Beyond

“Another shoe,” Puck held it in the flashlight.

He, Andy, and Scarlatina ran their lights up the walls.

“What’s that?” Andy said.

Etched into the wall were symbols. They were long narrow rectangles that comprised a busy thatch work of white markings.

“I wonder,” Scarlatina said. She touched the rock and vanished.

“What in Christ’s name…” said Andy.

The two men stood there for some time.

“I think I should try it too,” said Puck.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah Andy. I don’t understand what’s going on here. I don’t pretend to understand it one bit. But I think our girl’s somewhere behind this wall. And if I get stuck in there, I need to know somebody’s still on this side who will try to save me.”

Before Andy could say anything Puck reached for the wall and vanished.

Puck was surrounded by darkness. He heard the surge of electricity and smelled sulfer.

He blinked.

He was in a room with grubby hardwood floors. The walls were covered in black moldy spots. He turned around and around. He was alone.

“Over here,” said a voice said behind him.

The maintenance man leaned against the wall. His dark eyes were wide, and his lips were pulled back.

“Where am I?” asked Puck.

“Elsewhere?” he said. When he spoke it sounded like his voice started before his mouth moved.

“Who are you? Where is Jennifer Odamer?”

“Which one is that?” The maintenance man’s inflections were disjointed, and his vowels drawn out.

“I know she’s here.”

The maintenance man pointed behind Puck, who turned around. He heard a low hum.

Before him Jenna Odamer sat on the floor. He clothes were torn, her hair was dry and dead, and she looked like she hadn’t slept for two weeks.

“I keep them with me,” said the maintenance man, now beside him, “for the energy, for their pain and sorrow. You or her. Doesn’t matter.

Scarlatina found herself in a stormy field. In the distance was the vine covered tower that had plagued her dreams for months. She heard faint singing. The air smelled heavy, as if it had just rained. Water squeaked in her shoes as she walked through the wet grass. The doorway was an oval of old stone. Scarlatina ran her hand over it. It felt real enough. Water dripped from the pillars inside. She walked in.

At a wind torn table was Ashbrook, The Stranger, and The Singer.

“Another one?” said The Stranger.

The Singer droned on her rendition of Ave Maria. There was pure emotion behind it. Blood flecks dotted her chin.

“Not just anyone!” Ashbrook stood with difficulty, “Scarlatina, how did you get here? Did they trap you here too?”

“Ashbrook, I don’t know where I am,” she said, “or how to get back, but I came to save you.”

“Save both of us,” said The Stranger, who also stood.

“From what we can tell we’re in some sort of extra plain,” said Ashbrook, “we don’t know anything else.”

“What about her?” asked Scarlatina.

“All she does is sing that song over and over,” said The Stranger, “now, if there is a way out of here.”

The Stranger wore a business suit and hat. Scarlatina placed him in his mid thirties. He had tired eyes and premature wrinkles.

“I don’t know-” Scarlatina felt dizzy. Her vision swam and she fell. She saw a hand reach for her.

When Scarlatina came to she was back in the cave. Through her fuzzy vision she saw Andy helping a figure to its feet. She turned her head. The man from the vision, The Stranger, was laying next to her. Her vision got fuzzy again as she looked up. The wall was blank. Then she knew no more.

End of Summer

“Summer’s coming to an end,” the old man said.

He sat on the railing of the balcony with his back against a beam. One foot sat on the rail, and the other dangled in the open air. He was tall with short gray hair. Small square wire glasses framed his blue eyes. He smoked a pipe. A strange wood one that curved in curly-q’s.

“Just about,” I said. I sat on the balcony, where it was safe.

“Good time of year.”

“Think so?”

“Oh yes, oh yes,” he puffed on the pipe, “very inspirational. The sunsets of a very special kind of melancholy at the end of August. The bugs always sound lower to. They’re getting nervous about winter. Hoping to find other bugs too. World’s ripe with them, though. No worries for the crickets and the cicadas.”

“I always thought Autumn was more inspiring.”

“Why?”

“The colors.”

“Ah, of course, the colors.”

“It’s more than that. There is a humbleness implied by Autumn. Nothing we ever really do will be as beautiful as the natural tones of Fall. It makes me feel like there’s beauty in the acceptance of death too. Those trees are about about to die, or sort of, I dunno. There’s something symbolic to it.”

“I felt that way too when I was young. I could see myself at fifty walking down forested dirt roads. My hair longer, dark as always but starting to really show some streaks of gray. That familiar taste of the air as the leaves died off.”

“But no more?”

“Oh no, no more. At least not really. It just sort of went away when I got to that age. I started remembering more rather than searching forward. It’s the luxury of age, if there is one. That, and senior breakfast is cheap as hell.”

“Makes you remember what prices were like when you were young?” I said.

He tilted his head down at me and pursed his lips.

“You know, this is a real cliché.”

“I know.” I sat back. The air smelled like lavender.

The old man smiled.

“I guess it isn’t as bad if you never acknowledge what we are,” he said.

“Careful,” I said, “talking like that will give us away.”

“I know,” he scratched his cheek and looked down, “I thought we were talking about the end of Summer.”

“We are,” I said.

“Nearly done now,” he said.

The Mary-Anna

The fishing boat bobbed in the fog. Slow black waves melded with the night sky, and enveloped the crew of The Mary-Anna in an impenetrable darkness.

“Lights aren’t doin’ us much good, Captain,” said one of the deck hands.

“Nar, at this point they’re so we don’t get rammed by another boat more than anything,” said Captain Beak.

Captain Beak walked to the bow and took a bit of his orange. The captain had a habit of eating his oranges in the same way a normal person would eat an apple. Flakes of orange skin hung from his beard until the wind blew them away.

“Which way are we facing anymore, navigator?” he asked.

“Well captain,” said Navigator Thomas, “I’m pretty ashamed to admit I just don’t know. There must be metal in the seabed. My compass is all over the place.”

It was true. Navigator Thomas’s compass spun in a steady circle.

“Cut the engine,” Captain Beak said into his radio. The Mary-Anna‘s engine chugged to a halt.

The crew met on the main deck.

“Alright crew,” said Captain Beak, “here’s our situation. Nary of our insturments-”

“What does nary mean?” one of the deck hands shouted.

“It’s a kinda orange,” said another one.

“No no no,” said Navigator Thomas, “it means none.”

“Then why didn’t captain just say that.”

“I imagine he were tryin’ ta puh on a more sea faren voice.”

“Now that’s enough,” Captain Beak shouted, “this is serious now. Nary- sorry- none of our instruments are working. We can’t find North, and our long range radio is on the fritz. Now, we don’t want to sail farther away from shore, so we’re just gonna sit tight until dawn, or until we see Fog Watch lighthouse.”

“Coastal folk never was creative with names.” piped up another member of the crowd.

The crew took turns watching for the lighthouse while the rest slept. Captain Beak stayed up with each. At 4 o’clock in the morning the captain checked his own compass. It was spinning faster than the navigator’s was six hours before. Then, in the sea, came a sound other than the lapping of waves. It was a low rumble.

“Was that a fog horn, Captain?” said one of the crew.

“I don’t know,” Captain Beak stood. “Never heard one like that. Too low.”

The sounded happened again.

“Return call,” he said into the radio.

The Mary-Anna‘s horn sounded bright and chipper against the black mist.

The sound returned again, but stayed constant. It was so dark the crew didn’t see the wave until it crashed into the boat. Water ran up to the Captain’s waist. He couldn’t see his own knees. He felt things rushing passed his legs in the frigid water. Men were screaming, pulling each other toward the inside of the ship. Captain Beak grabbed a rotted rope from the rigging. In the black, very far away, and very deep in the ocean, he could see a pulsing purple light rising to the surface.

“Is that a facking UFO,” someone shouted.

The light hovered in the air for about thirty seconds. Captain Beak could just see the outline of the ship. Strange curving edges. The low vibration was a roar now. Then it was just gone. After a few minutes the ocean calmed, and the crew sat on the deck in a circle, filling the sleeping members in on what they had seen. Navigator Thomas checked his compass.

“Works fine again, sir” he said.

“Very well. Back to work then.”

The Great Belfry

Vanderduke stood atop the St. Bernard Catholic Church’s belfry. To be exact, he stood atop the tallest one. The massive Gothic church had 5 belfries, the tallest being in the middle. Vanderduke climbed a fifteen story ladder to reach the belfry’s overlook. Behind him the setting sun was a long orange sliver on the horizon, the rest of the sky was a blanket of violet clouds.

Vanderduke looked down the belfry. The hollow column was an abyss under the large brass bell. Vanderduke was a tall man. He wore a long gray overcoat which hid his tools. His dark hair was short, and windblown. He had what people called 9 o’clock shadow. His facial hair was too long to be considered 5 o’clock. Over his right eye he wore a battered leather eye patch.

He reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a silver pocket watch. 8:45. St. Bernard’s rang fifteen minutes early. Metal gears started grinding. Vanderduke braced himself. The massive bell tipped to the right, then released. The sound was deafening. Hundreds of bats funneled out of the tower as the clock chimed on and on, and in the middle was the big one.

It perched on the roof of the tower. To Vanderduke, the great bat seemed to be about ten feet long. It’s wingspan was probably fifteen feet. It crawled toward the edge, black eyes focused on Vanderduke. It screeched at him. He went for the small crossbow on his waist. The bolt was soaked in a special toxin that would make an elephant pass out in a few seconds. He didn’t have much time to aim.

The bat lunged forward. He missed. The massive creature smashed into him. The wooden handrails smashed, and Vanderduke was in the air. One gloved hand caught the bat’s fur. It tried to shake Vanderduke as it flew. Smoke pellets fell from his pockets, causing a premature evening fog in the street hundreds of feet below. Vanderduke managed to get a grip on the bat. It was still circling the towers, and was coming up on another belfry. Vanderduke reached for a metal hook he kept in his coat. His hand fit in the ring, and the sharpened edge managed to catch itself in the wood. Vanderduke held the beast with one arm, and the hook with the other.

It nearly fell, but the bat managed to pull the hook free. Vanderduke dropped it too. The bat had lost momentum, and was diving toward the roof of the church. Vanderduke climbed to its back, and took a knife from his boot. He slashed at the bat’s left wing, and it fell to the roof. Tiles broke around their impact site. Roofing slid away. The bad hissed at him and tried to stand, but the wing couldn’t support its weight. Vanderduke took a blowgun from his coat. And put a dart in it.

“Sorry doc,” he said, “we just can’t let this go on.”

The dart hit the bat in the chest. It stumbled, and fell. Slowly the hairy body shrank. The hair fell off, and a sleeping man lay curled in the roof tiles on a bed of bat fur.

Electronic Music

“I wanna get into electronic music, but I know I probably never will.”

“You mean like listening to it?”

“No, I mean making it.”

“What do you even need for that?”

“I’m not really sure. Probably some musical knowledge to start with.”

“Didn’t you take a few semesters of music theory in college?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t do well. My last semester in it I got a C.”

“C’s get degrees.”

“Naw man, C’s get you taking the class over again.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Besides it isn’t just that. You need to know how to use the equipment.”

“You have the equipment?”

“No.”

“Oh. Well. That’s probably a good start.”

“Probably, but I feel like I’ll lose interest.”

“Why?”

“It isn’t the same as really playing probably. You’re just sat there pushing buttons trying to make something that sounds cool.”

“Isn’t that just called playing an instrument?”

“Wouldn’t know. I play trombone.”

“Well, wouldn’t the completed project be worth it?”

“Maybe. But I know me. It would never be good enough.”

“That’s fair.”

“Man, you know what I like? Alt rock.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like how full it sounds.”

“Why don’t you just do that then?”

“I can’t play guitar, or drums, or sing at all.”

“What can you do?”

“Not much really.”

“Then why do you want to get into electronic music?”

“It can sound really cool.”

“So you wanna be cool?”

“Yeah. Mostly.”

On Bonfires

Cool crisp evenings under cloud blotched stars. A circle of stones, or bricks, or metal. My home, surrounded by field and forest, or another by the lake, or another too close to the tomato and the big tree. The smell of thick nostalgia, companionship, and stories. Thick stream of present memory plumes from burning logs. It always starts the same. We scramble for twigs and marshmallow cookers. Responsibility and regret creep into the dark beyond our crackling alligator faced fire.

Pretty girls wear big hoodies, and boys wear jeans and jackets. There’s music in the crickets and the crackling. We pause to listen. No one feels the need to break that sacred bonfire silence. Not until the Autumn ends, the snow flies, and the fires fade.

Pokemon Cards

The Pokemon craze swept the United States when I was pretty young, probably second grade. I don’t know if my first exposure was to the cards or the games, but I do remember where I got my first two Pokemon cards. My friend Austin gave them to me on the bus, a Growlithe and a Diglett. Apparently he had given away all his cards that day because he was too nice to say no to anyone who asked. It was a dog eat dog world from then on out.

I quickly pressured my parents into buying me my own cards, and the rest, to them I’m sure, is history. It was my life dream to have every single Pokemon card. One hundred and fifty one cards. I remember I had to wait until the end of the week for them to buy me a pack, but I persuaded, through persistence, to get them early. I never learned to play the card game. My interest was in collection alone.

I think what drew me to the Pokemon universe was its unique sense of discovery. Sure, I had a poster in my room with each and every Pokemon on it. I knew what they were. But finding those cards was like really finding strange new creatures. With every blue foil pack I delved deeper into a world unseen by anyone. That is not an easy feeling to find, especially as an adult.

Of course, we reached a point where relying on packs of random cards wasn’t good enough. I was getting too many repeats. My poor parents spent so much money on these cards. I think they were just as driven to complete the collection as I was, but because it meant an end to this finical sink hole. There were a few places around that sold special cards. They kept them in big cases, usually with the baseball cards , in the front. I have a vivid memory of my Dad calling one to ask if they had a Charzard. By now, the people who worked there knew him by his voice. I waited with baited breath. Hearing him say, “alright, hold it for me, I’ll be down soon,” was one of the most gratifying experiences of my young life.

There were always stories of kids just finding cards around. My cousin found them all the time on the sidewalk, and I had another friend find a Venusaur in a lake. I never found any cards just laying around, but what I did find is I had the ability to talk just about anyone out of their cards for free. It was a skill inadvertently fostered by my parents. I got good at smooth talking them into buying cards, but it was easy because they loved me. I couldn’t rely on that with the kids on the bus. I don’t know how I did it, but I know I have some cards just because I convinced kids to give them to me. I have a Dugtrio, the 5^th to the last card I needed, just because I talked a boy named Alan Weatherwax out of it.

Eventually it came down to one impossible card to find. It wasn’t Mew, or Dragonite, or Mewtwo, or even a slightly rare card. It was Golduck. We looked forever for a Golduck. I kept a list of each Pokemon in my card binder that I would sign off on when I found it. That white space between Psyduck and Mankey is still burned into my memories. But one day a card store had it. My father brought it to me. I slipped it into my binder in front of my jealous cousin, and felt a sense of peace I have never once been close to feeling again.

Of course, generation two was announced a few days after.

Catfish Blues

When I was very young there was a grocery store by my house called Klicks. Klicks, for some reason, had a pet section. Today that would be a food safety nightmare, but in the early 90’s it just made it a sweet place to be two years old. I was just old enough to know that Klicks existed, but my memories of it are vague. The story I am about to tell was told to me first by my father, and only after did I realize I had foggy memories of it. I had assumed it was just a vivid dream that I had remembered my whole life; a false memory ingrained in a psyche too new to know the different between dream and reality. This was not the case.

In the pet section of Klicks was a large albino catfish. I remember him vividly. His long pale whiskers. His bulging black eyes. His big floppy mouth. The catfish lived in a pool stylized like a deep puddle in some rocks. There was a tiny waterfall. The pond was open air. It wasn’t very high either, probably only coming up to my present day knees.

When catfish aren’t swimming, they tread water with their heads, moving them back and forth. They also open and close their mouths over and over. I was just a dumb toddler. I thought the fish was waving at me, trying to say hello. I thought this albino catfish not only actively recognized me, but also was a dear friend.

At some point I learned to walk. I can only imagine what that was like for my parents. I imagine a baby’s first steps are exciting. They’re just one step closer to being a real life human, not just some smelly little thing that you have to feed all the time and make sure it isn’t too hot. But then they keep doing it. The walking. The curious grabbing of a child. Some much new stimulation in the world. So many dreams to be realized, all at the ends of their pudgy little fingertips that have just gained way more range.

One day my Dad had me at Klicks. According to him, he turned his back just for a second, and when he looked around it was running down the aisle toward him. In my arms was a great albino catfish, lamely wiggling in my excited arms, mouth gasping for air. I left a trail of water behind me. I imagine we told someone and returned the fish.

For all of my life there’s been a picture in my head I thought was a dream. A picture of being in that cold water with the little waterfall. A picture of looking up through water to an alien world I would never understand, even after I had grown old and white, understood by no one but children.

Craft Fair

When I was in high school the music program hosted a large craft fair. It was huge, with over forty vendors, a full cafeteria, and a moving staff. The students were, of course, the moving staff. Some of the bands and choirs would form small ensembles to go around the whole thing and sing or play. It was usually in late November or early December. Early enough for the soft Ohio gray to feel cozy and full of Christmas potential. Before it staled and became unbearable.

By and large the craft fair was a stressful mess, but looking back, I think I liked it. I was surrounded by my friends, and to me it marked the beginning of the Christmas season. One booth sold home made pumpkin rolls. Someone would always buy some to share.

When I think back on the craft fairs, there is only one memory that really stands out. High, mighty, triumphant against the rest. It is exactly the opposite of what I have described. My good friend Ben and I were helping the cafeteria restock ketchup for a reason that is lost to me now. We had those old styled ketchup bottles. The kind made of plastic, with the cone tip. Ben dropped one, and it fell straight on the bottom. The pressure made ketchup shoot out at break neck speed. A perfect line of ketchup started from my ankle and went up my entire body to my shoulder. My clothes were stained for the rest of the day.

In the Woods

“I don’t think we’re going to find anything out here, Puck,” Andy said.

“Just a little farther.”

“We’re already pretty deep,” said Scarlatina.

Puck had called Andy and Scarlatina the morning after his dream. They were searching the woods again near Pine Ridge.

“Even if I believed some kind of evil spirits were responsible for these disappearances, why would we listen to anything they say? You’re partner even told us to avoid it.”

“Ashbrook knows me,” Scarlatina said, “and he knows the fastest way to get me to do something is telling me to not to.”

“Are we close to anything?” Puck said.

“Sootbell cave, just a quarter mile North-West,” Andy said, looking at his GPS.

“Let’s head there, and if we don’t find anything we don’t find anything.”

The woods were dense here. No trails lead to Sootbell cave. It wasn’t a good spot for cavers because it was spacious inside. It was considered boring, since you couldn’t get stuck or lost in it very easy. When the trio stood outside its mouth in the early morning heat it didn’t look like anything special.

“I hate caves,” said Andy.

“Yeah, me too,” said Puck.

“Why?” said Scarlatina.

“You never find anything happy in them,” said Andy. “Every missing person case I’ve always had that leads to a cave. Well. The only worse kind is the case that leads to the city. Only sick things happen this remote.”

“Dangerous too,” said Puck. He took a flashlight from his pocket and shined it in the cave’s mouth. The cave, which started in the side of a small hill, sloped down at a sharp angle for a few feet, then evened out and opened up.

“I think I see something.” he said.

The air was cooler in the cave. Maybe twenty degrees. He heard dripping far away. He neared the object. It was a shoe.

“Looks new apart from being in a cave for awhile,” Andy said, checking in the inside. “Size 9. Looks like a woman’s.”

The cave groaned around them as they fanned out with their flashlights making feeble attempts to penetrate the earth that had never known real light.