Fiction with Video

by

Stay The Night

by Miles Rost

“Mmmmfmfmflhmfm”

Teresa’s eyes slowly started to open as she turned over and mumbled. She saw her husband sitting up and the lamp turned on. Stifling a yawn, she sleepily looked at his back.

“Why are you up?”

Her husband turned around and smiled a weak, sad smile.

“They called me in. A patient is barely holding on.”

Teresa glowered at this, and lowered her eyes a bit. Lately this had been a common occurrence, and she did not want to wake up to an empty bed anymore. She was clearly unhappy, and Rahim Carlson, her husband of over 5 years, knew it.

“I really wish they’d quit calling you at night. I mean, why can’t they find another surgeon?”

“Honey, the next closest thoracic surgeon to us is down in Thousand Oaks. That’s nearly 2 hours away.”

Teresa slowly sat up and rubbed her green eyes. She smoothed her satin chemise as she looked up at him, wisps of blonde hair falling in front of her face.

“Maybe we should think of moving somewhere else. You’ve been doing this for more than two years now!”

Rahim looked at her, and gave a funny smile.

“I’ve thought of that too. Right now, though, we are here in Bakersfield for a purpose. They need a thoracic surgeon of great quality. The good news is that the prospect from USC Medical Center is looking at Bakersfield General for a move. If we can get him in, I can look for another surgeon’s job somewhere else. But that’s almost 6 months down the line.”

She sat, slumped in defeat as she knew there was nothing she could do.

“Rahim, I really do wish that you could stay the night. Let a little of that love show. Just for one week, I want to have you all to myself. I don’t want all that matters turning around, over and over again.”

As he was buttoning the top button, he looked at her. This woman, his wonderful wife, was in need and he felt like there was nothing he could do. He had his duty, and he had his wife. He studied her face, every part of her that was exposed to his vision, and sighed to himself. He looked in the mirror, and stood stony for a moment. Teresa knew this. It was his “prayer stand”, where he would ask the Lord for guidance. As she got out of bed and turned towards him, he turned back to her, a slight smile on his face.

“I just had a thought…give me a moment,” he said, as he grabbed the phone. He quickly dialed a 10 digit number and waited.

“Hey, Smitty. Sorry for waking you up so early. You doing okay?” He waited a moment, then launched right in. “Hey, you know how you said you wanted to take a shot at doing some surgery up here at Bakersfield, right? I just got called in, but I can’t make it to the hospital in time. It would take me about 4 hours to get there. You’re closer, would you like to take a run at it?”

He paused again, a flit of a smile running across his face.

“Great! Call up Nurse Chelsey Marks, and have her connect you with Brian Markinson. You remember him, right? He’s in charge of night shift, and should be able to accomodate you. I’ll call him in just a moment and get you cleared.” He waited a moment. “You got it! We’ll talk next week, okay? Uh huh! Bye.”

He then proceeded to call Dr. Markinson and inform him that he was unable to make it. He was, unfortunately, detained and wouldn’t be able to make it there on time. After a little shake-off, he closed the phone, and proceeded to take his shirt back off.

“What do you think, Teresa? You still want me to stay the night?”

Teresa looked at him, as she slowly walked over. She put her arms around him and laid her head on his chest.

“I hate the fact that you actually lied to your bosses to get out of work tonight. But in this case, I will forgive you.”

Rahim looked at his God-given wife, and smiled.

“Sweetie, you’re worth it even if I would get fired.”

by

Voices

When I found Paul, he was on sitting back on his feet, his knees on the floor. He was in the middle of his old bedroom, in the old house where he used to live all those years ago.

Paul never used to be like this. For the longest time, he was a vibrant kid. He was an artist, someone who people depended on to help cheer them up. The people of the town loved what he did with the murals, especially. On the side of Hamm’s Grocery was a mural of flowers and hopeful children’s faces, and Old Man Hamm appreciated Paul’s expertise with his brushes. The one space that people loved, though, was the mural on the side of the old First National Bank building in town. It showed an eagle with a olive branch in it’s beak, flying toward a twisting spiral of a building. He painted that old mural just after 9/11. And the town very much appreciated it.

That was before the headaches. Before his mom passed away. And before he started withdrawing from the world. As the sheriff of the town, it was my job to take care of all my people. However, I also had to spend more time looking after Paul. He was my best friend during high school, where he defended me constantly. And it was my burden to bear in taking care of him.

What scared me most, though, was when I went to visit Paul only a few days ago. He was rocking back and forth on his knees in the living room of that old house that he refused to leave. He was muttering something unintelligibly, and I had to try and snap him out of it so he could get to his doctor’s appointment. As I leaned over to tough his shoulder, he turned and glared at me with eyes that I did not recognize.

“Paul?”

“I’m not here right now! Please try again later!” he said, even though it didn’t really sound like his voice.

After a few minutes, I was able to get him to go to the doctor. After a couple hours of tests, they came back and told me he was showing some signs on borderline personality disorder, but that he hasn’t hit the stage where he could be treated properly for it. I knew what that was code for. It meant that he couldn’t be institutionalized until a later stage. So, after leaving the doctor’s, we went to the grocery store and I picked up as much as I could so that he would be stocked for the rest of the month. He did not say a word or even blink once while we were there.

A day went by after that, and that leads to where we are now. I walked into the house and saw Paul in this bedroom, resting on his legs, an eerie calm surrounding him.

“Carl?” he slowly asked, in the voice I normally recognized.

“Yeah, Paul?”

“I hear voices. They are telling me to do many things.”

“Like what?”

“To take my own life, or to open Pandora’s door and let the other voices free.”

That’s right. I was now officially concerned. I pulled out my cell phone, and was just about to call the doctor…when he pounced on me.

I don’t remember how long I seemed to be out, but when I finally woke up, I was not in that room. I was in a meadow full of bright butterflies. It took only a few seconds for me to realize that I was no longer in Kansas.

Paul killed me.

by

The Changes

by Miles Rost

Mike and Chelsie walked into the theatre five hours early, expecting to practice in the silence of the hall without any problem before the big performance that night. Mike was a horn player with his expertise in the trombone, though when asked he could bring out his trumpet and whip up a Herb Alpert production that would put the man himself in awe. For Chelsie, she worked with Mike for many years as his piano accompanist. She was adept on the ivories, and could be brought in for session work for any major band as a pianist or a keyboardist.

When they received the invitation to play the “New Fillmore” theatre in San Francisco, they jumped at the chance. After playing in smaller venues like Missoula, Montana and Boise, Idaho, they were ready to take their chance. Even playing in larger venues like Sacramento and Reno were good, but they weren’t the big spots. They weren’t San Francisco, Seattle, Portland, or even their dream: Los Angeles. When they got to the New Fillmore Theatre, they expected to have the theatre to themselves.

Boy, were they wrong.

As they opened the door, it was pandemonium. In one part of the backstage area, labeled as “Rehearsal Studio D”, there was a loud raucous band of youth attempting to try and perform like the Tijuana Brass. In Mike’s eyes, they weren’t going to even make the Tijuana Prison Brass Band look bad. And down another hallway, it was a dance troupe practicing only what Chelsie could think of as high school grade danceline work.

They walked up to a woman with a clipboard, wearing a dark blue pantsuit and a serious expression.

“I don’t know if we’re in the right place…”

“Then why are you here?” the pantsuit girl turned around to them, with an annoyed, yet serious expression.

“We were invited,” Chelsie responded indignantly.

“Oh. Names?”

“Mike Clark and Chelsie Daniels.”

The pantsuit girl leafed through some sheets and scanned the paper.

“Ah, the boner/pianist duet.”

“You make it sound so dirty,” Mike responded.

“Shorthand usually does that. You’re in Rehearsal Studio E.”

“Where’s that?”

“Main stage. We’re really full up in places, and Studio A is booked with the main act.”

“Who’s that?”

“Surprise. Can’t tell you.”

Mike looked at her blankly, wondering just where this woman came off acting in such a way.

“Head to the main stage. Make sure you’re only playing what you’re supposed to play for the show tonight. Any sort of musical hanky-panky will get you removed from the schedule. If you want to play such things…”

The pantsuit girl gave both of them a nasty gaze, as she breathed in.

“…play it on your own damn time.”

She suddenly turned away and walked toward another group of people that were not where they were supposed to be.

The duo looked at each other, looked at the programs in their hands, and felt like they were trapped. They knew that even though they didn’t want to have to do this gig, this seemed to be the only time when they could play at a major location and maybe get noticed.
What they didn’t notice was a man, looking at them from a dark wing away from notice. He smirked as he thought about the changes coming.

“These two musicians will work perfectly…” he said to himself, pleased with his choice.