Late Light

By Michael J. Bowden

A grandfather's magic. A machine to collect excitement. A way to live two lives at once. An endless to-do list. Time-travel hopelessness. A colony built on a giant.

 

Six unconnected tales that have only one thing in common: each asks an important question. What do you do when nothing works? How can you live fully? Can you have it all? Can you do it all? When the loss is too great, why do you continue? And when the story is too true, how do you live it? Like shadows, growing when the day is late and the light is coming in, the answers you find may stretch long, reaching and fading, spooling out in blacks and grays. But don't worry; just like shadows themselves, these thoughts are filled with light.

 

Michael Bowden is a dad and a teacher, wrapped up in science and language. He lives in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, with his wife, two kids, one dog, and two cats. For more on him and his work, visit michaelbowden.ca. Stay awhile, put your feet up, get comfy. He's a private guy, but he's easily sociable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael J. Bowden
• Release date: Aug 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223138983

Book preview

LATE LIGHT

Copyright © 2023 by Michael J. Bowden

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.  Or if you teach, feel free to share with your students!

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination – as far as he knows. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental and not entirely conscious.

Printed somewhere, wherever print on demand is good quality and low price.

For more information, or to book an event, contact:

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http://www.michaelbowden.ca

Book design by getcovers

Cover design by getcovers

First Edition:  August 2023

LATE LIGHT

Short Stories by

Michael J. Bowden

For Ping, who made me sit beside him as he fell asleep every night.  A lot of this was written as I sat on the stool by your bed.

And for Maya, who let me read her stories before bedtime and had lots to say about what she didn’t like...and what she loved.

And for Laurie, who put up with all my angst about writing something worth reading.  You never doubted I could, even though I often did.

Thank you.

Death twitches my ear and says ‘Live. I am coming.’

Brendon Burchard, as quoted in The Charge

Of all the things that die, hope is the most easily resurrected.

Brent Weeks, The Burning White

We are haunted by what could be.

The author

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION     P. 11

The False Shining, and the True  p. 15

Catalyst     p. 52

Two Eggs, One Eggcup   p. 86

The To-Do List    p. 103

Pinballing     p. 156

Songstones     p. 207

Afterword     p. 267

INTRODUCTION

I’ve always wanted to write an introduction. I’m very excited about this.

I won’t spend a lot of time here (saying that, as it’s my first one and I want it to be awesome, I’ll probably read the thing several dozen times – so I’ll spend a lot of time here, but I won’t take up too much of yours). You picked this up to read some good fiction, for a bit of escapism, for that old mental magic of writing – as Stephen King aptly put it, getting what I see in my head into yours, which is really the whole point of the exercise. And its great magic, really; like most clichés, so true as to be mundane. But that doesn’t make it any less magic.

As for the stories in here, I can’t honestly tell you how old they are. I wrote them as part of a NaNoWriMo experience (for the uninitiated, that’s National Novel Writing Month), finishing the most promising of them over the next year or so. What’s humbling about the experience is I sent them all out, one after the other, to the few magazines and online sites that published fiction of: one, the genre, and: two, the length. And getting summarily rejected. I set up those dominoes, and they were all knocked down, between two and eight weeks of emailing. Ah well, I thought, I’ll have a collection of my own short fiction someday, and I won’t have to worry about word count or story length. Short story, novella, or novelette. See, a good number of these stories are too long for most magazines and too short to stand alone, and I suppose I could have edited them down to a more publishable length, but at some point you have to decide how much effort you’re going to put into something that probably needs to get out of your brain cage and breathe the fresh air of a world unhindered. And there are more stories to write, waiting their turn.

I said humbling, right? So, those uncounted years ago, having rough-drafted each story and printed them up and then rereading them and having my wife and a friend or two take a gander, I thought: ok. These are done. They are ready for the larger world. I am at ease showing them to a critical public and having them judged. This work represents the best of me. And no, I didn’t outright say those things to myself, but my philosophy is, if you’re going to do something, then do it as well as you can. The bright, unforgiving light of hindsight tells me that was exactly what I was thinking when I let those stories free.

However. I sat down in October this year to review these tales and I was surprised, nay distraught, by all the awkward shit I came across. The lack of clarity. The muddled plots. The outright spelling errors I found (and I have an old sense of pride about that; I am a good speller, I always have been, it dismays me more than it should when I come across a spelling error that I should have caught in ALL those rereads). Stories that I thought were ready for the world simply weren’t, and that series of rejections by a highly critical publishing establishment were cast in a new light. The lesson here? What I write now and what I write later will be noticeably mine – but it won’t be the same. I’m going to get better, and therefore change. That’s ok. That’s great. It also means I must be gentle with a past version of me who was more innocent and less savvy and clearly less critical than the present version of yours truly. But I think we’re equally hopeful, and equally starry-eyed, and as willing to don those rose-coloured glasses when the mood takes us.

With that said, it’s time to get these stories out where they can breathe a little and become whatever it is they’re meant to be. Not that I’m a fatalist – life is chaos and I’m, so far, a lucky rider on that wave – but whether stories are hewn from the madness that makes up the stuff of the world and fully the author’s work, or whether they pre-exist and we knock the chaff off them to find as much of the story that we can, I believe that the entire human experience comes down to storytelling. How we do that, and what we choose to say, shapes the worlds we live in.

The stories that follow have no common thread that I can identify. One is about a boy trying to figure out how his grandfather’s magic works so that he can use it for himself. In a good way, at least as far as he’s concerned. Another has to do with someone aching for a life that means something, to him and to everyone. The third is about an eggcup and a scientist and a marriage that might not last, and the fourth is about a frightening and overwhelming desire to check everything off a to-do list (I think most people I know have some version of that). The fifth story is the one I almost scrapped (more about that at the end) about a lonely time-traveler trapped by his own fear. And the final story is about a distant human settlement, cut off from the mother planet, and a forlorn boy who wishes desperately to believe in an origin stranger than can be allowed in the strict, survive-or-die nature of the settlement, the grandchildren of the pioneers.

So yeah, not much in common. Except, perhaps, what the title of this book suggests.

I kicked around a number of titles for this collection before discovering the title it bears. For the longest time, I called it ‘Curious Freedoms’, then some existential notions like ‘Odd Truths’ or ‘Unusual Wisdom’, mostly as hooks with a glancing relationship to the material herein. But if that magic is going to exist – that part where what I have in my head becomes a denizen of your own – then I’ve got to be more honest and hope it’s enough to hook your curiosity. That’s a big one for me: honesty. And so is curiosity.

I don’t know if what I have to say is what you need; perhaps you’re the wrong person for these stories (and no offense to you – I’m the wrong guy for British period drama about butlers and countesses, much to my wife’s dismay). If you’ve found no resonance with this book, I hope you pass it on to someone who may. And if I do ring true to some part of you, then all the better.

I’m happy to share.

Enjoy, and thanks so very much for reading.

Michael Bowden

Annaheim, Saskatchewan, 2022

THE FALSE SHINING, AND THE TRUE

The trouble with my grandfather’s magic was that it was useless. That sums it up pretty good. I guess you could also call it impractical, but why beat a dead horse? Not that my mom ever liked the comparison, but you catch my drift.

The other problem with the magic was that he could never explain to me how it worked. Couldn’t tell me why it was where it was. Magic isn’t something you explain, it’s something you do, he’d say. Fair enough, although my not understanding got me into a fair load of trouble one time.

But back to magic’s impracticality. Writing with clouds, as an example. Pretty as hell and twice as interesting. But useful? No.

Grandpa, where’s the magic?

He looked down at me, though I wasn’t much shorter than him, his lips pursed. I could see him thinking how to answer. But instead of telling me something I could use, he pointed to the sky instead. I followed his finger, looking up to an evening sky near sunset. Long wisps of white clouds striated towards the horizon, the descending day turning the sky a dark shade of blue.

What do you see? he asked me, his brown, wrinkled hand dark against the blue. I shrugged.

Nothing. Well, no. Some clouds. Seagulls.

Hmm. Yes, your favourite birds. Though really, he said, giving me a look from the corner of his eye, I still don’t understand why.

I shrugged. What was there to understand? Seagulls were beautiful, although not at first, not always. They vanished all winter and when you heard them cry again, it was a sign of spring. They weren’t flashy or boisterous, or rude and annoying and cheery like most of the songbirds that sang too loudly around our yard. They were more like quiet reminders of other places, keepers of knowledge from elsewhere. Deep knowledge, like the sea for which they are named. Mostly, it was the way their grayish bodies flashed bright white in the sun on a spring morning, or during sunset, transforming their drab feathers to something like white fire. I felt pretty drab too; who wouldn’t want to be so transformed? Maybe a bit of magic would go a long way.

So I stood there, under an early spring sky, watching the seagulls swoop and call, not realizing that my grandfather’s face was screwed up around the eyes. Mischievously.

Seagulls, he muttered. Well, I suppose they’re beautiful when the sun hits them.

And then it happened.

One bird made a long, looping curve in the sky, leaving a long smear on the cloud behind it. Another one swept by and did the same thing. As if their feathers were brush strokes on a canvas, marking the sky as they wheeled and spun and flashed overhead.  I felt my eyes grow wide with wonder, as they had so often in the past when my grandfather showed me magic; everything else sort of fell away, like my senses were muted to the world. Or maybe they were fully embracing the world, so I became a part of it. I think it’s the same thing. I was left with only a tingling, starting from my forehead and working its way back over my scalp and down my neck and into my spine, a shiver made by the slow, lovely, warm shock of wonder.

Mouth open, eyes wide, I saw a somewhat crooked smiley face in the clouds, one eye squinted in a wink. My grandfather’s face.

How did you do that?

He was looking up at the clouds with me.

I know you pretty well, I’d say. It isn’t always hard to see things through your eyes. It, well, lets us see together. He paused, thinking it through. We’re seeing together.

Can other people see this?

No, he replied, still gazing up at the lowering sun, the face in the clouds slowly blowing apart by a distant wind. It doesn’t work that way.

I turned to him. Is that where the magic is? In the wanting of it? I thought maybe it was in the bird, or in the cloud, but my idea sounded wiser. The magic was always somewhere, even though grandpa couldn’t tell me why it was there. Or even how he knew. Not that he was keeping secrets, he just couldn’t explain it. Or I couldn’t understand it. One of the two.

He chuckled. Looked up at the sky.

What kind of world would it be if we had whatever we wanted? Everyone would be beautiful and rich. Everyone would win the lottery. The self-help people would be out of business. He grunted. Good riddance.

I waited, looked back to the sky where the last remnants of the cloud face were rapidly being filled by the moving sunset.

"So where is the magic then, grandpa?"

He turned to me, looking a little lost.

It’s where it always is, he said. He waved a finger vaguely, taking in myself and himself and the sky above. In what is you and not you. See?

No, I didn’t see. Again, it was real pretty. And it was pretty useless.

I COULDN’T USE MAGIC to get better marks in English class or to pass a test in any class. I couldn’t use it to drum up the courage to talk to Rachel Tuttle and ask her my most burning question. And I couldn’t use it to finally put Ned Sommers in his place, far way from me and anyone else as humanly possible. For him, I wanted to summon a flaming sword or call down bolts of red lightning to fry his pig-eyed head, some elder mage in a story controlling the elements to wreak vengeance on those who deserved it. I wanted to do those things as easily as grandpa made coffee pour up from his mug into his thermos, or the way he could make the air smell like spring in the middle of a frozen prairie winter.

But no: magic, according to grandpa, just didn’t do that, but damn if he couldn’t tell me why. Which, like everyone with a normal grandpa, meant I was left to my own devices.

So my marks were crappy in English (and not just English). I avoided Ned Sommers. And Rachel...well, I had an idea about Rachel.

It came out of the thing grandpa had said about magic being what was you and not you. There was nothing between Rachel and I, so it made the most sense to get something there. I thought if I could borrow something from her and use it, then that would be something from both of us. And it would definitely get her attention. And then, well, open doorway, right? Just had to step through after that. Or something. Perhaps, even, get my burning question answered.

And maybe the magic would keep working and she would find me infinitely interesting. Who knew?

It came down to pencils.

Rachel, I’d noticed, only wrote with one kind of pencil, a yellow wooden one with a pink eraser on the end. She kept these pencils in a fattish brown pencil case, which was kind of weird – she just didn’t seem to be a brown pencil case kind of person. Also, she never used the pink erasers on the end of her pencils, she used a big white one instead. But she was always replacing her pencils with new ones when the erasers were gone because she chewed them off. And when the pencil had no eraser left, she would get out a new pencil with a new eraser, never use the eraser, chew the eraser off, and then get a new one. It must have driven her parents crazy, buying new pencils all the time. It would have driven my mom nuts. For me, it gave me a burning question:

Where did the pencils and chewed-off erasers go?

So I was thinking that if I could get one of her pencils and make sure she borrowed mine, then it would be a mine for hers swap. Something between the two of us. The symmetry of it was so enthralling that I knew it was the right way to go. The only way to go.

And that’s why I bought a brand-new box of pencils from an actual stationery store (for actual stationery store prices), and that’s why I asked the guy behind the counter for the softest-erasered pencils, and that’s why I hadn’t even questioned his recommendation because I was too excited about the magic. Actually, no, I was too excited about getting close to Rachel Tuttle, the girl who’d been on my mind since the fifth grade. That’s a long time.

When I got home, the beauty of my plan stumbled.

How would I manage the swap?

I thought about asking to borrow one of her pencils and then saying I’d lost it and give her one of the new ones I’d bought. It might work.  But there was the chance she’d never use my pencil at all, and then what? I didn’t actually know then what, so I kept thinking. Stealing a pencil was out of the question; I didn’t see anything magic about taking things that weren’t yours, but then I also got the strong feeling that I would need more than the one pencil from her. I would need her pencil case. The whole thing. And exactly what reason could I come up with that involved borrowing her entire pencil case? And then, what, pretending I’d lost it and give her the new pencils I’d spent two weeks using and nibbling and handling as much as possible?

Well, maybe.

I hadn’t spoken to Rachel for real since elementary school and I basically lacked the guts to start a conversation, one that would involve me purposefully taking something away from her that I knew she found important.

So I needed someone else to.

YO MONGREL, SAID MELVIN as I sat down opposite him in the cafeteria.

How’s she hanging, Mel? I said.

Who told you it was a she?

Your mom!

It was our usual banter. We both laughed. Mel has this great laugh, the kind of laugh a cool guy could never have – which is exactly why Mel has it. He throws his head back and makes a sound like a whistle, and it ends in a kind of honk as his breath runs out. Like a goose stuck to the front of a train. Even though we eat in the caf every day and he laughs every day, that sound still turns heads. I’ve even heard new kids commenting on it every now and then.

Yep, Mel. My only friend.

You got the dumbest laugh, Mel, I said, biting into my sandwich.

Screw you, Mongrel, he said cheerfully, slurping out of his straw.

Did your mom teach you that?

Just cause your mom likes it! He slurped again. And don’t talk with your mouth full, you’re scaring the ladies. I swallowed, smiled, and flipped him the bird. He returned it while pushing up his glasses. Bummer math class, huh? he asked, still with his straw in his mouth. Imaginary numbers. Who’d a thunk? Math didn’t bug me too much; I understood numbers. They made way more sense than words, which went a long way in explaining my English mark. But tell my parents that.

Apart from math, Melvin and I shared a period five gym class at the end of the day. It was our last ever gym class, not mandatory in grade 10, and I, for one, was looking forward to never beating the floorboards again. Also, I’m not exactly what you’d call athletic. I also hated the change room. Hated it.

Yeah, I replied, still chewing. Imaginary numbers. You’d think they could come up with a better name. It’s like the Big Bang.

Who’d you bang big? he asked, letting out the laugh again. I just shook my head.

After a moment I said: So listen, Mel. I need a favour. I was suddenly real nervous and had to breathe a little more than usual.

I don’t do it on the first date. He waggled his eyebrows, but his attention was taken by some graffiti on the table.

I was wondering, I said, swallowing. There was no good way to ask this question. If, uh...you could borrow Rachel’s pencil case and sort of...keep it. He raised his eyebrows, forgetting who was plus with who on the caf table. I’ll give it back to her, I said. Once you give it to me.

Rachel Tuttle? he asked, eyebrows climbing higher up his wide forehead and touching his bangs. What do you want Toots’s pencil case for?

Don’t call her Toots, I said. To explain that, Rachel had blossomed early (which was how my mom put it), and someone had seen a movie and brought the word to school and after enough time, a name like that just sticks. The kids who kept using that word needed a flaming sword up the jockstrap. And okay, from a purely male point of view, she was well-endowed. But that didn’t matter to