Angie Thompson's Blog, page 2
November 2, 2024
So Many Questions
“Ohh, not this again…” Brady groaned as he took in at the dim hallway lined with doors. Beside him, Marcus glanced around in wonder, then turned an inquisitive gaze toward his guide.
“Is this—still the hospital? I thought you said we were going outside.”
“No. And we were. It looks like we’ve been detoured.”
“Detoured by who?”
Brady ignored the question as he tried the latch of the door at the end of the room, but it didn’t open. He turned his attention to a bulletin board next to it and narrowed his eyes as he read the papers pinned there.
“What’s going on?” Marcus’s voice held just the slightest tremble, and Brady sighed as he returned to his companion.
“Last time I was here, she actually went to the trouble of explaining things, but I guess we don’t get even that courtesy anymore. Come here—at least there’s a place for us to sit down now.”
Questions swam in Marcus’s eyes, but he followed Brady to a long, perpendicular room that ran across the end of the hallway and took a seat on a concrete bench opposite a screen that currently projected a surprisingly accurate depiction of the view from the front of the medical center. Brady instinctively reached for his sunglasses before catching himself with a disgusted shake of his head.
“So?” Marcus prodded softly, and Brady exhaled a long breath.
“I don’t even know where to start. There was enough to explain before this, but now—”
“Can you just…try? I don’t get any of what’s happened today.”
“I know.” Brady closed his eyes for a second, then straightened his shoulders and faced Marcus again. “What’s going on here is that—apparently we’re characters in a book. Or maybe more than one. Which—”
“Explains so much of the weird stuff that’s going on!” Marcus’s entire face lit up, and Brady couldn’t help a chuckle.
“Exactly. Although why on earth she brings us out here to give her announcements, I still can’t understand. But if we’re going to end up back at whatever our story is supposed to be, I guess we should get them over with. First off, she apologizes for this being late, which is absolutely not our fault, even though she somehow thinks it should be. Second, if anyone isn’t already following along with the serial and wants to meet you—officially—they can find us at the link below.”
The Chronic Warrior Chronicles
“And if you’re just hearing about this or didn’t follow along for the last couple of years, you can now get the whole first season together either in ebook or in paperback. It’s—kind of scary that we’ve got enough stories to fill a paperback, honestly.”
“And finally, if you also happen to be a writer and want to get sneak peeks at what she’s working on this month, which according to her is, quote, a hodgepodge, she’ll also have the link to that below. I think that’s it for now.”
Brady stood and started back toward the door they’d come from, and Marcus scrambled to follow him.
“Hey, wait! What about the rest of the explanations? Didn’t you say—”
“Yeah, you’re probably supposed to be getting those in the book, not here.” Brady grimaced as he glanced back toward the author’s closed door. “But you know what, you’re not going to remember it anyway. So really quick—one question, and I’ll answer it.”
Marcus’s forehead furrowed as he thought for a second, then looked up eagerly.
“Okay. One question. What kind of story are we in?”
“Not bad.” Brady smirked and leaned over to whisper in his ear. “Superheroes.”
“No. Way.” Marcus stood stunned for a moment as Brady disappeared through the open door, then ran to follow him. “Wait! I have tons more questions!”
The door closed behind them, and the screen went black.
September 28, 2024
The Strange Ways of God and Writers
“Well, it’s clear things have changed a bit since I was last here.” Miss Kate Hamilton glanced around the long, narrow alcove decorated like an old-fashioned porch and smiled as she took a seat in the lone rocking chair. For a few seconds, she examined the odd wall in front of her that seemed to project the image of a prairie horizon, then shook her head and sighed. “I’m not like to make heads or tails out of it all even yet, but I’m told I’m brought here today to talk to—” She made a little uncertain motion with her hand. “—all of ye—wherever ye’re watching—about the strange ways God uses to bring His purposes to pass.”
“Ach, it’s true enough, for all that, and I’ve proved it for myself. Years given over to asking in my own heart whether God’s plans for me were spent. A trip to town that was none of my own making. An all but aimless walk to seek out what I knew was a senseless hope. And all of it came together to bring me—” She stopped and bit her lips together, but a soft light still shone in her eye as she glanced back into the shadowed hallway, toward the door she had first exited.
“But I’m not to tell all of that. Only to say that God answered my prayers and questions far beyond what I could even dream. Ye’re to read the story if ye want to know more. It was published last year in a collection called Everything, and now it’s here on its own with the same title. It’s only available through the author’s own store as yet, but she’ll work to put it in other places as soon as she’s able. And if ye want a chance to read it for free, I’m to offer it as soon as I tell this story.”
Miss Kate’s eyes twinkled as she let them run over the wide screen in front of her.
“Ye see, I’ve been told how the spark of my story came, and it’s as much proof as anything of the mysterious ways of the Lord. It was brought to her at a writing camp, she says, though she assures me the girls who came there had better to eat than beans and jerky. I don’t understand it all yet, but one day the conversation happened something like this…
Writer #1: Winter is on its way! We just saw our first robins!
Writer #2: I thought robins came in spring?
Writer #1: Depends on where ya live! Down south, we get our robins in the fall.
Writer #2: Ahhh. We northerners are losing our robins.
Writer #3: I'm slowly watching my beautiful robins disappear.
Writer #1: But just know that they're being thoroughly enjoyed in Texas!
Writer #3: As long as you take good care of them.
Writer #1: Oh, I will! I'll send them safely back up north next spring.
Writer #2: Thank you.
Writer #3: It’s appreciated.
“And somehow in God’s own plan and the unpredictable mind of a writer, the seed of my own story was planted. Yet somehow she says that’s not even the strangest way she’s been given a story idea.” Miss Kate shook her head with a bemused smile. “But that’s where this next piece comes in. She’s made a quiz for ye to try to match some of her other stories with the idea that started them. She’ll place it somewhere here so ye can find it. And if ye match at least five out of the ten, ye can send her an email at contact@quietwaterspress.com and she’ll send ye a code to get a copy of my story for free. Also, she apologizes that she couldn’t put the code into the quiz itself to make things simpler, but she’s searched everywhere and couldn’t find a way to manage it without paying an arm and a leg—I rather hope she was exaggerating a bit about that.”
“I believe that’s all I’m to tell ye, except that her new serial starts on October 4th, so she’ll show ye where to find it if ye’re interested. And if ye were reading it before and haven’t seen the update from this Friday, check to make sure it didn’t end up in some hidden folder after the break.”
The Chronic Warrior Chronicles
“Now, I’ve a hundred things to do, so I’ll be going back to them.” Miss Kate rose, and the door in the hallway opened for her. The lights in the long alcove slowly faded, and the screen went black.
August 31, 2024
Time for a Holiday
Hey, everyone! Just a quick note to say, I haven’t forgotten the character-interaction format—in fact, I had a great idea planned out for this month, but then I realized it was coming right up on Labor Day, and I couldn’t let that go without sharing this flash fiction story that I wrote for the Very Bookish Celebration collection, and which is now available for free on my website.
This may be one of my favorite flash fictions ever, not the least because it was inspired by one of my very favorite childhood books. Can you make the connection before it’s mentioned? What do you think of the parallels? The differences? The story in general?
Whether you’ve read the original or not, I hope you enjoy this, and I plan to be back with more of my regular content soon—including the idea I originally had for this month that I’m not scrapping…just pushing back a bit. 😉
Happy Labor Day!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Just wait until you see the beach we’ve found!” Pauline’s face was bright with anticipation as she tugged her overstuffed basket up the steep embankment. “And practically in our own backyard! No expensive train tickets for this Labor Day picnic, Daddy-dear.”
“No sir!” her brother Bert echoed loyally, reaching down to boost little Florrie up the last few feet to the railroad track.
“Cross quickly, boys,” Pauline prompted as Jesse paused to balance on one foot on top of the rail. “We promised we wouldn’t be in the way.”
Donny scurried obediently across, and after a second’s threatening pout, Jesse followed. Last of all came their father, watchful and curious, but with the same tired slump to his shoulders that they’d had since the awful stock crash had taken their bank along with so many others. Pauline’s heart gave a little pang at the sight, but she lifted her chin and waved triumphantly at the scene below.
“There! Will you just look at it? And the railroad man said no one ever asks to picnic here, so we’ll have the whole place to ourselves.”
The younger children eyed the muddy ravine with its drought-shrunken river rather doubtfully, and Pauline rushed ahead before the mood could sour.
“See, Florrie, the water’s quiet enough to float in! And we can wade and splash and find beautiful shiny rocks just as much as we want, with no one around to complain. Look, boys, you can dig canals and roads and lakes, or just bury yourselves up to the neck in mud, and I won’t even scold a bit.”
“Yes, or hunt frogs,” Bert put in artfully, drawing the younger boys’ interest at once. “I saw a big fat one when Pauline and I came last week, and I’m sure he’s still around here somewhere.”
“Come on, Don, let’s look!” Jesse scrambled down the slope, and Donny glanced up hesitantly, but Pauline laughed and waved him away.
“Yes, go on! You’re in your bathing suit already. I’ll call you when it’s time to eat.”
“What do you think, Florrie?” Bert held out an inviting hand. “Should we wade first or float?”
“Float!” The little girl jumped into her brother’s arms, and they hurried down to the water, while Pauline lugged the basket over to a dry portion of the shore and spread out the checkered tablecloth.
“Here, Daddy-dear, come rest a bit. You’ve worked so hard this year and deserve a holiday more than any of us.”
Her father accepted the invitation and lay back on his elbows, but as she turned away, he reached for her hand and drew her nearer.
“I can’t begin to guess how you and Bert ever thought of this, Sweet Pea, but I don’t know what I’d do without the two of you to keep things cheerful.”
“Oh, Daddy-dear, it isn’t so hard, truly! Why, it’s so much quieter here than at the beach, and we don’t have to waste time on the train, and—and—Daddy-dear, doesn’t God want us to be thankful for what we can have and not always missing what we can’t?”
Pauline’s voice trembled just a little at the end, and her father squeezed her hand gently before letting it go.
“Yes, dear, He does, and I’m grateful to you for remembering that—and for helping the others.”
Pauline’s smile flashed bright again, and she leaned closer to kiss his cheek before rummaging a dented pail and a pair of spoons from the basket and hopping up with a contented hum to deliver them to the boys.
Before an hour had passed, the idea that there was ever such a thing as a real beach in the world had vanished, and when the thoroughly dirty and happy crew gathered around the blanket for lunch, not a single word of complaint marred the bliss of cold chicken and plum jelly.
When the meal was finished, Florrie curled up by her father’s side for a nap, while Bert took the younger boys on an “explore” around the bend. Pauline had just finished clearing up and was reaching for Five Little Peppers when a sudden sneeze brought her head up to find a boy about Bert’s age peering down sheepishly from the bank above.
“I’m ever so sorry.” The stranger sat up with a rueful chuckle. “I didn’t mean to spy. I only wanted to look for a minute, and then—it was all so lovely and cheerful I couldn’t help it.”
“But how did you find this place? They said—”
“My father’s the railway superintendent. I suppose I was mostly curious to see what kind of boy and girl would brave his den to ask leave for a picnic on company land. Dad’s busy today, and the house is awfully dull, so I thought…”
“Oh, of course you’re welcome!” Deeply touched by the wistful note in his voice, Pauline extended an inviting hand. “But why not come join us instead of sitting alone up there?”
The smile that lit his face thanked her without words, and he scrambled willingly down from his perch to meet her in the ravine. As they walked along the river after the boys, he introduced himself as Jefferson John Fitzroy III, though he insisted on being called Jeff, and Pauline found herself telling him all about the circumstances that had led her and Bert to beg a holiday next to the railroad.
“Well, I think it’s splendid of you!” Jeff’s voice held real admiration. “And say, if tickets are the hold-up—that is, if you ever wanted a real sand beach again—we don’t have quite the money we did before, but Dad’s still got use of a private train car, and I’m sure he’d let me share it.”
Pauline’s eyes went wide at this magnificence, but Jeff cut in before she could speak.
“Not now, though! Some other time, if you’d like it. Because no one could improve one wink on what you’ve done here today.”
July 27, 2024
Snippets from Camp
“Hello!” The author rushed from her office and into the half-furnished space at the end of the hall, brushing leaves, bits of paper, and what might have been penguin feathers from her hair. “I’m sorry I’m so late and rushed—I’ve been incredibly busy at camp, and still dealing with some worsening health issues. I thought of having Emmalie give you an update, since her story is the one I’m currently immersed in, but she’s…rather busy at the moment, and I’m afraid she might let out some rather important spoilers if I brought her out here now.”
She winced a little as she glanced back toward the old-fashioned door, then turned back to the screen with an apologetic smile.
“So instead of that, I thought I would offer you some snippets of what I’ve been working on at camp—portions that will hopefully whet your appetite, but not spoil things too badly. Here’s the first one, freshly written this month, but already a couple of chapters old, from Emmalie’s upcoming novel, A Hope and a Future…”
My brother sat in the corner of the sofa, reclining against as many cushions as the space could hold, and the sight somehow brought a smile to my face even as a pang shot through my heart. His eyes were closed and his face pale, but he was out of bed and mostly upright, and I couldn’t help drawing closer, even though all my rational instincts warned to keep distance between us. Not that I had any fear of him harming me, even had he been at full strength, but it was nearly impossible to resist the force of his nature at any time, let alone when he was near enough to end any discussion by simply sweeping me into his arms.
I had almost reached his side when his eyes blinked open, and I paused my movement, barely breathing as I waited his reaction. He offered a weak smile and let his heavy lashes fall again, but after a moment more, the hint of a frown creased his forehead, and I swallowed hard but didn’t retreat from my place as his attention once more focused and sharpened on me.
“Emma.” His tone hadn’t yet hardened to granite, but suspicion oozed from its edges. “What’s happened to your chair?”
“It’s a new chair, Niki. Nothing’s touched the one you gave me.” It was only half an answer, and none but the most impractical whisper of hope in my heart dared believe he would be content with it. The deepening scowl on Niklaus’s face sent that errant fancy skittering back into the shadows, and I grasped for words to supply what he truly wanted to know before his worst imaginings could take root. “Loegan made it. To help me—and Jaelyn—and everyone.”
“Help you what?” Barely a trace of softness remained in the brittle words, and I sent up a wordless cry from my aching heart and bent my head to hide the fresh tears that would only prove my weakness. Gripping the handles tightly, I rolled myself a few rotations back, then returned to my previous place.
When I dared to look up again, Niklaus was staring, eyes wide and jaw slack, and I couldn’t tell if his expression was more akin to shock, bewilderment, horror, or perhaps some combination of the three. I lowered my eyes as my heart once again tore in two at the conflicting claims of the brother whose care had sustained me through all the years I’d lain idle and useless and the man whose love had restored the freedom I had never thought to regain.
“My poor baby…” The author sighed a little, then straightened. “But she’s coming into her own, I promise! And hopefully the end of the story will be worth the heartache it takes to get there. Now for something completely different, because when can I go off to camp with a certain project in mind and not gain at least one new story idea? Here’s the prologue to another story that I’m not actively writing at the moment but hope to go back to after I finish with Emmalie’s. It’s—” She glanced at her notes and shook her head helplessly. “It’s a Goldilocks and the Three Bears retelling, set in a fictional quasi-Croatian setting in approximately the Baroque era, with themes of beauty, disability, and finding true purpose. Because my story ideas are nuts that way. But I really like the way the prologue came together, and I’d love to hear what you think…”
Once upon a time is the way all the best stories begin, I believe. By these, I mean not the tales of the great masters that are bound in fine, tooled leather to grace a nobleman’s shelf. That there are good stories counted among them, I doubt not, but it is not of these that I speak.
I speak of the tales told to children of high station and low—silly things they are sometimes—the stories and the children both, I suppose. Perhaps that is why they fit so well. And yet, in the soul of each, there is a purpose—a meaning to be grasped and treasured and woven into the very fabric of one’s soul. An example—perhaps a warning, or perhaps a dream—but always a picture of the things which are beautiful and good and the things which are not.
I shall soon have bitten through the end of this pen in my struggle to explain these feelings of my heart in ink on a page. Adrijan would craft the words better, but he says he has penned my tale in “The Plundered Angel,” and should I wish more of my history to be known, it is mine alone to tell. Marinka begs me to leave for our children the story in truth, and I too fear that if the tale is left to legend and song, it may pass into uselessness for those it should comfort most.
So then, here is my story, rough and imperfect as it may be, told to the honor of my King and the praise of my God, and for the blessing of my children, the people of Dalmithia, and perhaps even a few in the regions beyond. It is the story of a boy, then known as Gabrijel, but now most often called by his rightful name of Teo, who entered a mysterious house in a wood and there discovered a purpose that he thought had been lost to him forever.
And it begins, once upon a time…
“And…I think that’s all for now, since I should get back to rescuing Emmalie and Loegan from the pickle they’re currently in. But here’s a question for you—what’s one question you’d want to ask one or more of my characters if you could? It can be a specific character or just any character, but I’d love to have some ideas in my back pocket for possible interviews in the future.” She grinned mischievously at the screen, then glanced toward her office and pulled the remote from her pocket. “I really should head back to camp—there are odd things happening with penguins at the moment. Hope you enjoyed the snippets, and I’ll see you next month—or someone will!”
June 29, 2024
More Than Meets the Eye
Emmalie lingered outside the closed office door for several long moments but was unable to catch any sound or motion from the other side. Drawing the deepest breath she could, she propelled her chair carefully toward the one lighted area at the end of the hallway, which she didn’t remember being there on her previous visit. When she reached the corner, she craned her neck to take in as much of the space as she could before entering it.
Unlike every other room stretching into the distance behind, no doors blocked it, and the open area spread on both sides, forming a long T shape with the seemingly interminable hallway. The odd black surface that had previously covered the short wall now stretched across the expanded space, although the remaining surfaces were bare and covered in a nondescript shade of paint, with a few indistinct pieces of furniture placed haphazardly around.
“What is this? Who are you? Where am I?”
Emmalie jumped at the harsh voice and turned quickly to the side of the room she hadn’t been examining, noticing for the first time the figure who sat in the farthest shadowed corner. He didn’t make any effort to stand or move toward her, and Emmalie swallowed hard and turned her chair to face in his direction, being careful to stay within the safety of the hallway opening.
“I—I’m Emmalie. Are you— Did you— Has anyone else—been here?”
“No. Only you. Where on earth is ‘here’?” The person in the corner moved forward a little, and Emmalie gave a little start of surprise at the realization that he sat in a wheeled chair like hers, although not nearly so elaborate. “And what on earth is that?” He waved a hand in her direction, and Emmalie glanced down at herself before realizing that he had probably meant to indicate her chair.
“Oh. This is—well—I don’t know exactly what to call it. I can’t walk, and I haven’t the strength to propel myself by my arms, the way…” She trailed off, her hands hovering nervously over the handles of her chair as the young man pushed a little closer. “My—a dear friend—invented this to—to give me what freedom he could.”
“You’re saying that’s a thing?” The slight lift of her companion’s eyebrows signaled intense disbelief. “I’ve never seen anything like that, unless it’s someone tricked out for some goofy steampunk convention.”
“I couldn’t—say whether it truly exists for anyone but me.” Emmalie shook her head slowly. “Especially now that I know—I’m only a character in a story, but—”
“You’re what?” The young man’s hoarse voice rose in astonishment. “So you’re telling me I’m talking to—a figment of someone else’s imagination? Or—are you saying—” His face paled, and he fell back against his chair as the possibilities swept over him.
“I—I can’t tell you anything about yourself.” Emmalie gripped the handles of her chair and moved a little closer, abandoning the safety of the hall. “I only know—what I’ve been told about myself—what I’ve guessed about the rest of the doors in the hall. Did you—come from one of them?”
“So—you’re saying my life is what? Some sick joke for people’s entertainment?” His face had taken on an almost greenish pallor, and Emmalie dropped her eyes to her lap, then lifted them again with a shake of her head that gained strength as it continued.
“No. I don’t believe that. I don’t understand everything. I can’t even begin to. But from the little I’ve seen—I can’t help but believe there’s more. That my story—your story, if you have one—has some purpose beyond just pleasure for those who read it. I know I’ve learned so much from watching my sister and brother in their own story. And maybe my own story can encourage others in some small way I can’t see. It isn’t so much the things that happen to us as how we come through them that brings hope.”
“You obviously know nothing about me.” The young man’s hoarse voice came back a little choked, but he drew a shaky breath, and his shoulders lost just a bit of their stiffness. “And you sound a whole lot like someone else I know. Which I guess isn’t surprising since you’re apparently written by the same person.”
“But, if we’re correct, then—aren’t you as well?” Emmalie offered a hesitant smile, and after a second’s pause, her companion barked an incredulous laugh.
“Touché. All right. Then—” He paused and shook his head as he glanced around. “Fine. I’m Dash. And if you know so much, then what exactly are we doing here, and how do we get back to anything like where we belong?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know that. The only time I’ve been here, the author had announcements that she wanted us to make, but she was here to tell us that. I don’t know what else we would be here for.”
“Makes a whole lot more sense out of that.” Dash huffed out a breath as he motioned to a large corkboard on the wall that Emmalie hadn’t noticed in her focus on him and the other side of the room. He reached up and pulled several papers from the pins that held them, then dropped them in Emmalie’s lap and sat back with his arms crossed.
Emmalie scanned the papers curiously for a moment before looking up and facing the odd black wall.
“It seems the only reason I’m here is because she wants you to know that she’s working on my story again, and hoping to make some significant progress during her writing camp next month. If you’re also a writer and interested in joining a community of Christian ladies to encourage and challenge each other for the month of July, she’ll show you where you can go to sign up. And she’s hoping she’ll have more of my story ready to share very soon.”
“As for the rest—” She paused and looked down at the papers again. “I’m not sure which of these is meant for you. She has a new short story coming out on July 4th—part of a futuristic series with themes of freedom and the effects of past trauma?”
“Not ringing any bells.” Dash’s rigid posture didn’t change, and Emmalie offered a little shrug and went back to reading.
“Well, whoever it is, you can preorder it now. Some of this—I’m not sure is meant for us at all… It looks like decorating ideas? And plans for—” She glanced up and around her and laughed. “Oh! I think it’s her plans for this room. Or—her ideas for it, at least; they don’t seem to be entirely finished.”
“Serves her right.” Dash snorted, and Emmalie laid the blueprints on a nearby table and scanned the last sheet.
“The last announcement is that she’s put the first five stories of The Chronic Warrior Chronicles in paperback, so anyone who’s—”
Her words were interrupted by a loud groan, and she looked up to see Dash pressing a tightly-clasped fist to his forehead.
“She did not! Please tell me you read that wrong!”
“The paperback?” Emmalie eyed the paper curiously, and Dash huffed.
“The title. No such luck, though—of course she would. Go on—can we end this as fast as possible?”
“That’s all there is. Just that if anyone’s been waiting for a paperback, they can buy it now.”
A soft click sounded from the hallway, and Emmalie turned and smiled at Dash.
“That must be what she wanted. The doors are open again.”
“I ought to stay here just to spite her,” Dash muttered, and Emmalie tipped her head thoughtfully.
“I suppose you could. But I think I’d rather go back and see what end all of this has been working toward. I hope someday you find the answers you’re looking for.” She gripped the handles of her chair and propelled herself carefully back through one of the open doors, and Dash waited until she disappeared before letting out a heavy sigh and making his way to his own.
After a long moment, the author poked her head cautiously out of the office, fiddled with her wrist control to lock the doors again, and hurried out to the newly constructed alcove to scoop up her notes before pointing her remote at the screen, eyes twinkling mischievously as the picture went black.
May 25, 2024
A Belated Peace Offering?
“How on earth is it the end of May already?” The author shifted two notebooks, a marked-up proof copy, and several loose sheets of scribbles into one arm and ran the other hand through her ruffled hair, shooting the screen an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry I don’t have a regular update for you, but this month has been an especially rough one for my health issues, and between that and trying to put together the last Chronic Warrior Chronicles episode and a box set and print edition of the first season, I haven’t had a chance to get my characters in here for a conference.
“I hope to make it up to you next month—as you can see, the story ideas are most definitely still in the works.” She reached to catch the top notebook as it threatened to slide off the pile. “But in the meantime, I hope you’ll accept a new free story in lieu of a newsletter. I’ll post a link to the page on my website, but I’ll also put the whole thing here to make up for the lack of…everything else.
“Sorry again for not getting a regular update out, but I do hope you enjoy the story! Hopefully next month I’ll be more on top of things again—or at least as much as I ever am...” She paused to scribble something on one of the sheets of paper, then stuck the pencil in her mouth and fished the remote out of her pocket, and the screen went black.
“My hat, Ava.”
I reach her in two quick strides and yank the worn Iowa Cubs cap off her freshly done braids, holding it out of her reach as she tries to grab it back.
“Aww, please, Sean?” Her eyes get big and her lip trembles in the pout that Mom always finds so irresistible. I happen to think it’s totally resistible, but that doesn’t mean it’s not calculated to get me in trouble if she decides to escalate, which of course she does. “Mo-om! Sean’s not sharing!”
“Sean, be nice to your sister,” Mom’s weary voice calls from the kitchen, and I glare at Ava.
“This isn’t me not sharing—this is her stealing!”
I can almost hear Mom’s sigh in the silence that follows, but she comes out of the kitchen and looks from me to Ava.
“What’s he not sharing, sweetheart?”
“My hat!” I hold it out so Mom can see, still keeping it out of Ava’s reach, since possession is nine-tenths of the law if she’s the one with the possession.
“Ava…” Mom’s eyes are a little reproachful as she looks down at her, which gives me a tiny bit of hope.
“It’s not his, it’s Daddy’s,” Ava whines, and Mom closes her eyes.
“Yes, it’s—was—Daddy’s, but Sean’s had it for years now, and you never wanted it before.”
“But he didn’t ask!”
Mom rubs her forehead, and I can already feel the injustice bubbling, the “it’s just one day, honey” and “she does have a point” and “is it really that big a deal?” that always follows that look because Mom’s just too drained today and it’s easier to let Ava win. But then Mom looks up at me again, and instead of defeat and pleading in her eyes, there’s something like sympathy.
“No, Ava. Daddy and Sean had baseball together a long time before you did. Maybe we can get you your own cap for your birthday. For now, you’ll have to wear your pink one.”
“But the pink one doesn’t match!” Her eyes are getting misty now, and I notice for the first time that she’s done her outfit up in all red and blue. She’s never cared about matching the home team’s colors before, and anger stirs in my gut at the thought of her using Dad’s hat for a fashion accessory, but Mom shakes her head.
“I’m sorry, Ava. You can wear any other hat you want. Sean doesn’t have to give you that one.”
Ava bolts away and runs up the stairs, and Mom turns back to the kitchen, and I just stand there, letting the unexpected triumph wash over me in a wave that somehow doesn’t last nearly as long as it should. I cram the hat onto my head and go out to the backyard, where I pull on my glove and start tossing the ball to myself in the way that always relaxes me, only this time, I don’t seem to be settling. All I can think about is Ava’s face, which makes absolutely no sense.
She never even showed any interest in baseball until the last few months, let alone Dad’s ball cap. Sure she played a couple very mild games of catch with us when she was three or four, but baseball was only ever my thing until her best friend decided to try out for the under-elevens. If I’d ever even thought to ask about Dad’s cap, she literally would not have cared less until the last five minutes. So why does my complete, legitimate, and totally righteous victory feel so hollow?
I walk around to the front of the house, trying to leave my muddled thoughts behind, and find Ava lying on the porch swing with her head on her arm, not sobbing like she does when she wants sympathy, but with quiet little tears rolling out of her closed eyes. It’s not an act; she doesn’t even know I’m out here, and Mom is nowhere in sight. There’s a picture sitting under her hand, and I crane my neck to see it.
It was taken after one of Dad’s triple-A games, judging from the dirt on his uniform—probably one of his last, since Ava on his shoulders looks to be about two. I remember when he used to take us down to the dugout like this and show us around—back before a routine screening uncovered an odd lump—back before he gave up the game he loved to spend as much time with us as he could—back before the cancer took him much too soon. But Ava was still very little at the time; she probably doesn’t remember any of it.
That’s when it hits me. Ava doesn’t remember baseball. She barely remembers Dad. That’s the whole point, only not in the way I thought.
I can still feel his arms around me, correcting my grip, adjusting my stance, guiding my swing. Hat or not, I’m never going to lose the years I had with him. But Ava—Ava’s trying to build a memory that was never there, to connect with something she never knew. She doesn’t have memories to help her feel close to Dad; she only has things.
Pictures.
Stories.
A hat.
“Hey. Scoot over.” I nudge her legs, and she scrambles up fast, hurrying to wipe her cheeks so I can’t see her tears. That’s definitely different. I slide into the space beside her and just rock for a few minutes. “How’s practice going?” I ask finally.
She darts a surprised glance toward me—have I really never asked her that?—then puts her chin down on her knees again.
“I’m not very good.” She mumbles the words, but somehow I can hear the fear in them—fear of letting Dad down just when she’s finally found a connection to the thing he loved.
“Want some help?”
“Really?” She can’t seem to decide between hope and doubt as she looks up at me again.
“Why not?”
“You’re so good…” She looks away again, and I know I’m the one who hasn’t lived up to Dad’s standard if that’s why she hasn’t asked before.
“I’m nothing special. Not like Dad was. I just practice—a lot. And I had a good teacher.”
“You think I can get better?”
“I think we can find out.”
“Thanks, Sean.” She smiles a little and blinks hard, and I hesitate for just another second before pulling off the cap and settling it on her braids again. She’s shaking her head before I finish. “Mom said it was yours.”
“It is. This is a loan. Just for the game today. If you’re still coming.”
She slams into me with a hug that almost takes my breath away, and I awkwardly pat her back a few times before I straighten.
“Go get your glove. You never know when you might catch a foul.”
Ava races off just as Mom comes out the door with our basket of lunch. She looks from Ava to me and raises an eyebrow, and I shrug a little sheepishly as I get up from the swing.
“My hat. My choice. She doesn’t have him here like I do.” I tap my heart, and Mom’s eyes get misty as she puts an arm around my shoulder.
“Dad would be proud of you, sweetheart.” She whispers the words, and suddenly I know that means more to me than anything. Even more than his hat.
Copyright March 2024 by Angie Thompson
Photo elements by alonesdj and Gelpi, licensed through DepositPhotos, and an unknown artist, licensed through DesignBundles.
April 20, 2024
Just Off the Train
“What on earth? How—where—oh, this can’t be the station! I’ve taken a wrong door somehow!” Mamie Livingston tugged distractedly at the tapered cuffs of her neat traveling dress and hastily tried the door she’d just entered through, only to find it latched tight behind her.
“No use shoving at it, ma’am. Don’t none of them open.”
The young woman squeaked in fright and backed precipitately to the other side of the hall, the narrow drape of her skirt just missing the clay-coated boots of the rough laborer who sat against the wall opposite, his long legs stretched across the narrow space like a gate.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” The workman appeared young—possibly even younger than Mamie herself—but that provided small comfort when laid against his broad shoulders, muscled arms, and overall coarse appearance. “Been waiting here alone who knows how long. Thought maybe you’d have some idea what this place is.”
Mamie shook her head, shrinking even further against the wall.
“I—I was on the train. Do you—know how I get back to it?”
“If I knew how to get to a train from here, you’d better believe I’d be on it.” An odd little smile touched the boy’s mouth as he shook his head. “I ain’t been nowhere near one. Someday…” The word trailed off wistfully, and Mamie swallowed hard as she took stock of the empty hallway.
“You—you said you’ve seen—no one?”
“No one but you, and it seems you ain’t the one that can help anything.” He shrugged philosophically. “Only thing different I’ve seen are the papers tacked up on the board over there.”
Mamie followed his gaze to a small corkboard on the wall near the farthest door, but she stayed rooted to her spot.
“What—what do they say?”
“Wouldn’t know, ma’am.” The young man grinned, and Mamie shivered.
“You—haven’t looked?”
“Can’t read.”
“Oh.” Mamie dropped her eyes and forced a deeper breath before skittering past the heavy boots and over to the papers. She read for several long moments, her frown becoming deeper and deeper, until finally the young man broke the silence.
“Well?”
Mamie jumped and gasped, pressing a hand to her fluttering heart.
“Oh! Don’t frighten me that way. I—yes, I’ve read them, but nothing makes any sense. They’re talking about a new story—about lessons someone thinks I need to learn—and something about being grateful that I’m here in an actual costume instead of a shapeless gray dress from no particular period. I can’t make anything out at all.”
The young man struggled to conceal a smile, but he shrugged a shoulder nonchalantly.
“Couldn’t tell you, ma’am. Nothing about me?”
“Oh.” Mamie glanced back at the papers. “I don’t know. What—what is your name?”
“Joe.”
“There is—something about you here. I don’t understand it, but perhaps you will. It says—that your story is now free on a…website?…and that they should watch for the next few months because there will be new free stories coming. Do you know what that means? Or who they are?”
“No idea.” Joe shook his head. “And I can’t think why anyone would read a story about me. Not now anyway. Maybe someday…”
Suddenly two doors sprang open with a click, and Mamie sprang toward one of them, but before her foot touched the threshold, Joe was before her with a calloused hand outstretched.
“Whoa, ma’am! Your train’s that way. Not that I wouldn’t love to take your place, but I doubt you’d last a day in mine.”
Mamie shot a nervous glance past his shoulder, caught one glimpse of a rickety tenement building, and scuttled back to the other open door without a backward glance.
Joe watched with a wry smile as the door shut hard behind her, then breathed a small sigh before disappearing through his own. After a moment, the author’s door cracked open, and she slipped into the hall, removed the papers, and shot a mysterious grin at the screen before lifting her remote and cutting the picture.
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March 16, 2024
Second Time Around
“Oh, not this again!” Anna groaned as she glanced around at the dimly familiar hallway with its rows of tightly closed doors. “What is it this time? Haven’t we been through enough?”
“Do you…know what’s going on here?”
The cautious voice from behind her spun Anna around to see two young people watching her from next to the screen that formed the end of the corridor. One was a girl of probably eleven or twelve, dressed like she’d stepped out of a 1930s photograph, and the other was a teenage boy in a wheelchair with one bandage-swaddled leg propped up on the footrest. A glance at the door opposite them confirmed that it was closed as tightly as the rest, and when Anna tried the knob, it didn’t budge.
“Which part do you want me to explain?” She turned back to the mismatched pair, and they exchanged a curious glance with each other before the girl spoke up.
“Everything. Anything. Where are we? Who are you? How did we get here, and what’s going on?”
“She didn’t explain?” Anna frowned as she shot another glance at the door, and the boy shook his head.
“You’re the first person we’ve seen since we got here. I’m Jax, by the way. And this is Pauline.” He held out a hand, and Anna shook it automatically. “Unfortunately, I can’t tell her how she got here any more than how I did. But you at least sounded like you’d been here before.”
“I have.” Anna sighed. “But I was given an explanation at the time. I have no idea why you weren’t. The upshot is, apparently we’re all characters in stories that this author is writing—at least, I am, so I’d assume you both are as well. Separate stories, from the looks of it. And for some odd reason, she’s decided to bring us out here to update her audience rather than facing them herself. Why, I still have no idea. Just like I don’t know what we’re supposed to do without instructions.”
“That’s what the paper meant when it said ‘your stories’!” A look of enlightenment crossed Pauline’s face as she pointed to the wall next to the office, just behind Anna’s position, and the young woman turned to see a corkboard with two different notices tacked to it.
“Well, this is new. Which of us does she not feel like facing, I wonder?” Anna glared at the door for a second before leaning closer to examine the papers.
“So when it said our stories had been published in A Very Bookish Celebration, it meant that someone’s written stories about us? And published them?” Pauline’s eyes were wide as she met Jax’s gaze again. “What could she have found to write about me? I haven’t done anything very exciting, except take my family on a picnic, but nobody but us would think much of that.”
“It says here that your stories are both retellings. Does that give you a clue?” Anna glanced over her shoulder, and the younger girl’s face scrunched in concentration.
“A retelling? Like it’s supposed to remind you of a book? I can’t think—” Her lips suddenly rounded into a perfect O. “Oh, I think I see it now! Yes, it is—it must be! And one of my favorites too! How did I not notice how like it that picnic was?”
“Now that you’ve figured your own out, maybe you can clue me in.” Jax shifted restlessly in his wheelchair. “Is there a book where two friends land themselves in a hospital or something? And—maybe throw some goofy reenactment for Washington’s birthday?”
“I…actually know of a book like that.” Anna tilted her head thoughtfully, and Pauline gave a little gasp.
“Oh! So do I! Your friend that you mentioned—did she hurt her back?”
“Y-yes.” Jax blanched a little and swallowed hard. “Wait. In the real book, how bad is it? Does she—is she—”
“I don’t know how much I should say, but…” Anna turned a wary glance toward the author’s door, then lowered her voice as she bent next to Jax. “I wouldn’t worry terribly much, all right?”
Jax’s shoulders sagged in relief, and Anna sighed as she glanced back at the board.
“Well, if anyone wants to read your stories—plus flash fiction holiday retellings by more than a dozen other authors—they need to act fast, because the collection is going away in early April. So they’d better not wait too long to buy it. I’m sure there’ll be a button here somewhere.”
Buy A Very Bookish Celebration
“And as far as my story goes, there’s apparently nothing new really happening to us; it’s just that since the anthology our first story was published in is now out of print, it’s been published as a standalone short, for which, again, she’ll link the details. At least I don’t have to live all these things over every time they’re published—although I can’t say I’m thrilled about the idea of her poking around in our lives again. There’s something scribbled and erased here that I can’t quite read, so I’m afraid she might be getting more ideas.”
Three doors suddenly sprang open, and Anna made a beeline for hers, stopping to throw a look over her shoulder to make sure the younger pair had made their way safely back to their own.
“Well, I suppose that’s it, then. Try to be safe in there!”
The doors closed with a simultaneous click, and after another moment, a softer click heralded the opening of the one leading to the office. The author slipped out and removed the notices from the bulletin board with a satisfied grin, then lifted her remote, and the screen went black.
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February 26, 2024
Old Friends and New
“Okay, guys, we need to get this done as fast as possible.” The author stuck her pencil in her mouth and shuffled through the pile of paper in her hand while waving the two behind her forward with her elbow. “I’m late, and there’s not another Saturday in February to push this to, and I’ve still got tons of camp stuff to get done.”
“Seriously, who drops a bombshell like that on people and then tells them to hurry up?” Jake shook his head dazedly as he followed her out of the office. “Like it’s not bad enough to find out your most embarrassing moments are written out for everyone to see, now I’m supposed to…what are we here for again?”
“To help me with this.” She pulled a few sheets of paper from the pile and pushed them into Jake’s hand. “Read these, please, and then you can go back. I’m sure Mel would be happy to have you.”
“Oh, no, you do not get to use Mel against me! Not when you’re the one—” His words trailed off as the author ducked past Wyatt still standing in the doorway and shut the door behind her, nudging him fully into the hallway.
Jake glared after her for a few seconds, then turned to the still shell-shocked teen.
“Well, it seems like we don’t have much choice. You ready to do this?”
“I…guess?” Wyatt scuffed the toe of his cowboy boot against the floor and stuck his hands in his pockets, and Jake rifled through the papers, then sighed.
“I guess I’m supposed to start. She wants me to tell you about my story, which, I’m not sure how I do that when I didn’t even know I was in a story until a few minutes ago. But—I guess if you’re interested in reading about a complete doofus who couldn’t see a good thing when it was sitting right in front of him, then you might like this one. And apparently it’s free, so the whole world can see what it took to wake me up.”
“Also, she says here that the pile of her short stories has gotten so big that people might not know where to start.” Jake shook his head as he looked around at the line of doors, and his eyes widened a little before he glanced down again. “And it looks like she’s made a quiz you can take to see which one you might be most interested in. So if that’s something you want to check out, I guess you can do that here.”
“Okay, your turn.” Jake crumpled a couple of the papers and handed the remaining two to Wyatt, who reluctantly removed his hand from its pocket to take them, still looking a bit like a deer in headlights.
“Hope I’m not supposed to tell you what my story’s about, because I’m pretty sure it’s just barely started. Although if it has anything to do with following a goofy city kid around the desert on a treasure hunt, I don’t think I want to know.” He ran his eyes over the paper, then sighed. “So, yeah, I guess I’m supposed to tell you that this is her ‘no clue’ story—whatever that means—and if you’re also a Christian girl who writes, you should come to the camp she’s so busy getting ready for right now, where you might be able to read some snippets as she hopefully finishes writing it. And I think the rest of this is just…” He scanned the last paper and shook his head. “More information about the camp, but she’s crossed that out and says she’s just going to link it. So I guess I’m done.”
A door popped open far down the hall, and another in a shadowy nook close to the author’s office. Jake glanced down the hallway toward his own door, then back at Wyatt.
“Well, good luck, I guess. Hope stuff works out for you. I guess for all the roadblocks I put in my own way, things did go okay for us in the end.”
He disappeared, and Wyatt glanced back at the office, blew out a hard breath, then walked back through his own door. After a moment, the final door cracked open, and the author scurried out, frantically scribbling on a checklist, scooped up the crumpled papers, and hurried back the way she had come. After another moment, she appeared again with a sigh, pointed her remote at the screen, then whirled back into her office as the picture went black.
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January 20, 2024
Stubbornness Squared
“Oh, no, I am not doing this again!” Loegan glared at the office door across the hall, but it remained tightly closed.
“Yeah, well, is anyone going to explain to me what this is—or where this is?”
Loegan spun around to find a young man in a wheelchair eyeing him suspiciously, and his eyes narrowed further.
“Who are you?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?” Dash crossed his arms tighter. “You seem to be the one with at least some inkling of what’s going on here.”
“So you’re saying she—what? Just left you here without any explanation?”
“If I knew who she was, maybe I could tell you. You’re the first person I’ve seen since I got here.”
Loegan strode across the hall and rattled the handle of the office door, but it didn’t budge. He groaned and buried his fingers in his hair as he turned back to Dash with a frustrated huff.
“All I can tell you is the last time I was here, there was a woman who called herself our author—‘our’ being me and my sister and this random woman we’d never heard of. We apparently all live in her head, and she’s decided to make us give her announcements and who knows what else, for some reason I can’t even begin to understand.”
“What—are you talking about?” Dash spun his wheelchair back a pace, his eyes going just a little wider.
“Don’t ask me to explain further because I don’t understand it any deeper than that. Other than to say—certain aspects of my life make some kind of twisted sense now, but that doesn’t give me any more confidence in whatever ultimate result she might dream up—or the path we might have to take to get there.”
Dash’s head began to shake slowly, and Loegan huffed.
“Isn’t there anything in your world that’s just a bit over-dramatic, or a little too perfectly timed, or the kind of thing you’d never believe if you weren’t living it?”
“Oh, you have no idea!” Dash let out a sound between a laugh and a scoff and almost choked on it. “So you’re saying I’m…living…in a…book. Because of course I am. And I’ll bet you fifty bucks I know who the hero is. Does your world have a ridiculously naive and hopelessly idealistic and absurdly conscientious new addition whose talent is seriously outmatched by his fan appeal?”
“Uhh…” Loegan blinked, looking a little lost, and Dash shook his head with a snort.
“Never mind. You might not even know it if you saw it, and it’s not like it matters. For all I know, you could be half those things in your own story. So what am I doing here?”
“How am I supposed to know? I’d have thought she’d give both of us some kind of instruction, but apparently not. I wonder which of us she’s more scared of.”
“If she’s the one responsible for everything that’s gone on in my life, she’d better be scared.” Dash scowled darkly at the office door, and Loegan bent over to pick up a paper that lay halfway beneath it.
“Well, here’s the answer. Or part of it—it still doesn’t tell us where she is, but it answers what she wants of us.”
“And that is?” Dash raised an eyebrow, and Loegan sighed.
“Well, if you’re the ‘Dash’ who’s listed here, then your story has a new book out that you’re supposed to announce.”
“You planning to make me?”
“I’m not doing her dirty work.” Loegan rolled his eyes. “Car Alarm is now available on her store, and it’s up for preorder on all the rest of them. And the upcoming one, Savior Complex, is going to start releasing online in February, whatever that means. I guess she’ll give you the ability to do that.”
“All right, I’m done.” Loegan dropped the paper into Dash’s lap and returned to the door he’d entered through. “Either you read the rest of it, or it can just stay there until I figure out how to get out of here. I’ve done my part.”
Dash watched him run his hands meticulously over the doorframe for a few moments before offering something between a sigh and a huff.
“You really think whoever it is just left you a way out of here?”
“You know what? If she can be stubborn, then so can I. And she’s already tricked me into saying a lot more than I meant to today.” Loegan switched his focus to tapping various places on the door, and Dash growled.
“You’re going to make me finish this, aren’t you?”
“Not making you do anything. I’ll stay here as long as it takes to prove she doesn’t have complete control. Up to you whether you want to get out of here any sooner.”
“This is ridiculous.” Dash scowled at his back for a moment before turning his attention back to the paper in his lap and studying it through narrowed eyes. “So to get out of here the other way, we have to what? Read everything on this?”
“Probably.”
“You’re some help.”
“Look, you’ve got the same information I do. The only thing I have that you don’t is being here before, and it was nothing like this. But she did let us go home after we finished saying what she wanted.”
“Wonder how long she would leave us stuck in here,” Dash muttered rebelliously, but after a minute of renewed silence, he sighed. “Fine. There’s a free book listed here that probably has something to do with him—” This with a jerk of his head toward Loegan. “—because I guess whoever’s in charge here fell down on the job and didn’t get the news out about it when she was supposed to. Oh, that gives me so much confidence. Anyway, it’s free this weekend, so if you’re interested in a set of short stories set after A Threat and a Promise—whatever that is—you can find it wherever I assume she’s going to put it, because that’s absolutely not on me.”
The door Loegan had been working at popped open, and the door next to it did the same. Loegan took a step inside, then hesitated and glanced back over his shoulder.
“Can you, uh…get back on your own?”
“I’m fine!” Dash snapped, propelling himself halfway to the second door before he paused. “I guess, thanks for…explaining, or whatever.”
“Not like she left me much choice.” Loegan shrugged. “Which was probably on purpose. You…going to be all right in there?”
“Yeah, sure.” Dash snorted. “Honestly, whether they can keep things together without me is a better question.”
Loegan shot him a smirk and disappeared through the door, and after one last glance around the hallway, Dash wheeled himself back through his own. After a few seconds, the office door cracked open, and the author poked her head into the hallway and picked up the paper that had fallen to the floor. She glanced back at the screen, then lifted her remote, and the picture went black.
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