Bumblebee: And Other Stories

By Zach Elliott

Brief moments resolve into the love lives of a couple in Tick Tock, while a trip down memory lane could spell disaster for a couple in The Bells of Spring. In Playing to Live, a woman barred from her passion searches for a way to reclaim it. An author struggles to separate himself from his character in Metamary. Striking the Set follows a dutiful but largely ignored son as he arranges a final meeting for his dying father with his much favored brother. And in the signature story, Bumblebee, a young girl gains control over time and destiny in a way that draws the attention of ancient and powerful beings. These stories and others await when you explore the sharply realized, melancholy-tinged worlds of Zach Elliott.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504959261

Zach Elliott

Zach Elliott has been writing his entire life. If ultrasounds had been invented at the time, there would likely be grainy photographs of him scribbling in utero. He writes and engages in his other obsessive behaviors in Madison, Wisconsin, where he’s a frequent contributor to local radio station WORT. He has a wonderful wife and two (mostly) wonderful teenage daughters. This is the first of several short story collections he has planned.

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© 2016 Zach Elliot. All rights reserved.

Front cover illustration by Ingrid Kallick. Back cover photo by Ella P. Carlson.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/15/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5927-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-5926-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015918603

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Playing To Live

Tick Tock

But the Freedom Is Forever

Striking the Set

Metamary

The Bells of Spring

Action/Inaction

Outcripped

Truth Be Told

Bumblebee

Acknowledgements

For Devon, who is wise

Blake, who is brave

and Sharon, who is patient.

Playing To Live

Diedre's hand ran along the top of the piano. No small fingerprints from her students any more. It was perfectly polished like a museum piece, radiant in its disuse.

Her husband, Alan, winced. You know what I said before. Mother doesn't approve of women playing instruments. He gave her a brief, searching look. We've had this discussion.

Yes, we have. We're having it again. She said this not fiercely, but as a bored discovery. She settled on the bench, facing away from her instrument.

There, there Diedre. He patted her shoulder dismissively, as if she were a house pet. I know it's awful, but there's nothing to be done about it, is there? You know mother never budges on her beliefs.

No, she's very...principled. Diedre's gaze drifted out the window, to the blue house across the street and two doors down. Eunice and her sharp ears had them both on a very short leash, indeed.

Diedre steadfastly refused to rescue her husband from the ensuing silence. She did not reveal any of the satisfaction she felt in his discomfort.

I'm afraid she remains unpersuadable on the subject, Alan finally said.

Her hand moved as if to take his, but then stopped and fell back to her side. But that's not how you feel, is it? This time it was her with the assessing countenance.

He smiled at her. I like to think I'm a modern man.

She made herself smile back at him. I'm sure of it.

He looked relieved, happy that their fight was over. Well, if you don't mind, then, I think I'll take the car into town for a couple of things I need.

That would be fine.

After he left, she turned to the piano, remembering the parade of children who used to sit beside her on the wide, hard bench: assorted prodigies ranging from bored to angry to excited. That magic moment when a select few took off--how fun it was to teach them! For her special students, she would ask the parents for an extra fifteen minutes, and then play a piece to inspire them. Usually something angry like Beethoven for the boys and something romantic like Liszt or Rachmaninoff for girls. A few kept up with it. A couple played for church choirs, and several taught music to children as she had. Lynn Schneider was even accepted to Julliard, though later she'd dropped off the edge of the earth.

That was all so long ago, before this reasonable marriage which had come up short of her modest expectations. And that was even before Eunice showed up and stripped her life of the one truly joyous thing in it. Deidre had not even opened the key cover on the piano in years. She opened it halfway now, and was surprised to see the keys still there, lined up like little bodies in white burial shrouds.

The afternoon slid into evening with the minutes passing much as they did every night. They ate dinner. She made Alan's favorite meal, potato soup. After, he had several bourbons, until such time as he found it impossible to focus on the book he now merely held. He came over to where she was reading and gave her a kiss on the forehead, after which he hauled his bulky frame up the narrow steps to their bedroom. Heavy snores, easily heard downstairs, would start within minutes.

Diedre waited a half hour past the first snore, then made her brief, hushed preparations. She let herself out the back door, guiding its latch to a silent docking, and passed into a mellow summer night alive with the sound of crickets. The streetlight at the corner was still burned out, leaving the moonless sky nearly black. Across the street from her house was an alley which fed almost immediately into a smaller path running between the houses.

Eunice's gate slid open soundlessly, no doubt oiled by her dutiful son. Deidre went up to the back door and let herself in with the spare key from Alan's ring. Inside, she pulled off her sandals and padded barefoot through the house: large kitchen first, then the dining room. By memory she carefully navigated the too familiar surroundings--the site of many dinners where she'd sat, often without speaking a word the entire evening.

A staircase led up to the private quarters, where she had never been. Her hand found the bannister just as she heard a snore--the mother's a softer version of the son's.

Diedre followed the sound to the bedroom. She heard the old woman sleeping in the near darkness. Waiting a few moments, she allowed the dim forms to take shape in her vision. Then, slowly, she walked around the bed to pick up a spare pillow. Her hand on the bed to guide her, she made her way back around to her mother-in-law.

She gathered resolve for a moment, then plunged the pillow onto Eunice's face.

Diedre felt all of the struggling woman's emotions; surprise, then anger, then panic, and finally surrender. It was several minutes after the old lady stopped moving before Diedre relented. She had to be sure. She couldn't start over.

Afterwards, she found the linen closet and put fresh pillowcases on the pillow she used and the one Eunice was laying on. She left her mother-in-law positioned as she had found her, in peaceful repose.

With a small towel from the linen closet, she wiped down the few things she'd touched on her way upstairs. By the back door, she slipped her sandals back on, wiped the doorknob inside and out, did the same at the gate, and then quietly made her way home and to bed.

After not getting his good morning call or his midmorning check-in at work, Alan went straight to mother's at lunch and discovered the body. He took it very hard, of course, blubbering night and day for weeks. Diedre convincingly played the role of daughter-in-law in mourning, agreeing with her husband that it was a terrible surprise, and that Eunice had seemed reasonably fit for a seventy-year-old woman. But, she would remind him, you just never know.

It was nearly a full month