The Phone

By 3 Bird View

What would you do with one more call?

The Phone seems to pop innocently into existence for anyone, in what feels like their hour of greatest need. But what is spoken into the receiver changes more in our world than it does for the dead.

Inspired by real events, experienced and debut a

• Language: English
• Publisher: 3 Bird View
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781088003442

Book preview

Introduction to the Phone

2010, Ōtsuchi Japan, Itaru Sasaki put the finishing touches on an unconventional passion project that was about to speak to the broken hearts of tens of thousands of strangers and echo across the globe. His inspiration? Grief. Itaru missed talking to his deceased cousin. So, he chose a simple rotary phone, connected to nothing, and placed it lovingly in the back corner of his garden.

Less than a year later, survivors of Japan’s devastating tsunami heard about the phone. They began a pilgrimage to the coastal city of Ōtsuchi. A line several miles long quickly formed behind Itaru’s home. Strangers waited patiently for hours, days, and even weeks, for their turn to pick up an empty shell of a phone in a glass booth and say goodbye.

2020 Olympia, Washington. The world is in the first year of facing off with COVID-19 as it carves out a swath of death and social destruction around the world. Worse still, as part of the efforts to contain the virus, family and friends are lucky to shout tearful goodbyes through video screens held by exhausted medical staff. An individual, inspired by Itaru’s phone, mounts a rotary phone on a tree in a national forest. The plaque explains its purpose in case they don’t know about Itaru’s phone; for people to tell their dead what they’d lost the chance to say in life.    

With 2021 only weeks away and our collective futures still uncertain, I had the idea to create an anthology based on these telephones of the wind, as the news stories called them. The resulting works in this anthology are the original ideas of experienced and emerging authors, some of whom challenged themselves to write outside their preferred genre.

This core group of writers is joined by notable, well-published authors, and others to bring this unruly collection of second chances to you. We hope you’ll laugh, rage, get goosebumps, and experience the full range of ‘feels’ that rise up in any of us when presented with the opportunity to say what otherwise would have gone unsaid. 

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UPDATE:

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November 2021, Priest Point Park, Olympia Washington, a telephone of the Winds becomes a permanent fixture in the national park.

We can’t all go to Japan, or the Pacific Northwest. So, I hope one day there are Phones around the world. But until then, I’ve included a chance for you to ‘talk’ on the Phone in the last pages of this book.

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How to read this anthology:

This book is organized so that no two types of story are next to the other, both for variety as well as breathing room. If read cover to cover, they build to a greater impact in the last stories.

It can also be enjoyed by randomly flipping to any story.

And lastly, the final story is yours. I’ve begun it by getting you to a Phone. All you have to do is write in a name, then start wring out what you have been waiting to say.

Chapter 1

Emotional Support

BY J. KOMP

"T hadius, put the dragon egg back in your pocket until show-and-tell, I will not ask you again, Teacher said, and turned back to the shy girl at the front of the class. Please continue, Victory."

The girl’s black eyes shimmered with fear, bottom lip quivering as she searched her paper.

There, there. Deep breath and chin up, little one. I’ve been looking forward to this all week, Teacher said, with an encouraging smile. You were just telling us how no one knows where the Phone comes from, or where it goes.

The emotional support dragon at Victory’s feet, apple green with a long body and equally long whiskers, wound around the girl’s leg and gave an encouraging nuzzle. Teacher made a mental note to resupply her secret stash of dried fish treats for the creature. Victory found her place, spit out the lock of lavender hair she was chewing on, and continued.

It can show up any place. Even under water. The Phone makes no sounds, so you will never hear it ring. You will know it when you see it because it is always shiny, like silver. You can always read the letters, no matter where you are from. When you dial a name, the letters glow, but only if who you are calling is dead. If they are not dead, the letters will not glow. The Phone lets us talk to anyone who died. But they can’t talk back, only listen. Some people say it makes them very sad. But I think it can make us happy, too. If I ever see the Phone, I will call my uncle Leroy, and I will be happy because he gave me Gaba when I was very sad. The end. 

The ten-year-old finished with a bow and a kiss on Gaba’s waiting head. The class clapped, offering congratulatory pats and awkward handshakes as the pair returned to their assigned seats. 

Excellent presentation, Victory. Possibly one of the best I’ve heard yet, Teacher said, returning to her place at the front of the class. Now, does anyone have any more questions about the Phone before we begin our essays?

A dozen hands went up. 

Yes, Lolly, she said, motioning to the tall redhead in the back. What is your question?

The heavily freckled teen stood, but her emerald eyes remained fixed on her desk. Um, what if I wanted to call someone in another world? Or maybe I wanted to call a version of myself in a parallel world. Could I?

The snickers in the front went silent with a look from Teacher as the blushing teen sank into her seat. 

Good question, Lolly. I see the books professor Anis recommended have been useful, Teacher said. The Phone can call anyone who is dead, including a version of yourself, as long as you know their name in that realm. Thus far, no one has been restricted by distance or dimensions that I am aware of. Who else has a question?

Hands went up again.

Ohdum? Teacher said, waving a hand at Victory’s older brother.

The gregarious fourteen-year-old stood with a noticeable, if under developed, swagger. His radiant smile was a beacon of white teeth against his ebony skin and caused a fluttering of hearts in the room. Teacher resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but only barely.

What if I don’t want to wait for the Phone to come to me? Ohdum said, winking at a cluster of wide-eyed worshipers. I’m a busy guy.

Then I suggest you either inherit wealth or put more effort into your geography and outdoorsman classes, Ohdum, she said, reaching into her reserves of patience. Many explorers have spent a lifetime following the Phone from place to place, paying fortune-tellers and other masters of divination for clues as to its whereabouts. I don’t recommend it as a lifestyle choice. Next? Yes you, Asher.

The gender-neutral, ten-year-old stood, looking decidedly bored. Or was it impatient? Teacher couldn’t always tell. They scooped up the hair they had left—one side was shaved—and held in a one-handed ponytail atop their head, eyes pinched shut, as they spoke. 

What if someone dials a name … Asher swallowed hard. What if it’s not their name anymore?

All eyes turned to Teacher.

I’m so glad you asked, Asher. As you all know, there is power in a name, both in the ones we’re given, and the ones we choose. The Phone may call the dead, but it will never connect a call for a dead-name. Who can tell me how you know if the call is connected and the deceased is listening? It was in Victory’s presentation. 

Anka nearly came out of her seat, and Teacher was glad, not for the first time, for the familiar that launched itself at the eleven-year-old’s chest. It was the fattest orange cat Teacher had ever seen and had disturbed the class on more than one occasion with its snoring. But every time Anka lost control of her impulses, Garnet reined her in.

You know they’re listening because the name glows gold, but you know the colors changed because when they aren’t gold, they’re blue.

Anka. 

My cousin saw the Phone once and was going to try to call the goat they had for dinner, but I knew it wouldn’t work because there’s no way to know if the other goats called them by the same name—  

Anka?

—and nobody speaks goat, at least not since Grammy died last winter. My moms think I don’t know she’s dead, because they told me she went to live on a farm in the mountains— 

That’s quite enough, Anka! Teacher said, finally able to cut the child off. I’m sure that is a discussion for you and your moms. One last question—Thaduis, I know I told you to put that dragon egg away.

  The eight-year-old’s bottom lip hung out so far, Teacher had the urge to tug on it. His blond hair stuck up on one side and his gray eyes were still too big for his face. The boy pushed the egg back into his pocket with a face like he was being forced to eat moldy bread. 

I just wanna see if it’s hatched yet, he said, in a voice that deepened the furrow in his brow. 

Teacher knelt next to him so they were at eye level, but not directly in front of him so he wouldn’t feel defensive. I know it’s hard to wait for your dragon. But I think that if you and your dad saved up for a whole year to get it, you can keep it warm in your pocket for this last hour, like you’re supposed to.

I heard that pocket-hatched dragons understand you from the day they come out of their shells, Ohdum said, leaning in and lowering his voice like he was sharing a big secret. The younger boy looked up at him in awe. It’s true. Victory kept her egg in her pocket for weeks and Gaba doesn’t listen to anyone but her.

Teacher mouthed a heart-felt ‘thank you’ to Ohdum for stepping up, then stood and faced the class again.  

Last question about the Phone. Jailynn.

The senior girl rose to her full four feet with the assistance of crutches. Her center parted, black hair, was as glossy as spilled ink against the warmth of her tawny complexion. And though on the quiet side for girls her age, Teacher had learned that the eighteen-year-old missed nothing. She preferred not to speak until she was sure it was called for, and only when it was productive to the conversation.

         Can the deceased choose not to accept the call that is placed?

Teacher couldn’t help but smile.

Very good, Jailynn, she said, and began passing out papers for the essay as she explained. "Yes. In that instance, the name would light when it is dialed, but go dark as soon as the caller started speaking. If the caller makes more than one attempt, the name of the deceased continues to light up for them, because they are dead. But the instant they speak, or within a few words, the glow of the name winks out, the letters all returning to their blue glow. 

"Now, some speculate that if a rejected caller was willing to wait in silence, to sit with the reasons their call might be rejected, then the soul they are calling will listen, and the name stays lit. It’s hard to say, of course. Those individuals typically lack the patience or open mindedness that is part of a healthy conversation. 

"You see, children, just because you’re the one doing all the talking on the Phone, doesn’t mean you can stop listening. What we say, what we don’t say, how we say it, it all matters for us as well as who we’re speaking with. A call on the Phone, for one to really get the most out of it, is a reflection of who we are because we knew the person we’re talking to."

Teacher set the last essay paper down on Thadius’s desk and turned to find every face watching her with a confused expression. Her heart fell a little. 

Never mind, she said, forcing a smile. They’d all know soon enough. Quills up. No scrying for ideas or checking your books. Between Victory’s presentation, our lively discussion, and the reading you were assigned on the full moon, this should be easy. No half-hearted answers, either. I want you to really think about what you would say if you could talk on the Phone today. You have thirty minutes, starting … now.

Teacher turned over an hourglass and knelt in front of the front row of eight-year-olds. A flourish of her hand made their blank papers sparkle until each revealed an image of the dialing wheels of the Phone.

See where there should be letters? I want you to fill in the alphabet in order. Then, I want you to think of who you would call. Write their name at the bottom of the page, then use your chalks to color the buttons. Be sure to color the letters for that name yellow. Any questions?

There was no need to ask. Every head was bent to their task. Teacher retrieved a bag of assorted dried meats and nuts from her desk. As she walked around the class, she rewarded an emotional support-dragon here, a familiar there, and the odd accessibility squirrel rushing to the front for a new quill or more ink.  

The late autumn sun shone through the stained glass, framing each window, and casting colorful patches on the students. A decorative metal grate covered the fireplaces at either end of the school, adding a delicious crackling as the enchanted logs burned, were restored, and burned again.

It was in these moments of quiet that Teacher often stopped to consider the hundreds of classes that had, and would yet still, pass through this room. Each beam in the ceiling had been lovingly grown by Wood Nymphs. Each stone of the floor was smoothed and polished at high tide by Merfolk. And the walls were built with a brick from the home of every family or clan in the community. Everywhere she looked, the commitment to the next generation echoed back at her. On days like that, it was as good as an embrace from the ancestors.

The sand in the hourglass ran out and papers were turned in. Older students found their younger partners, and the pairs made quick work of tidying up. Then, it was a flurry of farewells and children gathering their coats and caps for the hayride that waited to take them home. Teacher almost wished she could join them, but she knew they needed that time to just be children reveling in the change of seasons.

Alone in the classroom, Teacher raised both hands as if leading an unseen orchestra and began with a flick of her wrist. She shooed the students’ assigned desks into a half circle, in preparation for their lessons when they returned from their autumn break. The twin fires in the hearths snuffed themselves out with a snobbish huff, floor length curtains closed themselves like an old man keeping out the cold, and lamp flames wilted as if lured into a deep slumber. When the expansive room was still, only deepening shadows remained to guide the echo of her boots to her closet by the main door.

Teacher removed her work apron, hung it on its peg, and adjusted her vest until it fit right with her divided skirts. The sleeve protectors came off easily, and she rolled them together before putting them back in their cubby. She pulled on her fitted cloak, wrist warmers, and scarf before one last check in the mirror.

A single, blue chalk fingerprint smudged her cheek from Thadius’s attempts to get her attention. She was willing to bet the egg in his pocket was quite blue as well. She smiled, licked her thumb, and scrubbed it off, checking the tattoo on the right side of her face for more. The vivid branches and vines, bearing symbols for leaves, ran under her chin, along her jaw, wrapped around her ear, up to her temple, and finished with a flourish at the hairline, but there was no more blue dust.

She considered going with one hair color for the walk home but decided against. The patchwork of colors and textures, identifying her as being from a Changeling clan, was better suited to the fall colors. A quick tug on the pins in her bun and the neat twists of color fell free and she stepped outside. A few strands were caught by the evening breeze. They tickled her face as she locked the tall, hand-carved doors of the school and set off, leaving the mantle of Teacher in the repository of learning until she returned.

Tilleah’s usual route took her through the bustling town, past open markets, and lively music. But an afternoon spent listening to book reports about the Phone had left her wistful and in need of the renewing hand of nature. So, she turned toward the coastline instead.

The sun sank into the ocean, the rising tide creeping closer to knobby mounds of tall grass and the ancient woods beyond. Lapping waves turned the charcoal sand into the darkest shades of black. Tilleah walked just out of the water’s reach until the grass became rising hills, and those became jagged cliff faces. She followed a familiar trail through rocks and boulders, passing a series of caves that echoed with the calls of seals and under an arch shaped like a bull elephant with its trunk drinking from the sea.  

As the last of the sun was swallowed by the ocean, its light flashed and danced across the waves. A glint of silver caught Tilleah’s eye. She scanned a cluster of rocks ahead, where the cliff dipped to become rolling hills and grass again. There, as if waiting for the tide to take it back out to sea, was the Phone.

Tilleah smiled, thanked the impulse that had brought her that way, and strolled over as if savoring the reunion with an old friend. By the time she reached the silver box, a low fog had risen from the sand and swirled around the soles of her wet boots. The soft blue light from the buttons reminded her of the stars already sparkling in the velvety black sky.

I was wondering when I’d see you again, old friend, she said. Tilleah lifted the handset, her touch soft as a caress as she pressed each letter. A golden yellow glow reflected off the fog in response.

How do you always know when I need to talk to you? she began, pausing to soak in the last cries of seagulls overhead and the crash of the surf beyond. One of the younger boys in class reminded me of you today. He’s so impatient to have his little dragon companion, it’s nearly impossible to keep him focused on anything else. But there’s something in the symmetry of his cheeks and the gray of his eyes—

She stopped to swallow the surge of feelings.

If you were here, you’d probably tease me, call me sentimental or something. I’m just glad that twenty-one years hasn’t stolen the memory of your face from me. I watch the older children preparing to choose their first apprenticeships and wonder what path you would have taken. You’d be finished and into a second or have started your trade by now, I imagine.

Tilleah was about to repeat the regrets and grief of past conversations, but paused. She didn’t want that, didn’t need it tonight, so she changed course.

Actually, since I have you, she said, her tone brightening. I want to let you know that I’ve changed my tradition around celebrating your birthdays, as of this year. I didn’t really plan to. Probably just tired of only crying under a blanket on those days. So, this year, I went off by myself to a little beach house on the peninsula. Something about the change of scenery lured me out of isolation. At first, I told myself I was being selfish, walking through shops and markets when I’d planned to make the day all about you. But then it occurred to me that if you’d lived more than those six months, I’d be lucky to pull you away from your life for more than a few hours. But maybe, if we’d been able to stay close, you’d give me your birthday. There was so much of this world that I wanted to show you.

Tilleah’s hand went to her pocket, her fingers searching for the medallion she’d bought at one of the shops to remember her little boy. She found it and traced the sand dollar pattern as she continued.

I think we would have had fun exploring new places, making new memories. So, I decided to pretend the rest of that day that you were with me. As soon as I thought about it, it felt right, like it was something you’d want for me. I spent the rest of the day acting as if you were with me. In my head, when I found something I would have pointed out to you, I imagined your reaction. And then I looked through all their curious baubles, pausing to consider the things I thought you might point out to me for being especially strange or rare. When I came to a shop with cake, I bought a slice and stopped to savor it on a balcony overlooking the water. That evening, as a storm rolled in, I walked out to the edge of the pounding surf and whispered how much I love and miss you into the wind … I think that was when I decided to make that kind of day our new birthday tradition.

She could stop right there. She could stop and end the call with only happy things, but lying to her son about his birthday wasn’t something that was in