Fiction with Video

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Out Of The Blue

Out Of The Blue
by Miles Rost

I wanted to see history, and I got more than I bargained for.

One of the biggest problems with schools in this day in age is that you can’t actually see history happen. That’s what happens when you’re being educated on a space station somewhere between Jupiter and Uranus. You can see some things happen, but they’re so miniscule that if you blink, you miss it.

It’s 2115, and I’m sitting in another boring history class. We talk about the 21st century and the 20th century, with theories about how and why everything went wrong. We hear about how our grandparents from Russia, the then United States of America, China, a united Korea, and India, all got together to start colonizing other planets. That was 2020. And in almost 95 years, we’ve been able to expand all the way out here. However, Earth went all wrong. It went sideways, and descended into madness just after people started moving to the Moon.

They never tell you when in history, the precise moment when everything went wrong for the world. They never tell you about the moment when something pinged, and the start of the fall occurred.

That’s why I decided to do something about it. Brilliant little me decided to create the first watch to warp the space-time continuum, to go back and observe periods of time. I don’t know what people are taught, but time isn’t as ball-shaped or timey wimey as people think.

It was October 9th, 2115 when I made the first jump. I programmed it into an important period of time in the 21st century. However, to quote an ancestral singer named Phil Collins, “something happened on the way to Heaven.” It took me farther than I cared to go, and it took me to a scene that I never wanted to see or go to.

I materialized at Park Pier 40, in New York City. It was a beautiful sight, a clear day that I can very much remember. I looked at my watch to see where I ended up.

8:45AM, Tuesday, September 11th, 2001.

I looked up at the sky, to the south, and I heard the great engines of what my teachers called an airplane. Before my eyes, within a minute, I saw the plane slam into a building.

I remember seeing this in news-snippets that they’d show us in class, but I really didn’t understand the impact until I could see it for myself. What I saw shocked me to the core, as seeing it in person is much more sense-based. I stood there for an hour, watching the second plane fly into the other tower, and both of them collapsing.

I suspected, however, that there was more to the story than a terrorist attack. That the reason for Earth’s complete breakdown of civilization was not held in the three buildings and 4 planes that were used to kill thousands of people and start a major factional divide between spheres of influence.

I was about to program my way back home, when I noticed a weird light on my watch. I looked, and before I could press anything, the whole entire landscape that I saw warped around me and twisted into a sort of vertigous mess of colors. I blacked out, as my mind just couldn’t process all the stuff going through it. I woke up sitting in a park, in a very green city, looking at people milling around. It wasn’t New York, I could tell you that much.

I walked around for a few minutes, to get my bearings and see if I could find a newspaper or something with a date on it. As luck would have it, I found what they called a newspaper kiosk at the corner of the park. I walked up and looked at the main newspaper. I apparently landed in Seattle, Washington, on November 25th, 1991. The paper, something once referred to as the Seattle Post-Intelligencer, had for a sideline “Seattle’s Nirvana breaks top 10.”

I mused to myself that a musical band or event would like not be what ends up breaking the Earth 40 years in the future. Still, I looked at the people. Unlike 2001, the people in 1991 were a little jumpy but not really like the 2001 folks. They seemed to have a lot more hope in their eyes, though it seemed like there was a little fade. So, I spent the next 4 hours watching people and enjoying real Earth foods. Coffee was something I liked, but to actually have it brewed right there was a feat of awesomeness that I don’t think I could ever believe.

After the four hours were up, I was walking around when I heard a beep from my watch. I looked down and it was glowing red again. Uh-oh, I guess that coffee was going to come up after all. Again, a major vertigous spin occurred and I felt like a cat inside a washing machine. Until I landed, face first, onto a concrete sidewalk.

I looked up and I noticed that everything was clean. Really clean. The cars were very weird looking, they actually had a boxy definition and were very distinctive. I looked around, and recognized a landmark from where I was standing. I recognized the bright white of the Coit Tower in the distance, realizing that I was in San Francisco.

I looked around the area, and saw a newspaper that was rolled up in front of a storefront. It looked to be around 9AM or so, on a bright day, and so I decided to take a peek. The date landed me on April 17, 1946.

Wait. 1946?!?!

Nothing happened at ALL on this date. I scrambled around the area, looking for some indication that something big was going to happen. I passed a bookstore along the way down the street, but something inside told me to stop. It told me to stop and go back. I went back to take a look at the bookstore I had passed, as my gut was saying “You wanna know? Here ya go.” I looked all throughout the entire window display that was up and I saw a book, seemingly innocent and just sitting there. A small card underneath said “The latest for the home, to take care of the family.”

After I saw the title of the book, everything suddenly clicked. The start of the decline of Earth’s civilization didn’t start with a terrorist attack, or a musical interlude. It started with 4 words and 1 name:

It was called “Baby and Child Care”. The author was Dr. Benjamin Spock.

I looked at my watch, after it made a slightly different sound. This time, it glowed green. I knew that my adventure would come to an end, and the answers that I found were going to be unbelievable. However, I happen to think that I will finally be able to get an A on my history paper, and make some people question everything they know.

I just pray that I don’t get stuck somewhere on the way back.

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Emerald Grace

Emerald Grace
(aka The Ice Maid’s Change)
by Miles Rost

As night fell, Amy looked into the small bonfire that her friends had set up for the night. She was alone, sitting by herself in awe of the fire. Sayaka and Chieri were off gathering up wood, while Yumi and Michiko were off getting marshmallows and chocolate from a nearby roadside shop.

I don’t understand. Everything I know about life and existence is in my head, but why is my heart feeling empty? She asked herself.

Second by second passed, and as Amy’s clothes absorbed the smoke of the bonfire, Amy pulled out speakers and her iPod from her backpack. After setting her speakers up, she moved her iPod to a song…a medium-paced celtic song that Michiko gave to her called “Emerald Grace.”

She sat for a few seconds, as the first vocal strains of the song started to play, and a thought immediately came to her mind.

Dance.

She looked around for a few seconds more, and the thought came back to her.

Dance.

Only 20 seconds passed before Amy stood up. She looked at the circle around the fire, a ring that was able to hold two people side by side, and looked upward. As the second refrain started, the accompanying sound of cymbals and triangles joined in, and Amy started to sway. She closed her eyes and just let herself go in thought as she swayed to the music.

What good is knowledge without a root to be grounded in? She asked herself, calling up her memories, I used to be grounded in family, and in life. She looked at herself in her memory, and remembered a time a few years ago when she used to dance.

Amy, make sure to let yourself move with the music, her dance instructor told her You have God’s grace, just let the music be your worship.

Amy looked on this memory and smiled.

She was right. I had been fighting against God for so long, I didn’t understand what He was giving me, she thought.

After a few seconds, a flute joined in, and Amy started to move around the fire in a counter-clockwise circle. She moved her hands upward, her arms following, in a smooth motion. Her hands, upon reaching the apex, moved downwards toward her chest, and outward in a T. She twirled and smiled as she danced to the flute and the triangle, getting into the movement and remembering the fun she used to have dancing.

The vocal strains came back for a third time, and as the voices sang, Amy lifted her hands up and continued dancing. As the voices died out, and the drums introduced what Amy called the “Base Plain” of the song, Amy started her prayer in dance.

Father, I understand now what you have been telling me, she thought, The knowledge that I have is a gift, and it needs to be used for you. You have given me a view of my life that I never would have seen with my own devices.

Amy knew that she had a choice to make. To continue the dance of life that she was dancing, or to walk from it. This would be the point of no return for her, and as the drumbeat descended, Amy made her choice.

Iesu, our Father sent you to give me life, a free gift. I have fought you before, but I will no longer fight against you. I love you, Lord, and I ask of you to enter my heart and enter my life. My life is yours, so I ask for you guidance.

The drums ended, and the haunting vocals came back for a fourth and final time. Amy moved her arms to the voices, while her legs stood still. As soon as the drums started, she went back to movement, praying along with.

I am The Ice Maid. I am Amy Kuruyama. And I am your child, Father. Lay your hands on me now as I pray this in Christ’s holy name.

As the final notes of the song played, she went down to her knees and the finals word of her prayer escaped her lips.

“Amen”.

At that moment, the bonfire roared and Amy jumped backwards, falling backwards over a log. She fell with a thud, but as she sat up, she felt alright. And she was laughing.

“I bet you anything, Amy,” a voice cried out from the other side of the fire, “that you would not noticed me while you were dancing.”

Amy quickly stood up, nervous and embarrased and looked across the fire. She eased as she saw that it was Sayaka.

“You dance well. Very well. Apparently, there are still some things that we do not know about you…”

Amy just blushed as she quickly sat down, turning off her iPod.

“You don’t have to hide it, Amy. We are friends, and fighters.”

Amy looked up with a smile, when she opened her mouth.

“And now, we’re sisters.”

Sayaka immediately shot her head up from the ground and looked straight into Amy’s eyes.

“You mean…that…”

“Was a dance of prayer. He found me, and I said yes.”

Sayaka squealed in happiness, and gave Amy a big hug.

“This is so unbelievable. It’s like God is putting everything into place.”

 

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Living A Boy’s Adventure Tale

Living A Boy’s Adventure Tale
by Miles Rost

“It’s coming! It’s coming in! Mama, look! It’s huuuuuge!”

Peter Brislin couldn’t contain his excitement at seeing the beautiful new plane that was pulling off to the side of the terminal. The young 8-year old was so excited to see the brand new DC-10.

“Ain’t that a sight, Petey? Big ol’ plane for my big ol’ boy,” his mother said, grinning all the while.

“Is that what I will be flying on today, Mama?”

“Yes, you’ll be flying on that type of plane. You’ll be going to places that you would have never dreamed of while here.”

Peter looked on with excitement, holding his suitcase with his clothes and toys.

“Will you be going with me, Mama?”

“You’re going ahead of me. I will be on a later flight, as I have to finish things here.”

Peter looked up at his mom and smiled.

“I can’t believe I get to go on that plane!”

After waiting for another hour for their plane to pull up close to the terminal gate, the big DC-10 with the large Northwest Orient Airlines banner across the top.

Peter’s mom walked with her son out to the stairs and slowly helped him up the stairs. After they reached the top, she waited next to one of the stewardesses. Peter waved at his mom as he was led to his seat by another stewardess. He buckled in, and his mom smiled a sad smile as the other people filed through the plane.

“Your son is traveling alone today?” the stewardess asked her.

“Yeah, I’m sending him to his uncle and aunt in Portland.”

“You’re not going with him.”

“He’s going to a…a better home. I can’t provide for him here.”

The stewardess looked at her, and noticed the small bruises on her face, covered by a large floppy hat on her head.

“I understand. I wish you could go with him.”

“I wish I could too. I just can’t, not when I have another little girl to protect from the man I married.”

The mother gave a brown paper envelope to the stewardess.

“There’s a note on the front. That’s for the head stewardess. It tells her what needs to happen, and how he needs to get led to where his aunt and uncle will pick him up at the terminal. It also has important papers that they need to have. Guardianship papers.”

The stewardess took the envelope and put it under her arm.

“I’ll do my best to make sure he gets to his destination safely. I’ll even check with the pilot to see if we can do something special for him.”

The women bantered for a few minutes, solemnly. Once all the passengers were on board, the time came to seal up the plane and get ready for takeoff. His mother walked down the stairs and stood far off to the side, looking for her son in the plane. She saw a small hand waving on the plane, and she waved back, tears now flowing down her face.

It would be the last time she would see him.

On the plane, Peter smiled as the plane started taxiing to the end of the runway. The stewardess that talked to his mother came up to him and smiled.

“You must be Peter.”

“Yes. Mom told me I’m not supposed to talk to strangers. But you’re helping me, and you’re nice, so you’re not a stranger.”

She chuckled at Peter’s insistant declaration.

“Well, Peter, my name is Tanya. I will be helping you and the other people in this plane, and if you need anything at all, let me know by pressing this button over here.”

“Could I have a soda?”

“After we take off, I’ll get you what you want. We’ll get you to Portland safely, too.”

“Okay! Thanks Miss Tanya!”

The stewardess smiled, but as she left Peter’s seat, her face betrayed a sadness that no one else could see. The brown package that she had under her arm was now placed in a secure spot on her seat. She would help get Peter where he needed to go.

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Don’t Answer Me

Don’t Answer Me
by Miles Rost

The screech of a car horn right outside the window barely made Daisy flinch.

In the small ground level apartment, she sat on a bed. With her arms around her legs, she sighed with hesitation. She didn’t look up from her pajama-covered legs, focusing only on all the feelings she held inside of her.

All of the feelings she had bubbled up from the reserves that were stuck in her system over the last week. Combine that with a combination of heat, losing people she loved, and a new job that was incredibly laborious, the cocktail of stress caused her to break.

She pulled her legs closer, feeling the weight of her loneliness and isolation. She wanted to go and meet people, but she was in an isolated area of the city, far from the other people like her. The feeling made her turn inward, thinking of what she lost when she left her old location.

As her long, apple-colored hair touched her knees, she saw her cell phone light up on the counter. The telltale sound of her ringtone chimed through the largely empty apartment.

Don’t answer me
Don’t break the silence, Don’t let me win
Don’t answer me
Stay on your island, Don’t let me in
Run away and hide from everyone
Can you change the things we’ve said and done…

It repeated, one of her favorite songs suddenly turning into her biggest tormentor. She felt a tear fall down her face as the words hit her hard. One right after another, like the start of a waterfall as winter becomes spring. She let it ring, as she felt those emotions build up even more with each tear that fell.

The phone rang again, the same lyrics resounding around her head.

Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!, she cried in her head, trying to block out the sound. Finally, after the third time the phone rang, she picked it up.

“Hello?” she said, stifling a sniffle.

“Hey! Daisy! It’s Barb. You okay, child?” her friend Barb replied. A southern belle through and through, and her genteel nature was one of the reasons her and Daisy were able to be good friends.

“I’m living.”

“And I can tell that you’re not doing very well. Your sadness is showing. Care to have a friend to talk to here?”

It was no use. Daisy couldn’t hold it in any longer. Through wracked sobs and screams, she relayed everything she felt at that time. She laid out all the fear, the feelings of isolation, the disappointment, and all of the other feelings. For 30 long minutes, she talked to her, putting it out there for one of her long-time friends.

After a few moments of silence and breathing, Daisy gave a long sigh.

“Felt good to get that out, didn’t it, child?”

“Yeah, it felt good. I just don’t have people down here to deal with, that would share experiences with me.”

“Aw, sugah, do you remember when you met me? Remember how you thought I was a bit weird cause I was from the south?”

Daisy put her palm to her forehead, as she remembered the first thing she said to Barb.

“Anyhow, child, remember something. No matter how far we may be from each other, you can always talk to me. And don’t forget your other friends back here, too. The pastor, Jimmy, and even Pele the gardener are always here to talk with ya.”

Daisy smiled, the first smile she had shown to people in a week. As she kept talking, the tears of pain and sadness, hurt and all other feelings, turned to happiness, relief, and joy. She was very thankful for her friend, and she was incredibly grateful that she was there…even if she was going to be going home soon.

(for David Stewart, one of my great friends who has helped me on one of the biggest transitions I’ve had to deal with. Ever.)

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Poor Boy Long Way From Home

Poor Boy Long Way From Home
by Miles Rost

I found myself in a strange land.

The night before, I was just putting my head down to sleep comfortably on my pillow, dreaming of when I would travel the world and be a beach bum.

I woke up to find myself in a strange land, where the smell of fermented food accented the air and the sounds of crazy drivers screeching their tires on the street as they drove like wildmen.

I got out of my bed, and found that I was already dressed in a nice shirt, a pair of jeans, my tennis shoes. You know, the usual dress for a guy like me. I decided that I was going to go for a walk, but when I opened the door, I didn’t see a hallway to an apartment, or an entry. I saw…classrooms.

I walked down the hallway with classroom doors, and I found one with my name on it. Curious, I opened the door to see what awaited me. It was a man, a few years younger than me but who looked strangely like myself.

“Ah, good! You have arrived! I was hoping that you weren’t going to be delayed by any issues. So all you need to know for this job is to keep the kids happy, teach them something educational for a bit of time, then play with them the rest.”

I looked at this young punk with a strange look and my face twisted into a mark of frustration and worry.

“Job? What job? I’m supposed to be awake and working on my applications for college.”

“Oh, aren’t you the guy who signed up to teach a whole bunch of students who may not really care about you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh. Well, here you are. You get to do the job, because I have to catch my flight out,” he said, as he put the clipboards and the colored pencils in my hand. He grabbed a big rucksack, put it on his back and started out the door.

“By the way, your class starts in five minutes. Have fun with the elementary kids!”

I looked at him, incredulously, as I saw him trundle away to a waiting elevator. As the elevator door closed, my classroom door also slammed shut. I tried to open it, but there was no escape.

“Teacher! Teacher! English-ee!”

I looked behind me and saw a great number of students rushing into the classroom, all of them screaming “English-ee”.

There was nothing I could do. I am now their teacher. A teaching monkey. Lord help me.

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Friday Fictioneers – Smoky Mountain Rain

Make sure to read Fool’s Gold, if at all possible. It’s a good story! Anyhow, on with the show!

copyright Erin Leary

Smoky Mountain Rain

“Chelsea, I don’t think I’m coming back.”

Chelsea Jacobs looked out over the gully in the early morning, as she talked to her brother in Taiwan

“But, what about Dad? He’s dying!”

“I return to the states, I lose what I’ve gained over here. I know Dad would say that I should continue to live my life, even after he’s gone.”

“I can’t live without you here.”

“Then come with me, we can do great things together.”

“I don’t have the money!”

“Leave that rain behind, I’ll take care of it.”

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Fool’s Gold

(For Kristi, in the tough time she’s going through)

Fool’s Gold
by Miles Rost


Teresa Farmer’s hand let the phone slip from her fingers.

She was in shock, she didn’t know what she could do.

“Hello? Hello? Teresa? You still there?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked, shaken with fear and peppered with worry.
Teresa picked up the phone and breathed again.
“Yeah….yeah…I’m here. I just…I…I’m not sure if I can say anything…”
“I understand. I guess, all I can say is that I am so sorry for what’s happened, and I wish I could be there to help.”
“Yeah, I know,” Teresa told her friend, who was stationed in Germany at one of the Air Force bases.
“When I get leave, I’ll come back and we can have a gripe session about this.”
“Get here when you can.”
They talked for a couple more minutes, said their pleasantries, and Teresa hung up her phone.

She walked to the living room, the place in her house that became her conversation parlor. She leaned back in her rocking chair and just pondered her situation. She lived alone in her house, her husband moving out many years ago after a rocky fight. 6 years of marriage, suddenly gone. No kids in the house to yell at, or to pick up after.

One more lonely piece of news filled the room, a room that was slowly becoming a room of memories. The news from her friend of her mother’s passing was intensely tough. While Helena Farmer was not a rough and tough rancher’s wife, she still held her own after many years of battle. Whether a battle against a railroad company to reclaim the mineral rights under her farm, or the battle against a major crop company that tried to force her to use seeds she didn’t want, Teresa’s mother was steadfast. She may not have been physically strong, but she made up for it plenty with sheer will, guts, spit, and vinegar.

Now, she was gone. It was less than a year after being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and she was now gone. Teresa did not know what she was going to do. As she rocked in her chair, a warm afghan wrapped around her, the tears started to fall. As the cracks in her “armor” started to grow bigger, she wept louder, until it was unstoppable.

For the rest of that day, she grieved. She remembered, she cried, she wailed, she sobbed. She would go through the five stages of grief a few times before she could finally release. For this day, however, she needed to grieve.

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Cloudland

Cloudland
by Miles Rost

(Dedicated to the memory of all the students and passengers lost in the Sewol ferry disaster last week. Please make sure to play the music while you read.)

(NOTE: This is a work of fiction, designed to help people think about and work through their feelings regarding the Sewol ferry sinking.)

(Written on sheets of rice paper, and found on the desk of a fisherman on Jindo.)

Clouds. Happy as clouds.

That’s is how I see them now. All of them are in school up there, learning about love and life, learning their new assignments and how they will do new things. Learning, while in the cloudland.

I live in Sinyuk, just off the main coast of South Korea. My family has lived here for many years. That day will be burned into my mind.

I was on the shoreline, finishing the rigging up the nets that I would use for crab fishing during the night. I always do that after the day’s work is done. I was going to go to sleep soon, and wake up again in the afternoon to do the fishing checks all over again.

It was just after 8:30 in the morning when I went to my home and sat down for my supper. I ate, and felt good about the upcoming catch that would come in the night. I went to my room to pray and honor my wife. Long ago, we were a happy fishing couple. She died a few years back, and it was a sad time for me. But, still, I live on with her in my memory.

It was around 9:45 that I heard the phone ring. This was unusual, I didn’t normally get a call when I was just about to go to bed. I picked up the phone and answered like I normally do. It was Byeong-jun, the harbormaster here. He told me that there was an all-call for all fishing vessels, that a ferry was sinking just off Gwanmae.

It was like second nature to me. I was in the Navy during my days in the military, and whenever a call for assistance was made, it was my job to alert the captain and to help direct where we needed to go. I immediately ran out to my boat, and started it up. Or, at least I tried to start it.

I couldn’t start it. The boat that helped me check my pots did not start. And I needed to get out there and help out, as it was my duty. I got on the radio and called around to see if anyone was still in port and could use an extra man. My friend Sin-Gil, a very good man who sold fish for use in hoe called back and told me that all boats had gone. There were none left in the harbor.

At that moment, I stood in shock. And I started to cry. I cried because I felt like there was nothing I could do. As I dried my tears, I hurried over to the harbormaster’s office and volunteered to help coordinate the rescue boats. Since Sinyuk could not hold many people, we decided to send the rescued passengers over to Jindo, the closest big island that would get them to where they needed to go.

It was too late for some of us, and for a lot of those passengers.

As I write this, the count of the people that are dead is 84. There are over 200 more passengers still missing, and in my mind, likely no longer here. 250 of those passengers and dead are kids. Kids. Going on a vacation like they always do, every year. That sticks in my mind. A simple fisherman like me, who didn’t have much education, can see in my mind how a child’s eyes lights up when they are told they will be going to Jeju for a field trip.

Now, I see these kids as students up in the cloudland. Their fellow passengers who aren’t in school, they too are there. They’re assisting, helping out at the big school up in the cloudland. They’re laughing, with no pain or fear, nothing of what they felt down here. The young lady, the worker on the ferry who helped so many students that survived, I see her as a teacher up there. She’s showing them about what it means to be brave. Some of the other men and women who died, saving all those students, they’re up there as well. In the cloudland.

This tragedy is affecting everyone. I hear my friends, fellow fishermen, cry for those who are lost. I can imagine all of the parents, and the classmates in the different grades at that school in Ansan. I can even imagine the foreigners here, the ones who see this and whose hearts break for those who are gone. Every person in this country, whether a Korean or not, is affected by this. The dark cloud of sorrow will be over us for a while. The cloud already took a few people’s lives after this, and more will be taken before the cloud is lifted.

After today, I can no longer be here. I have family on the mainland, a sister and her nephew in a big city, with small kids of their own. I will take what I have earned, and go to them. I will help those small children as much as I can, to show them not to be afraid. To show them that there are people who are heroes, and that there will be a brighter day.

To whoever reads this: Whatever is here, sell and donate to the families of those who have lost everything. It won’t be much, but the house and the land are valuable. The boat can also be sold, all of the deeds are with the harbormaster.

Remember the kids and adults in the cloudland. They are the ones who we must mourn today.

-Han Gong-Cha

(a stamp, an injang (인장) was embossed at the bottom)

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Stepping On Shadows

(For those who are interested in Part 1 and Part 2, click the links.)

Stepping on Shadows
(aka Mayumi’s Story, Part III)
by Miles Rost

A business card with a number written on the back.

Mayumi found it on her counter, and she never noticed it before. She looked at it and twirled the card and the number around in her mind, thinking of where it may have come from.

In the intervening week between her emotional breakdown and the current time, she was able to get her mind back in order and was focused on moving on. She was pleased, but she knew that there was a lot of work to be repaired within her soul, her psyche. She refocused her efforts on developing her life away from the addiction to her ex. She felt as though things were finally starting to get level.

Saturday morning came quickly for her. More than a week after dealing with all those feelings, she felt like she was on solid ground. Which meant only one thing: Time to clean the house. She washed the dishes, cleaned the living room, and started cleaning off the stand-alone counter where she would have her mail and her dinner.

The card dropped from a stack of mail. Hidden among the junk mail was a business card for a garage that she used to take her vehicle when she was dating the idiot. She looked at the back of it and saw a number.

I wonder where this came from? I don’t remember asking for a card from the garage the last time, she thought to herself.

For a long time, she just sat at the bar and twirled the piece of paper over and over in her hand, debating about whether she should call the number and see what was at the other end, or whether she shouldn’t push it. The battle raged inside her head for a while, but eventually, her curiosity got the best of her logic, and she grabbed the house phone. She dialed the number on the card, and just waited nervously. After about three rings, the phone picked up.

“Hello? Who’s this?”

The voice was unmistakable. The annoyance found in the voice was immediately recognizeable.

She had mistakenly called the idiot in Western Australia.

She immediately hung up the phone and started to panic.

“I can’t believe it…WHAT the hell just happened?!?!” she shouted into the air.

She stood up and started to pace, figuring out how she was able to contact the idiot. She had been trying to get rid of him, and now all of a sudden, he was back…even for a moment.

Mayumi unplugged the phone from the wall socket, then walked over to the couch in the living room. She sat down, feeling incredibly nauseated by what just happened. She felt disturbed by it in a way she never felt before, and it was turning her in knots.

She laid down on the couch, the right sleeve of her sweatshirt covering her forehead, absorbing the sweat and the feelings of nausea rising off her head. In the few minutes that it took for her to blank her mind and do some cleaning in her head, she turned her head and looked next to her.

“Lord, ah don’t know what to do. I wanted to keep it away, but ah didn’t throw the card away. I kept it, and explored it.”

She looked back up at her ceiling, and shook her head. She asked for forgiveness in her mind, trying to ease the feeling of self-betrayal in her. As the minutes turned into hours, she felt her gut slowly become calm and her spirit start to rest. She felt a wave of peace come over her, as one thought crossed her mind.

It’s not the end, and not a start over. It’s a mere stumbling block, and you’ve gone past it. Keep running.

As her eyes slowly closed, taking Mayumi into dreamland, she realized that even with this problem, she would be able to still continue and survive. She could bank on that.

by

The Runner

The Runner
by Miles Rost

These streets are my home.

I know each of the houses by heart, knowing the secrets that each of them share with the rest of the world, and those they keep inside. As I lace up my shoes, I notice that Mrs. Coleman in the pink house on the corner is out with her hand-held crane. She’s going to make some apple pies today. Maybe, if things go right after this, I can go back and buy a pie from her.

I put in my earbuds and shoot down the street. The neighborhood I live in is pretty rough, but I think it’s a great place to live if you know how to survive. As I cross over Tremaine Avenue, I run past a blue two-story house where Mr. and Mrs. Parkinson argue about which one will take out the garbage. They love each other, and it’s the small arguments they have which keep them in each other’s arms. Though it only takes me about a second to blaze past their door, I already know that by the time I’m done with my work, they’ll be up in the bedroom doing what couples do best.

Many of the houses I pass in my neighborhood are abandoned, the price paid for an economy that was all eggs in one basket. The city had a thriving cardboard and paperboard mill, and that kept things afloat for nearly 110 years. I can see the former glory of the neighborhood as I cross the next avenue, Waterman Boulevard. It’s a vague memory compared to what I see now, but when I was young, this area was a big one.

After I crossed the street, I passed by Mr. Brody, the postman. He’s been around here longer than I have, and we call him “Dirty Harry”, due to his demeanor and gruff exterior. He is a Korean veteran who is still doing his job at 79. He’s the only one who is willing to actually go around these streets. Not even the drug dealers off Wilkinson Avenue will touch the man. When he goes, there will be no more postal delivery for this area.

I keep running past houses, each one telling a story about the area I live in. I focus on the music in my ears, as I pick up the speed and sprint down the street. I am able to cover 3 blocks in 30 seconds, which gets me closer to the edge of the neighborhood. I slow down and cool down with a slower run over the next two blocks. By the time I reach Townline Road, I can see the empty fields where farmers and vineyards co-mingle like folks at a movie.

I decide to take a moment while figuring out which way to go. I’ve put distance between myself and my home, for sure, and I am not sure which way to go. If I go north up Townline, I go towards more farmland. If I go south on Townline, I will reach the highway. If I continue straight across, I’ll meet up with a hill and eventually a dead end.

I look back behind me, and I can see some movement. Flashlights and chains. Not a good combination in this area. And I know why I can hear them.

I decide to head up the hill, straight ahead. I think if I sprint hard enough a couple times, I can lose them in the trees.

It’s a pain in the butt to try and leave a neighborhood that you’ve lived in all your life. Especially when it’s a prison, run by one of the worst street gangs in the world. But, I think I can get out of this place once and for all, and start my life over again.