white shoes

by nick nelson

ralph was laid off from his job, and he had nothing much to do all day. he had a vague idea that there was something wrong with watching television before noon. he could not have said where he got this idea, he just had it. he would get up in the morning and get a cup of coffee at a diner or at mcdonalds or dunkin donuts. he found a bench in front of a little wooded area beside a bus station, and he would sit on it with his cup of coffee and sometimes a donut or a danish pastry, and watch the world go by. people would walk by. ralph did not look at their faces because he thought he might accidentally make eye contact with them, and he did not want them to think he was some kind of creepy person. so he found himself looking at their feet. he noticed that almost everybody wore dark colored shoes, black, or dark shades of brown and blue and green, whether they wore real old-fashioned shoe shoes, or more often, some sort of sneakers or running or athletic shoes. occasionally women or girls wore red shoes, but not very often. very few people wore white shoes at all, not even athletic shoes, and ralph never saw anybody wearing white shoe shoes. ralph thought that was kind of odd. he thought white shoes were kind of stylish, even though he never actually wore them himself. he decided to try a thought experiment. he would sit on his bench and and will, with his brain waves, people to start wearing white shoes. he would try it for two or three weeks and see how it went. it would be something halfway interesting to do, and it might also help clear up another matter. like many people, ralph had often wondered if he was the only person in the world, and if the world only existed in his mind. if he could will people to wear white shoes, maybe that would go a long way to answering the question. after almost a whole month, there was no uptick in the number of people wearing white shoes. if anything, there were even fewer people wearing them. then one day, a young woman was walking by ralph’s bench and he inadvertently made eye contact with her. “excuse me, miss, ” ralph blurted out. “yes?’ the young woman asked, hesitantly. “do you know why more people don’t wear white shoes?” ralph asked her. “what!” and she scurried away without a backward look. ralph did not blame her. she must have thought i was some sort of psycho weirdo, he thought. what was he thinking? how could he have said such a thing? maybe she would come back - with a police person! ralph got up and began walking back to his apartment as quickly as he could without running. maybe i am a psycho, he thought. he had seen movies and tv shows and read stories where the protagonist had blackouts and was some kind of serial killer or wolfman… maybe that was him! ralph began staying in his apartment more. he began watching tv before noon, and found he enjoyed it, especially “the view”. eventually he got another job. he made the acquaintance of a guy named joe, who did the same job, and one day they were sitting in the break room and ralph gave joe a brief account of his thought experiment with the white shoes, though without mentioning his encounter with the young woman. “i see people with white shoes all the time,” joe told him. “you must have just been in the wrong neighborhood.”

men only want three things

by emily de villaincourt

the flight to singapore was delayed again, and celeste and edna sat in the coffee shop looking out at the rain. “this game will humble you,” celeste observed. “yes,” edna agreed, “but you can’t win them all.” “i can’t believe how bad the reception is in this place,” celeste said. “i have been trying to get through to rodney williams all night and i just can’t.” “it is supposed to be state of the art,” edna replied, as celeste seemed to expect a response. “some state,” celeste said. “and no art.” a tall, tanned man with a neatly trimmed pencil mustache approached the table. he wore a white suit with a powder blue shirt open at the neck, and carried a green briefcase. “do you mind if i join you?” the man asked celeste and edna. “go away,” celeste told him. the man bowed and left. “men only want three things,” celeste said. “how true,” edna agreed. they resumed their conversation about the reception in the airport. “the reds introduced a bill in parliament last month to increase capacity in public places,” edna said, “but the blues expressed concerns about privacy.” “what do i care about privacy?” celeste said. “i have nothing to hide.” “i wish i could say the same” , edna replied. she sighed and took a sip of her coffee. they lapsed into silence. they continued to look out at the rain, which continued to fall.

story time, or the cracked governess

by emily de villaincourt

it was a lovely cool spring morning, and alicia took her seat on the stone bench, eagerly awaiting the arrival of miss feathers, the young new governess, who had been favoring her with such amusing and thrilling stories since her arrival in the household a few weeks earlier. presently miss feathers arrived, but with what alicia could not help feeling was a rather sullen and resentful look on her face. “good morinng, miss feathers ” alicia greeted the young woman, “i hope you are well today.” miss feathers seated herself beside alicia. “actually, i feel rather miserable,” she announced, and she followed this pronouncement with a most unseemly and unladylike yawn, for which she did not apologize. “well,“ alicia responded uncertainly, “perhaps the story this morning will put you in a more favorable frame of mind. although, of course, “ she added with a smile, “you already know the end to it, being the teller of the tale.” “there will be no story this morning,” miss feathers replied. “i am not in the mood for it.” “what!” alicia cried. “what say, you, miss? what insolence is this?” miss feathers turned and looked directly at alicia for the first time since taking her seat. “i am not inclined to do so, this morning, that is all. there is nothing to make a great fuss about. perhaps you could tell me a story, if you fancy it.” “oh! but it is you who are being paid to tell me stories, miss, not i who am being paid to tell them to you. if you do not wish to fulfill the terms of your employment, i am afraid i shall have … to… tell my mother.” “do what you will,” miss feathers replied with a shrug. alicia was not sure how to proceed as getting up and going in search of her mother might seem a bit undignified on her part, but at that moment clod, the elderly third gardener and handyman came shuffling past, and alicia called to him. “go to mrs benson, clod ” - mrs benson was the housekeeper - “and ask mrs benson to ask her ladyship to come here.” “yes, miss.” clod plodded off. miss feathers seemed in no way discomfited by all this. “tell me,” she asked alicia, when clod was out of sight, “do you believe in the end times?” “the end times? why, i believe i have heard the vicar mention them in sunday services on occasion. why do you ask?” “because the end times are here,” miss feathers said matter of factly. “do you really think so?” alicia replied . “i shall ask the vicar about it, next sunday morning, if i think of it.” lady isobel arrived, looking properly ferocious. “what is going on, alicia, that you must disturb my artfully prepared schedule in this manner?” alicia explained in the situation in a halting manner, as miss feathers gazed into the distance with a small catlike smile. “is this true, miss feathers?” lady isobel asked wearily. “you might say that it is,” miss feathers replied, “though it seems a great fuss over a mere story to tell a child.” “that is the hardly the point. i am sorry it has come to this , miss feathers. i understand, and thought to take pity, on your sad situation , brought about as it was by the unfortunate financial meltdown which has so devastated modern society, but which was itself, i am convinced, largely brought about by the very irresponsible attitude to the path of duty which you are now displaying - “ “do you want me to tell you a story?” miss feathers interrupted lady isobel. “i am afraid the time for that has passed.” “well, then i will not tell you a story, but i will tell you that you will see for yourself the ending to a story, this evening when the sun goes down. yes - ha ha! - this evening just before the sun goes down, go out on to the broad highway, lady isobel, and look down the road and you will see something - yes, you will see the end of a story indeed, ha ha ha ha!” “very well. i am going to summon mrs benson, miss feathers, and she will give you a sedative, and then i must ask you to leave the premises, without, i hope, making it necessary to summon the constabulary - an event which would serve no good purpose to any one concerned.” lady isobel turned on her heel and headed to the house without looking back. poor thing, she thought, she is quite cracked, though i do regret exposing my progeny to her. i suppose it is for the best that her sad mental state exposed itself as early as this. all the same, lady isobel could not help feeling a slight trepidation as to what would happen that evening, when the sun went down.

untitled

by bofa xesjum

curtis invited dana up to his room and she accepted his invitation. the fitst thing dana saw when she entered curtis’s room was a poster on the wall, a black and white photographic poster of a man dressed in the style of the early twentieth century. dana didn’t like his looks. “who is that?” she asked curtis. “he looks like a serial killer.” “oh no,” curtis replied. “that is rainer maria rilke, one of the greatest poets of the twentieth century.” “bullshit. he’s a serial killer. i don’t associate with guys who put up posters of serial killers. see ya.” dana left. curtis was left alone to fill up his evening. he made himself a peanut butter and marshmallow sandwich, the kind his nanny had made him and that he had been eating all his life. then he made himself a mango smoothie in his new blender. he watched an old rock hudson and doris day movie and a documentary about the first gulf war and a documentary about nine inch nails. he enjoyed the rock hudson and doris day movie and thought it might have been even better if it had been a musical. he wondered if rock hudson and doris day had ever made any musicals together.

three in an elevator, part 3

by nick nelson

part three of three

to begin at the beginning, click here

to read part two, click here

when i got to thomasville, walter syracuse continued, i hung around the bus station and the general store, panhandling. i told the people at the bus station and the man at the store i was willing to work, but they said, maybe later, when the tourist season started. there was a little library in town about the size of an ordinary living room, but they did not have any books about ancient mysteries or even much about history, mostly just mystery novels by agatha christie and such. they did have mr h g wells’s outline of history and i read it through three times. one night i was sleeping in the woods and i went a little deeper in the woods than usual to get away from this dog that was bothering me. i woke up at midnight and saw strange lights between the trees and heard strange, chanting voices. but i just went back to sleep and forgot about it. the next day it rained. i was in the library, reading the mystery of the blue train by agatha christie when a girl came into the library. i thought she was… i thought she was… walter syracuse stopped. he said that he could not go on with his story, because it was too painful. richard rochester and john paul binghamton said that they understood. john paul binghamton began his story. from the day i was born, it was obvious i was something special. i was born in a castle on a mountain on an island in the bermuda triangle. my dad was the richest man in the world, even though you have never heard of him, just phonies like bill gates and warren buffett. i don’t know for sure who my mom was, but i am pretty sure she was a famous movie star, but i won’t mention her name because i am a gentleman and i am not 100 percent sure. my dad was determined that i not grow up soft but that i should be a warrior. he hired the greatest warriors of martial arts systems you never even heard of, and the deadliest marksmen from the green berets and the navy seals to train me. he hired gurus and dalai lamas from ancient disciplines to teach me the secrets of telepathy and mind control and levitation. i took an i q test and scored 346 - the highest ever recorded in human history. all this training was for a purpose - to make me the deadliest assassin the world had ever known. the only glitch, if you could call it that, came when i was about thirteen years old. as i told you, my mom was a famous movie star and i was not a bad looking kid myself. the castle had some female servants, cooks and chambermaids and such, and when i got to be almost grown they just could not keep their hands off me. they all had to be let go. as you might suspect, the gurus and masters and navy seals gave me a lot of good natured ribbing, though some of the seals especially were a little ticked off that there were no women on the premises any more and they had to go “off post” to find any. all this was not just to make me a great assassin for no particular purpose. when the time came, i was briefed on the mission i had been trained for. so it was that i found myself driving a lamborghini aventador svj roadster up a winding mountain in switzerland on a cool spring morning. the sun was shining. i came around a bend, and there she was. with a brunello cucinelli bag beside her, her thumb out, and her long blonde hair flowing in the breeze like the flag of a conquering army… at this point in john paul binghamton’s story the lights in the elevator came back on and the elevator started to hum and then began to move. in a minute they were in the lobby. john paul binghamton assured the other two that he would get up the ass of the building management and give them holy hell, and all three went about their business. when any of the three saw one of the others again in the lobby or in the elevator, they might nod, but never spoke. the end

three in an elevator, part 2

by nick nelson

part two of three

to read part one, click here

walter syracuse began his story. my name is walter syracuse, i have ever been a poet and a dreamer, and my life has been one endless humiliation. i was born to a bleak landscape. in a remote mountainous area where my direct ancestors had been the first european settlers, but which was now chiefly inhabited by the subhuman descendants of the indentured servants and transported criminals who had accompanied the first gentlefolk to the new land. my early years were spent in the family “mansion”, now sadly neglected and untended by any servants, and inhabited solely by my ancient and ailing (and, if truth be told, quite mad) grandfather, my mother, and myself. of my father i was told little. he was a wanderer and a dreamer, what some might derisively describe as a “drifter”, and my poor mother met and married him in what was thought a rather advanced age on her part to do so. if i did not inherit my propensity to dream from my father, i surely did so from my mother, who spent her entire life wishing to be the inhabitant of long ago, distant golden times and lands. she was especially entranced by the story of heinrich schliemann and his discovery of the ancient city of troy. she regarded schliemann’s feat, as proof, if any were needed, of the existence of fabulous forgotten empires, of which many more remain to be discovered. consequently it was her dearest wish that i, her weak and ungainly only child, should aspire to be not only a poet but an archeologist. to my childish mind these seemed quite reasonable expectations, no less than if she had wished me to be a doctor or a lawyer. needless to say, she took it upon herself to educate me, and wished above all to insulate me from contact with the neanderthal children of the village and countryside. the education she gave me emphasized one thing above all else - that the ancients knew things of which we dare not dream! and then, that happened of which i had dared not think possible. in a particularly cruel winter, a particularly malignant flu swept through the mountainside, and carried away both my mad grandfather and my beloved mother. it was quickly discovered that my grandfather had died leaving less than nothing - a hopeless morass of debt. the old house and its furnishings were quickly seized and sold to provide some small pittance to the merciless clamoring debtors, and i became that saddest of earthly creatures, a “ward of the state”. a local farmer was found who was willing to take me in, on the condition that i “earned my keep.” even worse, i was required to enter the local school, with the local primate children. mrs throckwaite, the schoolmistress, did not take particularly unkindly to me, but did not consider it any part of her duties to protect me from the other children. on my first day in school, mrs throckwaite asked me what i wanted to be when i grew up. i answered, a poet and an archaeologist. an arky-what? mrs throckwaite explained to the class as best she could what an archaeologist was, and from that day on i was “arky” and “digger” and “mud boy”. and when i say “from that day on” i mean every day that i was in school. things were not much better on the farm. farmer drumgold and his wife did not treat me harshly according to their lights, or those of the village, but oh, how my soul did pine! i resolved to escape. one moonless night, when farmer drumgold and his wife and their chickens were asleep, i stole down to the highway, determined to make my way to the metropolis of kingsville… part 3

three in an elevator, part 1

by nick nelson

part one of three

richard rochester, walter syracuse, and john paul binghamton all lived in a twelve story apartment building on main street in a large city. richard rochester lived on the tenth floor, walter syracuse lived on the eighth floor, and john paul binghamton lived on the seventh floor. they occasionally saw each in the building’s elevator, but none had ever spoken to any of the others. one day the three of them happened to be in the elevator together when it got stuck between the fifth and sixth floors. they did not know if they would ever see the light of day again. to pass the time they began telling their life stories. richard rochester went first. i was born in a medium sized city, richard began, the oldest of two children. my parents, lester and romona rochester, both went to work every day, my dad for the government and my mother in the private sector. although both explained to me on numerous occasions - when i specifically asked them - what they did at their jobs, i was never able to quite understand what they were talking about. i assumed that when i got older i would have such a job myself, and it would all become clear to me. when i was younger both parents went to work in the morning and came home at night, but later my dad began working odd staggered shifts, and my mom began working at home. meanwhile i went to day care, and then to elementary school, junior high, high school, and to state university, consistently scoring in the fifty-seventh or fifty-eighth percentile in my classes. my sister rhonda, who was three years younger than myself, usually finished in the eighty-seventh percentile in her classes through high school, and won a scholarship to a small private college, which made my parents beam with pride. however, they did not make a big deal about my relative lack of success, and always treated us both the same. i made the soccer and lacrosse teams in junior high and high school but did not play much. i went out for the lacrosse team at state, but did not make it. up until the next to last day of tryouts i thought i had a chance. i met a great bunch of guys at state. we were not actually a fraternity or a secret brotherhood or anything like that, but we got together most nights at a local place just off campus and drank ourselves senseless. my grades began to suffer, and me and a couple of the other guys started going to a a meetings, which i found quite helpful, and still do sometimes. i know some people knock it, but i have nothing but good things to say about a a. when i graduated i got a job in the training program of the human resources department of a large consulting firm whose name you probably do not recognize. i am now a trainer there myself. i met a great girl named alexandria, and we are planning to get married next spring, and try to have two kids, a boy and a girl. with alexandria, i am going to religious services for the first time in my life, and i have to say it does not really excite me much, but i am giving it the old college try. my favorite tv shows are star trek, seinfeld, and friends. my favorite movies are the godfather, godfather ii, and the magnificent seven. i have watched them all a hundred times. well, that’s my story, richard rochester concluded. part 2