Fiction Vortex - May 2014, Page 2

  The stranger put down the paper and looked at McClane for the first time since entering the car. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  “I told you, I’m just waiting for some people.” The eerie feeling he had experienced with the little boy was returning.

  “Waiting for some people,” the stranger repeated with a laugh. “Anyway, that’s not what I meant. What I mean is, what are you doing here?”

  “What do you want from me, man? What is the answer that will get you out of the car? If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be here, okay?”

  “If? Who was it up to?”

  “Just get out of my car.”

  “If not you, then who?”

  “Get out.”

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “It’s not a simple answer.”

  “It most certainly should be.”

  “I don’t know why I’m here, okay? Sometimes fate is funny like that.”

  A broad smile stretched across the stranger’s face and shortly after loud hollow laughter began to erupt from deep within his belly.

  “Fate? Fate is nothing more than a culmination of our choices and the amalgamation of our decisions. Fate is a scapegoat for the failure, an excuse for the lazy, and a tool for the poet. It only exists so far as it can be of use to us. Try again.”

  McClane’s frustration was about to reach its apex. “How about you answer some of my questions first?”

  “I suppose that is only fair.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Just think of me as a helpful stranger. Or as an old friend. Neither one is untrue.”

  McClane rolled his eyes at the non-answer and continued, “Why did you get in my car?”

  “You looked like you needed help, obviously.”

  “Well you were mistaken because I don’t need your help. So, if you would kindly get out, it would be greatly appreciated.”

  The stranger nodded his head but made no move to exit the vehicle. “What was it about that little boy that you found so gripping? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  McClane instinctively looked at the corner around which the little boy disappeared a few minutes earlier and then looked to the revolving doors before his eyes finally settled back on the stranger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do, the little boy with the red balloon. I only ask because, well, I found myself watching him as well. He seemed so familiar — a memory incarnate.”

  “What? Is this a game or something? Some sort of psychological profiling before the cops pull out from the alleyway to arrest me?”

  “I told you, I’m not a cop.”

  “And I told you to get out of the car. Looks like neither one of us feels like listening.”

  “The boy,” the stranger urged unapologetically.

  McClane let out an exasperated sigh. Defeated by the stranger’s persistence, he answered, “I felt like I knew him. Not like you would know a friend or a relative, but like you would know yourself.”

  The stranger was silent.

  “I felt like I knew everything about his past just by looking at him, and when I closed my eyes I felt like I could see his future.”

  The stranger remained silent.

  “I wanted to call out to him. I wanted him to look at me so I could see into his eyes.”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “Just didn’t feel right. Like if I acknowledged him then he would suddenly cease to be. He would just disappear like some sort of specter.” McClane glanced at the stranger. “Why am I telling you all this? You need to leave. My friends will be out shortly.”

  “I thought they weren’t your friends.”

  “They aren’t.”

  “Would you like to play a game?” the stranger asked abruptly.

  “A game?”

  “You asked if this was a game earlier. And I feel like you were disappointed that it wasn’t one. So, I’ll ask again, would you like to play a game?”

  “What kind of game?”

  “It’s a yes or no question.”

  The low rumble of the engine was the only sound. The stranger intrigued McClane to the point that he did not want him out of the car anymore. This, in turn, made McClane very uncomfortable. McClane shifted in his seat and took a quick peek at the revolving doors.

  “Yes.”

  “Excellent. It’s one of my favorite games to play. Do you enjoy people-watching? Of course you do, who doesn’t? Well here is what you do—”

  “I know how to play this game, but in case you haven’t noticed, the streets are empty today.”

  “Someone will be along shortly.”

  And someone was. Not fifteen seconds after the words left the stranger’s mouth, a teenager appeared from the corner behind the car. He was tall and skinny with dirty, unkempt hair not dissimilar to the little boy from earlier. His black Metallica shirt was too big for him, and his black jeans were too tight, obviously having been purchased for someone else. He had the look of a man who had let life defeat him. A look usually reserved for people three times his age.

  As he walked along the sidewalk he kicked a can in front of him; the metallic clank of the can was the only sound to be heard. The trees were completely still, and golden-orange leaves clung to their branches, seemingly unwilling to fall and cross paths with the teenager.

  “Well, are you going to play or aren’t you?”

  Again, it wasn’t a game to McClane. “He’s lost, though not physically, but he still wanders, waiting for that magical f-word you are so fond of to fall into his lap. When it doesn’t happen he starts to wonder; is the only fate we are guaranteed death? Does the universe view human life in the way we view the life of a fly? In the grand scheme of things, aren’t we just as inconsequential? Yet he still believes life has a way of working itself out, so he never diverts from the rails, hoping at the end there is more than a web and a spider.” McClane's voice trailed off as his unblinking eyes followed the teenager.

  The stranger said, “Unfortunately his hopes are misguided. It always ends at a web and a spider, no matter which path he chooses, or doesn’t choose, to take, and sometimes we don’t even get the spider. But in a way, that's the beauty of it all.” The stranger was also staring, only, his gaze was directed at McClane.

  The teenager disappeared around the same corner as the little boy before him. The car was a vacuum of silence.

  “You spoke of inconsequentiality,” the stranger finally said.

  “I did.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Of course.”

  “The stranger considered this answer for a moment. “Do you know why I have such distaste for the notion of fate?”

  “I guess you’re going to tell me.”

  “It has to do with the most arrogant question ever devised.”

  “Which is?”

  “If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” The stranger took McClane’s blank look as a comment to say more. “It proposes that all this, everything that ever was or will be, exists solely for us. It’s easy to lose your way with that type of thinking.”

  McClane nodded his head.

  At this, the stranger began folding his paper. “Well, I should get going. Your friends will be along shortly.”

  “They aren’t my friends.”

  “Of course not. Either way, I should get going.” He tucked his newspaper under his arm and opened the car door. The cold crept inside the car. “Can I give you one piece of advice?” He did not wait for an answer. “When driving in the wrong direction, the first thing to do is stop.”

  “I’ll see you later,” McClane said not acknowledging the advice.

  “I guess that depends,” the stranger replied and closed the door. Before he turned to leave he rapped on the window of the idling car. McClane rolled it down. “I almost forgot to ask again, why are you here?”

  McClane considered the question for a moment befo
re answering, “Because a falling tree makes a sound regardless of who is around to hear it.”

  The stranger gave a single nod of his head and turned toward the intersection. As the stranger walked away, McClane tried to play the game with him, but he was not able to come up with anything; not a single thought entered his mind. A smile crept onto McClane’s face for the first time in awhile.

  The stranger paused at the intersection, deciding which direction to go. As McClane watched, his eyes drifted to the rooftops where he saw the little boy's red balloon. It hung in the air as if it were posing for a photo. McClane, not believing what he saw, shifted his attention to the left and looked at the trees. The leaves were perfectly still. Along the sidewalk some of the leaves and trash from earlier were frozen in their wind-dance — much like the balloon. McClane turned back to the intersection just in time to see the stranger disappear around the corner, having chosen to go right.

  McClane sat in the car, now with no stranger to distract him, and fully realized the oddity of the world around him; the whole world was an insect trapped in amber, or perhaps, a fly caught in a web.

  A sudden and very loud pop startled McClane. He saw in the distance the red balloon fall to the ground in a heap of bright red latex. As the balloon hit the ground, life returned to the world. The leaves rustled, and clouds once again began moving across the sky. Another gust of wind breathed life back into the desolate street.

  Seconds after the world returned, the car door opened once more. McClane, expecting to see the stranger, was again incorrect. Two men wearing balaclavas and carrying fat duffle bags entered the car.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” the man in the passenger seat said as he removed his balaclava.

  “Hit it, McClane,” the man in the back said.

  The wail of police sirens could be heard in the distance, whether it was for them or not could not be certain.

  McClane shifted into drive and hit the gas. At least, he thought he shifted into drive. The engine revved but the car remained in place. Realizing his mistake, he shifted from neutral to drive and pulled from the spot, careful not to spin the tires.

  The two men who entered the car congratulated each other on a successful job. It was all white noise to McClane. He drove along, slower than intended, staring at the heap of latex in the distance. The intersection drew nearer and, where the little boy and the teenager had turned left and the stranger turned right, McClane slowed and eventually came to a stop.

  ~~~~~

  ~~~~~

  David Malone is a former paramedic and current college student in the Chicago suburb of Elmhurst, Illinois. When not writing about himself in the third person he enjoys watching baseball, losing himself in any available medium of storytelling, and, of course, writing. He is currently working on his first novel as well as various short stories.

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  And Now, Mr. Serling

  by Timothy Mudie; published May 20, 2014

  On a Friday afternoon in Hollywood, California, on a soundstage belonging to CBS studios, a short, wiry man stands behind a desk. His right hand leans on top of it, and in his left hand is a cigarette. He rarely smokes it, preferring to let the smoke spiral around his head as he recites his lines for a filming camera. Behind the camera he sees another set on the soundstage, that of a hospital room. Production assistants bustle like ants, taking down one part of the set and putting up the other. He does not let this distract him and records his speech in just one take. His voice is a pleasant baritone; people have compared it to both velvet and silk. The man is named Rod Serling, and he is filming the tease for the next episode of his television show, The Twilight Zone.

  “Cut!” shouts the director from his place behind the camera, and Mr. Serling stubs his cigarette out in the desk’s ashtray. It’s a red, ceramic thing, different from the blue one that had been there the day before.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, John,” he calls, raising a hand toward the director. As he approaches the thick, soundproofed stage door he pulls a silver cigarette case from his pocket, extracts a cigarette, and lights it without breaking his stride. He pulls open the door and descends the stone steps. The moment that he reaches the bottom his long, red convertible with the top already down pulls up, driven by one of the set assistants, a young man named Jack who dreams of being a director and producer himself one day.

  “Here ya go, Mr. Serling,” the young man says, hopping out of the car and holding the door open. “Good timing, huh?”

  Mr. Serling pats his pants pockets, feeling the outline of his key ring alongside his wallet. Perhaps the assistants had an extra set, though he can’t remember ever giving his keys over for copies to be made.

  “Uncanny,” he says. “How did you know I was ready to go home?”

  A quizzical look passes over the young man’s face, but it is quickly replaced by a smile and laughter. “Nice one, Mr. Serling. You had me going for a second. Guess I’m so used to all the crazy things on the show I expect them to happen in real life.”

  Though he isn’t quite sure what the young man is talking about, Serling smiles back. “Yeah,” he says, “You never know what’ll happen around this set.”

  “That’s the truth,” says the young man, still smiling. Serling wonders if he is this pleasant around everyone or if he’s only trying to curry favor.

  He gets into the car, the bright California sunlight kissing his chiseled — some would say craggy — face. The familiar growl of the engine takes his mind away from wondering about the keys and the young man. Raising his hand in a wave, the young man shuts the door and backs away. The car idles; the young man forgot to take the key. As he begins to pull away, Serling glances down. This becomes a stare as he notices that it is not just the one key, but a full ring. A ring with a car key, two house keys, office key, and a tin Army insignia. A ring that is in every way a replica of the one in his own pocket.

  “Have a great one, Mr. Serling,” the young man calls as the car glides away from the soundstage. “See you tomorrow!”

  Serling looks in his rearview mirror and sees himself sitting in the center of the rear seat. For a moment, he loses control of the car as he spins his head around, but the only thing behind him is the young man, his hand raised in an eager wave. Serling looks forward, gives a quick wave, takes a deep breath, and presses his foot to the gas. His heart still pounding, he drives away from the lot, but he knows that where he is doesn’t really matter.

  ~~~~~

  Amongst the swirling crowd of bodies, Serling is too busy trying to navigate without knocking anyone’s cocktail out of their hand that he cannot think about the strange occurrence from earlier in the day. In fact, he barely had time to shower and run a comb through his hair before he hopped back into his convertible and sped to the party. Embarrassingly, he can’t remember what it is for. Some release of a book or maybe a new picture. Since moving to Hollywood, Mr. Serling has realized that the people who live here are always throwing parties, whether there is a good reason to or not. Deciding which parties to attend and which to skip is a personal and professional minefield, one in which he had no desire to get caught up in but which he knows is important to his continued success. He learned early that mere talent does not guarantee success in show business.

  And so he finds himself circulating through a party of people he knows only in passing, perhaps because he has seen their face on the big screen or had a fruitless pitch meeting with them. Mildly uncomfortable in the crush of tanned skin, he sips his scotch and smokes cigarette after cigarette. He grins as he passes chatting groups of women, nods and raises his glass to men whose eyes he catches from across the room. He overhears a few snippets of conversation and deduces that it must in fact be a birthday party. Not having brought a gift, Mr. Serling decides that procuring that knowledge must in fact be his cue to leave. But halfway to the door he is stopped by a tall woman with high cheekbones and hair that pours down her face like a dark waterfall, the tips jauntily po
king to the sides.

  “Rod!” she exclaims, “That was quick.”

  Puzzled, Serling stares at her. Her name is Barbara Dearborn, an aspiring actress and wife of a director he worked with shortly after arriving in Hollywood with the book and beginning to make a name for himself.

  “Jesus,” she says, pointing at his empty glass, “You sure polished that off quick. If you’re having that bad a day, darling, I’m sure I have some sort of pill for you. Take the edge off, you know.” And she begins rummaging around in her purse.

  “Oh, I’m fine, Barbara, thanks,” he says, placing his glass on the tray of a conveniently passing waiter. “Just heading home, I think.”

  “Oh, you simply can’t! Why, you’ve just got here.” Her purse, pills forgotten, hangs at her side. It is a simple black leather thing, which does not go well with her bright flower-print dress. It is as if she can’t decide whether she’s at a party in Hollywood or New York.

  He smiles, but his brow furrows of its own volition. “How many of those have you had, Barbara? I must’ve been here for the better part of an hour.”

  “An—? Darling, you only just gave me Richard’s gift. You really should have carried it to the table yourself, by the way. What did you get him? A box of bricks?”

  While she speaks, Serling’s eyes dart about the room. As if he will see another Rod Serling leaning on the bar or chatting up one of the many beautiful young women who circulate the party like tropical fish.

  “Right, right,” he says, still checking his peripheral vision for this other Serling. “I guess maybe I’m not feeling so well, you know?”

  Barbara’s face falls. “Tell me you won’t be leaving so soon? There are just so many people I want you to meet and the party just won’t be the same without you and your stories.”

  Normally unflappable, Mr. Serling trips over his words. “Ah, Barbara, I’m really very sorry. It’s just, well, my head you see…” She must know he’s making an excuse, the way he’s stammering like a Jimmy Stewart character.

  “Of course,” she assures him, patting him on the shoulder, but he can tell from her sad smile that she knows he’s lying. “You have to watch out for your health. Can’t come up with those tales of yours with a throbbing head.”

  “Yeah,” he says, rubbing his temples for effect, “Yeah.” He conspicuously eyes the door.