Where There Is Smoke...

Gold and orange painted the early morning clouds as the sun began its day. Gunter loved the mornings. The air was thick with promise. Birds left the safety of their roosts to provide for their young. As did Gunter.

He draped the heavy, warm, fur around his wide shoulders and soundlessly stepped out of the protection of the cave. He loved to watch his family as they slept in this dawn light. A peaceful sleep was rare and to be cherished, a gift from the gods.

Gunter walked the river edge, stooped and scooped handfuls of cold, fresh water. Splashing his face and taking several gulps, the chill focused his senses. The hunger for today’s bounty began to wake his mind and reflexes. Testing the flex of his spear, he began his ritual trek.

 The usual sounds and smells informed him where prey would be. As well as his daily hunting partner. They met at their habitual meeting place, Gunter and Togg. They had been adversaries and competitors for years until a small misfortune brought them mutually beneficial solutions to an unusually difficult year. Without words, they immediately began their hunt.

After successfully killing and dressing three beasts, Gunter and Togg decided to call it a day. Mostly because they smelled the oncoming storm. Neither enjoyed hunting in bad weather and because the hunt had been a success, there really was no need. Gunter had a sense that this storm was unusual and perhaps dangerous.

Rain didn’t bother the hunters, but their fresh prey would become heavy soon. And they knew their families were hungry and in need of fresh food. Getting stuck in a storm would delay gratification of hungry bellies.

The sudden flash blinded them.

*KABOOM*

A nearby tree exploded sending sharp splinters of wood in all directions. The men were tossed like dead fish on a river bed. Gunter, struggling to his feet, could see his friend face down a few feet away. He began to run to him but a stabbing pain in his leg stopped him abruptly. A piece of the exploded tree was lodged in his foot. He stopped to remove it when…

*KRAKOOM*

Another blinding flash and deafening explosion threw Gunter a good distance away. He woke sometime later to find Togg nudging him. Both men, stunned but otherwise unhurt, took stock of themselves and their surroundings. Gunter’s foot was bloody but unbroken. Their hunting bounty was scattered around amongst a lot of tree debris. The nearby trees were destroyed, black, and strangely, split open. 

The men gathered what they could and began to stagger back in the direction of their homes in a driving rain storm. But something else stopped them. Further ahead they saw something new and odd. Billowing into the sky above a tree line was a dark cloud. But this cloud was coming from the ground somewhere.

A sharp breeze brought a sample of this new oddity to the tired men. They both sniffed the air and immediately began to gag and cough. Neither had ever experienced anything like it before. It burned their eyes and throats. A grateful breeze and some quick feet brought fresh air. The rain washed the burning sensation away.

Now, a furious curiosity drove them both towards the toxic cloud source. Exhausted, cold, and wet, the men forged ahead towards this new phenomenon. And as they got closer the smell in the air changed. It was similar to the horrible experience from earlier but now it had different scents. The cloud was warm and getting warmer as they approached it. A strange glow pinpointed the location.

Sounds unheard before assaulted the hunters. Crackling, popping, and roaring that did not come from any living beast. In fact, the beasts were fleeing the forest in droves, not caring or aware that the hunters were there. But not all managed to escape.

Another new smell emerged as the men got closer to the source of the heat. Gunter let his nose lead him. The smell wasn’t entirely unpleasant. He approached an area blackened by this new glowing substance, sooty clouds and steam flurried around him. There, on the ground, a dead beast, boated and blackened. The smell coming from it made Gunter’s curiosity peak. His stomach growled. Why would it do that?

Near the body of the beast was a small patch of glowing heat. Gunter approached it carefully and reached out slowly. The heat increased the closer he reached. Just as he touched the bright glow…

“YOWL!!”

He withdrew his hand quickly and put a freshly stinging red finger in his mouth. The new thing hurt when touched, destroyed whatever it touched and produced heat and light. It also transformed beast flesh into a more appealing food. Togg had backed away a good distance, fear splayed across his face. Gunter was either a fool or braver than any other.

Gunter picked up a long branch and extended it toward the glowing heat and the fire erupted on the end that touched it. He smiled and waved his treasure around. Togg ducked and stepped back a good distance. Gunter reached out with the fire end of the stick and touched a nearby bush, it erupted in flames. He smiled broadly. The benefits of this new thing were enumerable.

Realizing the power he now wielded, his thoughts returned to his cold, dark, home and family. This would change his and their lives. Determined to bring this discovery home he and Togg used more fallen branches to construct a crude basket to drag the day’s hunt back to their home so Gunter could carry his treasure without burning himself or Togg.

During the long trek, Gunter was careful to transfer the dying flame to fresh fuel and was able to arrive home with victory on his face. His family was frightened of this magic. He tried to calm their fears, but they cowered deeper into the cave. The strange wonder he carried must have affected Gunter in some way. He would never bring such danger home. Calmly, he commanded Togg to gather loose fuel and pile it near the entrance to the cave. Once adequate, Gunter touched his flaming stick to the pile. It ignited and at once the cave lit up and began to warm. He took a single flaming stick and gave it to Togg as compensation for his help and sent him home.

Gunter urged his family to join him near the fire. It was dark and cold and wet outside the cave, but now, for the first time, it was light, and warm and dry inside their home. His son’s curiosity nudged him forward, which in turn, inspired his mate to cautiously do the same.

Pleased with his family’s apparent comfort and happiness with his discovery, Gunter joined them by the fire. He shared his story with them and also showed them how their food could be much better after roasting in the hot coals. He had never felt such contentment.

Shadows played on the walls of the cave. He and his son moved their arms around to make the shadows move. This was some entertainment. Then something in Gunter’s peripheral caught his attention, a brief glimmer in a distant part of the cave. It had always been too dark in the depths of the cave for any of them to explore. But now, with his bright new discovery, the cave was illuminated in ways never before seen.

He focused his attention in the direction of the flash. Nothing appeared, at first. Then his son moved away from the fire in just the right way and light found the target deep in the cave. The flash reappeared and disappeared as before. There was definitely something back there. He cautiously began to make his way towards the source. Try as he might, he could not avoid creating a dark shadow-void. The light simply would not reach the places he wanted to see. He sat and pondered. It came to him suddenly; he would have to bring light with him.  

Finding a fresh branch, he lit the end. Now he could bring light with him. Was there anything this power could NOT do? Now, the mystery object shone brightly as he approached it. Gunter’s bravery, having been bolstered by the events of the day, gave him the courage to walk with determined curiosity deep into the cave.

There was something on the cave wall that flashed brightly as his flaming illumination approached. He stopped directly in front of the object. It wasn’t large and it was strangely shaped. It didn’t look natural like stone or wood. It had sharp corners and uninterrupted lines. On the flat face of it were dark scratches etched onto the surface.

  

“In Commemoration of the First Landing on Europa, we, men of Earth, having arrived 12.25.3250, give this planet total autonomy, as approved by the Earth Directive of 3125. May it produce life abundant and independent. No Human shall again be permitted to step on her soil.”

After a long time pondering this strange object, he determined that since he could not remove it or use it, it was not his business nor a threat. So, Gunter made his way back to his family.

As he approached his little clan, he stopped to appraise his situation. He, Gunter, had created the scene before him. A mate, a child, a new and powerful tool that would provide comfort and security for them. Gifts. Something no one else had done. He felt a warm sense of pride, achievement, and for perhaps the first time, Love.

He walked to the entrance of his cave. He saw that snow had been falling for some time now. Everything was covered in cold, white powder. Normally this would cause problems for him and the other people in the area, but not today.

It was dark but a glow reflected off the snow and Gunter was reminded that he should give thanks to the provider above. So, he stepped out into the bright snow and looked up, arms wide.

There, as it always was, looming large in the sky was Jupiter. It’s stormy bands freely rushing around its surface. But Gunter could not know that was its name. For him it was the source of everything in his world.

He whispered to the Sky God his absolute gratitude and awe. Then went back inside and joined his family around the fire.

 

Lilies in the Snow

 

*****

The howling wind was deafening, deadly. I was warm, somehow. It wasn’t possible. I was sure I was dead. No, there definitely was a fire nearby. I felt the warmth. And a blanket? How? The arrow had plunged deep into my upper leg. I had felt the life draining out of me. But now, I felt alive. In terrible pain but, alive. Still, I shivered.

A voice called out to me, “you better hope your father is late tonight. If that tree isn’t cut, he’ll tan you.” It was mother. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? No, that couldn’t be right. “Yeah, yeah. I know, Momma. It’s too cold!” I heard myself say the words.

“Shh.” The soft, cool, cloth caressed my forehead.

“What...?” I opened my eyes a little. A woman sat near me, her hands in her lap. Her head down. “Who?”

The room was warm because a fire blazed in a hearth nearby. My leg ached, I reached for it. But her hand caught mine. “It is infected. Leave alone for heal. You rest, get better.”

“Where am…?” I tried to lift my head.

“Shh. You are safe here. Secret place.”

“I have to put up the tree, before father….”

The snow crunched under my shabby boots as I struggled to drag the freshly cut fir. It was cold but sweat got into my eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed on. The pain in my eyes would be nothing compared to the switch on my back if I didn’t get the Christmas tree home in time. “It must be a storm.” I wondered. The snow was getting heavy and difficult to see. I was working hard, sweating, and panting. If I stopped, I would freeze and die. “That might please father.” I laughed. “No, nothing would please that man.” So, maybe it would be all right to stop. Settle under a giant tree and sleep. Forever. No one would miss me, certainly.

“Stay awake. No sleep. Bad thing to sleep with fever.” Her warm voice stirred me.

I pressed on through the deepening snow banks. There would be a fire and Christmas dinner waiting for me. Momma needed me. Father could take out his anger on me, instead of her. Soon I would be older and stronger. Father would not be able to overpower me much longer. Yes, that was a good plan. Drag this monstrosity of a tree home and take the beating. This was my Christmas gift to my mother and newborn sister. Take the beating.

“Do it for them….”

The tree dominated the warm, little cabin. The smell of pine filled the room with the joy of the holiday. We all expected the spell to be broken the moment the tyrant walked through the door. “Might as well eat before it gets cold.” Momma dished up the small bounty knowing this small act of rebellion would result in a thrashing.

“Merry Christmas, Momma.” Father didn’t return that night. It was the best Christmas Day, ever. This allowed for some extended revelry. We knew the joy would be short lived, but we had learned to take these moments as they came. I was even able to unbox the fiddle. It had not been played in a year, but we didn’t care. It was the best music we had ever heard.

It could be any time now.

“Any time now….” I moaned.

It was several days after Christmas before the snow had melted enough to conduct a decent search. I was in no hurry to find my missing father. I placed my hopes in a new year without an abusive father. On January 3^rd, the body was discovered. A mountain lion had feasted for its own Christmas dinner.

“Happy New…”

She placed another blanket on me as I fell into oblivion.

 

*****

I woke after a time, how long I didn’t know, to a woman of oriental persuasion. My experience was limited to the Chinee menfolk only, so I didn’t rightly know how to be with her.

The warm food and drink fueled my body if not my own tastes. She said it was a traditional meal and tea. Something she made for her own family.

“Where are they now?” I ventured.  

“Not here.” That was all she would ever say about them.

My manners prevented me from pressing her further, so I allowed the days to pass without much conversation passing between us. Words, it seemed, were unnecessary. Communication was easy. She was a wonderful caregiver. Her touch was healing, and I was surprised to find my tastes grew to not only appreciate her culinary skills, but to crave her dishes.

But what I didn’t expect was my subtle change in perception of her as a woman. I sometimes found myself simply watching her as she mended a blanket, or tended the fire, and especially when she prepared a meal. A longing began to ache more than my leg. This troubled me.

One particularly cold evening, she noticed my discomfort. Although I had blankets and a warm fire for comfort, I was shivering in my sleep. She carefully but with purpose climbed into bed next to me under the covers. Pressing her body against mine to share warmth, she felt me stir. “Hmm, wha…?”

“Shhhh. You cold. I am warmth.”

Feeling less troubled, me and my nurse kept each other warm as men and women have done since the beginning of existence.

Outside, a blizzard lay fury to the little cabin in the woods. We paid no mind to it whatsoever.

The following morning, I woke, a newly invigorated man, to an empty room. A steaming bowl of porridge was on the table, apparently my breakfast. Hot coffee percolated on the hearth next to a fresh fire. She was not there. “Hello?!” There was no answer. I got out of bed and, with speed that surprised me, I peered out the window. The blizzard had passed. I didn’t see her anywhere, but there were fresh tracks in the snow.

And not just one set, a second set of tracks, but larger in size, crossed the smaller ones. I scanned the edge of the woods. I saw nothing. But, out of the corner of my eye, a shadow.

I quickly limped to the door and began to open it. Just then, it flew open. A blast of cold forced me to close my eyes. “NO!”

“What you doing? You sick, get back in bed.” It was her. She had gone out to get more wood for the fire.

“I feel fine. Great really. I was worried about you.” I considered telling her about the other set of tracks.

“You worry ‘bout me? What for you worry? I strong lady.”

“Yes, I can see that. I just, well, it isn’t right. I should be doing that. You do too much.” I stood a little taller.

“You too much pride.” She smiled at me. “But, maybe next time, you get wood. Make you strong.” This seemed to satisfy her.

“Well, all right then.” Satisfied me, too. But there was something I had been neglecting. “What’s your name? I think it is safe for you to tell me, now.” She blushed when I told her. “I’m Joseph.”

“My name, Lili. Now, you eat.”

It was my job to get wood from then on.

 

*****

As Winter began to turn to Spring, I started to venture outdoors to strengthen my healing leg. As an experienced bounty hunter, my tracking skills were sharp. I told Lili I was hunting for food, but, truthfully, I was tracking whoever made those tracks in the snow.

My father used to describe the wilderness with a sense of awe. “Stay out of Montana if you can’t handle the cold.” I could handle the cold but didn’t appreciate the season. Snow was too bothersome. Hunting was difficult, game was scarce. But the spring brought plenty and very little competition as long as you had no designs in mining ventures. That was a game in which I had no interest.

The mines provided a means of financial support for a bounty hunter. Crime was abundant. I made a decent living provided my prey didn’t fight back. My last bounty wasn’t interested in being captured quietly. The Indian was good with a bow and arrow.

My leg started to throb again. I limped deeper into a grove. A set of tracks was leading me. “Where are you?” I followed the tracks into the forest. They went on for a long while and I was beginning to tire. My instincts told me this wasn’t a wise course. Turning around to go back the way I came; I realized my mistake.

The dark and cold started to settle in. The pain in my leg sharpened. I couldn’t feel my toes. Too cold, damn fool! With no choice but to walk on, my mind started to wander. My vision began to blur around the edges. I tried to shake it off, “Stay strong!” If I didn’t make it out and back to the cabin, I most certainly would die.

My foot started to drag. I stopped. Rest. Yes. Only for a moment. Just to catch my breath, get my bearings. I found a bare patch at the base of a large tree. Sitting with my back against it, I looked up. There was just enough of a clearing that I could see the moon. Keep the moon in one position and walk a straight line. Yes. But first a little rest. I shut my eyes. Only for a moment.

I would be back in the warm cabin soon. She would have food on the table. And that tea. Warm. Safe. Tomorrow I would try again, and this time not venture so deep. Maybe bring back a fresh deer.

The sound startled me awake. I opened my eyes slowly. The forest looked different. The snow was deep now. But, how? The sky was clear… I tried to stand. The pain in my leg said no. I heard the sound again. Whatever it was, it was closer. I reached for my rifle. It was gone. Trying not to panic, I searched around for a rock or a large branch. A short, sharp stick was the best I could do. “Who’s there!”

“You didn’t get that tree back in time, son! You ruined Christmas! Now, you know what happens!”

“No!” Mother was in trouble now. Because I was too slow and stupid. My father would beat her senseless and it was all my fault. “NO! Leave her alone!” I tried to stand.

“What are you gonna do, Son? Stop me?”

Looking around the dark forest, I could see no one. “That’s the last time you hurt her.” Where was that bastard? “Come out and face me!” Fresh footprints in the snow led me out of the forest. Smoke from a fireplace had me on a new path; back to the cabin where my mother would be in danger, unless I could get there in time to put a stop to my father’s abuse.

I heard a scream. I quickened my pace. My breath was fierce and fast. “MOTHER!” The cabin was just up ahead. I could see the smoke from the chimney. My heart pounded like it would fly out of my chest. “Not today, Old man.” The door couldn’t hold me back. My mother was in trouble. It crashed open with my full weight.

There in the center of the room, my father’s back to me, arm raised over his head as he prepared to beat my mother. Enraged, I lunged for him. But just as I wrapped my arms around him, I found nothing but thin, cold air. I collapsed to the floor, confused, my leg pounding with every beat of my angry heart. I heard another sound behind me. I turned over on the floor to face the open door. A shadow of a figure stood in the doorway. I pulled my hunting knife out of my boot. An Indian entered, bow raised, an arrow nocked. My bounty had found me and was going to finish the job he started days before. I tried to stand to face my enemy, but my head was swimming. The room was swirling. The Indian said something I didn’t understand and was about to let his arrow fly, when he stopped, dropped his bow, and collapsed in a heap. I could just see the outline of a small figure standing over the body. It was Lili. She had killed the Indian.

I passed out.

*****

I didn’t know how long I had been unconscious. But that didn’t matter much. I was cold, the floor of the cabin was scattered with debris and a dead Indian. Able to stand, I went to the man and checked to be sure he was truly dead. He was. But Lili? Where was she?

The empty cabin had not seen an inhabitant in years. But how was that possible? This was where I had been nursed back to health. The fireplace was cold and bare, a table stood in a corner. There was some paper on it. A wanted poster. “WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE. Big Jim Thunderhead. For the deaths of Five Chinee during a mining dispute in Butte. The Chan Brothers of Camp Bison.” The poster was three years old.

Big Jim was now dead in the doorway of the cabin. I went back over to the dead man and stopped suddenly. The Indian had died from a stab wound alright, but it was my hunting knife in his chest, not in his back as I thought I had witnessed. I was certain Lili had saved me with her own killing stroke. But my eyes now told a different story. But it was a story that made no sense. She was here. I arrived here sick from a leg injury. She had nursed me back to health. Hadn’t she?

My horse, Zeus, was dutifully waiting outside the cabin. “Where have you been?” I retrieved some supplies from the saddle bags and wrapped my bounty for delivery. My leg only bothered me a little. I was about to depart when my eyes caught something above the doorway outside the cabin. It was a name plate, carved with care. ‘Chan. Martin and Lili. 1865.’

As I rode out, dead bounty draped over my saddle, I took one last look around the abandoned property. It had once been a paradise on the edge of a great forest. A family of immigrant miners killed because they were lucky. I supposed that wasn’t very lucky. I spotted a small patch of petite, yellow flowers growing out of a small, snow-covered mound near a large fir. “Huh. Lilies." 

"So beautiful.”

 

The End

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas Candy (A Holiday Ghost Story)

 

By Mitch R Cook

 

I was never the crying kid on Santa’s lap. Not me. I loved Santa. I was that weird kid who sat looking into that jolly, friendly, face with awe and love. It was years before my yearly Christmas picture revealed my beaming face because it was always turned towards his, lost in Christmas magic.

“Monica, look at the camera. Monica, smile for momma. Monica, don’t ruin the picture!!”

I didn’t hear her pleas. The only voice I heard was that of Jolly ol’ Saint Nick. “And what do YOU want for Christmas Monica?” He knew my name. . .

I wouldn’t answer his questions. But I would always return with a question of my own. “What do YOU want for Christmas Santa?” This always got a hearty laugh.

Stubbornly, I refused to doubt the reality of Santa Claus. He was always the same man. He came to the same place every year, without fail. Forrest and Bergman’s department store in downtown Seattle was a Christmas wonderland.

My infatuation with Christmas has never gone away. No, I don’t believe a little old man and his sleigh deliver toys to every girl and boy one night a year anymore, but I still leave out some Egg Nog and Sugar Cookies (just in case).

But best of all, I loved it when Berggie’s (we called it that for short) dressed up in its best Holiday finery. I made special trips just to spend time in the space, soaking in the Christmas cheer and plenty of hot chocolate and gingerbread. My friends thought I was a bit insane.

Then, a miracle happened. Bergman’s hired me for holiday help.

It was 1956, my 22^nd Birthday (I’m a December baby), when I got the call. Dressed in my most feminine and store appropriate attire, I arrived at the office of personnel to be assigned my work area. I imagined myself at the makeup counter, or perfume counter. Working with a talented team of young and beautiful ladies, we would regale customers with their desire to become more attractive or refined as their favorite Hollywood star. (I had a secret crush on Rita Hayworth myself and did my best to emulate her)

The matron at the office handed me a slip of paper with my assignment and hours. With my fingers and toes crossed I read it.

The Candy Counter.

Miss. Edna Snaps was the staff supervisor for the Candy Counter as well as the bakery and deli counters. Her office was tucked away in the basement near the delivery loading docks. She seemed genuinely surprised to see me when I knocked on her door.

She immediately reminded me of the House Mother at my boarding house. She may have been pretty once, now she was the definition of dowdy and proper. But she also had an air of rebelliousness; she wore pants and very little makeup.

“Yes Miss?. . .”

“Um, Hendrix, Monica Hendrix.”

“What can I do for you Miss Hendrix?”

I didn’t see the harm in requesting a different post. My father always told me I needed to be more forceful and ask for what I wanted. Sometimes it got me into trouble, sure. My mother usually just clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes when I would throw a tantrum about not getting something. But, dammit, I wanted to work that Perfume Counter. Even as a child, I would walk through the Makeup and Perfume department and ogle the ladies working there. I dreamed of a day when I too would make some shoppers day as I handed them a well wrapped bottle of their chosen scent from Paris. I wanted the little girls who passed by to see me in my best designer dress and my hair done up perfectly. I even hoped a few customers would hold secret crushes on me. If not all of them. If I am being honest.

“I appreciate the position at the Candy Counter, but. . .”

“You want a different post. Am I right?”

“Huh? Um, well, yes. I had hoped for. . .”

She glowered at me over her glasses.

“Makeup? Or Perfume?”

“How did you. . .um, I uh. . “

“Young lady, everyone wants those posts. You have to earn a post up there. All I can offer you is Candy, Bakery, or Deli. I’ll let you choose.”

So, I got the Candy Counter.

And those uniforms. . .

Remember those pictures of nurses during World War One, the ones with those long white dresses? Yeah, those are almost identical to the monstrosities we had to wear behind the Candy, Bakery and Deli Counters. Everybody had to wear them; no exceptions.  At least we didn’t have to wear them to and from the store. There were locker rooms and that provided a chance to meet and greet your fellow Counter Attendants.

So, on day one of my Berggie’s Christmas Adventure 1956, I arrived punctually at 7:00 AM ready and raring to go. This was a dream come true. I was working at the best department store on the West Coast, at Christmas time (the best season), full of holiday cheer and friendship and love. . .

Who would I make lifelong friends with first? I could hear a small crowd of women’s voices outside the locker rooms, lots of laughing and loud talking, heading my way. So, I stood tall in my ugly white “nurses” uniform and prepared for an onslaught of “hello’s” and “where are you from’s” and your “hair is so cute” and “doncha HATE these uniforms” and “I loooooove Christmases. . . .”

That isn’t what happened. The ladies clearly knew each other from previous seasons. They walked right past me. I realized this was going to take some work if I was going to get any of them to warm up to me. I was going to have to earn their respect in the Candy Trenches.

But as they were filing past me in a mass of white and ponytails, one young lady, just for a second, who wasn’t really talking with the gaggle, looked back at me, just for a second. She smiled, briefly, and then hurried to catch the pack.

I had a target.

The food floor at Berggie’s was massive. Whatever you were craving, it was probably there. Butcher, Bakery, Produce, Deli, Candy; all of it fresh and local. (Well, except for the candy. I have no idea where that stuff came from). I remembered, as a kid, wandering the hall with my folks, taking in the sights and smells, and if I was lucky, the taste of some special treat. And now I got to be the lady behind the counter who brought that joy to some other little kid. And what better time than during the Christmas season? Right?

Oh, My Goodness, it was HELL!!

As a shopper, I loved the noise of the vast hall. The bustle and business were energizing and exciting. But behind the counter, it was petrifying and confusing. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what was going on. Throngs of shoppers demanding all sorts of things at the tops of their lungs and with varying degrees of patience. The only training we received was how to present ourselves to the customers in order to “not besmirch the Forrest and Bergman image.” So, I had no idea how to help the shouting and pointing-randomly customers. I didn’t even know what all the candies were.

It was horrible.

That’s when I heard her voice.

“Take a breath sweetie.”

Startled, I looked around immediately and, seeing my colleagues next to me, asked the nearest, “what did you say?” 

“WHAT?” the brunette nearest yelled? 

I replied, “WHAT DID YOU SAY?!” She just threw her hands up and shook her head.

Who spoke to me?

I looked down the line of ladies working the counter and at the far end saw the pretty one who looked at me earlier in the locker room, she was looking at me again. So, I mouthed at her “did you say something to me?” She just winked and looked away. The butterflies in my stomach flurried but not because of the new job. No, this was different. I could tell my face flushed, grateful to be on the end of the row. The noise of the hall seemed to soften, and my anxiety lifted. How did she do that?

The rest of day one went fairly well. I made some mistakes, but according to the floor veterans that was normal, and I learned a lot. I couldn’t find my pretty protector after the shift was over and no one seemed to know who I was referring to. I wanted to thank her. I decided I would try again after my next shift.

Every day that week was similar, except the workload got easier and easier. Each day she would move one station closer to me. Just her presence was a comfort. I really wanted to find out more about her. But, as before, she would vanish before I could thank her.

Then, 2 days before Christmas.

I was alone in the locker room changing into my non-work clothes when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and saw the pretty face I had been slowly obsessing about.

“Well, hello. I am surprised to see you. You usually disappear.”

She smiled sheepishly.

“Yes, I’m sorry about that. I don’t like to socialize much.”

“Oh, well, that’s ok. I’m Monica.” I reached out my hand. She took it. It was as soft and warm as I had imagined.

“Hello, Monica, I’m Molly.”

“Molly. Nice name.” She blushed.

It was then that I noticed her clothes. Apparently, she was a fan of the 1940’s. She wore a forest green matching top and dress that stopped just below the knee, wool, squared shoulders, narrow hips (which showed off her figure) and a little hat and handbag. Very similar to a style my mother used to wear. But it was very flattering on Molly.

She seemed to be mustering up some courage before she asked, “Want a cup of coffee?”

I beamed, “Gosh, Yes.”

“Great, but not here. I know a place. They make great ham sandwiches.”

She led the way and I followed, my feet light as a feather. She was right, the coffee shop, just north of Berggie’s was cute. Small, good coffee, and a fabulous Ham sandwich. We talked for hours. Well, I did most of the talking. Every time I asked her anything about herself, she deftly swung the conversation back to me. And I took the bait every time. She was so easy to talk to. She listened intently; her grey eyes focused on nothing but me. I poured out my heart to a virtual stranger. We sat there until the owner had to close the shop. Otherwise we might have been there until dawn.

We headed out the front door and were about to say our good nights when I remembered something.

“Oh, I forgot my purse. Hang on.”

It took a moment for the manager to let me back in, but my purse was still there. My mind raced with the potential of the evening. I had about made up my mind about something I wanted to ask Molly. I nearly ran out onto the sidewalk.

“Listen, I know it’s sort of last minute, but. . .”

She wasn’t there. I looked around but didn’t see her.

“MOLLY?!”

Nothing. I hurried around the block, thinking she just wandered a bit. But she was gone. Vanished into the winter night. I fought my panic back to the boarding house. Did I say something wrong? Did I read her wrong? It’s happened before, I was a fool. I scared her away. I cried myself to sleep.

I woke up the next morning resolved to set her at ease when I saw her at work. But when I got there she wasn’t anywhere. The whole shift, she never appeared. I asked around about her, but no one seemed to even know who I was talking about. My heart ached. I felt a small glimmer of hope when I remembered Miss. Snaps, the Counter supervisor.

I nearly ran out of my shoes going down to the loading docks to find her in her office. Thankfully, she was there. I waved at her to open her office door.

“What do you need Miss Hendrix?”

“I can’t find Molly. Have you seen her?”

A look came over her. Her face turned ashen.

“Molly?”

“Yes, pretty gal, my age, maybe a little older, has a 40’s fashion sense, she works at the candy counter with me?”

A subtle look of recognition crossed her face. She looked around quickly, the sort of thing someone does when they worry others are listening to a secret.

“Please, quickly, come in.” She motioned for me to sit in a chair as she closed the door behind me. “This is not for prying ears.” She smiled a knowing smile as she sat down at her desk. Her eyes were warm and penetrating, like a Grandmother about to impart some hard-earned wisdom.

“You claim to have seen a young woman named Molly dressed in 1940’s clothing working at the Candy Counter, yes?”

“Spoken to her, had coffee with her, yes, who is she? She won’t say much more than her name and that she moved here from Chicago with her family.”

“I know who you are talking about. All too well,” she paused, “unfortunately.”

“Huh?”

“Miss Hendrix, you are seeing an apparition, a ghost, a memory. The woman in question died in 1944, 13 years ago. I knew her.”

I didn’t know if I should laugh or take her seriously.

“How. . .? A ghost? No. I have talked with her, for hours, touched her. . .”

In a low voice she told me a story

“Her name was Molly Duncan. She worked here at the same Candy Counter for a couple of seasons during the war. She was engaged to a Marine who was fighting the Japanese in the Pacific. But she had a secret; she was in love with another woman who worked at the Candy Counter. She carried this secret for some time, and no one was the wiser until one horrible day when she received a telegram. One of those everyone feared getting in those days. Her fiancé had been killed in action. This news was both devastating and liberating for Molly. You see, she counted on her future husband for financial security, but she never loved him. Sure, she was fond of him and she was broken hearted, but she also felt the thrill of freedom to pursue a forbidden love. I’m sure it was a very confusing time.

“Until then she had done a remarkable job of maintaining her secret crush. The young woman she desired really had no idea but once Molly got news of her fiancé’s death, she started to get braver and that meant her secret was in danger of being exposed. She began to make signals of her amorous endeavors to the young lady who began to get the picture. But she did not return her flirtations. Molly got bolder and felt she had nothing to lose, I suppose, and made her intentions more obvious. Enough that the other girls at the counter began to figure it out.

“Now, you know how things are with young women. They can be cruel. Then, on Christmas Eve, the Candy Counter ladies trapped Molly in the break room and made their accusations. She tried to deny this, but they wouldn’t have it. They threatened to expose her to the management, they even brought the girl Molly had fallen for in a final, brutal, public, confrontation.

“In a fit of despair, she ran, chased by a mob of brazen young women, out into the street when Molly was struck by a streetcar she never saw coming.

“Of course, management made a show of discouragement regarding their behavior, but no disciplinary action came. The entire affair was hushed up and life resumed. But poor Molly was ignored in death. Forgotten.”

I couldn’t help the tears. She saw this and handed me a handkerchief. We sat in silence for a few moments.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, dear, I don’t want to see the same thing happen to you. It wasn’t right, what those girls did. Molly didn’t deserve that.”

“You seem to know a lot.” I looked at her with the question on my face. She knew what I was thinking.

“Yes, because the girl Molly wanted was me.” She choked back a sob but remained focused. “I need you to keep this between us. I won’t reveal your secret. But you need to be careful. Molly appears every Christmas, but I sense she sees something in you. You may have a hard time with her now that she has caught your attentions. I suggest you try and ignore her. She will go away, in time.

“Thank you, Monica, that will be all. Be a dear and see yourself out.”

Her advice was to ignore her!? I didn’t want to ignore her. I wanted her to be real. The fact that she wasn’t was devastating. My heart ached for her. How could those horrible women do that? She only wanted to love and be loved in return. Why was that so bad? How was this basic, primal need, a threat to any of them? No one deserves that kind of cruelty. No one.

That was it. I had made up my mind. I certainly would not ignore Molly Duncan. Rather, I would invite her to remain here in this world, not banished to a purgatory of lost love and loneliness. Especially not today, Christmas Eve, the anniversary of her tragic and unnecessary death. But I would have to get her attention, gain her trust, somehow. 

I found the perfect ornament in the Arcade Shops in the basement. The little bell would make a fine addition to my sad little tree. When I got home, I unwrapped the bell, took it to the empty branch that awaited its new occupant eagerly and hung it with care.

“Molly, wherever you are, I am hanging this bell in hope. Hope that if you want, you can spend Christmas with me. I know it’s crazy, but I think that I love you. Be my Christmas wish and ring this bell three times, then I will know you are with me. 

I poured myself a cup of my father’s famous egg nog (rum spiked) found the last gingerbread man and sat down to listen to “A Christmas Carol” on the radio until I fell asleep.

 

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world.

“DING.”

and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge

“DING.”

May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us,

Every One!

 

. . .DING!”

 

 

 

Does it Snow in L.A.?

By Mitch R Cook

I need to disappear. I don’t like train stations. Too crowded. But the train station is good camouflage.  Everybody is wrapped up in their personal missions. Not that I have a problem with selfishness, I reside in that mind-space most days. But, for some reason it’s worse around the holidays and train stations emphasis it.

Blend in.

I look busy “shopping” at a kitsch kart. Snow globes. I casually inspect one. ‘Snow’ falls and lands on various letters of the Hollywoodland sign. “Does it snow in L.A.?” I wonder out loud.

The vendor shrugs.

December 24^th, 1957. The busiest day of the year here. I should be able to keep under the radar. “I’ve never understood the appeal of these things.” I put the globe down and noticed the L.A. Times. ‘Christmas Killer at Large; searchers dragnet southwest’. “Dammit.” I guess it is time to move on.

The rental car is generic enough.  So is the desert at night. There is very little traffic out here on Christmas Eve.  I could use a meal and a cup ‘o joe. The little 24-hour diner will do nicely. It’s a dingy little place with just a few patrons. A handful of truck drivers a long way from home. The few strings of Christmas lights and dry tree are the frosting on this shit cake.

A third string beauty school dropout behind the counter hangs orders on the carousel.  The thug of a short order cook scrambles eggs and flips burgers on the same greasy fryer. I assume the coffee is a day old. I’m wrong and pleasantly surprised. I could do without the Bing Crosby though.

“. . . . . dreamin of a white Christmas. . ..”

She shimmies up to my dark booth like a secret agent. I jump a little. Maybe it’s the caffeine on an empty stomach. Maybe it isn’t.

“Sorry, Sugar. I didn’t mean to startle you. You want more than coffee?” She includes a wink. Nicely done.  

“Yeah, you got a steak and mashed with gravy?”

She scribbles. “Yup.”

“And the evening paper?”

“Sure, Sugar. Comin up.”

A couple of truckers walk in and distract her. But only for a moment. “You fellas need coffee?”

A few nods of approval, a couple quick fill-ups, and she has that newspaper on my table.  Las Vegas Sun.  “Christmas Killer Search widens.”

Dammit.

I jump again as my waitress drops the plate in front of me.

“Goodness, Sugar! You’re a bit jumpy tonight. You, ok?”

No, I am not ok.  “Sorry, I’m. . .look. . .no. I’m in a bit of trouble here.”

She sits across from me. That face. I could eat it up.  “You have a friendly face. Can I make a confession?”

She jumps up. “Hold that thought, Hon.”

Her 6^th Sense is sharp. She grabs dinner plates before the cook rings the bell. She quickly disperses them at two different tables. An elderly couple pay for their meals and leave.

“. . .. silent night. . .. holy night. . ..”

She glides smoothly back into the booth. Flashes a smile. “Shoot, Sugar.”

Her name tag says Janice.  Funny, I thought she would be a Cindy or Marylin. I don’t know why. “Well, Janice, it’s like this. . ..

*****

The snow nearly covered the windows of the small village. Christmas lights glowed half submerged in fresh drifts. The darkness was pervasive. Little puffs of smoke rose from the buildings.  Otherwise, the place seemed deserted.  It was, except for one small office. The man looked concerned and frustrated as he flipped large pages from the ledger back and forth.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

He scratched his head again. “Wait a minute. . .”

He flipped back several more pages and paused. “Oh my God” he nearly whispered.

He jumped up and his small chair flew back and smashed into the wall behind. “NO! No, that means. . .”

He grabbed the phone off the wall and dialed furiously. “C’mon, c’mon, be there.”

“Head Office. . . “

“Marcia, is he still in?”

“Well, yes, but. . .”

“Don’t let him leave. I’m coming over. I just found something that, well, I have to talk to him, NOW!”

“Well, ok, but. . .”  CLICK He hung up, hard.

Even with the heavy snow falling, he didn’t bother putting on a heavy coat. He only had to cross the square to enter the largest of the village buildings. No others were present to hear him cursing under his breath. The big man had some tough questions coming.  And the answers had better be satisfactory.

Marcia jumped from her seat as he barged in. “You can’t just go in...”

He held up a single index finger. “No, MARCIA!”

She gulped. “You need a HARD HAT. . ..”

But he was already past her and through the heavy factory doors.  The factory floor was deserted. This was not unusual for the time of year. But at certain times it was a marvel of efficiency and production. Just the scale of things was impressive. So many toys.

That’s when he heard the sound. Just slight. But enough that he heard it. He followed his ears and then, to his horror, his nose. “Ugh!” He covered his face. The foul stench almost knocked him over.

Then he saw what he hoped had to be a lie. The small cages.  All in rows. Each with a single occupant. Tiny arms chained to a single iron anchor in the center of each cage. Heads hung low, eyes bloodshot and half open. The large, pointed, ears battered and dirty.

“NO!”

He grabbed the closest object to him. A hammer. Then, with resolve, he stood and forced himself to cross the floor to the largest door. The sign, in bright red, said “K.K.” The light under the door said he was in.

He doesn’t remember the words he used or the words he heard. All he can recall is how he felt.

Rage.

How could they? How long had this been going on? Well, it had to stop. NOW.

*****

“The last thing I remember is dropping the bloody hammer as I ran from that place.”

I hadn’t bothered to look at my audience as I recalled the horror of the last week. I look up from my hands. Janice has a similar look of horror on her face. For that I am sorry. Such a pretty face.

“You. . .you. . .YOU!!” She stammers as she clumsily exits the booth.

It must have been too much for her. She looks as upset as I had been that night.

“YOU KILLED CHRISTMAS!!”

Wait. . .what?

“OH GOD! YOU! All this time!”

“Hang on wait. . .”  She seems to have missed the whole point.  I need to go.

NOW.

I slide out of the booth, quickly, and look for a back door. The other patrons are taking notice. Unhappily.  There is screaming involved. I see an emergency exit and start to go that way but the large, greasy, cook, with a bloody cleaver blocks my way.

His nametag says Thor.

Ok, back towards the front door. I’ll drive away. . ..

“. . .may your day be merry and bright. . .”

Bright lights flood the diner as a large number of vehicles suddenly arrive. Several have emergency lights and sirens blaring. On the floor, next to the dead Christmas tree, lies an older newspaper. I am all too familiar with its headline.

“Santa Claus Murdered! Suspect flees North Pole.”

“. . .and may all your Christmases be white.”

I hate Bing Crosby.