This is a tale by my friend, Jill. A quick read, something to divert your daily routine. Please enjoy. Cheers
Amanda Jayatissa Said
Friday Change
Slow for a Friday, the coffee shop was relatively quiet. The baristas’ joking behind the counter was actually heard across the business.
Only three other patrons occupied tables. Regulars, he knew their names, drinks, and faces. He supposed that they knew the same for him. Maybe not. Maybe they weren’t as observant as him or didn’t care.
A thin sigh passed his lips. He was supposed to be writing but it was one of those days when procrastination stopped him like a mudslide blocking a road. He was a little bored, tired, and restless. I’ll begin in a minute, he told himself, and noted the time. Yeah, like he was really that disciplined and focused. More coffee will help, he decided.
Reaching for the cup, he glanced at the coffee shop table. The blond wood – he didn’t know what kind it was – had a dark knot which resembled a mustache. As he chuckled at that, he spotted two small symmetrical knots above the mustache. They were like eyes, he mused, sipping coffee.
The eyes blinked at him.
His body quailed with alarm as his mind shouted, “What the hell?” He set the coffee down.
A new knot rose, forming a mouth below the mustache.
He looked around the coffee shop. No one was near. He wanted to show someone as validation for his sanity, and then pulled out his phone to photograph the small developing face. As he raised the phone for the photo, the mouth moved.
“Help me,” he heard. “Help.”
Pulling back, he lowered the phone. Friday was about to change in ways he’d never planned.
Sammy
He glanced up when a women entered the coffee shop and strode with long legs to the counter. Then he caught himself from shouting and leaping out of his chair.
The woman looked just like his little sister. If his sister had not been dead for forty years — if he’d not seen her die (God, stop that thought) and hadn’t gone to her services, consoling Mom and his other sisters — he would have been sure it was Sammy, the name she chose when she was little, telling everyone, “My name is not Debby. It’s Sammy.” Asked why she’d changed her name, Sammy thrust out a hip, removed sunglasses from her nine-year-old face and replied, “Look at me. I’m not a Debby.” It was delivered with such precocious contempt.
Carmichael couldn’t stop himself from watching her. Like Sammy, this woman was stunning, brunette with thick hair and sunlight delivered highlights, long-legged, athletic in stance and motion, like she’s waiting for play to resume. All his sisters were the same, except Sharon, who seemed to be from a completely different set of genes, except she shared their grandmother’s hips, face, and neck — well, all of it as she aged, almost becoming Grandma’s spitting image. The other problem was that the woman looked as Sammy had when she’d died, so she couldn’t be Sammy. Sammy would now be sixty-two. So, that was impossible. Also, what would bring Sammy to Corvalis? Sammy wouldn’t be this far north. She wanted warm sunshine. He’d always thought she’d end up in southern California. That’s where she always declared she was going to live, and Sammy had the will to make it so.
The woman turned, strolling from the counter, sunglasses in hand, as Sammy always did. She glanced his way. He met it with a small smile and slight nod. God, the resemblance to his sister was shocking. He should take a photo, maybe explain why, then —
Her eyes widening, she walked toward him. “Carm? Oh my God, is it you?”
Carmichael sat back and held off answering for seconds. Then, “Do I know you?”
The woman stopped six feet away, sunglasses pointed to her chest, long hair held back by the other hand. “It’s me, Sammy.”
“Sammy?” Carmichael dumbly nodded. He refrained from adding, you can’t be Sammy because Sammy is dead. Didn’t seem like a polite thing to say. “Sammy…Sammy who?”
“But — I’m sorry. You — but it can’t — ” Sammy shook her head with small and precise movements. “I’m sorry, but you can’t be Carmichael.” A smile charmed him. “I thought you were my brother. You look just like him. But you can’t be.”
“Why?” Carmichael asked.
“Well, he died almost forty years ago,” Sammy replied with a small sigh. “Car accident, along with my mother and sister.”
“Sharon?”
Sammy froze for two seconds. Her brown eyes narrowed. “What’s going on? How did you know that?”
“Because my sister is Sharon. She was with us when you died.”
Disturbing Results
He didn’t know how this fit into anything.
Completing his manuscript, including revising and editing it, he scoured the net, found a dozen prospective agents, and sent it off to them.
Three weeks later, he hadn’t heard anything from any of them and decided to beat the net to see what was happening with his prospective agents.
Imagine his surprise when they all turned out dead.
Well, he’d always thought it was a killer idea.
That Nightmare
I was in conversation with the barista today when I flashed back to an early nightmare.
I lived on McNary Blvd in Wilkinsburg, PA. I think I was around eight or nine years old. I’d stayed up watching “Chiller Theater” with Bill Cardille on which I was able to see the original version of the movie, The Fly, which came out in 1958 (yeah, I looked it up). A horror film, I thought it was pretty damn entertaining.
Naturally, though, it played with my mind, resulting in a nightmare. In the nightmare, I stuck my toe into an outlet by my bed, shocking myself. Upon walking, I discovered it was storming outside. The lightning flashes did an excellent job of twisting the bedroom furniture into other beings. I was positive that the chest of drawers was a robot walking toward me.
I remember, too, Mom telling me to keep it down, or I’ll wake the baby. Ah, good times!
Hear That Sound?
Do you hear that sound? I think of it as a thousand thousand metallic and plastic insects clicking their way around the world. It’s really millions of fingers typing on keyboards. It must be happening after reading this headline:
Cosmic radiation may leave astronauts with long-term cases of ‘space brain,’ study says
I mean, come on. Look at all the graphic novels, horror tales and science fiction stories that headline can inspire. The actual story behind it is not as rosy, citing the chance for many long-term ill effects, including chronic dementia. But the story also says, “But it’s not clear exactly what effect space radiation has on the brain because there are different types of radiation and they’re delivered in different doses.” Maybe space brain will develop mutant space zombies (which may be redundant, as I think zombies are mutants). Or space brain unlocks telekinetic and telepathic powers of which we’ve fantasized.Maybe space brain triggers weird time travel or teleportation skills, or the ability to see or experience other dimensions.
Of course, space brain may just cause space rage or space laze or space gaze. Who knows?
Let your imagination guide you.
Michael Seidel, writer 