DAY 5: The Picture Inside the Picture

Courtesy: visualfunhouse.com

Today’s Prompt:

You get to your studio to develop pictures from the hour you spent in the park. All of the pictures turn out well, except for a select few. In six photographs, there is a man in the frame. Something seems slightly off, and rather strange about each picture. Who is he and what is weird about the photographs?

Courtesy: writersdigest.com

Word Count: 2,102

Uduak (/hoodoo ark/) and Usen (/hoo send/) took a walk along the beach one morning. Cause it was a fine morning for a walk.

                “I got to tell you a thing or two about those pictures I took at the park,” said Usen.

                “Don’t tell me they were no good. You made so much fuss about those,” said Uduak.

                “They are masterpieces. But they ain’t what I expected.”

                “If they’re masterpieces and perfect and yet, you do not want them even though you took the shots, all of them, truth is, you must be nuts.”

                “I ain’t nuts, Uduak. Believe me; something ain’t working the way it ought to.”

                “Then, what exactly are you?”

                “There’s a man in the pictures.”

The men halted. The wind was picking up speed but it had nothing to do with it.

                “What else is new?” Uduak  said, fetching a pebble from the dirt. “Those pictures are from the park. There ought to be more than one man in the pictures if you asked me. You make it sound odd that there were actual people at the park or in your pictures. You did not expect to find anyone.” It was a statement not a question.

                “No, no,” Usen said, waving off Uduak’s statement. “You really ought to stop flying off half cocked. There is a man in the pictures.” Uduak meant to interrupt and Usen cut him off. “Wait. The same man appeared in only six of the photos and he was nearly always in the shadows.”

Uduak scowled as he stared at his friend. “In broad day light? You took the pictures in broad day light and managed to capture a man standing in the shadows? I ask you for the second time, are you nuts?” Uduak touched his forefinger to the side of his head and twisted back and forth, back and forth, to stress his point. “Cause if you ain’t, I must be off the bend.”

Usen’s face colored. He hesitated.

                “It sounds crazy,” Usen said.

                “No. It is crazy and you are a victim of a figment of your imagination.”

The two men who had resumed their walk stopped again urged by the arresting view of an imposing mountain far out at sea. Usen pointed out at the outcrop of land mass, which from the distance and probably, because of the little distortion of vision induced by fog could have been only a shadow standing vertical.

                “Out there in the water, do you see a mountain or is it just a shadow? And look up in the sky ain’t that a bitch. I never dreamed I’d be so happy to see the sun.”

                “Alright, I get the point. Now, quit being a smartass,” said Uduak.

                “You mean you agree that a man in the black suit can be in the shadows in a picture taken at high noon?”

                “Usen!”

                “He marked his place, Uduak. He was right there behind everybody and everything else and yet, he was a superimposition. Like one of those photostock productions.”

                “You’re really serious about this?” Uduak said, becoming a little grossed out.

                “On my mama’s grave.”

                “You never knew your mama.”

                “On my wife’s head.”

                “Heads up, Usen. You don’t have a wife.”

                “Well, just come on over to my studio and take a look at the pictures for yourself. See if you don’t change your mind in a hurry.” Usen said, flashing a smile as wide as summer.

                “Stop that,” Uduak said.

And so it happened that Uduak came over to Usen’s amateur studio to have a look at the freaky photos. He saw the man, too. It was like a picture within a picture. Uduak for some reason did not see the queerness of the situation.

The next time they got back together, which they did often, and went strolling on the beach, Usen dug up the issue again.

                “Each time I try editing those pictures or sending ‘em through the printer–I’m talking about the six with the picture of the man in the black suit –he retreats an inch into the shadows.”

                “Because you willed it to happen, Usen. Don’t you get it? You’re seeing what you want to see. Give the damn thing a rest. Just let the pictures be and in time, it just might happen that the guy in the shadows will show himself to be what he really is,” Uduak said.

                “And what exactly do you think he is Uduak?” Usen said, but he wasn’t angling for a fight.

                “Blotches in the film is all. So, what do you say? Let’s catch some chicks at a bad time.”

                “I’m game.”

Uduak and Usen pulled out their digital cameras and started snapping off photographs of abominations that stand in holy places. And for the moment, the man in the picture was laid to rest at the backburner.

After the beach walk, Uduak and Usen retired to Usen’s studio, which is what they called his laptop, printer, digital camera and several photo editing hardware. They plugged their cameras to the USB cables then connected them to the system via the USB portals. Next, they transferred the pictures to the wider screen. It improved the view significantly.

They went through the images in silence, relishing their Kodak moment. Yet, the devil came.

The men were silent, stunned out of their comfort zones as the realization shook the very foundations of their belief.

                The man in the black suit appeared in guess… six of the pictures.

When the renewed heebie-jeebies in the wake of the weird pictures subsided, Usen sighed and said, “You still think that man is blotches in the frame that’s bound to fade out with time?”

                “Please, do not patronize me. What are we gonna do about that guy cause apparently, he’s either stalking you or stalking me.”

                “Or stalking both of us,” Usen said and shrugged when Uduak glared at him.

Uduak ran six of the pictures of the man in the black suit through the printer. The printer vibrated then uttered a shrill noise as if it was stuffed with shards of glass. And finally the pictures came sliding out. The spots where the images of the man ought to have been were fuzzy as if a mild heat had charred it. Though his aspect was visible, his face took the worst hit. It was hard to identify. Uduak tried to do a reprint.

                “Maybe, at a later time, buddy.” Usen held his hand. “It’s best we don’t stress the printer,” he said.

The freelance photographers waited in the silence allowing both the static and tension in the studio to fill up the void in their brains.

                “What are we really going to do about that guy?” Usen spoke like a man climbing out of a dream.

Uduak sat hunched over and he had pulled the collar of his flannel shirt over his head. “Well, we got digital cameras for a start.”

                “What’s that got to do with anything?”

                “We get back to the park and we can start by checking the pictures soon after we snap ‘em,” Uduak said.

                “Great idea,” Usen said, but his words lacked the conviction. “What do we do when we find the trifling son of a whore?”

Without looking up, Uduak said in a growl, “We will cross that bridge when we come to it. Okay?”

                “Whatever.”

One beautiful morning, these freelance dudes set off on an investigative paparazzi stint and were still undecided on what to do with the man in the black suit if and when they had him in their clutches.

                “We couldn’t even tell if he had on a leather jacket or an overcoat.” Usen way out of his elements did nothing to hide his sense of defeat from dripping through his words.

Uduak blew hot air on his hands and rubbed one against the other. The chill wasn’t in the air but in the gig. It had him all tensed up. “Mind if we ask around if anybody ever saw this guy in the park?”

                “And strike terror into the hearts and minds of these lovely people? Would you like being called a freak?”

                “How long before we start taking the snapshots?”

                “How about right away?”

And they were off snapping and checking the pictures.

Snap. Check. Nothing. Snap. Check. Nothing. Snap. Check. Check. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Outwitted and outfoxed, the freelancers mobbed a park bench and crashed their tired butts into it.

                “Did you see those pictures? He’s not in any one of them,” Usen said.

                “You telling me? I wish I could just forget it ever happened. This creep show’s not good for my nerves.”

                “I’ve had my share of the creeps the very first time I set eyes on the dude in six of my pictures. If freaking out was hard currency I’d be swimming in dough, right now.” Usen flung up his arms and jerked his head backwards so that it perched against the top edge of the backrest, his face staring up into the sky. A dark figure leaned over him and looked straight into his eyes holding him in his gaze. He couldn’t break his paralysis. The eyes of the man in the black suit pinned him into position and penetrated his subconscious and in that instant, Usen knew.

It didn’t take five seconds but he knew why his camera had picked up the man’s image. Then he was gone.

                Usen bowled out of his seat and totally flipped out.

Uduak jerked forward but stayed seated on the bench. “You trying to give me a heart attack? What’s gotten into you?”

Usen’s eyes roamed the park, searching for the man in the black suit. He was nowhere in sight. “Shit. He was standing over me just now, looking dead into my eyes. I saw his eyes, no irises, just two orange balls of flame. And he had no face, I could see right through him. He was wearing a hat, a magician’s hat but it seemed to hang on empty space, a void. And he smelled like…”

                “Like sulfur,” Uduak completed his sentence for him.

                “How did you know?”

                “You saw the devil? I read something like this before in a Stephen King story, The Man in the Black Suit it was called. Well, I never.”

                “He stood right here.” Usen went around the bench and stood in the spot he supposed the man in the black suit stood a few minutes ago.

                “You really saw him? In black and white?” Uduak’s words oozed with sarcasm, an unconscious act triggered by dread.

                “Of course, I saw him. He was here, right here.” Usen stomped up and down on the grass.

                “If he ain’t anywhere around here now, where the hell did he go?”

                “You can’t be asking me that, can you? You’ve been here all along and you happened not to notice a man this tall, wearing a black suit creep up on me and give me the jump of my life?”

                Uduak shrugged. Usen burst out laughing and Uduak followed. It dissolved the tension.

                “That fools turning us against each other. We can’t let that happen. We need to put him behind us.”

                “I’ve been thinking the same thing.” Uduak patted his friend on the shoulder. “Maybe, that’s just what we’ll do. Get the devil behind us. Somewhere where the sun never shines and the water is fire.”

The freelancers looked into each others’ eyes and laughed again.

                “Maybe, the bastard wished to be left alone.”

                “All he had to do was ask. It’s simple courtesy,” Usen said.

                “Maybe, we wouldn’t have understood his language. Come on, we’re done here.”

                “Maybe, he should have stayed the hell out of our pictures, is what I think.”

Uduak and Usen left the park and went home. At Usen’s studio, when they moved their pictures into the system for editing and printing, the man in the black suit was back in six of them. In each of the pictures, he had his back towards them and each succeeding picture showed a smaller image of him. He was walking away.

Sometimes, the man in the black suit was back in the pictures but Uduak and Usen put him in his place–at the back of their mind. They knew better. He never bothered any one of the men again. And when people picked up one of their photos and asked about the mystery man in the background the photographers said, “Oh, that’s the park caretaker.”

When they replied, “Why do we never see him around?”

They answered, “It’s best if he is left alone.”

Eneh Akpan

June 5, 2013

DAY 2: Plague House

African Pear Tree with Fruit. Courtesy: gibex.com

Today’s Prompt:

You put your house on the market and, on the first day, an extremely old woman comes knocking on your door. She’s not interested in buying your house, though. Instead, she tells you that this is the house she lived in as a child. The friendly mood suddenly changes when she reveals something terrible that took place in the house years ago.

Courtesy: writersdigest.com

Word Count: 2,721

                “You got a fine house up for sale, young chap, I tell you,” said the old lady walking the stoop towards Abrams.

Abrams had put his house on the market and this old woman was the first one up to come knocking on his doors. Already, Abrams had started hating her guts. And chances of her making a bid for the house was next to nothing. Don’t get your hopes up, dude, he thought to himself.

                “Come on,” she said, as she reached the landing. “Let’s have a look around. No hesitating.”

                “My pleasure,” Abram said as he slid left to allow his very unwanted guest access to his apartment.

                “Have I introduced myself? I’m sorry, how rude of me. I’m Elizabeth,” she gave him what was probably a smile.

To Abrams, it was a grimace. And he had an idea she’d been old when the Children of Israel were still going in circles in the wilderness. The old woman, Elizabeth, was still talking.

                “This is a perfect place for a bachelor or a couple of young men your age who decide to stick together but not for a family. And the size of the family has got nothing to do with it.”

                If Abrams heard her comment, he didn’t show it. He shrugged off the speech, the last part in particular. In his mind, he got a Tippex and blotted out that line completely. “Do you want me to give you a tour of the building? I know, it’s a little on the expansive side and might tire you out easily. But you can take quick breaks between section tours.”

                “Do not wear yourself out, young man. Really, that would not be necessary. I can find my way around this entire house in pitch darkness,” said the old crone.

Abrams presumed Elizabeth’s statement was the ranting of a senile woman. Possibly, talk induced by loss of memory, which is a natural symptom of old age. Yet, intuition prompted him to ask, “I presume you’ve been here before. Probably, visiting with the previous owners?”

“Boy, this apartment has been up before both your parents were boy and girl. Why, I grew up in this place. Sure, a lot of renovation and innovation has gone down here; much of the original fittings, which for your time are outdated, have been thrown out. Ultra modern house wares have replaced the archaic but I’ll bet my graying hairs that the room positions are pretty much the same.”

Abrams pulled out a mental script and struck out the phrase, ‘Potential customer.’ He replaced it with ‘An unlikely customer.’ He figured since this was his very first customer after he put up the For Sale sign that day, this was going to be a long day. “Ma’am, I’m really sorry but I got a house to sell. I believe you won’t mind dropping by some other time for a little chit-chat on housekeeping.”

                “You were expecting someone?”

                “I do expect folks with a taste for class to see the sign,” Abrams tipped his thumb toward where he believed the sign he posted might be. “And come asking for the owner of the house. Me.” He tried to keep his voice rid of aggression and succeeded.

But the old hag would not be denied the opportunity to revel in old times.

                “Did you know my mama loved to sit under the shade of the African pear tree round back to do her needlework? And sometimes, she read a book or two. She was the Reading Housewife. Papa used to tease her with that name. I remember she used to let me sit with her under the cool shade, sometimes. How we cherished those special moments, my two younger sisters and I.”

The sternness, which had tautened the skin on the woman’s face like a pachyderm’s hide, fell apart in a smile as memories of the good old days invaded the old woman’s bosom. Her aspect was totally transformed. Abrams thought at that instant, she could’ve been accused of being pretty and such accusation wouldn’t have been farfetched.

                “May I have a look at the tree one last time if perchance its life has been spared by the forces of change? I sense that by now, if by a twist of fate, it still stands, our once lovely African pear tree would be the ghost of a memory. Time’s coarse hands must have stripped it of its beauty nevertheless, if it stands, I’d love to see it again and maybe touch it. I want to sit under the shades just one last time. Even when my legs carried my body away, my heart stayed. This is home. It’ll always be home to me.”

                “Whatever, just don’t die on me, grandma,” Abrams muttered under his breath, barely above a whisper.

Elizabeth beckoned to him. “Will you grant me this single favor?”

Abrams fetched a sigh. The emotion displayed by the earlier cheeky old woman moved Abrams to feel for her, despite himself. Whatever brought this lady back here intends to piece together the fragments of her broken life, Abrams thought. He decided he wouldn’t want to be caught dead standing in the way of progress.

                “Come on, ma’am. Let’s go see your tree.” He took the old woman by the hand and led her through his kitchen to the back of the house where the African pear tree loomed above the building, ancient and gradually shedding its leaves but far from withered. It has served its purpose as shade against the sun at high noon but if it would juggle an old lady’s memory Abrams would hang on for the ride.

                “My tree. My happy tree,” the old woman croaked and almost lunged for the tree. But all she could manage was a crawl, it was all her failing strength would permit her. She stopped a few meters shy of the trunk. She held her position for a while fixing the tree with a solemn stare like a person admiring a long lost object of affection found by a stint of chance.

Then she rushed into the tree as fast as her legs would carry her which was almost the walking pace of a healthy individual.

                “My happy tree,” Elizabeth said again, tears careening down her cheeks. “I’d hoped but I’d never dreamed I’d set eyes on you, again. Not this up, close and personal.” She stood there hugging the bark of the tree. After what looked to Abrams like an eternity, she broke the embrace and slumped into a bench wedged into the ground under the scanty shade of the African pear tree. She invited Abrams to join her. “Here,” she said, patting the space next to her. “Come, sit beside me. I want to tell you a story. It’s important I say this now that the house is on the market so you don’t make the same terrible mistake my family made.”

Abrams who had expressed resentment towards the old lady the first time she walked up his stoop into his house, into his life had nothing but admiration for her. He joined Elizabeth on the bench which was made of wood and built so it went around the trunk. The wind was cool under the tree and there were no birds to ruin the moment with their chirrups.

                “It’s a long story, pardon me,” she said.

Abrams shrugged. “No worries, ma’am. I’m free most of the day, today. You couldn’t have picked a better day to tell a fine story.”

Elizabeth’s face fell and as Abrams started to wonder if it was something he did she said, “I don’t want to disappoint you, but it’s not such a fine story. Maybe, in the beginning it was. But the goodness thawed quickly like ice in an oven; things grew bleak and tragic as time moved on.” She drew in breath and when she let it out, she shook with intense emotion. “My father built this place in the early 30s. On April 14, 1940, I came into this world. I was the first of three daughters in a family of five. Papa was a tiller of soil who maintained his place on the top rung of the social ladder. Of course, he was wealthy to have afforded a place like this in that age. Mama helped on the farm sometimes but what’s the use? There were sufficient hired hands to get the job done without mama getting her hands soiled.

                “Right here where we are seated is where mama used to get her groove on when she wasn’t caught up organizing or attending socials with papa, which was quite often. My siblings, Rebecca and Monica were born on June 16, 1945. They were twins. Meet the family.

                “There are some who would say the evil was triggered by the coming of the twins, but those are just the ideas of raving lunatics.” She coughed a little and Abrams made to go get water or soda but Elizabeth gripped his wrist. “It can wait. Let me finish the story. Like I said, we were happy at first, living as one big happy family. Doing family business with the gravity of fellowship expected in a loving union. We were good together and soon came to believe tomorrow was forever.

                “I remember we used to have a maid. Awan (/her wand/) she was called, if memory serves. And she was a darling. Why is she important to this story, you wonder? Awan was the first person on the scene when Rebecca’s body was discovered drenched in blood and lying between rotting fruit.”

                Abrams shifted in his seat. “She wandered off to the farm, tried to climb a tree without adult supervision, fell off, banged her head and zonked out and the maid revived her. Please, tell me that’s the way it happened.”

                “She had been ripped to shreds by some monster. And what do you mean by adult supervision? We three girls could climb any tree efficiently, at age six. Papa made sure of that.”

Abrams felt panic claw at his lungs. His interest in the story had waned. “Elizabeth, if word of your story got outside these walls, the rebound will knock down the price on my property. There might be a need to give it over to charity.” Even though Abrams was beginning to like Elizabeth why, he even called her by her first name, he had nothing but distaste for this part of her story. He almost wished he hadn’t let her into his house but he couldn’t deny the action would have haunted him to his grave.

                “Don’t be silly. Back then, much of this vicinity belonged to my family. It was farmland. Papa would have disapproved had he seen Rebecca wander off into the plantation all by herself. No, something wicked this way came, slew her and threw her body among rotting African pears under this same tree. Papa was out on business and mama was fast asleep in her bedroom. I know because Awan walked into our room and told us to keep the noise at the minimum so we don’t wake ma up.

                “All three of us were in our bedroom playing practical jokes on one another. I think it’s why Reba as we used to call her said she was going to play outside. I should have stopped her and made her stay indoors with us but I did not. I feel responsible in part for her death. It’s the cross I’ve borne with me through the years.”

                “Elizabeth, it wasn’t your fault. You can’t torment the old woman you became for what was only a figment of a little girl’s imagination. You were girls. Even adults make mistakes you ought to know that.”

                “Still. She was under my care.”

                “The maid was home. She was much older. She did nothing to stop your sister.”

                “I let her down. I let ‘em both down.”

Concern for the old woman creased Abrams brow. “You shouldn’t talk like that. You’re frail, you shouldn’t upset yourself for no reason. You know what? Why don’t you think of the priceless moments you spent here with your mom while I fix you a cool glass of orangeade? No? Why the hell not?”

Elizabeth was slowly shaking her head.

                “I need you to hear my story. It’s important that you hear me out. If I’m going to tell it then I must tell it all.”

Abrams had stood up to go get the juice. He filled up his spot again. “Okay, Elizabeth. But you gotta quit hurting yourself over childish misgivings.”

                “I’ll try and remember that.” She smiled and to Abrams it was the best thing to happen to him in a long time.

                “Did they ever catch the devil responsible for the crime?”

Elizabeth glared at him and he felt like an ant under a glass. “Where have you been all your life? Haven’t you been listening to my story? Like papa used to say, You can’t hit ‘em if you can’t see ‘em. The only lead, which was no lead, the investigators had was the palm frond they found beside Reba’s body. But hell, this was an oil palm plantation, palm fronds were literally everywhere.” She waved her arms over her head like a drowning man would flail in a river.

“Monica turned up dead a week after Reba’s body was found down here. She died in the bathroom and yes, palm frond was found beside her body. Her eyes bulged in their sockets, her mouth agape like somebody who had died from shock of coming face to face with their worst nightmare. A day after this incident, papa shipped me off to my aunt’s place. Dad was beginning to suspect his rivals trying to intimidate him and run him out of business.

“All was calm on the farm after that. Several months later, Awan visited my aunt’s place to break the news of my parent’s demise. They both passed on in their sleep. By noon, when any of them was yet to come out of the bedroom, Awan had gone in to check up on them. The first thing she noticed was the palm frond placed neatly beside each body. She knew before she called out to any of them. She knew the truth.”

                “What did the doctors say?”

                “You mean, besides ‘died peacefully in their sleep?’ By then, it was no longer a secret that something was picking people off on Patrick Farm. The reports stated ‘extreme shock’ as cause of death.”

                “What do you think was the cause of death, Elizabeth?” Abrams said. To his surprise, the old woman laughed.

                “I never accepted the medical reports and I couldn’t care less. During the years I was growing up with my aunt, I came back to this town frequently. But I never set foot within the walls of this house until today. This place was dead to me. I mingled with the townsfolk, and I heard rumors.

“The deaths did not start with my family and I know of at least, one family that lived here in recent times after the farmland has been taken over by state-of-the-art housing schemes.”

                “I heard the story, too,” Abrams said. “There was nothing supernatural about their deaths. The gas tank they were using to barbecue out here exploded. The ensuing furnace gutted the entire household. It was an accident, that’s all.”

                “Did any one mention the fresh, unsinged palm frond which appeared mysteriously beside each roasted corpse?” Abrams was stunned but said nothing.

“Every time a complete family–husband, wife and children took residence on this piece of land, they died off one by one. I am the only surviving member of any family that’s ever lived here.

                “Four.” Elizabeth demonstrated with her fingers. “Four innocent families have fallen at the feet of the unseen murderer that stalks this land. I believe it’s a cursed place for families. You are one of several single folks who have lived here and not taste tragedy’s dish. Something here does not have much respect for family maybe, because it was deprived of its loved ones in its lifetime.”

The next morning Abrams slipped out of the house and wrote under the For Sale sign, Buyer must be a long-term bachelor.

Eneh Akpan

June 2, 2013

                                                                                                                                               

Day 4: Odyssey's Doorgate

Photo credit: Wikipedia

                        History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived…

                                                                                        Maya Angelou

Deschase was one fun-loving lady who possessed that devil-may-care flare on the side. And she’s got one of the Dirty harry kind of friend-scientist friend-who invented a time capsule or machine or call it whatever you want. He’d used a lot of specimen to test the stuff out including some animals. The results looked promising though, as he found out, the machine was more effective if said animals were unconscious before teleportation. Otherwise, the creatures exhibited a kind of weird behavior and a glazed look after they got zapped in and out of the past/future.

One funny day, since every good or bad thing happens one day, Deschase was visiting with this friend of hers. (They were out of school-high school, or some college?- they were something of adults, but this guy who was just a friend wasn’t exactly adult.)

Before visiting with the scientist friend who we would call Garland, Deschase took a detour to the local cemetery, to pay her respects to her grandma who she was sweetly close to as a child. That day doubled as her grandma’s anniversary. When she was through with the death rites or paying her respects, call it whatever you want, Deschase got up to leave and soon she was passing by an ancient tombstone. The inscription on the tomb told her the lady whose bones lay buried beneath that ground was about the same age with her when she passed on to the netherworld. The tombstone gave great details of her death even going so far to state she had died of a heart attack. Something struck Deschase as funny about the situation surrounding this strange woman’s death-something that kept tugging at her curiosity.

She searched out and found the grounds keeper, a cheeky fellow they called Mr. Drake. She persuaded him to follow her to the plot where this lady’s graveside.

            “What happened to her? Do you know?” Deschase asked.

Mr. Drake who happened to know a whole lot of stuff about a lot of tombstones and their occupants, both legend and factual, even things he had no right on God’s earth to know, said he did.

            “What you have here my dear, Deschase, is one sorry ass bitch. Believe me, this lady went all the way and worked herself into a heart attack. It happened not quite long ago.”

Deschase took another look at the epitaph and saw the year of death was 2003-barely five years ago.

            “You see, there’s so much infidelity among youths these days. I mean, I don’t know what’s going on. But this lady, there was a lot of soap opera history she hadn’t caught up on, yet. I mean, did she not know? She can’t feed anybody that bull she didn’t know her man was on the Dirty Harry list. Every fellow does it these days.

            “What really happened, Mr. Drake? Please, do tell.”

            “She bought . . . had this lady friend who came visiting . . . I don’t know the details godammit. I wish I knew that sonafabitch, I should really pay him a visit, sometime. Pay him a serious visit. The Angel-of-death kind-of-visit and make sure he pays for this . . . Big time!” He rammed his fist into his left palm. “So, you see, this friend comes over to her house, it’s been a decade since they last saw eye-to-eye, a pretty time, you mind me, now. So, somehow, she got wind about the pretty missus’ place and comes over. They’ve been best of friends at school (or so I heard) and it looked a pretty nice thing that their paths crossed, again. I mean, it would be a year later when facebook was founded or they’d have found each other sooner.

“But this lady comes over and they’re catching on to the good ol’ times when the hubby this here missus’ trudges in, all worked from the job. He throws a passing glance to the lady beside the wife, trades a trifle pleasantry but doesn’t mind her much, you see. He heads to the bathroom, first. Gatto get all that macho sweat of his wife-cheating ass.

The lady too, doesn’t really check him out just then.

“He comes down after he’s changed and stuff and goes to the table. And that’s when he’s got the time to check out the damsel. The DAMNED-SEL, I mean. The two idiots stare at each other hard and long. Hard stares. And then the feeling starts coming home.

“The previous Saturday, he’d been caught up in a freaking traffic and he had this lady with him in the car. Well, hell if this guy wasn’t a man. I mean she was all pretty and looking all of . . . a special delivery from hell is what it turned out to be. As they say, one thing led to the other, they got to starting something, got kissing and their damned fingers wouldn’t stay put. The fingers went . . . well, places. They didn’t really get down to the old wazoo, but just as well, huh? I steal a sheep and, you steal a freaking lamb we both get the noose, right?

“All I’d say is, it was a bad day for getting caught. The hubby, Richmond, misinterpreted the lady’s visit. Thought she came to place charges, you know women for what they are with their two-bit blackmailing ass. The guilty look was written all over his face like a film credit on the screen at the end of a movie. He couldn’t freaking hide it. The lady, she was talking when the guy, Richmond came down the stairs. The words, they hung in her throat. She swallowed so hard she practically choked on it. This lady, Anne, she saw . . . felt the tension in the room.

            “Have you two met . . . Honey, what’s wrong? You look like you . . . Deville? Somebody, please talk to me.”

“I’ll bet you fifty coffins had the backstabbing bastards known that Anne had not the tinniest idea what went down between the two they would have kept it a secret and kept right on with the affair right under her nose. Right under her naïve nose. But they blew the whole thing from hell to breakfast. The guy thought the lady came to set the record straight and she already told on him. The lady, ah well, you add the missing pieces, lady.

“So they open up the can of worms to Anne and it’s way too much for her . . .

“You see, Anne had this long time heart issue and she was asthmatic, to boot. Much of them times, it was a mild thing but, she had it all the same. The asthma took her by storm at that very moment. It was too much for her fragile heart. You know, like that foursome dudes sang. Westlife I think they called ‘em.

                                    ‘A fragile heart was broken before.

                                    I don’t think it could endure another pain.’

“She passed out. DRT-Dead Right There. From what I gathered, the father popped the hubby, the Richmond guy, one to the head. I don’t blame in but, neither did the Judge who sentenced him to time in a Federal Prison. I think they are set to parole his ass in two years.”

This is the situation Deschase saw rather than heard and it hung on her mind for a while. And every time she visited her granny’s grave she passed by that plot of land and wept in her heart. Wept and stomped her feet.

Then came this day, when she had to visit her mad scientist friend. Getting back to our story, are we? Garland, I believe the guy was called, although as we would soon find out there was nothing gallant about the guy. Garland was in the barn behind the house doing the only thing that gave sense to his life-nonsense.

She comes into the barn and finds Garland working on some weird-looking hunk of scrap metal. And much more ugly was Garland in his own costume.

            “What are you up to, dude?”

            “What . . . hey! Miss Universe, pretty thoughtful of you to pay me a visit.” He stepped away from his invention and waves his hand over it like a magician showing off. “What you have here is ‘Odyssey's Doorgate ’.”

            “The what?” Deschase said.

            “Odyssey's Doorgate-the power to visit your present and your past. To zip-zap, to and fro, back and forth and all that.”

            “Does it really work?”

            “Girl, ain’t your mama ever teach you the power of faith? The world’s greatest scientist invents a time portal and all you’re getting freaked out if it works?”

            “Get serious, Garland.”

            “Now that you mentioned that word, I’m still working on it. But it’s almost . . .”

            “I guessed so.”

            “Han, han, no time for guesses. Come on over and watch me go to work.”

            “Is that safe? You think?”

            Garland favored her a look that said, Do I look suicidal?

That was as good an answer for Deschase. She went closer.

            “You see this here is a guinea pig. I put it through this and flip this button,” He motions towards a red knob on the scrap of metal. “And it goes back in time and when I flip this button here,” This one was a blue button, “It comes back to our moment in time. But I think I’ll try this, instead.” He brings out a camera. Presses record. “I been meaning to see what this place was like in ancient times.”

He chocks the camera into the time machine, fiddles with a few buttons including the red button and zap! The machine some out-of-this-world kind of noise and the camera disappears. A few moments pass, possibly minutes, and Garland, the weirdo repeats a similar process-going from a reverse angle. The weird sound comes from the machine again; the machine actually, rattles a little. Deschase retreats a few steps from the apparatus.

Garland opens the junk box and out came the camera. Intact. He presses play.

            “The barn had been some sort of burial ground in medieval times,” He announced.

            “Ooh,” said Deschase. “I’m ascairt.” Then, she bursts into giggles of laughter. And then, a though occurs to her. She grabs Garland with such force her nails sink into his skin.

Garland winces. “Easy, babe. I’m going nowhere.”

“Garland, can you actually determine the time-year and place that thing teleports objects to?”

            “But of course, you was here when I zapped the camera, wasn’t you?”

            “Don’t answer a question with a question. It’s bad habit.”

            “I’m Nigerian, remember? I’m born to it. By the way, what do you have in mind? Why are you so hard on specifics?”

Like I said, something was beginning to take shape in the mind of the little missus.

Deschase said, “Can a human being be safely teleported hence and forth through Odyssey's Doorgate?” The emphasis here is on safely.

            “Maybe, but who would want to do that? Like it is I’m still testing the lump on things like objects and white rats. It’s not quite ready to admit humans, yet.”

Eventually, Deschase persuades Garland against his will to shoot her back in time.

It’s dark when she arrives in the past so she decides to rest in a motel and leave first thing in the morning for her business. Lucky for her she found some change in her jeans pocket which she used to foot the motel bill.

She also had some fun thrown in for good measure. She met this young chap in the lobby, a salesman, who may or may not be married. Well, they got talking. They talked well into the still of night. And then he led her to her room and gave her a peck as a goodnight kiss. Then, he turned meaning to take his leave for the night. But that ancient serpent was present at their parting and it whispered something to Deschase. Deschase whispered it to the traveling sales guy who called himself, Duke. It sounded like a plan to both of them. It was a long hot night for the impromptu couple and Deschase wondered if you could take a pregnancy from the past into the future.

In the morning when she awoke, the sales guy was gone and it was just as well. She showers and after breakfast sets off for her business.

What Deschase had actually done going through the time portal had been to try and correct the past.

It was getting late when she found the place. The lady took her in and they actually fell into conversation, naturally.

She’s beginning to get into the deep of her story; she’s trying to convince the lady, Anne that she’s from the future when the hubby comes in all sweaty and tired out. He barely looks at her as he climbs the stairs to his bedroom and she does no more than throw a courteous glance his way.

A few moments later he returns to the dining table where the two women are seated.

She had come to visit the lady whose story Mr. Drake had narrated to her by her grandma’s graveside and to warn her about the future. But as Deschase found out, the man who stood before her-this lady’s husband was her one night stand. The traveling salesman she had sex with the previous night was Anne’s husband. Her quest into the past had killed the woman she had come to save.