Burn It Down

 

Alistair stood, the air around him hot and dry. He could feel the heat on his face, his chest, his arms. The bright orange glow lit the entire ground all around. The black sky, a sharp contrast to the licking flames.  He could hear sirens in the distance, and he knew exactly how the next fifteen minutes would play out. Stuffing the book of matches into his back pocket, he took three steps back as the heat had become almost unbearable.

Watching the flames climb ever higher into the blackness of the night, his thoughts drifted back to the day before. He sat, motionless, the leather of the couch gripping his bare legs, his feet cold. Wearing only his briefs, he stared at the television screen and sipped his Scotch, emotionless, at least that is what they always told him he was. Another school shooting, another murder, another bombing of some small, insignificant Middle Eastern country by a particularly large and arrogant nation of power.

Setting his Scotch on the coffee table, he stood, his legs peeling off the couch with a muffled, prolonged snap. Turning off the television, he walked into the kitchen and stared at the refrigerator, not hungry but feeling like eating. Then suddenly, as if a light had been turned on, he realized what he needed to do. But this could not be an off-the-cuff, spur of the moment activity.

Walking into his bedroom, he dressed for the day. Slacks, button up dress shirt and leather shoes, he combed his hair, at the same time, confirming his clothes contained no wrinkles. Always a stickler for plans and details, he turned on his laptop and created a high-level outline for the next twenty-four hours.

The sound of approaching sirens stirred Alistair from his distracted memories and moved him to the next phase of his plan. Sliding his garbage cans in the driveway entrance, he climbed into his car and slowly pulled away. In his rearview mirror, he could see the police cars and fire trucks converge upon his home, now entirely engulfed in flames. As he fully anticipated, roadblock barriers were slid into place behind him as he passed through the intersection.

Pulling ahead to the next block, with the flicker of orange reflecting upon his face, he removed a notebook from his backpack, for his laptop now provided fodder for the insatiable appetite of the flames. He thought back to his last steps of preparation, as he sat earlier that evening in his living room. Hacking into the federal government personnel records, he erased all reference to himself. Photos, school records, immunization records, fingerprints, it was all gone by the time he finished. He knew full well that someone would trace his actions, but the work was done. According to the digitized records of the US Federal government, Alistair did not exist.

Hacking the state government database was much simpler and he replicated his steps here as well. Closing his laptop, he removed the hard drive and chopped it into tiny pieces with a pair of gardening shears.  There was no turning back now.

The passing of a truck and trailer stirred him from his thoughts and putting the car into drive, he continued on. The drive ahead of him was a long one. Six hours into downtown Detroit at midnight typically was not his preference for vacation but tonight was different. What would take place tonight would forever change him. Alistair Persephone no longer existed.

Taking the main road downtown, he slowly drove through the mall, watching, searching. His endeavors eventually bore fruit and he found a car, a duplicate of the one he drove and he parked next to it. Climbing out of his own car and into the other, the keys were an exact match, a gamble he had hoped on and found to be right. He pulled onto the Interstate and began his drive to Detroit.

Finally arriving at the outskirts of the Detroit Metropolitan airport, he randomly chose a hotel, being wise enough to have done no research and to have left no electronic trail of his whereabouts. Paying cash for a room, he let himself in, lay down on the bed, and closed his eyes.

It was the beeping that woke him. Though Alistair was gone, his habits still remained. 6:00 am and he was ready for the day. After taking a shower, he returned his room key and drove away from the hotel, heading back to the Interstate. Heading northeast, he finally reached his destination, Livernois Avenue, the neighborhood his research told him was the most dangerous in the entire country. Parking the car, he tossed the keys into the lap of a sleeping homeless man. Returning to a bus stop he had passed on his way in, he sat on the bench and waited. After studying the route map, he took the first of three buses, and returned to the airport. Grabbing a bite to eat, he walked the concourses for over four hours before he found the one person he was looking for. If Alistair didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was looking in a mirror. The man was nearly identical in appearance, build, and hair color. It was uncanny.

Cautiously following the man, he “accidentally” bumped into him and lifted the man’s wallet. Quickly removing his driver’ license, he pocketed the ID and then turned back shouting after the man.

“Excuse me, sir,” he called out. “I think you dropped your wallet?” The man felt his back pocket and realizing his wallet was gone, thanked Alistair profusely.

“Oh, wow, man, thank you,” he said smiling and receiving the billfold back. Quickly thumbing through it, he let out a sigh of relief. “Phew, all my money is still there. Again, thanks a ton.”

“No problem,” Alistair answered and then turned and walked away in the opposite direction. Finding the nearest ticket counter, he approached the smiling woman standing behind it.

“Excuse me, miss, please give me a random single digit number,” he said. The woman looked at him oddly but then answered ‘3’.

Choosing the third flight on the overhead reader board, he asked for a ticket. “One ticket to Dallas/Fort Worth, please.” Paying for the ticket in cash, he showed the new ID he had just procured and receiving his ticket, walked toward the departure gate, ticket in hand. Just as he leaned in to sit down, he heard the overhead voice make the last call for his flight. “Oof, that was close,” he thought. Hurrying to the hallway, the stewardess scanned his ticket, smiled at him widely, and welcomed him aboard.

Soul Crusher

 

Carl had left work that morning at the completion of his graveyard shift. Not feeling particularly tired, he worked his way across town and to the edge of the just beyond the nuclear power plant. The crunch of the gravel seemed especially loud as he reached the edge of the parking lot and pulled on his emergency brake. Sitting for a moment in the silence of his car, he finished his cigarette and snuffing out the butt, flicked the now lone filter through his open window.

Just a few short steps across the gravel and he found his way to the single path leading into the marsh. It was a slow walk he took, looking out across the vast emptiness, the occasional bird skirting across the tops of the clumps of grass. Within a few minutes of walking, he came upon his favorite and well-known spot, a slight rise in the marsh that allowed for seating without getting wet. Sitting cross-legged, he gazed across the marsh, enjoying the silence and the peace, so rare in his life it seemed.

He could feel the tension gently drifting away and the gentle breeze that brushed his face reminded him just how glorious and valuable these little visits had become to him. The power plant towers beyond his peripheral vision allowed him to forget his troubles, his struggles and the stress that constantly ate at his soul. At one moment, he wished these visits could last forever but in the next, he wondered if anything would actually bring him any peace. The pain of not knowing what would be best sat in the pit of his stomach, refusing to leave.

Breathing deeply of the fresh morning air, his eyes caught a glimpse of a small jittery movement, far to the south. Watching the shifting, morphing, twisting black cloud, for lack of a better term, his first presumption was of a flock of swallows and their diaphanous movement. The shimmering, shapeless mass appeared to grow larger as it moved toward him, his attention now fully focused on this aerial display. Within what seemed to be seconds, the shape was directly above him and he realized that this darkness was definitely not a flock of birds. It was not a flock of anything. It appeared to be a single entity.

In one sudden moment, the entity formed into a perfect, silvery square, directly above him and possibly one hundred feet on each side. This was certainly alarming, but the most alarming fact was the absolute silence. Prior to its appearance, Carl could hear the occasional bird, the skittering of insects and the rustling of the grass as the breeze passed through. All very delicate for sure, but certainly sound.

Now, lying on his back in the middle of the marsh, Carl stared up into the perfectly square mirror of sorts and heard absolutely nothing. Even the breeze had stopped.  Staring into the silvery nothingness, he began to recognize movement within and depth and then he realized, apparent sentience. He felt no fear but only confusion. Nothing made sense, nothing connected, nothing seemed to follow the laws of classical physics, as he understood them.

The images increased in intensity, in depth and in speed. A veritable phantasmagoria, Carl could feel himself swirling, though he lay perfectly motionless in the grass. As if tentacles had penetrated to the deepest parts of his soul, every aspect of his being lay exposed to the shimmering entity. The silence had shifted to an incredible roar and every emotion, every thought, and every memory swirled through him like a whirlpool.

It was the confusion that tore him apart. His first thought was to run, to get away from this aberration of nature. But at the same time, a nagging feeling hung around him, suggesting that this circumstance was to be endured. There was no understanding. None of this made any sense to him and he could not act without some sort of understanding to provide foundation for that action. Simply not knowing nearly destroyed him. The only thought that kept him grounded, that kept him from fleeing, was the reality that nothing dangerous was actually happening. As he could only see from his perspective, he wondered what someone else would see had they happened upon this display.

As he lay staring into the silvery shimmer, he realized that despite the temptation to leap to his feet and run away, he could move nothing of his person. He could hear his pulse in his ears, for the roaring had stopped and the ambient silence had returned. Knowing that he was still alive gave a sliver of hope in this bizarre and twisted circumstance. But the fact of his immobility alarmed him. The idea of the freedom to run, to leave, to get away, was a comforting thought, a sliver of control but the realization of his perfect inability left him feeling helpless.

The distraction of his introspection had blinded him to the change that had taken place. The silvery shimmer, once perfectly square and flat, both two dimensional yet infinite in depth had changed to an all-encompassing dome, surrounding him like a two-man tent. But this tent had no door, no zipper, and no apparent egress of any kind. He lay perfectly motionless and helpless. Feeling infinitely vulnerable but at the same time, no threat of any kind presented itself. He simply was and the shimmer was.

Pondering his simplicity, he suddenly had the strange feeling of being watched. From his peripheral vision, he saw a wavering in the shimmer, a slight distortion and then she was there. A young woman, smiling at him, dark hair thickly lying upon her shoulders and cascading nearly to her waist. At least he somewhat guessed it was about waist length, for her clothing was nondescript and shimmering, like the silver but white instead. She slowly approached him, gently flowing like water, and never taking her eyes off of him. She stopped, just within reach and reached out her hand to him.

“Take my hand,” she said, her voice a liquid smile, flowing into him and caressing his soul.

“I cannot move,” he said, startled at the sound of his own voice.

“Are you sure?” she responded, stretching out a second hand. Lifting his hand and embracing hers, he marveled at the movement. Rising to his feet, the woman embraced him and hugged him, like a friend whose absence had been an open sore for far too long. Carl could feel the tension, always present in his neck, dissipate. He stood, in awe of the embrace and the glory of the moment.

Turning from him, yet still holding his hand, the two effortlessly moved toward the boundary of the cell. “Come with me,” she said, pulling him after her as she passed through the silver. He closed his eyes and exhaled what felt like the pain and stress of a million years. His knuckles rapped the silvery shimmer and he felt her hand slip from his. He now stood alone, his face pressed against the silvery boundary, now an apparent prison and the memory of the glory of the embrace a honey sweet taste on the tip of his tongue, fading.

The emptiness that devoured his soul as he climbed back into his car stood before him, a joyless, dry, and stark hatred that gave nothing but pain. He sat in the driver seat and lit another cigarette, remembering the vacation form he still needed to fill out for the following week.

He drove away.

Update on my publishing efforts

 If you are enjoying my writing, please check out my centralized website that contains information and links to all of my writing. You can find it at:

www.rduaneassink.com

Also, my new novel, "Worthington Heights" is available for pre-order on Amazon, set to be published on September 10, 2021.

Thanks for reading!

A Boy in a Small Town

There was a small town and in that town was a small house and in that house lived a boy. The boy lived alone and as he would go about doing the things he needed to do, he would see other men. Some were alone, as he was alone but others had strange beautiful creatures with them. From his research he determined that these creatures were called wives and were, in most categories, the equals of men. Sometimes, as he sat in the park eating his lunch and watching the people pass by, he observed that sometimes the men and their wives walked together, holding hands and talking. But other times, the women would walk a few steps behind the man, saying nothing. He pondered this.

Sometimes, as he was out riding his bicycle, it occurred to him that as he rode he never saw men and their wives riding bicycles. They either walked or drove in a car. One day as he walked down his driveway to the mailbox, he paused and looked up and down the street. As this “man and his wife” business was on his mind as of late, he realized that he had never noticed that his home had no garage but all the other homes on his block that did, belonged to men that had wives. That night at dinner, he finished his Merlot and looked at the small empty wall that sat at the end of the hallway. “I could fit a door there,” he said to himself. And so he did.

There was an excitement about the first blow of the sledgehammer as he struck a hole in that little section of wall. With the arrival of the delivery truck, delivering his new door, he set to work. Framing in the opening, he hung his door. “Hmm,” he thought, “this is a nice door, but it doesn’t go anywhere other than just outside. Walking to his side yard, he realized that he could easily build a garage onto his home and it would surround his beautiful new door. 

Three months later, he stood on the sidewalk in front of his home and admired his new garage. It had come at a substantial expense, but it was a very nice garage. Later that day, as he walked his cat around the block, he noticed that he could see into many of the garages and nearly all of them contained a car, of many different shapes, sizes and colors. “Hmm,” he thought to himself, “a car.”  Pulling out his phone, he opened his banking app and realized that he still had a fairly large sum of money in his account. “I think I know where this is heading,” he said to himself. 

The next day being Sunday, he found himself at the local car lot. A man in a very loud orange suit approached him, smiling very widely. “Hello there friend,” the salesman said, extending his hand. Shaking his hand, he introduced himself and simply said, “I don’t really know exactly what I’m looking for but it needs to be comfortable and needs to seat two.”

“Two seater, huh?” the salesman said. “I follow ya. Let me show you your options.”

Browsing the lot, the two men examined a large number of vehicles, some very large with lots of storage space, some very small and fast. “I’m thinking you probably need a larger type vehicle,” the salesman said. “You are a pretty big guy and I’ve got this feeling in my gut that you’ll need lots of room. Funny thing is, my gut response is almost always right.” Snapping his fingers, he smiled large and said, “I just thought of it. I have the perfect car for you. We keep it in back because there are not many people interested in this sort of thing. Let’s take a look.”

The two men walked to the back of the lot and the man suddenly heard angels singing. Before his eyes sat the most beautiful car he had ever seen. It was long, it was pale green, it had tons of space in the back with a third row seat that could fold down if needed. “Wow,” were his only words.

“I knew it,” the salesman said. “I just knew it. These old station wagons only appeal to a special breed of guy and the moment I saw you I knew you were one of them. Let me run in and get the keys. I think the door is open. Hop in, feel it out, I know you’re going to love it.”

Within three minutes, the salesman returned, keys in hand, to find the man trying out each seat and carefully examining every aspect of the glorious vehicle. “This is great,” he kept saying to himself, “this is really great.” Moving back to the driver’s seat, he marveled at just how comfortable the bench seat was and the huge amount of legroom. Sliding over to the passenger seat, he noticed that it felt exactly the same, comfortable and spacious. 

“Here’s the keys,” the salesman said, handing them to the man. “Slide back over, start it up and let’s take it for a drive.” Following the salesman’s directions, he soon found himself heading south on the freeway, cruising at a smooth 65 MPH. “Tell me what you hear,” the salesman said. 

“I don’t really hear anything,” the man responded. “Just the gentle purr of the engine.”

“Yes, exactly,” the salesman said. “This car is a thing of beauty. Because I like you so much, I’ll throw in a 14 year warranty. If anything at all goes wrong, we’ll cover it. And of course, there is the free 5000 mile oil change provided by our shop.”

Pulling back into the car lot, he parked and the two men went inside. Walking back out with a handful of paperwork and a set of keys, he drove his glorious machine home. “Wow, I can’t believe I actually did it. And this car couldn’t be any more perfect.”

Parking his car in the driveway, he shut off the engine and sat in silence, the only noise, a subtle clicking as the engine cooled. Finally getting out, he grabbed a lawn chair from the garage and sat in the front yard, an oatmeal stout in hand. For an hour, he simply sat and looked at his new car. Feeling slightly buzzed from the beer, he figured he better get some dinner. 

He had the car for nearly a month, when, at the grocery store, pulling into the parking lot and shutting off the engine, he noticed a female brunette exiting the store. He got out and stood by his car, mindlessly fingering his phone, occasionally glancing toward the woman. He didn’t dare just approach her, he could not be so bold, so he stood, hoped and waited. The woman finally noticed him and he saw a slight shiver pass through the woman as she also noticed his car. Walking to the bus stop, the single bag of groceries in hand, she climbed onboard with its arrival and didn’t look back.

Somewhat downcast, he walked into the store and tried to forget the brunette. Lying in bed that evening, he couldn’t sleep. The brunette kept coming to mind. “Let’s see, it’s Thursday today. Maybe next Thursday, at the same time, I’ll go get groceries again and maybe, hopefully, she follows a schedule too,” he said to himself.

And, as he planned, that following Thursday, he pulled into the parking lot a little earlier than the prior week and hurried into the store. Standing in the checkout was the brunette. With his heart in his throat, he mustered up the strength to catch her eye and smile at her. She smiled back and then looked away. “I wonder if she remembers my car,” he said to himself. Grabbing a bag of sunflower seeds from the display rack, he got in line in the checkout immediately next to the woman’s check out. Praying for good timing, he managed to hurry through his check out and exited the store at the same time as she.

“Can I give you a ride home?” he asked the woman, with a trembling in his voice. 

“Oh, hello,” she said. “I don’t know. What do you drive?”

“It’s right here,” he said, pointing at this green station wagon. 

“Oh, I remember you. I saw you last week. I was just coming out and you were just parking.”

“Uh, yes, that’s right. I remember you too,” he answered, barely able to hear himself talk as his heart pounded in his ears. 

“I can’t accept your offer of a ride,” she said. “I have another errand to run before I go home. But thanks anyway.” With a bounce in her step, she walked toward the bus stop and with a black cloud over his head, he returned to his car and drove home.

Every Thursday, he would drive to the grocery store, whether he needed groceries or not. And every Thursday, he would see her, make eye contact and smile and offer her a ride home. And every Thursday, she would decline, with a variety of reasons. Each time, he watched her as she walked to the bus stop and he began to notice that she would scan the parking lot, as if looking for someone. It was the sixth Thursday when he realized that she began to notice a bright red Porsche parked toward the very end of the parking lot. “Oh,” he said to himself, “is that what’s going on?”

It was at that point that, every Wednesday evening, he would wash and polish his car. He would buff the tires and rub down the leather interior. The car would glisten and gleam. “How can she not like this car?” he said to himself.

And then finally it happened. It was the twelfth Thursday and stepping into the grocery store, he was startled out of his typical introspection by a friendly sounding, “Hello”. Turning, he realized that the brunette had approached him, smiling. “If it’s not too much trouble,” she said. “Could you give me a ride home today?” He felt like jumping and singing but of course he didn’t. He was much too cultured for that. 

“Absolutely,” he said, smiling. “I’d be more than happy to.”

It was after the third drive home that he offered to give her a ride to the grocery store as well. She accepted his offer, in her chatty, smiley way. He watched her walk up the sidewalk to her front door. He caught a glimpse of a very large, older, frowning man standing in the front window and he suddenly felt a twinge of doubt.

That next Thursday, he pulled up in front of her home and saw the brunette standing on the front step, speaking, in heated debate, with the large, frowning man. The man was nearly yelling and waving his arms around. The woman appeared distraught and seemed to be trying to answer him. He could not hear their conversation but it did not appear friendly. With a scowl, the older man glanced toward the car and then went into the house, slamming the door. Somewhat shaken, the brunette climbed into the car and tried to smile.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, knowing full well that it was not. 

“Yes, it’s okay,” she said. “It’s just that my father really hates station wagons. I can’t blame him though, to be honest, I don’t really like them either, but yours is so nice and you keep it so well. Anyway, enough about that. Could we go get a cup of coffee before we go to the store? I feel like I need to calm down a bit.”

The following week shot by and the man was giddy as the time came for his Thursday grocery store run. Pulling up in front of the brunette’s house, he waited and he waited. Glancing at his watch, he realized that he had been waiting for over fifteen minutes. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw another woman, this one blonde, approach the car from behind him. She came to the driver side window and knocked on the glass, holding out a piece of paper. Rolling down his window, the woman handed the paper to him. “She can’t go to the grocery store with you today,” she said. “She asked me to give you this.”

Taking the paper, he unfolded it and read the contents. ‘Sorry,’ it read. ‘I don’t think I can go through life in a station wagon. I hope you understand.’ Starting the engine, he drove home, his head like a mostly empty balloon.

He didn’t give up though. Each Wednesday, he would wash and polish his car, even buying more expensive cleaners and towels. For three Thursdays in a row, he didn’t see her at the grocery store. But he maintained his schedule. Eventually, she returned and with sad eyes, tried to smile at him across the store. He finally worked up enough nerve and approached her. Sitting at the Starbucks inside the grocery store, he weaved an argument that, he believed, was unassailable. For three weeks, this became the new norm and she finally conceded to his request to drive her home.

A year passed and the decision was made. He offered to sell the station wagon and she would become his wife. This was not a trade or a bargain. He simply offered, knowing how she felt. Convincing himself that it was the right thing to do, the plans were made, the date was set and the deed was done. Driving home with his new wife in his new red sports car, he carried her across the threshold and into “their” home. 

Standing in the doorway to the garage, he looked at the small red car and imagined his green station wagon. “I wonder where it’s at,” he thought to himself. 

Children began arriving and the red sports car was replaced by a van. Additions were made to the house and even to the garage to accommodate the lengthy vehicle. The house filled up and he began to spend more time in the garage, organizing, cleaning and studying about the green station wagon. “I won’t bother her with the details,” he thought to himself. “She simply doesn’t like them.”

The years flew by and she began to complain about his time in the garage. He tried to weave an explanation, telling her the things that she needed to hear and he thought she could understand. She would smile, nod her head and go back to the kids. Lingering, bumping about, he would take care of the home, and keep the outside trimmed and clean. The sports car was kept as clean as he could move himself toward it, and in its place, the van as well. He began dreaming of the car, the sound, the legroom, and the third seat in the back. But he kept it to himself, as she simply did not get it.

“I don’t even know you anymore,” she said one day, as they sat eating dinner. “You spend so much time in that garage. Do you even want to be here?” He looked at her and wondered where the smiling brunette had gone. Digging around in his mashed potatoes, he had no words, he had no answer. He finished his dinner and went outside. Taking a long walk, he passed by the many, many homes in his neighborhood, all of them with garages and cars. “I wonder,” he said to himself. “I wonder.”

Finally returning home, well after darkness had set in, he quietly slipped into bed. The house was silent, the only sound, the ticking of the clock. Getting up that next morning, he sat alone at the dinner table, the children still sleeping and the brunette, somewhere.