration.

Finally, unable to resist the intoxicating effects of her fright, I collapsed sideways, and allowed the transformation to my lower body to complete. The skin on my arms began to ripple as the change moved up my body and realigned my chest muscles into a more-deadly configuration.

Gloria all but ran from the room, slamming the door shut behind her. My instinct was to chase her. I wanted to use my teeth and claws to terrorize her, drinking all the fear she had to feel before leaving her an empty husk. I was not fully equipped to do that, though. I had more changes to make.

My teeth were still the rubbery substance used to make the mask, unfit to tear flesh.

There was a loud popping as I took the being that was Clayton Thomson and forced his jaw to begin growing out to accommodate fangs.

My muzzle formed slowly, requiring by far the most energy to push outward into reality. When the human’s tortured nerves finally told me the bone had reached the proper length and was touching the outermost edges of the silicone, I began allowing his incisors to push forward. I imagined them long and sharp, just as the artist had. They grew for me the same way they did for him, one at a time, forming into something beautiful and fearful. I felt so grateful for the months of care put into designing me. It let me take my true form.

The door cracked open, and with my transformation almost complete, I spared a glance at the figure peeking in. A human glowed there, not the woman who’d fled, but someone more substantial and confident. The footfalls were vaguely familiar as the person took a single step toward me.

Clayton? a male questioned. It had been some time, but I recognized the director. He was so worried about how to make me sound frightening in the film back then, it seemed only polite to assuage his concerns. I was more than capable of being terrifying without assistance from the editing bay.

I growled, low and deep, a rising boom so powerful it resonated in the walls. When the noise faded, the director tried to speak to Clayton again, confidence gone. Clayton, you in here? Are you hurt?

I found my feet, the sharp claws sticking out of my paws every bit as painful to walk on as they’d looked in the storyboards. They made the noise they were intended to. The clack of keratin against linoleum filled the trailer. The director turned to flee.

Everything was as it should be. The suspense built. I could feel the anticipation of the kill. I began to clumsily run just a moment too late. The director made it through the door, slamming it shut as I hit the frame. The wood cracked under my weight. I tested it again, hurling my body into the weakened lumber. The door snapped, and I began clawing a hole big enough to escape. The director’s footfalls receded, his screams nearly incoherent as I slashed at the barrier.

Something bothered me. This wasn’t a part of the plot. It was my role, that much I felt sure of, but the director wasn’t a character. Short and squat with a smooth head, he looked nothing like the taller, older man I was supposed to possess in the script.

Die, monster, die! The protagonist’s mentor would scream in the emotional climax of the film, firing a hail of bullets as I charged. Luckily, the writers had established the man was a terrible shot. He would miss, and behind him, the female lead would scream before the unwitting hero would grab her elbow and run as I fell upon his mentor, his friend.

The teen hero would take the girl and flee to an abandoned building where she would shame him into finding the courage that would ultimately be my downfall, or would it? Whether I lived or died at the end wasn’t clear.

I couldn’t worry about my fate at that moment. I wanted to play the scene as written. To do that, I had to get to the proper setting. The script described the scene as taking place on a darkened, abandoned city street. This place, with its white walls, smooth floor, and bright lights, didn’t resemble that at all. I had to get out and find my mark.

I growled in frustration at the delay the door caused. Outside, pandemonium. Feet rushed by. People screamed as the last few splinters finally gave way, and I squeezed my naked body through the hole. The remnants ripped at my flesh, streaking my skin with glowing green blood as the scrapes began to ooze.

Pain flashed brightly across my flank. It was described in the script, but nothing had prepared me for the sensation. I had felt a lesser amount of it earlier when Gloria tugged on my face, but I was distracted then and not fully integrated with Clayton’s nervous system.

No one had mentioned my legs would grow tired. As I turned, searching, I felt burning in my new muscles. It was hard to walk, and I stumbled, confused and disoriented by my surroundings.

Frantically, I searched through what I knew of the script trying to remember how I first encountered the boy. In the story, the boy summoned me by reading a piece of parchment, reciting words he didn’t understand and could barely articulate. He’d stolen it from his mentor, the man I’m meant to possess. An occult studies professor, the mentor warns the boy not to play with forces he can’t comprehend. The boy ignores him and accidentally unleashes hell in the form of me.

But where? Where did this happen? As I stalked searching for the spot I was meant to rise from the depths, nothing seemed familiar. There were no candles, nothing that would indicate a place where the ritual would have taken place, just more bright light and fading screams.

Then it occurred to me, we must be shooting the scenes out of order. The technique was used all the time! The portion we were shooting wouldn’t have been my first appearance in the film. It would have been later in the script, taking place once my character had been established. There could have been changes made to the shooting order after I entered the prosthetics. I wouldn’t have known about them.

Comforted by this realization, I focused on my task. As I paced, muffled breathing caught my attention. It came from beneath one of the other trailers, but I heard it clearly. I listened intently, the sound of a rapidly beating heart exciting me, helping clear the confusion.

I picked up one paw, and with a razor-sharp claw, I gently pushed on the white metal siding of the trailer and felt a slight thrill as it began to move. I didn’t expect the figure that came shooting out. It slammed into me, catching my claw in the middle of its stomach, and released a distinctly feminine scream worthy of a D-list horror star. The woman continued screaming as she stared down at my claw sticking through her. Fake blood poured from the wound. I recognized Gloria, but her features were so distorted by shock and pain I could barely tell it was her. She was quite talented. Not only was she a make-up artist, but an actress. I guess on low-budget films everyone has to play a variety of roles.

I pulled my claw from her, and she collapsed to the floor in feigned agony, crawling from me while holding her bleeding midsection. I snarled at her, feeling the first inclination of that hunger my creators had described. It gnawed at me deep inside, begging me to feed on the woman’s fear before her flesh. My claws clacked against the asphalt as I advanced on her, snapping my teeth for theatrical effect. It was hard to do with my misshapen jaws, but after some practice that resulted in slobber covering my face, I was able to get the correct sound.

Gloria was a very giving actress. She didn’t let on that I had trouble. She continued to deliver an incredible performance, shrieking and cowering as I absorbed her genuine terror. It’s not what I’d expected from her. She wasn’t a fake like Clayton. She had innate talent. I felt bad that I had to kill her. I would have liked to have continued working with her.

My jaws clamped her throat. I felt a snap in her neck, and I marveled at the reality of the special effects the director was able to afford on such a low budget. After I’d finished my part, Gloria laid there as if she were dead. I couldn’t detect even a minuscule rise and fall of her chest.

Looking more closely at her body, I couldn’t see a microphone on her. It must have been well hidden. Though I quickly realized I hadn’t been mic’d up yet. The sound people should have been looking for me.

I expected someone to call cut after I pulled away from her and the crew to appear, but no one did. There must have been some very extensive rewrites. I didn’t remember this part of the film at all, but it felt true to my character, so I decided to keep going until someone called stop. I continued, eager to practice more tooth snapping with another actor.

An open door on the side of the building caught my attention. I assumed it would lead to the soundstage. I prowled towards the opening, snapping my teeth expectantly, but failed to encounter anyone. I entered the room slowly and found the lights still blazing. That set deck at least looked familiar, although it wasn’t dressed for a scene I was in. While most of the film was intended to be shot on location, the director had determined the pivotal moment where the female love interest convinces the protagonist to find his courage and defeat me wasn’t safe to shoot in a run-down, abandoned building. Instead, the scene would be shot in the safety of the studio. The scene was brief, and it looked like that was what they had been preparing to shoot before Gloria pulled the director away. I admired the set designer’s work before moving on.

I nosed my way outside again. The chaos I found only reinforced the idea that this was where I belonged. Overturned equipment, tossed scripts, and hastily abandoned belongings dotted the asphalt. This was similar to where my scenes were supposed to be set. All I had to do was wait for the other actors to make their appearance and say their lines. I continued my advance, expecting the others to enter the scene as soon as I hit my mark. It didn’t take long for extras to appear. Police cars, lights blazing and sirens blaring, sped from the far side of the lot. They swerved in front of me, and actors dressed as officers jumped out and pulled guns with an urgency that would do real law enforcement proud.

I launched toward them because it felt like what I should do, snarling and growling as the first fake bullets whizzed past me.

No one called cut. In the commotion, I couldn’t seem to find either the protagonist or his mentor, so I kept going, locking my jaws onto prosthetic limbs and ripping them from their costumed extras. Their arms and legs didn’t feel like the prosthetics that were formed for me, though. There was a lifelike quality to the material. It was soft and fragile in a way my silicon was not, but then again, I wasn’t meant to look human. These actors were. Like Gloria, they screamed and fell to the ground, doing justice to their profession. I hoped the camera crew was getting good shots.

Still, the bullets flew, but they were easy to avoid with my inhuman speed. My claws became sticky with theater blood, and within minutes, everyone on set was playing dead. The lights on the cars continued to flash dramatically against the brick of the surrounding buildings, and I looked into the darkening sky, trying to present my good side to where I hoped the cameras were.

Still, no one called cut. I must have been meant to continue; though I no longer knew where my mark was. There was no equivalent to the convenient swinging door that guided me out of the building. The sirens blared as I glanced back at the abandoned soundstage, wishing the director would have left more clues. While the film was supposed to be shot on location and I knew from sharing the director’s thoughts where those locations were, I wasn’t entirely sure how to get there. I turned and ran into the blissful night, determined to find my place despite the lack of direction and keep the production on schedule. After all, we were on a budget.

It’s been months, and I haven’t shot my final scene. More humans with guns have come, and we’ve fought over and over with each battle being more dramatic than the last. I assume we’re trying to get the scenes precisely right. The effect has been astounding. The city is looking much more like it’s supposed to. The majority of the buildings are abandoned, and trash rolls through the streets. The garbage is the only occupant in many areas. Maybe that’s what the director wants.

I’m growing impatient. I wish I knew what we were waiting for. I don’t know how I’m supposed to deliver a worthy performance with so little direction. I frequently wonder if all directors are this bad.

I’ve possessed many people, just as I was meant to. There must be fifty of us who have transformed. The script never actually specified how many demonic creatures there are meant to be, so I’m not sure when I can stop. Frequently, I hear the clacking of other claws filling the otherwise silent night. We all love the darkness and despise the light, so we only work after sundown. We don’t talk much, as our misshapen mouths make that impossible. We snarl in passing at one another and I assume it’s friendly, but sometimes it’s hard to tell. It’s a lonely existence, but I try not to let it show in my acting.

Isolation isn’t a feeling I’m supposed to be capable of, according to the script. I’m starting to think there are gaping holes in the writing. Maybe Clayton was right about how bad it is. This film might be a career-ender, but I’m trying to stay optimistic.

Some others have formed packs and have started roaming farther from the studio in search of food, but not me. Like in the script, I’m beginning to starve, but I can’t bring myself to leave. I return nightly, waiting for someone to fight so that we can wrap production. I can’t accept other roles while shooting this film. I wouldn’t feel right. There’s still work to be done, and I want to stay available in case we need to do reshoots.

I might be getting ahead of myself. I mean, I may have created my competition by possessing too many others that now look just like me. The final battle may not have happened because the protagonist can’t find me among a sea of look-alikes. I feel as if I’ve lost something in creating them, as if I may no longer be best for this role. After all, this is Hollywood, and there are younger, uglier versions of me. I have to work hard to make sure I don’t give the director any excuse to fire me.

In the script, I limp off to die after the climactic fight, but it’s an off-screen demise. My storyline is open-ended, which leaves a lot of room to return to this world. The acting has been so stellar that I think audiences will love the film. In true Hollywood style, I think we’ll be back for the sequel, but I want to be sure. Maybe it’s time to get myself an agent. Yes, an agent could clear all this up.

Slowly, I stalk off towards the unexplored parts of the city, eager to find someone willing to take me on.

A Certain Hue

Thomas Weedman

You imagine her naked brushstrokes of lapis lazuli while you’re alone in the refectory with the vocation director, Father Crane. There’s still some claret in the carafe. Dinner plates cleared, wadded linen napkins remain, wine glasses too. A spilled butter-rose, yours, soils the white cotton tablecloth. You cover it up with a napkin as the community of clerics, brothers, and seminarians depart until compline – Night Prayer in the candle-lit chapel with a cantor. Outside the thick floor-to-ceiling windows, it’s snowing again, recoating the sugar maple branches, rutted walking paths, the little frozen lake. Everything.

Removing his white Roman collar he says, Don’t tell anyone, but I hate that thing. I’ll put it back on for night prayer. It’s like wearing a tongue depressor that chokes. He’s a regal man with sharp-cut silver sideburns and a pristine nose too long for his fine face. Though, he’s not the Pinocchio here. His proboscis is clean, vibrissae trimmed as pubes. He’s a salesman of God, an easy talker who keeps his word, kind yet steadfast in his rote message. Also, he loves TV, movies, and cigarettes like Humphrey Bogart in To Have and Have Not. Father Crane is a hard-core, two-pack-day smoker, tapping the filter end so tobacco doesn’t spill out. Now then, how’s your first year?

His question strikes a nerve and you try not to spill your guts. You met two years ago when he first complained about his collar. He recruited you to freely answer God’s call, which rang in collect, and meant a hefty price of service, dwarfing any phone bill. Father has since driven pot-holed back-roads all over the country, gathering the next Catholic seminary flock.

Fine, you play-act, and the theater light above the life-size crucified Jesus solder pops,

sparks, and firedrakes a dragon’s breath. Then the flame flickers out.

You flinch, nearly shit your slightly tipsy self.

Omen? Father says, chuckling in his own smoke.

Hope not. But you don’t see blue anymore. The refectory light fuzzes below ambient.

Brother, you look burdened.

Thought you were going to say burned. You ask if a spark landed and brush your arms.

Burdened, he enunciates, ashing the tray like Communion on the yearning tongue or begging palm – yours have blisters, but not from the exploding bulb. Things okay?

You joke Jesus was going to fall off the wall on you and do a hot-pants lap dance.

Father’s look dead-pans you. Surreal, but too much like a Monty Python movie.

You serious up. Things are good. Absolutely. You reach for a napkin, knuckle soft butter instead.

How’s your apostolate? He seems to see right through you.

You volunteer at a coed halfway house. You don’t say you were half-way committed at first; they had their problems, you had yours.

Coed?

Teens in and out of foster care and juvenile hall.

What do you do there?

Spend time with them. Tutor math, English. Mentor. Dole out cigarettes like methadone every thirty minutes if they behave. Play football, drive them to their shrinks…tied to the bumper.

He smirks. Have you told them you’re from the seminary?

You say they think you’re a regular student in jeans and sweatshirt from the university.

I hope you’re regular.

No problem shitting, if that’s what you mean.

He chuckles and takes another long drag. Seriously, he says. Do you feel God working through you? He exhales like a Vatican conclave after electing a new Pope.

You hesitate in the billowing shadows. At the end of the cafeteria, light blazes in the kitchen where brothers in brown monk robes scrub heat-scabbed aluminum pots and pans.

What is it?

There’s a girl.

I see.

She paints.

What?

Everything.

And?

She’s accomplished. A lovely soul. She’s more than cute and doesn’t know it. She’s pale and slim with long scraggly hair. Fingers like naked bones, chewed unpainted nails. Duck butt. Her voice rasps, her disposition is blue. You like the way she almost smiles at you, a sort of Lauren Bacall sideways glance at Humphrey Bogart in To Have and Have Not. You confess none of this.

Are you attracted? He leans back. Before celibacy and ordination, you know, this old rascal priest sowed his wild oats.

Now they’re steel-cut.

He smiles. That remark will cost you three Hail Marys. Maybe a chaplet.

You should have said steel-cunt and made it three thousand Hail Marys, because he’d have vomited buckets of laughter, put his collar back on, then looked around to see if anyone noticed.

It’s not that, you say. She’s fifteen.

Glad you’re not a pedophile. What is it then?

She’s not that underage, not like you were. Besides, Joseph and Mary were younger (at least forever-virgin Mary was), Romeo and Juliet ,too. In To Have and Have Not, Lauren was nineteen or so, Humphrey way older than biblical Joseph. But you can’t ravage, not now anyway. You say you got this girl to talk after offering extra cigarettes in the back alley. You two connected.

That’s right, you’re an enabler like me. He dips his hand in his black shirt pocket. You expect a collar. He raises the pack of unfiltereds like a monstrance.

Yes, please. You say you forgot yours.

He flings them with a matchbook, the striker strip clean, from a motel diner where he stopped en route to the next flock. You know the matches are from a motel; it says Easy Motel on the flip cover. You remember as a boy getting pedophiled by Earl, your Little League baseball coach, in a motel, and eating in the diner after. It’s the small things that make you remember, and how easy it was for him.

Thanks. You light a match and puff. Smoke singes your eyes. You squint in the dark at what moves – maybe angels and devils locked in eternal battle while evolution extincts almost every biological species. It’s a miracle humanity still exists. You tell Father that the social worker called you a miracle worker and asked what you’d done.

Done?

To get her to talk. She hadn’t talked to anyone since arriving. For weeks, she just stayed in her room, painting.

Father asks, How did you?

You say you knocked on her opened door, and she said hello, which didn’t sound like a recluse.

You saw the wooden easel, asked what she was painting. She said not the Mona Lisa.

Sounds funny, Father says.

Yes, you say, and add that you asked about her favorite color. She asked if you were the bridge-keeper in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Knows her British comedy movies. Funny and sassy, Father says.

Got a little Lauren Bacall in her, you admit.

Nice, he says. "Boy, she was a beauty in To Have and Have Not. He lights another smoke, says, So what was her favorite color?"

Lapiz lazuli.

Blue? Father says.

Yes.

Glad I guessed right. Wouldn’t want to be launched from the bridge of death.

Your laughter mixes with the movie references. It makes you want to watch the Holy Grail again.

Then? Father says.

You say you asked about her canvas and horse-hair brushes. But out of the blue, she said she likes play-action fake.

What? Student of football, too? Father is a good listener. You fake handing the ball to a runner and then throw to a receiver down the field?

Exactly. So, before you knew it, you got her to play two-hand touch with the group – five on five – in the field out back.

And? Father says.

You kicked ass, you say. She kept burning this one dude. She could run, this girl. Run, block, juke, catch, throw a spiral.

Then?

After having a smoke, she asked if she could paint you.

Did she? Father says.

No.

Why?

Study hall is what you said. What you don’t say is physiology class because she was standing physically so close, and Father would say medical school is not on the seminary curriculum. You have fantasies about being Doctor Pierce and Father Mulcahy smashed into one from the TV show M*A*S*H.

Father Crane says, So, what? Why the burden?

She’s not there anymore.

Where did she go?

She was raped.

Father exhales charred air. He leans back, and his chair creaks.

After the hospital, she was put in a new foster home. You don’t know where.

Who attacked her?

You want to ask what difference it makes. Housemate, you say. The guy she kept beating at football. Social worker caught him in the act after retrieving the key to unlock the door. The police came and arrested him.

Act?

He knocked her out and sodomized her. You squirm, knowing up-the-ass pain. You see pulping red. You remember the butter-colored puss sores and thought you had syphilis. But no one to arrest your lay abuser, your stumpy pock-faced baseball coach. Lay, that’s a funny word. Funny as angels and devils carrying on in the dark, doing whatever. And no hospital. Just the diner for knock-off flabby barbecued ribs and fake smiles. To Have and Have Not played on the black-and-white TV on the counter next to the register. Lauren and Humphrey were smoking and making eyes. Coach, who didn’t smoke, burned rubber, staring straight ahead, driving you home the next day from the amusement park motel with years of guilt.

Father says nothing.

Why does God continue to let this happen? You smash the cigarette in an already full tray – crowded as hell.

Continue? he asks. Are you speaking from experience?

You recall chances to tell as a child – to your mother and a litany of priests and nuns – and failed. If you confess now, it means you lied on your psych evaluation; there’s the door, and you’ll be told to come back after years at the shrink. If you’re lucky. It’d be cutting your nose off to spite your face, ending the collect call.

No. You stare in perpetuity at snow flaking the double-pane window, blocking the view of the sugar maples and frozen lake. But it has to stop.

We can pray for it to stop, Father says. In the meantime, we empathize like Christ. That’s the cross.

After a pause, he adds, Speaking of, how about some coffee so no one complains that we fell asleep at compline.

You mean like Gethsemane? you say, but don’t get a smile. You scrape the chair back, go into the kitchen where it’s bright and the brothers labor. You admire their devotion, calling, the way they do everything seriously. Even sleeves rolled to the elbow in steel sinks of hot water and suds. But you wonder if they have dirty secrets, and if you’ve said too much, spilled too much.

You return with two mugs from the industrial urn. You spill coffee on the buffed floor. After you wipe blindly with a buttered napkin and sit back down, Father says, What else?

You keep quiet.

He pushes aside the cup of coffee, says, I change my mind.

Why? You’d like to know. Is he speaking from experience?

"Let’s happen this, let’s kill this soldier. That, too, is part of the Cross."

He takes the carafe and pours as though from an altar flagon, filling two holy-grail wine glasses. You drink tacitly in the dark. You commit to finishing, feel it working, or maybe it’s the claret earlier and the nicotine. Father firedrakes a match, incensing another cigarette. He keeps his white Roman collar tucked away. You escape being caught and collared, breathe a sigh of relief. Going forward, you have choices, but not ones to undo the evolving haunt. Yours is a limited will.

But willingly, you look over at the Cross under the burned-out theater light and see it, or think you see it, stoked a certain blue hue.

Return of the Prodigal Son

Ranjana Joshi

Ben was sitting in his usual chair at the small coffee shop. It was an old shop that had once boasted a large, diverse following – both young and old. After a new cafe opened up in town, part of a global coffee shop chain, its fortunes declined with its declining number of customers. Now, the only people who ventured in were the loyal, older generation that continued to grace the shop out of habit.

Ben liked this shop, with its soft cotton-covered chairs, rickety tables, and a smell of delicious home-brewed coffee. It reminded him of the coffee his wife used to make.

He held his coffee in his wrinkled hands and talked to the friends he had made in the last five years since he had moved to this small town. His wife died a few months after they moved to the city. He felt the loss so heavily that all he wanted was to follow her, but the conversations with the other patrons helped get his mind off those thoughts.

He had stopped feeling guilty for being alive while his wife had died even though he had promised to be with her for eons. Over the years, he had stopped wishing for death and continued to live on. He knew his wife would have wanted that. These weekly Friday meetings at the coffee shop were the highlight of his week and his only connection with the rest of the town and its people.

Every Friday, he dressed up in a suit, took out his expensive cane, and put on his designer spectacles, the ones his wife had given him before the accident when he still had use for them. He didn’t need those spectacles, of course. His eyesight was beyond being aided. He just liked to wear them because his wife had always said that the glasses made him look handsomer and smarter. This one day in the week was the only day he met other people, and he liked to look his best.

One of his friends, Anil, was talking. I won’t be joining you all for the next 4 to 5 weeks. I am going to meet my son in London. There was no mistaking the pride in his voice. He has got all the paperwork for the visa done for his mother and me. He has even arranged for the tickets and everything. We fly in 2 days.

With his eyesight completely gone, Ben had developed a habit of visualizing people he met based on their voice, smell, and how big, small, soft, or hard their hands felt when he shook them. He had always visualized Anil with a parrot-like nose, brown eyes, and an almost bald head. Well, the bald head he knew because everyone else teased him about it. He pictured him now speaking out of his half-broken teeth and smiling proudly.

Congratulations were in order, and hesitatingly, Ben congratulated Anil.

My son, Jason, has also been asking me to come over and stay with him, you know, said Ben. He lives in the US, New York City. He owns a nice, big apartment there, overlooking Central Park, I think. He says – ‘Dad, I don’t know what to do with such a big place. I want you to come over.’ I always tell him that I want to spend the rest of my life among my own people. He coughed a little.

The others glanced at each other and smiled.

Yes, of course, Ben. I am sure he says that. Why don’t you tell him to come over to meet you? We have heard so many stories about him in the past five years. It would be nice to see him as well, said Anil, smirking, not even trying to control the chuckle that followed.

Hmm. Perhaps I will,, said Ben Even if it was only to shut your mouth.

Hey, don’t get upset, Ben, old man. I was just joking. I understand that these young people nowadays keep so busy that taking a long vacation for anything is impossible.

Hmmph, said Ben as he got up slowly, supporting himself with his cane. My best wishes for your travel, Anil. Hope you have fun at your son’s home. He turned towards the door and tapped his cane as he moved forward. I will see the rest of you next week, he said as he waved his hand behind his back.

Slowly he walked off, the others staring behind him.

I pity him, living all alone like that. It must get difficult at times, I am sure, said Anil as the others nodded.

None of them noticed a young man in a brown jacket, sitting quietly in a corner. He was staring at the employment section of a newspaper, but his attention was focused on this conversation. He hadn’t ordered anything. As he saw Ben leave, he quickly folded the paper and walked out behind Ben.

Ben went straight to the grocer.

Is my stuff ready? I hope at least this time you have got everything I asked for?

Good to see you too, Ben, the grocer smiled. Yes, everything is here. Packed, just as you like it. I have not seen anyone else who is so particular about how the groceries are packed.

Yes, yes. Whims and fancies of an old man. Anyways, tell your boy not to be late this time. Last week he was so late that I had to go without my tea in the evening.

I will tell him. Don’t worry. I had told him last week after your call. But I don’t think he will repeat it again after your scolding last time.

Hmmph. No one cares about the rants of an old man anymore, he muttered as he paid for his groceries.

The man in the brown jacket was standing just outside, listening.

Ben walked a little farther and went to a small shop to buy a cigarette packet.

How are you, Uncle Ben? said the shopkeeper. Here is your usual. He said, handing over a packet of cigarettes to him.

Ben nodded, paid for the packet and moved on, tapping with his cane, holding the cigarette pack in his hand. Just round the corner, sat an old beggar.

Here you go, Joe, said Ben, smiling for the first time.

Ah, it’s Friday again, is it? Thank you, Ben, old man. You’re a savior if any there was un, he said as he took the packet from Ben’s extended hand and kissed the cellophane wrapping as if it was manna from heaven.

Not more than 1 per day, Joe, not more than one. I tell you, if I hear that you are smoking more than that, I will stop your supply.

Nah, said Joe. I ne’er broke a promise, old man, and I made ’un to you. I ain’t breaking it.

Tapping his cane, Ben moved on, followed at a distance by the brown-jacketed man. Suddenly he stopped and looked back.

Had he been seen? thought the stalker. Not possible, he assured himself. He can’t see.

Ben shrugged his shoulders and continued towards his home. He fumbled for his keys at the door and shuffled inside. A welcoming bark of a small dog could be heard.

It was a small house with a living room and 2 bedrooms. It was a short distance from the main town, and there were no other houses close by. There was a small area outside, which had been a garden at some time. Now, it was just a patch of unkempt grass.

The brown-jacketed man smiled. This might be the answer. He turned back towards the town and went to a shabby room in a small inn. A little boy was sitting in the dull light of a bedside lamp in the windowless room.

Sid! Thank God you are back, said the boy. I was getting worried.

It’s ok, little brother. We won’t have to stay here for long. I might have found a solution to our problem. But we have some work to do before that. Now listen carefully, Shiva, and do exactly as I say.

Sid sent Shiva off to town every day for the next few days, eavesdropping on conversations, asking questions, and talking to other children about the old blind man.

Ben had come to this town five years ago because of his wife’s desire to spend her last few months in the countryside. She had died a few months after they had arrived, but he had continued to stay on. He had damaged his eyesight in an accident when he was young. He was a recluse – did not talk much, did not like to meet many people. He always stayed in his house except on Fridays when he met his few friends at the coffee shop, paid to have his groceries delivered, and returned home. His son, Shiva discovered, was a banker living in the US. He had never visited the old man, not even after the death of his mother.

It is perfect, said Sid. You will have that operation, Shiva. I will not let you lose your eyesight. He looked at his younger brother, ruffled his soft brown hair, and kissed his forehead.

Now, he said, straightening himself, we will go to the city today. We have to buy some new clothes for ourselves. We have to look the part even if it means spending the last of what we have.

They checked out of the inn. That evening, dressed in their smart new clothes, carrying an almost empty suitcase, armed with the information they had gathered, the brothers went to the cottage at the far end of the small town.

Sid’s hand shook a little as he rang the bell. He had never done anything like this before. But now was not the time to back down. This was his chance to give Shiva a new life.

Who is it? came an irritated voice.

It’s me, Dad, Jason, replied Sid.

Jason? How can it be? came the voice. There was a shuffling inside. Excited barks followed - a search for the cane. There was a loud clang as the cane hit a metal vase which fell on the carpeted floor with a thud. The old man cursed and tapped his way towards the door.

Sid knew the next few moments were the most important. It would either lead them inside to a comfortable bed or to the hard bed in prison.

Is it really you, Jason? said Ben, as he opened the door.

Yes, Dad, said Sid, as Ben touched his face with his hand.

I can’t believe it. How have you been, son? Why didn’t you tell me you are coming home? I would have prepared a room for you, got some things ready.

It was all in a hurry, Dad, and I wanted it to be a surprise. I had to come to India for some work, so I decided to take a few weeks off and spend some time with you. You have been saying for so long that you wanted to see me.

Oh, it’s great that you are here now. Come in, come in. Sit down, said Ben waving his hand towards the sofa. You will have some tea? Or, are you an American now needing juice or coffee? What would you like? Timmy, Timmy, old boy, control your excitement. Stop your barking. He is family.

Juice would be good, Dad.

Ben got some juice and offered it to Jason. Sid quietly gave the glass to Shiva, who drank it all in a single breath. Shiva sat next to Timmy, patting the dog as it sighed in happiness.

Timmy seems to like you, Jason. So, how was your flight? Did you travel business class again? said Ben, picking up the vase and putting it back on the shelf.

Umm, yes, yes, I did, Sid replied.

And how is work? How is Rhonda, still after your life?

Yes, she still is. You know how she is.

But hadn’t you told me she had moved to another city?

I did? Umm…yes, she has. Of course. But what with the technology, it isn’t really difficult to be after someone.

You seem a little harried. Why don’t you rest? It’s probably because of the long flight.

Timmy moaned as Shiva patted him.

Ben turned in Shiva’s direction and seemed to stare for a few seconds. Shiva and Sid both held their breath. Could the old man see?

He turned and, tapping his cane, waved for Sid to follow him.

Come, I will show you to your room. His voice seemed a little far off as if he was thinking something, as if he was not sure of what was happening.

It was natural, of course, to be a little off, thought Sid. Anyone would be if their long-gone son suddenly popped out of nowhere.

Thank you, Dad. We will talk in detail tomorrow. I think I will just go off to sleep now.

Shiva slipped in quietly into the room and sat down on the bed. Timmy followed, wagging his tail.

Is there someone with you, son?

Fear jumped in Sid’s eyes, and Shiva stopped all movement afraid to exhale.

No, Dad. Of course not. It’s just Timmy.

Ok, Ok. Timmy, come, boy. Time for your evening walk. Let Jason rest. I will see you tomorrow, son.

Timmy followed Ben outside. Sid watched them leave the cottage, then heaved a sigh of relief and shut his door.

Thank God, Shiva. For a moment, I thought he knew.

I thought he could see me! Just imagine what would happen.

True. He seems like a good man, though. I don’t like doing this to him, making him think I am his son. But, we need a place to stay, and we need money to get your operation done. I’ve already lost mom and dad. I can’t lose you, Shiva. You are the only family I have left. I will do anything, go to any lengths for you.

He heard a sound outside. He jumped to the door, opened it. Ben was back, standing by the telephone in the living room.

Could he have heard? No. He was too far off. The door was closed, and he was old. It was unlikely that he had heard anything.

Dad, you are back? I didn’t hear you come in.

Timmy didn’t feel like walking today, so we came back. You haven’t slept yet?

Sid smiled. Thank God, he didn’t hear anything.

I was just washing up. Off to bed now. Good night.

The next morning, Sid awoke to a smell of scrambled eggs and coffee. He woke Shiva up, and they both went into the kitchen. It had been days since they had had breakfast so warm and delicious.

Did you sleep well?

Yes, like a log.

I was worried that the bed might not be as comfortable as the one you are used to.

It was very comfortable, Dad. Don’t worry about me. This is a luxury.

Ben raised his eyebrows.

I mean it’s home, right. It is always luxurious if you are with your family.

Ben smiled. Glib like your mother.

Shiva gobbled breakfast from Sid’s plate and passed on an occasional bite to Timmy as well.

The travel seems to have made you quite hungry,