DUŌFONE TAD-112A

Jack Beasley was a singularly lonely individual who, despite past sporadic efforts to the contrary, largely kept himself to himself. His parents died some years ago and his only sister, now living abroad, visited him once every couple of years or so. He had no friends or companions and, as a result, for longer than Jack cared to remember he had suffered with the depressing thoughts that only the very deepest pits of sorrow and loneliness can produce. To put it simply, he’d had enough of life, or what little he could call it a life. The loss of his parents and utter lack of companionship had driven him to the brink and today, rather than fight it any longer, he’d decided to simply let himself fall quietly over the edge.

It was a Saturday morning and Jack, as with every Saturday morning, sat alone at his wooden desk in his small living room, browsing in solitude through the morning paper.

He was finishing up an article on a progressing and popular story he had been following for some weeks now - that of the infamous Anna Riley. Indeed, the stories surrounding her seemed to have captivated the public imagination to such an extent that only a recluse could fail to have heard the name ‘Anna Riley’.

Anna, according to the descriptions collated from various victims, was a good-looking girl of foreign descent, no more than 25 years of age. She was of medium height and slender build with dark hair. She didn’t dress ostentatiously, although doubtless she could afford it with the fruits of her deceptive labour. Finally, the descriptions concluded, her personality was genial and inviting, helpful traits indeed when gaining the trust and acquaintance of her victims.

She was on the run after having executed a string of common burglaries. The police believed her to be hiding out somewhere in East London, but beyond this their leads were few and far between.

Interestingly, throughout each story that had made its way into the news of the past weeks, the common theme within the victim’s statements had been the utter lack of initial persistence or pursuit on the part of Riley before executing her crimes.

For example, one of the victims – an elderly widow by the name of Mrs Peacock - described how she first met Riley after she dropped her parcels in the street and Riley, who happened to be passing by, gladly picked them up and offered to carry them for her. Mrs Peacock graciously accepted and, upon reaching the old lady’s house not far away Riley, having deposited the goods back to Mrs Peacock, insisted in a most kindly manner that she must depart. It was only because the old lady protested to this and insisted firmly herself that she stay for some tea and biscuits as a reward for her kind act that Riley was presented with the chance to steal anything at all. Indeed, had Mrs Peacock thanked her and let her be on her way as she was at first inclined, Riley would have persisted in the matter no further and the diamonds would remain in the elderly widow’s possession still.

Yes, indeed, she was a real professional, biding her time and striking only when opportunity presented itself with the least risk.

As Jack read on to the end of the article, it finished with a plea to the public to remain extra vigilant. This final paragraph made Jack sneer slightly as he thought to himself that only fools could be tricked by such, in his opinion, transparent schemes.

Jack finished the article, folded the paper neatly and placed it down on the wooden desk, the contents of which also comprised a pair of glasses and a 1983-model telephone and answer machine - the latter of which had been playing up for some days now despite being only a few years old. However, next to these familiar objects also stood another which had only recently been acquainted with the desk’s usual occupants - that of a loaded handgun.

The time had come. Jack wouldn’t find out whether Anna Riley would be captured and although he did take a mild interest in the story it was not enough to keep him from carrying out the ultimate self-infliction that was about to take place.

He lifted the gun to his head, aware of the coolness of the metal against his temple. His hand shaking slightly while turning off the safety catch. Somewhat nervously, he began to squeeze the trigger, his eyes closed as he took some small measure of comfort in the knowledge that it would all be over shortly. And then it happened, in an instant the acute silence was ripped open. However, the sound was not the sound of the gun releasing its deathly blow but rather the abrupt ring of the telephone. It startled Jack, almost irritated him with its disregard for interrupting his big moment. He could ignore it, he thought to himself, and just continue with his plan. No one would care anyway. But for some reason he lowered the gun back on the desk and picked up the phone.

“Hello?” Jack answered, slightly agitated.

“Beasley? Beasley, is that you?” came an even more agitated reply.

“Yes,” replied Jack, slightly taken aback by the sharpness of the voice down the line.

“Beasley, it’s Stones! Where the hell are you, man? I left you a message hours ago. We’re two men down and I need you to cover the shift. You do know you’re on a 24/7 call-out contract, don’t you? I don’t know what you’ve been up to and, frankly, I don’t care, but I need you down here! This is the second time this week you’ve failed to answer me, if it happens a third I’ll find someone else, so get down here now!”

With the final word still echoing in Jack’s ear, the man who called himself Stones hung up. He was Jack’s boss down at the factory. He started a year ago and it was quite clear that neither liked the other. In fact, Stones had barely attempted to conceal his desire to replace Jack, but until now he had no official reason to do so. The faulty answer machine, however, appeared to be giving Stones just the reason he was looking for. Jack cursed the machine for only letting every other phone call through and replaying messages hours after they had been received.

One would be forgiven for thinking that a person in Jack’s mental state wouldn’t care much about a faulty telephone and answer machine, and truth be told he didn’t, but nonetheless he didn’t want to give Stones the satisfaction of firing him and he certainly didn’t want Stones of all people to be the last person he ever spoke to.

Jack lowered the phone back on to the hook, sat back in his chair and stared at the gun. ‘Damn it,’ he thought. ‘Tomorrow.’

He stood up, deposited the gun into the drawer of the desk, slid his glasses over his nose, pulled on his coat and hurried out of the flat, heading in the direction of Mile End Tube station.

Outside, the weather was crisp and cold, and the low sun was flashing in the puddles that had formed the night before. Jack tilted his chin down and drew the collar of his coat up around his neck, thankful the station was at least only one road away. As the traffic light turned red, signalling to the oncoming cars to let the passerby’s on their way, Jack heard the sound of a train pulling into the station. He quickened his pace slightly as he crossed the road, his head still lowered, eyes following the footsteps of those in front, all moving forward in the same direction as he on the left while those coming in the opposite direction were traveling on the right side of the crossing. However, as he reached halfway across the road, he was knocked back by someone. Startled, Jack lifted his head up briskly, ready to dispense his reproval vigorously, when he realised at once that the opposite party had emerged from the incident worse off than he. Indeed, the person with whom he had unintentionally collided was presently laying on her backside, the personal effects of her bag scattered across the road, and the coffee she had purchased not thirty seconds prior half empty - the other half splattered across her clothes. She appeared dazed, almost as if unsure of how she found herself in her current predicament.

At the sight of this, Jack’s former anger parted immediately and he rushed over to the young lady, offering his apologies profusely as he speedily gathered up her personal items back into her bag. The items gathered and the bag returned, Jack looked at her properly for the first time. She had a small, thin face, possibly the result of being slightly underfed. Her hair was dark brown and fell to her shoulders in an almost messy manner. Jack couldn’t tell if it was usually arranged that way or the consequence of recent events. Her eyes were deep green and flickered in the winter sun, and through them Jack saw that not only was she very beautiful but in her confusion she had yet to really notice him there still.

Hesitantly, Jack said, “Uh, excuse me, are you okay?” Without waiting for a reply, he went on again, “I’m ever so sorry for crashing into you like that, I must not have been looking where I was going. Here, let me help you up.”

At this offer, the girl seemed to come to her senses and accepted Jack’s help politely. He walked her across to the side of the road where they proceeded to look at each other awkwardly. At once, they both started talking, and then stopped simultaneously. Jack bowed his head slightly, indicating for the lady to speak first, “Please excuse me,” she said softly, her accent clearly of European descent, but where exactly Jack could not place her. She continued, “I don’t really know what happened. I’d just bought a drink and was looking down for something in my bag at the same time and next thing I knew I was on the floor.”

“Oh no, no, no,” Jack protested as he waved his arms around, “it was absolutely my fault. I was looking down at the road and should’ve seen you coming. I just do hope I haven’t hurt you?”

“Not at all,” the girl replied reassuringly. “Aside from these clothes, I’m absolutely fine, thank you.”

She looked around but saw there were no clothes shops in sight, only a couple of public houses, tool shops and convenience stores, with flats located above each. Realizing the girl was wondering what to do, Jack insisted, “Please, my flat is just up there.” He pointed to the building behind them. “I have some of my sister’s old clothes, they’ll be slightly baggy on you but better than traipsing through East London soaked in coffee, don’t you think? She doesn’t live around here and anyway she wouldn’t mind in the least.”

The girl eyed him slightly suspiciously, but after a momentary pause, agreed to the idea.

Back in the flat, after redressing herself in the slightly baggy clothes, the girl reappeared from the bedroom, shifting across the hall into the living room where Jack sat waiting at his desk.

“Thank you, I guess,” said the girl shyly, her hair no longer a mess.

“Not a problem,” replied Jack, watching her attentively. As he did, he noticed again just how beautiful she was, but also sensed that he somehow recognized her from somewhere, although he was quite sure he had never met her before.

“Well, I really must get going,” she said, slowly edging towards the door, yet curiously still lingering, as if waiting for Jack to find a way to prolong her staying there.
When Jack said nothing, she turned, “Thank you, again,” she said, this time moving more clearly to the door.

At this, Jack blurted, “Would you like to meet up sometime?”

He didn’t know what came over him. Panicking slightly, he went into a verbose commentary about fate and how maybe there was a reason they crossed paths that morning, not that he truly believed in fate all that much. He let out a sigh.

The girl eyed him patiently. At the end, she simply replied, “Yes, how about Wednesday at 8 o’clock, walk along the Thames, meet me outside Embankment station?”

Jack, unsure if she had thought of the details while he was chattering away or had them pre-planned somehow, simply nodded his assent.

The girl left, and Jack suddenly realised he didn’t even know her name or anything else at all about her.

‘What if she decided not to meet, most likely he would never see her again?’ he thought to himself with some anguish.

He sat there, staring transfixed at the spot where the girl had been not five minutes earlier, when suddenly the answer phone beeped. It was a message from Stones from three hours earlier, the one he’d missed, or rather, the one the answer phone failed to play, telling Beasley he was two men down and needed him in urgently.

‘Damn!’ thought Jack. He rushed out. Stones would not be happy, but Jack didn’t much care, he had other things on his mind now.

Wednesday came, and Jack arrived promptly at Embankment Station. Not five minutes later the girl came into view, strolling towards him from Victoria Embankment Gardens, one of a series of pleasant, tree-lined strips of well-kept gardens built some 100 years prior to the north side of the river Thames.

The evening was particularly cold, as evidenced by the visibility of people’s breath in the air as they walked by. The girl was wearing a crimson-red coat, around her neck hung a white scarf. She looked splendid, so Jack thought.

The pair meandered easterly on the path adjacent to the Thames, passing slowly through the illuminations created by the black, orb-headed lamp posts which sat every few meters on the wall separating the pair from the river below. The sky was clear and the air crisp, and soon any signs of initial awkwardness dissipated for the pair were engaging in flowing conversations about the area and the history.

After a few minutes, Jack turned to the girl and confessed, slightly embarrassed, that he did not know her name. “Jane,” replied the girl, “and you?”

“Jack.”

“Jack, that’s a nice name, I like it.”

She smiled and, after this somewhat second introduction, the pair strolled on quite leisurely.

“Let’s play a game,” commented Jane after a while. “I’ll ask you questions and you say the first answer that comes into your mind.”

“Oh, excellent, like a quick-fire dating quiz,” exclaimed Jack excitedly.

He pulled back, she turned and eyed him, smiling, “Ah, so we’re on a date?” she teased.

“I…I didn’t mean…well…I guess I hoped that perhaps it would be something like that,” stumbled Jack.

The girl carried on without reply, smiling. “Ok, ready?”

“Ready.”

“Cat or dog?” asked Jane.

“Dog - I’m allergic to cats,” replied Jack.

“Me too!” stated Jane. “Ok next, vanilla or chocolate?”

“Chocolate, every time,” replied Jack.

Jane laughed, “Ah, sweet tooth. I’m more of a vanilla girl – plain.”

“You are anything but!” replied Jack, vehemently.

The girl smiled once more. “Music or film?”

“Film - I often go to the pictures by myself.”

Jane’s expression turned sympathetic. “Oh, I don’t like the thought of you being there alone. We’ll have to go together sometime.” She continued, “Ok…um…favourite food?”

“Lasagna – it reminds me of when my mum used to make it every week, I haven’t had it since she—” he broke off, unable to finish the sentence.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” replied Jane, quietly.

“No, don’t worry, you weren’t to know, it happened some years ago now.”

They walked on in silence. After a few minutes, Jack said, “I’m glad we played this game.”

The girl placed her arm through his and suffice to say the rest of the evening went as well as Jack could have hoped. He found out much about Jane. That she was originally from France although moved around a lot when she was younger, she had scarcely any family and worked mainly as a backing dancer at the theatre but also did some part-time modelling and the like when a job from the agency came her way. He figured he must’ve recognized her from some play or poster one time advertising some product or another, although she didn’t much elaborate. Finally, he learnt that she simply loved crime fiction. In fact, she was in the middle of trying to write her first novel, although she didn’t think it any good for she couldn’t decide on a definitive plot.

At the end of the evening, Jack was positively glowing. He had never felt such a connection to another person. For the first time in years he actually felt alive again. However, despite his enthusiasm, he was also conscious of scaring Jane off by appearing too eager. Nonetheless, he had to know if she wanted to meet up again. As they were making their adieu, thanking each other for a pleasant evening, he tentatively asked if Jane was free on Saturday. She wasn’t. His heart dropped, he’d misread the signs. No matter his effort, he could not conceal the disappointment in his face. Fortunately, this proved only temporary, for Jane followed promptly, “It’s not that I don’t want to, but I’m going away on holiday, to Florence. I go once a year you see, always somewhere different, always alone.” These last words Jane mumbled, almost to herself. She looked at Jack, her lips parting as though she were about to say something more, but then she hesitated. Her lips closed and she looked down.

Jack, however, grabbed his new-found energy for life by the horns and, without hesitation, replied, “This probably seems a bit forward, but what if I came with you on your trip so that you’re not, you know, alone?”

Jane looked up and beamed, and he knew her answer before her voice reached his ears, “I don’t know why, I’ve only just met you, but why not?”

“I’m going to the travel agent on Friday to book my ticket, I’ll book yours then too.” She hesitated, “Only, there’s one thing, it’s a little embarrassing you see, but I’m afraid I can’t just go ahead and book your ticket as I’m a bit short of money at the moment. You see, backing dancers don’t earn a whole lot and the modelling business is always slow in the New Year.”

“Of course,” replied Jack. He looked around and then said, “Ah ha!” and wandered across the road. There he found a cash machine and withdrew £500, a substantial portion of his savings, but enough to cover the cost of the ticket and hotel for the week.

“Are you sure?” asked the girl as Jack handed her the money.

Jack turned to her, his brow twitching slightly as he wondered if there was anything behind her question. He composed himself quickly though, “Of course, why, you’re not going to run off to Italy without me, are you?”

The girl smiled but said nothing.

Saturday morning arrived. Jack had not heard from Jane but took it as a good sign to meet her at the airport as they’d agreed on Wednesday. He arrived promptly, but after 45 minutes was beginning to worry as Jane had yet to appear. He went to the check-in desk and inquired as to his flight. Strangely, the attendant had no information of either Jack or Jane whatsoever.

Jack left the attendant on the desk and wandered slowly over to a seat, one of those hundreds of seats at airports that are all the same. There Jack stayed, fretting unbearably, until finally the flight he and Jane were supposed to board departed. Jack couldn’t understand. ‘No information on this flight whatsoever,’ Jack repeated to himself vaguely the words of the attendant at the desk. Mystery shrouded the affair.

He looked down at an old, battered newspaper lying on the floor a few seats over and all at once his eyes widened and his heart sunk, he racked his brain over the events of the past week and realised what was happening. Indeed, what had already happened. The girl from the paper - Anna Riley - the slim, dark haired young woman he’d read about not five minutes before meeting ‘Jane’. Her foreign descent. The ‘unintentional’ meeting of the victim. Her gentle, subtle nudges that culminated in him parting ways so easily with a substantial amount of money, all the while thinking it was his idea.

‘She never even planned to go away,’ Jack thought as he shut his eyes in anguish. He had just become one of the victims he’d read about in the paper and mocked for being so, in his opinion, gullible. He felt crushed, not because of the money, but because he genuinely thought they shared a connection - a companionship. But then again, so did all the other victims most likely.

He left the airport, wandering aimlessly. Eventually, by the early afternoon, he found his way back to his flat and sat down at the small wooden desk.

He felt empty - painful emptiness. The high he felt over the past week was nothing compared to the pits of sorrow her betrayal engendered now.

He took a long look at the walls of his small living room - those plain white walls illuminated by the already setting sun - and thought to himself numbly, “Always did need a bit of colour; red is as good as any - crimson-red, like Jane’s coat.”

He pulled the gun out of the drawer, lifted it to his head and felt once more its cold metal against his temple. This time there was no unsteadiness, no wavering or hesitation. He squeezed the trigger, the sound of the shot reverberated throughout the apartment and then died away, soaking into the memory of the now-stained walls.

Silence reigned, but only temporarily. The answer phone beeped, signalling a voicemail had been received. It was from last night and had only just come through. It was Jane’s voice, she spoke excitedly, “Jack, hi, it’s me, Jane. I really hope you don’t mind but I need to re-book our tickets to tomorrow evening instead of the morning. Don’t worry, I’ve not had a change of heart or anything like that, in fact I simply cannot wait for us to go away together. Although I hardly know you, there’s something about you that makes me feel, well, like I’ve known you forever. Maybe it’s because we both know loneliness or something, having no family nearby and all that. That probably sounds silly!

“Anyway, the reason I need to move our tickets is because I was asked today by the agency to do a line-up at the police station tomorrow morning. You know, one of those things where five people who look alike stand in a line and the victim has to pick out the criminal from the line-up. Well, I just couldn’t refuse because you know who it was I was asked to line up next to, don’t you? Only Anna Riley herself! That’s right, they caught her, Jack, and they asked the agency for a lookalike and I was recommended. Apparently, she was just walking along the street and someone recognized her and phoned the police. Funny thing, really!

“Anyway, you know how much I love crime fiction, I just had to be a part of that line-up to, you know, soak in the atmosphere, maybe even speak to her for a minute or two if I get the chance, I don’t know. I just feel like it will really give me some inspiration for my book! Oh, I hope you’re not mad at me? I’m sorry again about postponing. We’ll book the tickets when we’re at the airport, I find they always have some spare seats on these planes and we might even get a deal. Anyway, I’ll come over tomorrow lunchtime with some food to make it up to you and tell you all about it, and then we can head over to the airport together after. I’ll see you soon, Jack. I can’t wait for the trip. I know it’s silly, but I’m missing you already! Bye.”

The answer phone declared the end of the message. Jack remained there, still and silent.

Then a knock at the door broke the silence while the smell of lasagna – Jack’s favourite - wafted in pleasantly from the hall. After a minute of no answer, the handle turned and the door opened. Upon entering, Jane sailed radiantly down the narrow hall, excited to surprise Jack. She edged round the corner into the living room and gasped a sharp intake of breath, her green eyes widened and delicate hands clasped her mouth as the lasagna dropped and spread across the floor like the blood across the walls.

The answer machine beeped and shut down for the final time.

Jake Collins is a writer who lives in  West Sussex, England.

Gerard Soest, “Portrait of William Shakespeare,” c. 1667

William Shakespeare. Snoozing in a red plastic chair in the row directly across from mine at Judy’s Suds ‘n’ Go.

I knew the man was not the original of course but he did appear to be an exact replica of what the original was supposed to have looked like. Must be a reincarnation I thought.

The new version appeared as a frail itinerant who had ventured into the laundromat in order to shelter from the cold mist outside. He was damp and dirty and his eyelids fluttered.

Here’s a big coincidence. I was holding a slim well-thumbed volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets in my hand at the time. I had read in an advice column that a single guy reading poetry at the laundromat appears interesting and not at all creepy to young ladies who might be present.

There was a portrait of the poet centered on the back cover of my book and I raised it into my line of vision. The guy across from me was Shakespeare all right.

I folded my clothes and stacked them still pleasantly warm in the green mesh laundry bag I use. Then I paused in front of Shakespeare to get one last look before leaving. My proximity seemed to wake the little man up though. Taking my friendly assessment as a sort of invitation he rose and followed me out of Judy’s.

On the street I stopped and told him I enjoyed his poems and plays but I preferred to be alone. He nodded but continued following anyway matching me step for step along the puddled sidewalk.

I stopped once more. No I said. Go away.

His head bobbed again. But there was no real understanding in his eyes.

What was the proper thing to do? Push my diminutive accoster away violently? Run? The rain dampened my laundry while I pondered the question.

I looked the man over again top to toe. He was skinny and filthy. His eyes were brown.

I thought of myself as a cautious person but decided there wasn’t anything threatening about Shakespeare since I was twice his size physically. And I was curious to learn how it was that he’d been reborn after so many years.

That’s how I ended up taking Shakespeare home with me that day.

And he never left.

***

He liked soup.

That was a blessing since I soon learned a spoon was the only utensil he manipulated with any dexterity. If you put a knife and fork into his gnarled little hands the utensils were as likely to end up stuck in his nose as his mouth.

I could not decide what to call him so I just referred to him as Old Man. Or Shaky. 

Sometimes when my guest was slurping his soup an odd feeling came over me while I was sitting at the wobbly kitchen table across from him. I tried to imagine the reincarnated brain living inside his head.

How many people had made more profitable use of their intellect than he had?

How many had brought more beauty into the world? 

How many were better able to capture and express what it meant to be human through art?

So go ahead Old Man I thought. Slurp your soup as much as you like.

***

He liked polyester. 

The clothes Shaky was wearing when I discovered him were just rags. Searching his pockets before discarding the old gear I found nothing. Not a penny or scrap of paper.

I conferred some of my own clothes on him but the Old Man was so small compared to me he practically disappeared wearing them. Finally I went out and purchased a pair of inexpensive polyester jogging outfits. One was crimson and one powder blue. Both sported eyebrow-thin white piping along the arms and legs.

Shakespeare loved those outfits. They were lightweight and comfortable and he actually looked quite spiffy in them though I must admit the sight of the Bard of Avon swishing around my apartment modeling the lowest in Kmart fashions took some getting used to.

***

He liked television.

On days I had to go out I planted him in the chair in front of my set before leaving the house and when I returned home later I always found him still there raptly watching the same channel.

I fretted about exposing such a magnificent brain to so much cultural crap though. It was the psychological equivalent of a parent who fed his kids nothing but Cheetos.

Shaky’s emotional responses to the aforementioned television programs often seemed inappropriate. Watching those ubiquitous Law & Order reruns with Jack McCoy waggling his head in righteousness at some sneering just-nabbed murderer the Old Man was likely to burst into riotous laughter. When he saw the episode of Seinfeld in which Jerry broke up with a woman because she ate peas one at a time the Old Man wept. Great sobs racked his puny body and hot tears cascaded down his worn and withered face.

I thought at first Shaky was displaying symptoms of advanced senility. I imagined he was a sad old man who was misapprehending the culture of modern society. Then I thought about it and decided he might have understood the world better than I did.

***

Geeze. I forgot to mention that he didn’t talk.

Actually I should say that he didn’t converse. The Old Man could use his voice when he wanted to. I often caught him jabbering but couldn’t quite make out the words. Most communication therefore occurred through his use of wildly variable facial expressions. In this language Shaky was most articulate. He was able to reveal even the subtlest of wants through tiny alterations in the set of his mouth or eyebrows. 

I attempted different strategies to provoke Shaky into interacting on a verbal level since of course I’d be glad to have a reborn genius pontificate a bit and illuminate poor moronic me with his well-reasoned insights into the nature of the human condition.

Direct questions were ineffective. A wry smile was his only reply to any query I posed even those constructed purposefully to offend him into response. I understand Christopher Marlowe was twice the man and the three times the poet you were I said. How do you live with your obvious inferiority?
  
As an experiment I tried reading his work aloud. I supposed that reminding an artist of his noblest achievements might inspire him to speech since I knew even the shiest of writers was likely to be expansive on the subject of himself. But there was no real response from Shaky. If I recited his sonnets he looked at me blankly. If I acted out one of his plays he fell asleep before scene ii.

One day at breakfast feeling a bit bored I held up the sugar bowl in front of him.

Sugar bowl I said.

Sugar bowl he immediately answered echoing my pronunciation exactly. There was a broad smile on his face. He liked the way the words sounded. 

Sugar bowl sugar bowl sugar bowl he repeated savoring each phoneme as he rolled the phrase around on his tiny tongue.

I’d broken through!

I held the cereal box up in front of him. 

Cereal I said.

Sugar bowl he replied.

***

I decided upon a strategic U-turn to get my guest to reengage the world and perhaps talk spontaneously. Why didn’t I see it? No person could be more disenchanted with a set of characters than the writer who fretted over and agonized about and finally worked through those characters’ stories centuries before. To Shaky his plays had simply and permanently worn out their welcome. And modern American television was no substitute. His titanic intellect was tuned to a finer classical wavelength.

What I needed to do therefore was challenge the man afresh. Put a pen in his gnarled little hands and demand he produce a new play.

It would also prove he was who I thought he was.

The idea seemed to me an insight of rare brilliance. My companion might become a vital part of the world again. And the world as reward for its wait would have a newborn play by Shakespeare to add to its treasures. I could see it. Performances worldwide. Scholars nitpicking the hell out of it without appreciating its true beauty. High-school students everywhere cursing his name. Just like the others.

I cleared my tiny kitchen table. I sat him at it and stacked fresh white paper in front of him. I presented him with my best pen.

I said The Globe needs a new play right away. Go to it!

At first Shaky seemed interested only in the stack of paper. He inspected several pieces on both sides as if expecting to see writing already there. Then he examined the pen. He unscrewed it and took out all the parts. He played with the little spring. Then he put his head down on the stack of paper and fell asleep.

The next day I was still hopeful. Rome wasn’t built etc.

I repeated the preparatory procedure of the previous day almost exactly thinking a ritualistic approach to the project might convey the importance of the activity. Then I put the pen in Shaky’s hand and put his hand to the paper. 

Write! I commanded.

He took the pen apart like before and examined its guts. I took those pieces away. I handed him a cheaper pen that didn’t unscrew and he spent five minutes trying to unscrew it. Then he dropped the pen onto the slanted tabletop and watched it roll onto the floor. This seemed to delight him and he repeated the action several times.

I couldn’t help but think little progress was being made.

I had an idea that night. Shakespeare didn’t write with a ballpoint pen. Putting a modern instrument in the Old Man’s hands aroused his curiosity but didn’t excite the vestigial memory of the manner in which he used to make plays. Luckily our city had a colonial past and the next morning at a dingy souvenir shop in the Olde City Shopping Mall I was able to obtain quill and inkwell.

I rushed home with my purchases eager to bestow them on the Bard.

I sat him at the table in front of a pile of paper like before. I wrenched open the squat-shouldered bottle of ink and handed him the quill.

The look on his face! I admit I became a bit teary-eyed when I saw it.

Write! I said.

He did.

He dipped the quill and made a small mark on the paper before pausing and reclining in his chair thoughtfully. Then he moved forward again and made another mark but shook his head in dismay at the result.

I watched him from my seat on the sofa.

A thought broke free at last. Shakespeare bent to the paper with renewed vigor and wrote some large confident letters in the center of the page before virtually collapsing onto the tabletop exhausted.

Being a genius was apparently quite tiring.

After a few minutes I tiptoed around the table and lifted the diminutive poet into my arms to carry him to bed. I put my best blanket over him and made sure he was tucked in tight. 

Then I stole back into the kitchen to see what the great man had written. 

He had written the words sugar bowl.

The next day was Tuesday. My regular day to play chess in the park. I decided to leave the television turned off when I went out and instead placed Shaky in front of his now-familiar stack of paper. When I returned home I found the Old Man dozing in fading golden afternoon light using the stack of paper as his pillow. I made soup and woke him. When he lifted his head there was no writing on the paper beneath yet I noted that his hands were stained with ink.

Before setting Shaky in his place at the table on Wednesday I counted the sheets of paper in the stack. One hundred twenty-five.

Upon returning Wednesday evening I found the Old Man asleep very much in the same way as before. After dinner I counted the paper. One hundred twenty. Shakespeare wrote five pages. Or perhaps he ate them. All I knew was that five pages were gone.

A pattern was formed. I left him alone in the mornings and went out into the world to do whatever chores needed doing then returned home to find some paper missing and Shaky asleep.

I did no exhaustive search of my apartment during that time though I was curious about where he was secreting the work-in-progress. Be strong and restrain yourself I thought. One does not disturb Shakespeare in his writing. 

***

Several weeks passed and Shaky and I settled ourselves into a routine as dull and predictable as that of an old married couple. On weekdays I found an excuse to leave him alone then returned home to make soup before we watched television together for the rest of the evening. I knew he was working because the paper and ink were disappearing with perceptible regularity. On weekends we skipped work and went to the park.  

I thought the best thing to do was remain mum about the play writing project until the finished work appeared. It is said writers are as superstitious as ballplayers. Don’t mention the pitching of a no-hitter until the game is over.

What worried me was that the state of Shakespeare’s health appeared to be deteriorating. He appeared physically frail since the moment we met of course yet there was at that time in his eyes an inner light. He still ate his soup and laughed at McCoy and cried at Seinfeld but I thought his light was dimming. Perhaps he was not strong enough for the stress of trying to produce a new play after four hundred years.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I was afraid I was killing Shakespeare.

***

One day on my way home from the library I found cans of soup on sale at the local supermarket. Two for the price of one. I therefore bought more than usual and had quite an ordeal carrying the surprisingly heavy bags home.

I reached the apartment and clunked the bags down upon the cement stoop with barely strength enough to knock on the front door. Most of this soup is for Shaky I thought. The least he can do is help me inside with it.

There was no answer to my knock but this was not unusual. Shakespeare was generally to be found asleep at this hour either sitting at the table or stretched out nearby on my tattered sofa.

I sighed and dug out my key to let myself in.

When the door yielded I saw that Shakespeare was on the sofa peacefully oblivious to my entry. I went past him to the kitchen cabinet and put most of the soup away and stacked the excess on the counter. Then I turned and was on my way back to wake the Bard when I noticed a bundle of papers on my kitchen table centered upon the ink-spotted area he used for writing. The bundle was tied up with a bit of string.

Shakespeare had finished his play.

I rejoiced inwardly but decided to tease him a bit in case he was actually awake and surreptitiously watching for my reaction to his accomplishment. For the next few minutes I found excuse after excuse to walk around the table tidying the abbreviated space laughably known as my kitchen. I pretended all the while not to have seen the packet he’d left there.

Then I got a terrible feeling and turned to look directly at Shakespeare. After a moment I walked to the sofa and put my hand on his brow. His skin was stone cold. 

Shakespeare was dead.

Again.

After a minute I rose and faced the bundle on the table. I realized then that his play was his goodbye note.

***

The night Shakespeare died. What a night that was.

I take medication for my disability and am not allowed to drink alcohol but decided to buy some anyway so I could toast the Old Man. At the liquor store I bought the cheapest bottle of whiskey they had. The label featured a drawing of a mule kicking a guy in the head.

At home I sat on the floor and filled a juice glass with whiskey. I silently toasted my dead friend on the couch then threw the brown liquid down my throat. As an inexperienced drinker I fully expected to choke and cough and sputter the way inexperienced drinkers do in the movies. Though my eyes burned a bit I didn’t do that. I liked it.

My grief had three layers. The first was a sort of generalized mournfulness I felt on behalf of the world at large which had just lost a reborn version of its greatest playwright.

I also experienced a rueful pang for the man himself. He was an uncontested genius who died in diminished circumstances stretched out on a wheezy sofa. Alone.

Mostly I felt sorry for myself. Shakespeare was my friend. Due to circumstances I won’t describe here he was the only real friend I’ve ever had. The pain was piercing and exacerbated by the knowledge that I wouldn’t be able provide my friend with the funeral or recognition he deserved. I simply didn’t have the financial means or the social skills and emotional wherewithal to deal with arranging a proper ceremony to acknowledge Shakespeare’s passing.

And the world believed he had lived only one life and that one ended four hundred years ago. I’d have a hell of a time convincing people that the body in my apartment belonged to anyone but a bum I found on the street.

That’s when I decided to look at the play.

I sat at the table and undid the string. I was not so overburdened with grief that I was unaware of History standing at my shoulder.

I riffled through the pages and examined through numerous cross-outs and smeared blots of ink the Old Man’s cramped and spidery scrawl.

As you may have guessed the play was utter gibberish.

***

I awoke with a start a few hours later then inwardly congratulated the manufacturer of the whiskey for adhering to truth in labeling regulations. I definitely felt as if a mule had kicked me in the head.

Nonetheless I drank some more. The bottle was mostly gone when I decided to look at the play again with less expectant eyes. Surely there is something worth salvaging in it I thought. The fact that that old man had written it at my behest endowed the work with value even if it held none in a literary sense. Or even a sensical sense.

I would analyze the manuscript word by word. What else did I have to occupy me?

First the title centered on the top page. It was not Sugar Bowl. A single word beginning with an R.

Rorschach? Ravioli? Ringworm?

No. Ringworm by William Shakespeare? I thought not.

I let my eye trace over the script without judgment attempting to take the word in as a whole.

Rosamond?

Yes. The more I peered at it the more certain I became. The title had a nice ring to it though I was ignorant about what it might refer to.

I have no computer or internet so I looked up the name Rosamond in the index of one of my old English Lit texts and found it in a bibliographic list of titles composed by Swinburne. A blank verse drama. This was either a coincidence or a not-unprecedented outright steal although since Shakespeare lived both before and after Swinburne which author would be considered to have stolen from which?

In any case I returned to the work Shaky left me and to my great surprise quickly deciphered the setting. Ancient Italy in the days of the Teutonic invasions.

With growing excitement I realized the play was not gibberish. Far from it.

I got no more sleep that night. I spent hours un-encrypting the text and during that span made remarkable headway. I transcribed the play in its entirety and learned among other things that Shakespeare was a rotten speller and whimsical punctuator. Nonetheless the words fell into place and I believe I recognized about ninety percent of them.

I will summarize the story of the play.

The princes of two rival Teutonic tribes meet by chance in a rural mountain pass and they fight. Alboin of the Lombardi slays his rival but forgets to carry away the other man’s bloody armaments afterward for trophies as is the custom of the day. Alboin’s father the King therefore refuses his son a seat at his banquet table upon his return to court. To restore his honor Alboin takes forty warriors to the castle of the rival king and demands his spoils.

Alboin’s boldness pays off. He is solemnly presented with the dead man’s armaments. But while amongst his rivals Alboin spies another treasure he covets. Standing silently near the banquet table is Princess Rosamond. The enemy king’s daughter is tall and blonde and blue-eyed and fierce. The Teutonic ideal. Taking his bold imposition a step further Alboin impulsively demands her hand in marriage. The rival king is now outraged and refuses. Determined but outnumbered Alboin pretends to return home only to sneak back alone to the castle. After bribing a guard to be alone with Rosamond his awkward and ineloquent attempt at wooing her fails. Outraged by Rosamond’s rebuffs and overcome with lust he takes the princess’s virginity by force.

A bloody war ensues and Alboin kills Rosamond’s father in battle. Afterwards Alboin thinks it the height of proper etiquette to have the dead king’s skull gilded so that the trophy can serve double duty as a rather large drinking cup. He also takes Rosamond as war booty and marries her just after his own father dies. Now Alboin is king and Rosamond is queen of the Lombardi.

One cold night Alboin hosts a particularly rowdy drinking banquet which is not a surprise since it is the chief feature of his government. He decides it might be funny to have his new wife drink some wine out of her dead father’s skull. Rosamond refuses. He forces the issue at knife point saying that his queen must “rejoice with her father.”

Next comes what I would deem the signature moment of the play. Rosamond reluctantly takes hold of the skull filled to the maxillae with sloshing wine and with her hands trembling raises it to her lips. She also utters a quiet prayer which is really a curse. Alboin will pay for his insult with his own life.

When the castle is quiet Rosamond lets an assassin into the royal bedchamber where she has attempted to exhaust the king with lovemaking. Sensing a trap Alboin wakes and reaches for his sword. But Rosamond has secured it in its scabbard. Alboin is slain.

In the days that follow it quickly becomes clear Rosamond does not have the wherewithal to hold the Lombardi kingdom together after her bold act. She flees the outraged populace and takes with her as protector a clod named Helmichis whom she impulsively marries. The couple hides out with a rich neighbor named Longinus who also yearns for r the beautiful Rosamond. Rosie likes Longinus too and decides she might as well use him to trade up from her current kinda boring spouse.

Still disturbed by the bloody mess of her first husband’s slaying Rosie this time decides to try poison. As Helmichis is exiting the bath next morning she is waiting by the tub and hands him a deadly cup of wine. Helmichis is an oaf but he is a well-traveled oaf and knows what poison is said to taste like. Though aware that it’s too late to save his own life Helmichis grabs his nearby dagger and holds it to his wife’s lovely throat. Rosamond can either drink the rest of the poison herself or be stabbed to death.

Rosie waffles a bit in a beautifully phrased speech. Then she chooses the poison and drinks it. Attention scholars. Note the parallel between this scene and the one in which Rosamond is forced to drink from her father’s skull.

It is at this juncture that the acute reader will realize the play is ending since in typical tragic Shakespearean fashion the stage is now decorated with dead bodies.

***

I awoke later that morning in very much the same position I regularly found Shakespeare. Sitting before a stack of paper at the table with my head resting on my hands. When I rose I realized how remarkably terrible I felt. My head pounded with pain. My neck ached. My mouth felt full of cotton. The mule was still at work.

No more drinking for me I decided. Never again.

I spent some time contemplating the remains of my friend. The problem of his final disposition plagued me. In the end I decided to put off a decision on how best to proceed until a time when I thought my head would be clearer.

I’ll distract myself by reading the play one more time I thought.

When I sat down to look at the pages I quickly realized that during the night something extraordinary had happened. Shakespeare’s version of Rosamond had once again become mere gibberish in my eyes. It was all scrawls and inkblots. The whole thing was utterly illegible. Even the title. How in the world did it ever seem coherent to me?

I hesitated a moment before taking up my transcribed version fearing a similar revelation. I discovered that the pages I penned were intact.

***

Many months have now passed Shakespeare died. The play he left behind is my most treasured possession. The more I read it the greater the amazement I feel regarding my small part in producing it. 

How did an isolated innocent man such as myself extract such a lovely thing from meaningless marks on a page? The plot and the characters and perhaps even some of the more felicitous turns of phrase I might conceivably have invented however unlikely the prospect. But the inwrought sensuality and the monstrously beautiful humanity of the play? Well it’s clear those were given as gifts. The sorts of things I am sure I could not have conjured on my own.

DL Shirey lives in Portland, Oregon under skies the color of bruises. Occasionally he lightens up, but his dark fiction can be found in Confingo, Zetetic, Liquid Imagination and in anthologies from Truth Serum Press and Literary Hatchet. Short of listing them all, visit www.dlshirey.com and @dlshirey on Twitter.

I was sitting with Snatchko in Mumbai Masala, wolfing down as much of the buffet as $11.99 would get me, when the couple walked in. Or maybe they weren’t a couple. Co-workers, classmates, former inmates of the same institution. They came in, sat down behind us, and she immediately says, “I just don’t know how much more I can take.” Then the monstrous sigh.

“I’m tellin’ ya,” Snatch tells me. “People are fools to go into nursing homes. We keep them geezers so zoned out they don’t know which end is up. They can’t even plan an escape. The ones that wander off are looking for the living room of a house they lived in in 1968.”

“There’s got to be something you can do, some recourse,” the man responded.

“I’m going back in,” I announced. “Cover me.” When I returned, heaping plate in hand, I saw the two ordering from the menu. This was how the financially solvent lived, ordering off the menu when the buffet would see them into the next day. Or maybe I was a bitter peon. Or maybe it really was a dire strait she was in, and at times like that you don’t worry about an extra seven bucks when you’re miles from shore and the bilge has risen past your ankles. I resumed the assault on my digestive tract with the paneer makhani which, like myself, was a bit salty.

“I filled out the forms, I jumped through all the hoops,” she continued. “They just don’t let you say you’re sorry! Doesn’t everyone make mistakes?”

“So. I tell the nursing supervisor that there’s old folk not getting their meds, other old folk getting too much, and half the staff is wandering around blasted on the narc that gets lost in the shuffle. You know what she says to that? She asks me if I like working there. The implied threat, all that.” Snatch gestured with a skewered pakora. “I got the message.”

Outside, the sky was trying to decide whether or not to vomit. The air out there left condensation on you the moment you walked out the door. I reminded myself to be grateful for this air conditioned oasis with its fantastic cuisine and, oh, there’s the handsome young server now, refilling my water glass. The secret to happiness is realizing you’re already in heaven. The falafel was (were?) delicious, lightly breaded, and taken out of the fryer the moment they were done. I held a bite in my mouth, letting it slowly disintegrate. Through the window I could see the horizon turning the faintest shade of green. Hurricane weather.

“So I’m starting over. Thirty years old next month and I’m beginning all over again. It really feels like it’s too late.” Another sigh, this one though her mouth, using her cheeks as bellows. That’s a great stress-reducing technique, but she could have been blowing into the mainsail of the Santa Maria for all the good it did her.

“If you wind up at Happy Acres, it’s your own damned fault.” Snatch was angry now. No spring chicken, mortality was evidently tugging at his dentures. “You were either nasty to your children or you raised selfish jerks or you didn’t have kids and didn’t plan. Not me, man. I’ve got a .357 magnum. The trick is not waiting until it’s too late to make your decision, to make your move.”

Behind us, the poor woman finally disassembled. Her voice wailed in a whisper.

“It was my last appeal...”

Outside, thunder gave us a round of applause.

Isaac saw himself standing on the bimah before the lectern on a Saturday morning. He wore his royal blue tallit with silver embroidery. He looked out over the sanctuary as he prepared himself to deliver his sermon and saw a sea of empty seats. The southeastern sunlight seeped through the cracks of the bedroom blinds and through his closed eyelids. He heard the rhythmic breathing of his wife beside him; he heard the trills of the song sparrows as they twirled by the bird feeder his wife had hung under the backyard sugar maple. He opened his eyes and took several deep breaths. “Modeh Ani,” he whispered the first words of the morning prayer. “I offer thanks before you, living and eternal King, for You have mercifully restored my soul within me; Your faithfulness is great.”

Carefully slipping out from under the blankets, he went about his morning rituals of showering, beard trimming, and eating a breakfast of granola, soy milk, and orange slices. After sitting in silence for fifteen minutes in the breakfast nook, he left for the day, gently closing the front door of his three-bedroom bungalow on Chestnut Street, leaving his wife and two children still asleep inside. He ambled through his neighborhood of small bungalows, admiring the well-kept front gardens, and pulled the collar of his long coat up around his neck in an attempt to keep out the chill fall breeze. At Grand Avenue, he turned right and proceeded past the Oracle Movie Theater. Rabbi Stein glanced up at the water stains and cracked windows on the facade as he walked by at a fast pace. The decaying facade filled him with melancholy. The movie theater had been empty for the past ten years. He hoped that an adventuresome entrepreneur would buy the building and transform it into a new enterprise.

Isaac unlocked the back door of Beth Israel at eight am and stepped into his office. A pile of papers and journals awaited him on his desk. He had dismissed his longtime secretary, Louisa, two months ago. The dues paying members of his congregation had dwindled over the years along with the funds to pay his secretary, the Saturday morning guard and the janitor. He sifted through the papers, turned on the computer, checked his email. After napping at his desk for twenty minutes, he picked up one of the journals and read of Maimonides’ views on the Messiah. “The Messiah will be a very great king,” the rabbi read aloud. “His great righteousness and the wonders that he will bring about will cause all peoples to make peace with him. Though he may tarry, yet do we wait for him each day.” Oy vey, Isaac thought, I’ve been waiting my whole life.

At precisely five pm, Isaac locked the back door of Beth Israel. He walked along Grand Avenue on his way home. When he reached the Oracle Theater, he noticed the posters, three pasted to each side of the main entrance on the plaster wall. He stopped to study the first one he reached. Five women dressed in flowing white dresses that displayed their arms and hid their legs stood on the stage of a theater. They held cobalt blue spherical candle holders in their cupped hands and the flames of the candles lit their faces from below, casting faintly menacing shadows about their eyes and throats. Below the image of the oracles, in Gothic lettering, the poster read, “Grand opening for the New Oracle Theater, Friday evening, October 30th, at eight pm. Bring your questions and the oracles will provide the answers.” And, in fine print at the bottom, “We request that all questions be submitted in writing and anonymously. Your identity will not be revealed.”

Oracles? The rabbi thought as he stroked his graying beard. What would Maimonides think? I could always ask a question. Ask about the Messiah. But what would they know? Who are these oracles?

Isaac walked the rest of the way home, to his bungalow with the two stone piers holding up the porch roof. He proceeded up the stairs. His wife, Sarah, sat on the pine bench reading the Oak Brook Daily. “Did you see the posters?” he asked. “The ones for the New Oracle Theater?”

“They have an ad in the paper. Take a look.” She handed him the newspaper.
“Same as the poster.” He stroked his beard and looked at her. “Whaddya think? Should I ask a question of the oracles?”

“How are they any different than the astrology forecasts in the paper?”
“Maybe they’re in touch with the spirits.”
“Do you believe that? You’re a rabbi, is that part of your training?”
“Think about Moses, the great prophets. God spoke through them.”
“So you think God will speak through these oracles?”
“Not God, but perhaps something, something of the inner spirit, some force that knows more than we do.”

“Rabbi Stein,” she stood up and touched his beard. “Have you been watching Star Wars again?”

#

Over the next few months, on his walks to and from the synagogue, Isaac observed the carpenters, painters, plasterers, and electricians working on the theater.  The water stains were gone and the sculptures of the muses – music, comedy, tragedy, dance – that occupied the niches under the second story cornice line shone with a clarity of detail he had not seen for years.  Isaac would pause in front of the theater to marvel at its renewal and to watch the ballet of the workers as they clambered about the scaffolding, fixing and polishing.

As a boy, he had watched Hollywood comedies and adventures on hazy Sunday afternoons. Inside the theater, Moorish horseshoe arches topped the walls and above him, as the lights slowly dimmed, a cerulean sky faded through to light indigo and then to a dark blue-violet pin-pricked with stars. He would sink into the plush red seats while munching on popcorn as the adventures of Robin Hood took him away from algebra and schoolyard bullies.

As he grew older and sought out other entertainments, the theater on Grand descended into a shabby senescence. Water stains marked the umber exterior, the red seats were shredded as if by the sharp claws of feral cats, and the customers wore dark overcoats and fedoras with faded feathers.

His own children haunted the video arcades and, eventually, fixated on the flat panel computer screens hidden away in their bedrooms. No longer did children congregate in movie theaters or playgrounds with bent basketball rims. They communicated with text messaging and played multi-user online games with compatriots from Chile and Taiwan. His children ignored the posters depicting the oracles, and they wondered why their father would want to ask questions of these strange women when he could simply Google it.

After walking past the theater and continuing home, Isaac began to wonder, who were these oracles? Could they surrender their psyches to a higher wisdom? Or were they simply impostors? Hucksters hired by unscrupulous businessmen. And what questions would he ask? Will the Messiah ever show up? Why was his congregation diminishing? Could he get them back?

On the day of the grand opening, the scaffolding disappeared. The muses gazed out from their perches below the cornice. The blue and white tiles inset within the arched entryway above the oversized doors formed crisp geometric patterns of five, seven, and nine-pointed stars. In the glass of the series of smaller arched windows to each side of the main entryway, Isaac could see his reflection.

He had joined the line at six pm. He read a book, The Multi-Cultural Jew, while he waited. The line grew longer as seven pm approached. At half past seven, a tall man wearing a tuxedo opened the front doors of the theater and beckoned the awaiting crowd to enter. Isaac purchased his ticket and stepped into the renovated lobby.

Persian style carpeting covered the floor and three Moroccan chandeliers with delicate wrought iron patterns like a series of interwoven spider webs hung from the ceiling. Ten booths, each with a curtain to allow for privacy, lined one wall. The tall usher explained that the booths were for privacy while the patrons wrote down their questions on pads of paper inside the booths. The crowd started to form lines in front of the booths. Isaac joined a line. He felt the pat of a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Debbie Luster, a member of his congregation he hadn’t seen for the past few months. “Hello, Rabbi Stein,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’m as curious as the next person,” he said smiling. “So you can make it to see the Oracles, but not to the temple?”

“Oh, you know how it is, with the kids and the job and the house. I’d like to be attending services, but I’m just so exhausted.”

“Maybe you’d end up with more energy if you showed up to some of the services.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve been so busy. I’ll think about it for next time,” she looked over his shoulder to see that the Rabbi was now first in line. “Your turn Rabbi Stein.”

“Nice seeing you, Debbie. We’re having a Hindu guru speak next Friday evening. You might find that interesting.”

“Yes, sounds fascinating. What about tonight, Rabbi?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. Who’s conducting the services?”
“Oh! I asked Cantor Goldberg to take over for tonight. I had to experience the Oracles for myself.”

He stepped inside the booth. Placed on a tall, narrow table he saw a box with inlaid geometric patterns formed of mahogany, ebony, and Mother of Pearl. He hesitated; he pondered; he tapped the pencil on the table top. He wrote down his question and slipped the paper through the slit at the top of the box.

Isaac left the protective cover of the booth and purchased some expensive chocolates from the snack bar. He hoped he wouldn’t see anymore congregation members among the crowd. The lights began to flash on and off. Two more ushers appeared and guided the patrons into the main auditorium. Heads turned up to appreciate the restored ceiling of sky and stars as they filed into the rows and took their seats.

After several minutes, the red curtains parted a few feet and a middle-aged man stepped out onto the stage. He wore a dark navy business suit with a white shirt and a powder blue tie. His black and gray hair was combed straight back from his high forehead. His goatee remained mostly black. He walked to the edge of the stage and looked out at the crowd.

“Thank you all for coming to the grand opening of the New Oracle Theater.” He paused. “Tonight, we present to you a resurgence of the art of the oracle. The tradition of the oracle is a part of our collective history. It is often forgotten, neglected, or even repressed. You may have thought of oracles as part of the past, a lost art, something we have moved beyond, but this tradition has never completely died out. Teachers have passed on their knowledge and techniques to their students. They have done this throughout the ages despite the dangers from various authorities. The five women who will answer your questions tonight are part of that long tradition. They are able to move into a state of mind whereby they tap into a deeper knowledge. This knowledge is available to all of us if we would simply listen.” He smiled, took a slight bow as the audience politely applauded, and retreated from the stage.

The house lights dimmed and the recorded tones of Gregorian chants emanated from the speakers placed within the Moorish arches. The red curtains parted completely and the lights were brightened half-way. The chanting ceased. Five women now stood on the stage, each one about three feet from the other. They wore the graceful, full-length white dresses that were depicted in the promotional posters. Their ages varied from late-twenties to about sixty. Isaac didn’t recognize any of them as being from Oak Brook.

Each woman stood beside a narrow, waste high table with slender, curved legs that flared out as they touched the stage floor. Two of the Moorish boxes sat upon each table. A spotlight highlighted the first woman on the audience’s far right; she was the youngest oracle. She stood with her eyes closed for two minutes as the patrons watched in silence. She then opened her eyes, lifted the lid of one of the boxes and withdrew a piece of paper. She read the question aloud. “I’ve been offered a new job with more pay and prestige, but I would need to move my family to another city if I took the job. I’ve lived here for twenty-five years. I’ve been going back and forth about this for the past three weeks and I must make a decision. What should I do?”

She held the paper in her right hand and placed her hand between her breasts. She closed her eyes. Wisps of steam rose from the cracks in the floorboards in front of her. A scent of faded roses wafted through the theater.

The oracle dropped her right arm to her side and released the paper from her hand. It spiraled to the stage floor. Her head rocked back and forth. Her jaw relaxed and her mouth opened wide to reveal her pink tongue. She began to moan and to utter insensible syllables in a voice deeper and more masculine than her original feminine reading of the question. Isaac looked around to see his neighbors and friends in the audience. Was this all some kind of hoax? he asked himself. Should I even be here?

The Oracle stopped all movement and stared into empty space above the crowd’s heads.

“I speak through this woman. I know of your concerns.” The house lights dimmed further and Isaac could only see the oracle illuminated by the spotlight. “We are often tempted in earthly life by earthly rewards. Whether a merchant or a king, humans seek things that gleam. The golden crown, the amethyst gems, the steel sword. And we want our names emboldened by Sir or Lord, Duke or Duchess.”

Several in the audience coughed while others twisted their torsos in their seats. The oracle continued to speak. “We also desire the love of our children, the love of our spouses, the love of our friends. Our choices in life take us to unforeseen places. To live our best lives, we must be guided by a voice beyond reason, a voice that speaks more to our hearts than to our minds. That voice comes in part through the oracle, but it must come primarily from within your own soul.”

The oracle closed her eyes and her mouth. Her head drooped forward. She began a slow crumbling descent toward the stage. Two male ushers rushed out from the side stage. Each one put an arm around her before she reached the floor and guided her offstage. Several members of the audience began to applaud, at first tentatively, and then the rest joined in their applause. A few stood up as the audience applauded with a loud and rhythmic clapping. Isaac stayed seated. Not a bad answer, he thought, but what about his synagogue or church? After twenty-five years, it’s hard to replace that.

The spotlight now swerved to stage left and shone upon the eldest of the oracles. Her gray hair was cut short except for several long strands on the right side of her forehead that reached to her eyebrows. She was tall and slender, and her face remained largely unlined. She opened the Moorish box on the table next to her and selected one of the notes. “I’ve been thinking of offing myself,” she read. A sin, Isaac thought. Well, a sin to do it, not to think it. “My life has become an empty routine, so dreary. I realize that I’m not alone in this predicament, but I see no reason to go on. Then, why am I asking this question? I suppose I hope there is an answer, a way back to enthusiasm. I’ve seen a shrink, that just makes me feel worse.”

The oracle closed her eyes for a minute or two while she focused her mind. She opened her eyes. There was no dramatic transformation as in the case of the first oracle, but she seemed somehow different. A subtle luminescence surrounded her. She returned the note to the box and shuffled the papers around. “Death will come to you soon enough. To seek it before it comes to meet you will cause great pain both to you and others. Perhaps the tedium you speak of is at least partially of your own making.”

“Oracle!” A male voice called out from the darkest portion of the balcony nearest the upstairs exit. The oracle raised her head and looked toward the balcony. “Why should I live? Tell me why!”

“I cannot provide a reason for you.”
“You sound like my shrink,” he yelled back to her. Several audience members laughed a bit before stifling their laughter.

“Don’t laugh at me! Please don’t laugh at me.”
“And your reason for death?”
“To escape this hell. This hell where I’m not wanted, not valued, not loved.”
“You will find another hell if you force death,” she answered. “You will find a hell far worse than anything you may be encountering in this world.”
“How do you know that?”

“I have died many times, sometimes with great peace and other times with great violence. The violence in my mind carried through to the astral realm, and it was not pleasant.”

“There is no astral realm, you fools.”

“You are free to believe that; however, at some point, you will find that you are mistaken.” Isaac glanced behind him at the balcony for a second, but could not see the man’s face. He had counseled a number of depressed congregation members who threatened suicide. None of them had followed through with the threat.

“Seek out what you love,” the oracle continued. “You must do that.”
“I love death,” the man cried out. “I love death!” Isaac looked again toward the balcony and saw a bit of curtain billow out from the exit doorway. He heard the falling of footsteps, at first loud and then quickly receding into silence. Poor man, he thought. He must be alone in the world. If he were part of a synagogue or a church, he’d be much better off.

The middle-aged gentleman who had introduced the oracles reappeared on center stage.

“Live performances,” he said as he looked out at the audience, “can be so interesting.” A few people chuckled, but not Isaac. “We cannot predict disturbances such as the one that just occurred. I apologize to those of you who found the previous interaction disturbing.” He motioned with his right hand to stage right. One usher came out and escorted the white-haired oracle off the stage. Three oracles remained on the stage and gathered behind the emcee. “These three oracles will take turns answering a single question. And, to show our true impartiality, we would like a member of the audience to choose that question. Please raise your right arm if you would like to do so.”

Several arms shot up and one or two came back down. The emcee pointed to a woman seated in the front row. She stood up and Isaac noted that it was Debbie Luster. An usher escorted Debbie up the stage stairs. She stood beside the emcee looking from left to right, and then straight ahead. With her long black hair and modest dress that reached to her ankles, she appeared to be a fourth oracle herself. The emcee picked up the Moorish box on the table nearest him, lifted the lid of the box, and held it in front of Debbie. She closed her eyes for several seconds. She then lifted her left hand and rummaged among the papers in the box before selecting one. She handed the folded piece of paper to the emcee.

“Thank you,” he said to Debbie. He placed the still folded piece of paper down on the surface of the table. The usher showed Debbie back to her front row seat. The emcee turned to the audience. “I will now leave you in the fine hands of our three oracles.” He left the stage.

The three oracles stood behind the table. The one in the center picked up the folded paper and unfolded it. “I am a religious leader,” she read aloud. Isaac leaned forward in his chair, and then quickly sat back. “I’ve tried many different activities at my institution to revitalize its members, but the size of the congregation continues to diminish. I wonder - what can I do? Is my faith too weak? Should I seek out another path? Or, can I transform my current situation?”

The oracle who had read the question placed the paper back down on the table. The three oracles moved to center stage, in front of the table. They joined hands to form a circle and began to move clockwise about a point on the stage. The house lights dimmed and a spotlight focused on them. They began to chant in unison. “Yood heeh vaav heeh, yood heeh vaav heeh.”

Isaac felt his heart beat faster. The oracles were chanting the Tetragrammaton, the four Hebrew letters representing the holy name of God. He watched the oracles in silence for half a minute and then began chanting “Yood heeh vaav heeh.” Soon, five or six more of the audience joined in. “Yood heeh vaav heeh.” More of the crowd added to the chanting until virtually the whole audience chanted with the oracles. “Yood heeh vaav heeh.”

After several minutes, the oracles stopped chanting, and then the audience stopped as well. The oracles ceased their circular motion, released their hands from one another and stood in a line stage center facing the audience. The one standing stage left spoke first. She was about forty years old with short blonde hair. “There are many futures,” she said in what seemed to be her normal voice. “Ask yourself what is it that you truly desire? A renewed congregation? Or a new path?” Isaac sat very still as he listened. “Until you know in your heart what your true goal is, you will not be able to manifest that goal.”

“I see an empty sanctuary.” The second oracle, the one in the middle spoke, a petite woman, about thirty. Her voice was feminine, but sounded as if it came from a woman of large stature. “Years have gone by. The members of your congregation have all drifted away. They have become entranced by the material trappings of their era. They have neither the time nor the inclination for worship.” Isaac saw Debbie Luster glance quickly back at him from her front row seat before she turned her head forward. His throat felt dry and he stroked his beard with his right hand for a few seconds before letting his arm slip back down to his chair’s armrest.

The third oracle walked a few steps so that she stood in front of the other two. She was a strikingly handsome woman, over six feet tall, perhaps forty years old. Her wavy red hair fell over her shoulders to just above her breasts. Her emerald eyes opened wide. “The future has not yet arrived. Your son, all your sons and daughters, and all their mothers and fathers, will be the creators of that future. There is yet room for hope.” Isaac gripped the armrests of his chair.

“Yet that hope will be vacant,” the oracle continued, “unless you renew your commitment to your faith.”

“How do I renew my commitment?” a man called out from the back row. Isaac recognized him. Scott Michaels, the town’s Unitarian minister.

“You must find that answer within yourself.”

“Could you be more specific?” asked Scott Michaels.
“That is your work, to examine your own faith, to return to the sources which inspire you.”

The oracle stepped back two steps while still facing the audience and grasped the hands of her sister oracles. The house lights brightened; the patrons applauded. The two other oracles joined the three already on stage and held hands with the one at each end. The elegant emcee strode in from stage left and took a bow. The red curtains closed and the lights over the audience came fully on.

#

Isaac left the theater and strode down Grant Avenue toward Temple Beth Israel. He was surprised to find himself so affected by the admittedly ambiguous sayings of the oracles. But he wondered if they weren’t right. He had become a rabbi because his father was a rabbi. He found comfort in the traditions of Judaism, but he questioned the depth of his own faith.

He turned down Canyon Street and walked to the back door of the synagogue. He unlocked the door and proceeded to the main sanctuary. He flipped on the lights and took a seat in the front row, looking up at the bimah. The cantor and any Friday night worshipers had probably left over an hour ago.

Isaac saw his father, Saul, reading from the Torah. His father appeared to be about forty years old; he hunched over the Torah and chanted the words. Isaac heard Saul read Bereshees, in the beginning, the first word in the first weekly Torah reading in the annual cycle of readings. Isaac saw several other men join Saul, all huddled in front of the Torah. The sanctuary overflowed with worshipers, with families and grandparents, with young men and women. Isaac stood up. He closed his eyes and began to chant from memory along with his father. He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet; he kissed the fringes of his prayer shawl.

Isaac opened his eyes. There was no one in the synagogue other than himself. He walked out of the sanctuary, switching off the lights on his way out. He locked the back door and proceeded up Canyon to Grant. He walked past the New Oracle Theater and stopped in front of the entrance. The oracles had granted him a vision. The synagogue would fill with new families if he devoted himself to Judaism, to the traditions of his own faith.

Isaac did not return to partake of the performances of the oracles. He did note that the entry price went up after a short while, and that the lines grew smaller over time. One Saturday morning, as he walked toward his synagogue, he saw a new poster on the theater facade; the Oak Brook Theater Players would soon begin their season’s performances at the soon to be open Oak Brook Theater. He could take Sarah and the children to one of the performances, he thought. But that would have to wait as the High Holidays had commenced and today was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, the Day of Remembrance.

Isaac stopped for a moment. He looked up at the facade of the theater and studied the statues of the muses. He closed his eyes. He recalled the words of the oracle who had advised him to renew his own faith. He had looked within and discovered his connection to the Jewish people. The Jewish people who had survived centuries of oppression. The Jewish people who had made untold gifts to the world. The Jewish people united in their love of God and their love of one another. He saw the synagogue overflowing with Jewish families. He heard the blast of the shofar, the traditional ram’s horn, reminding all to reflect on their past deeds and hopes for the future. He tasted the apple dipped in honey and sensed the sweetness of the coming year. Rabbi Stein opened his eyes and walked briskly toward Temple Beth Israel.

David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for three Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including Moonpark Review, Literally Stories, Gone Lawn and Fiction on the Web. His website is http://writings217.wordpress.com. His Twitter is @annalou8.

While Phil Baisley is new to fiction writing, his non-fiction work has been published in books by Cascade Books, Atla Open Press, and in his own book, "The Same, But Different," by Friends United Press. He is a seminary professor, pastor, and reptile enthusiast born and raised in Brooklyn, NY and residing in Richmond, Indiana. His memoir/blog, “Tales of a Canarsie Boy,” can be found at  https://www.philbaisley.com/talesofacanarsieboy.

They called her the face in the window. Practically everyone in the neighborhood knew her--the woman who would sit in the upstairs bedroom window of her house, looking out into space, seemingly oblivious to the world. Some people said she’d gone crazy after husband left her or died, others said she’d lost a son or daughter to a horrific crime; nobody knew for certain. She was simply known as the Window Watcher, her face always blank like a mask.

Jim Heller knew that she had once been known by a different name, one that had been lost to the world. He was the one who brought her food, and checked in on her. She never acknowledged his presence, although she obviously ate, since she left empty containers and bags behind her front door when she was done. Jim knew that she had money, presumably from an inheritance, and she got Social Security and Medicare. Beyond that, however, he, like his other neighbors, knew almost nothing about her. Even so, he came to see her at least once a week.

“Good afternoon,” he said on one of his visits. “How are you feeling today?” She was sitting in an old rocking chair, her blank face turned towards the slightly dusty window. Jim cleaned the window as he continued to talk. “It’s getting colder,” he remarked. “I’ll adjust your heat before I go, okay?” As always, she didn’t answer, although Jim knew that she could hear him. She was a fairly small woman, with short, grayish brown hair, and pale eyes. She wore simple clothing and a sweater, which was different from the last outfit she’d worn. Jim knew that she took care of herself when he wasn’t around, and she slept regularly at night, but she would still sit by the window the same time every day like clockwork.

“Well, I guess that’s about it,” Jim said as he left her dinner on a tray. “I guess I’ll see you next week, then.” She still didn’t acknowledge him, but Jim sensed that she knew he was there and was quietly grateful for his company, or at least he liked to think that she was. Jim nodded at her, and left, leaving her to her seemingly eternal privacy.

Jim wasn’t a prying person by nature. When he first met her in person, he’d simply been curious about her, and a little concerned as a conscientious neighbor. As time passed, however, his visits had turned into conversations-one-sided ones, but he still talked to her. It had become an odd, one-sided “friendship” that Jim felt obligated to keep going.

Jim himself was recently retired, a casualty of a changing economy. He’d been looking for something to do when he first decided to visit the woman. He’d simply knocked on her door one day, she’d silently let him in after giving him a brief appraisal. Apparently meeting her approval, she silently left him a key to the front door, and he’d been seeing her ever since. It was a now-familiar routine...until, one day, he came to see her, and she wasn’t there.

That in itself was strange. Her chair was there, showing a depression where she’d been sitting. But the woman herself was gone. Concerned, Jim went through the rest of the house, asking after her, but got no answer. It was a small place, lightly furnished with older furniture. She had no TV, no phone or computer. Now becoming worried, Jim went to her neighbor across the street, who was about the same age and who had probably seen her at the window longer than anyone else.

“An ambulance came by, a few days ago,” the neighbor said. “I asked what was up, they said she was being taken to the county medical center. I saw them putting her into the ambulance, but it looked like she wasn’t breathing…she must have passed away earlier. I’m sorry; I knew you were visiting her once a week.”

Jim tried to comprehend what the neighbor was saying. Logically, he should have expected that she might pass away some day, but emotionally, it was still difficult. “What about her house?” he asked.

“The city will probably take it, try to sell it. But I think she left something for you inside, on her coffee table. Some type of a note or letter. I saw her sitting downstairs right before she passed. It looked like she was writing something.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Jim replied, “and I went through the whole house looking for her.”

“She must have put it somewhere. Maybe in a drawer close to where she’d been sitting?”

They went back to the house together. After some searching in the front room, they found what they were looking for-an envelope that had been put in what Jim knew had been a previously locked side table drawer. The neighbor watched as Jim opened the envelope and took out its contents. It was a letter, penned in neatly written ink.

“Dear Jim,” it read. “I know that by the time you read this, I will already be gone. I just wanted you to know that I really did appreciate your visits, and your talks with me. I am sorry that I never got to say anything in response. My neighbors were right--I did lose others, and then I suppose I lost myself for a long time. But I think now I’ve finally found myself again. Yours, Judith.”

“Judith,” Jim said. “Or maybe, Judy, or even June…I never even knew her name.”

“I don’t think anyone did,” the neighbor replied. “Maybe she was waiting for the right person to tell…maybe that was you.”

Jim silently nodded. He had been a part of her life, and she his, perhaps that memory was what she had wanted to leave him with.

And he would always remember her.

Matthew Spence was born in Cleveland, Ohio. His work has most recently appeared in Short Beasts and Floral Fiction.

                     Growing up in a 1950's Southern California post-war housing neighborhood

It seemed there was never a shortage of metal roller skates laying around when you needed them. Or discarded wooden orange crates for that matter. The thick, hard-sided ones. Not those flimsy, lightweight crates you find today. And a good piece of one by six lumber appropriated for the day's skateboard project. It wasn't going to be a run-of-the-mill skateboard, but a super-deluxe bugger with a kid-riding crate on the front end. And if it works out, a rope-activated steering pivot for added maneuverability.

Santos Jr. and I had known each other since we were three when our parents moved to Fullerton, California in the early1950's. Our endeavors spanned the gambit of fort and skateboard manufacturing, to building exploration and hiking to the beach by ourselves on a hot summer day, which was a considerable task from the suburbs to the Pacific Coast Highway. It was like that back then. No fear. And our parents lived with complete confidence knowing we'd be back before suppertime. And we always were. It was a time of moral responsibility that was equally practiced by society as a whole. And we all depended on it. But we also had great role models such as John Wayne, Charlton Heston and Roy Rodgers. I loved Santos Sr. as much as my own father, and other nationalities eventually moved into the neighborhood who exemplified a solid patriotism, moral responsibility, dignity and love for America. The war had brought a fine gathering of the middle-class together in Southern California who happily lived, coexisted and treasured their moments by the celebration of God, family and country.

It wasn't until much later when we graduated to the solid, hard rubber roller-rink quality wheels for our creations, but that didn't stop our progress. First came the modification of Santos' sister's skates which required the easy removal of the shoe mounts, then the mounting to the board, which took several bent-over nail heads to affix them. With that accomplished we were ready for the final assembly of our prototype vehicle. After carefully eye-balling the center of the crate over the top of the skateboard, a couple ten-penny nails (nuts and bolts came a couple years later) were driven into the crate and through the skateboard. We knew better to hammer over the protruding nails underneath for safety purposes. With that accomplished, Santos eagerly crawled inside the orange crate while I took the helm. I awkwardly gripped the top of the orange crate with both hands and gleefully shoved off on our maiden voyage.

The only problem with growing up in Southern California is that everything is flat. Unless you wanted to traverse the roller-coaster roads of Hillcrest Park in downtown Fullerton, which was well within our radius of exploration, you'd have to make due with the neighborhood streets to road test your creations. Which was just as well since it wasn't long before one of those evil little stones, which have been tripping up kid's skateboards for generations, slipped under a metal skate wheel and caused us to tumble head over heels! Santos landed on top of his father's lush ivy bed from the weight of me crashing into, and bursting, the orange crate. We both shook our heads a couple of times, then took assessment of our wounds. I got stabbed in the side by a piece of the shattered orange crate and Santos ended up with a golf ball sized knot on his forehead. We had both sustained some pretty good scrapes and lacerations; a surprising amount of damage from such a minor fall. But it was kinda neat.

I looked at our sorrowful state and it dawned on me that now would be a good time to reenact that old Indian custom (we believed) of a blood oath. We were the best of friends, and what the heck, we were already bleeding, so now was as good a time as any. We pressed our punctured forearms together, then we both swore, “With this flow of blood we are now brothers!” A great deal of laughter followed.

We took a dip in his family's Doughboy pool to wash and sterilize our wounds, then we laid out, heads down, on a hot summer sidewalk to dry off. A therapeutic childhood ritual.

Dad put a stack of his Billy Vaughn records on the HiFi in the living room while BBQueing steaks outside on the patio to entertain family and friends. He slid open the glass double doors so the two alto saxophones singing, “Sail Along Silv'ry Moon” could be heard throughout the neighborhood!

Life was pretty good.

Michael Vines is a freelance writer who lives in South-Central Kentucky. His "Slice of Life" essays have been published in statewide newspapers and Amazon Kindle ("Ain't Life Peachy")