A Devious Plot

In the building’s unfamiliar top floor, the gray hallways and countless offices were confusing, and twice he had to stop in an office doorway and ask for directions. Clocks at regular intervals pounded the lost minutes away from his desk. Finally, large doors loomed at a hallway’s end.

Harold checked in with the secretary wearing deep purple lipstick, and she escorted him through the inward set of doors. An enormous office ending at a wall of windows to a world of skyscrapers beyond.

Desked in front of the wall, the company president stood up and said, “Ah, Mr. Hardy. We finally meet. Please, have a seat.”

A firm handshake and sitting in the firm chair before the desk. Harold wondering if this was how it felt to be in a dank basement, roped to a chair, with a single, bare lightbulb showering harsh light down upon your eyes. At least the view was better in this office.

The president cleared his throat. “First, your manager talks to you, and then an increasing hierarchy of directors. Now you’re here. Tell me. Why do you continue wearing polka-dotted and striped socks despite these requests? Are you the mastermind of some devious, rebellious plot?”

Harold settled back in the chair. “Not exactly, sir.”


copyright © 2021 Dave Williams

Stuck in the Alley

Been stuck in this alley seems like years…

The photo depicts a narrow alley leading to a street, where the light at the intersection displays the red hand symbol for "Don't Walk." The photo's message reads, "Still waiting for red hand to disappear so I can walk out of this accursed alley."

The photo depicts a narrow alley leading to a street, where the light at the intersection displays the red hand symbol for “Don’t Walk.” The photo’s message reads, “Still waiting for red hand to disappear so I can walk out of this accursed alley.”

Bartholomew Eskrew

Bartholomew Eskrew reached the end of his story and walked away from his writing desk and turned around to look upon the pile of papers next to the typewriter and said, “It’s got to be tighter.” And so, he set upon cutting the story down: removing unnecessary back stories of characters, tossing out implausible situations, slashing needless dialogue that really had nothing at all to do with the plot, crossing out descriptions of places that seem to go on and on and on. He worked like this, a man with a red pen instead of a machete that he would’ve used to bring low the tall grass out in the country to clear an area for a field next to a house he had built with his own two hands, a field in which to plant vegetables and fruit trees, a field with which to feed a family he hoped to someday have to bring life into the house and fill it with laughter, talk, crying, and more–all the noises of human emotions bursting out to remind ourselves we are really and truly alive. Bartholomew Eskrew worked far into the night editing his work this way. The nights strung together, each lit by a feeble light that some people noticed as it emanated out of the tallest window in the old house where many other tenants lived underneath the floor boards of Bartholomew Eksrew’s apartment. The light–seen by those people looking up as they walked the sidewalk, possibly gazing up at the stars and moon, or possibly simply stretching a tired or pained neck–burned each night, with each night’s light connecting to the next like a string of Christmas lights from years ago that’s dim but still works. Bartholomew Eskrew worked steadily, patiently, making slow, ponderous progress, for the more he read of his story, the more it seemed to him that most of it was him just trying to impress the reader, and he wished to pare this apple down to the very core where the seeds remained, waiting to be discovered. Night after night, the pages from the original pile lowered, and the edited pile grew higher. Finally, after two weeks of editing, Bartholomew Eskrew again stood up and walked across the room and turned around to look upon his writing desk and saw what remained and he smiled, finally satisfied with the story. There, on the top page of the pile, written in his careful handwriting in red ink: “He tried.”

Congrats to the Grads

Photo of a crowd of graduates wearing caps and gowns
by Good Free Photos/Unsplash

My twin daughters are graduating from high school today, and I would like to extend a congratulations not only to them, but to the many graduates out there.

And a congratulations to all the students and teachers on wrapping up this school year. It’s been unlike any other school year, with worries about Covid-19 while juggling virtual and in-person education.

A big thank you to the teachers and school staff for their hard work to make this school year work.

I’ve listened to a particular commencement speech several times and keep coming back to it: David Foster Wallace’s This Is Water speech given at Kenyon College’s 2005 graduation ceremony. The honesty how Wallace described dull moments of everyday life. His honesty on how we can choose to view each other. That choice we have about judging others. I tear up every time I hear it.

The full speech is here. An edited version also includes video of the subject matter (instead of DFW giving the speech), and that’s here.

Awesome Recommended Indie Reads 2

I’m flattered that one of my novellas is included in Lee Hall’s round-up of indie books that he’s recently reviewed. The other books sound really intriguing.

Lee's Hall of information

It feels like a while since I last did a review post about my recent indie book reviews so here we are. From vampires to poetry and a few other wonderful stories in between, here are some awesome recommended indie reads…

Nocturnal Salvation by Villimey Mist

“My blood sings a violent song of brutality. My bloodlust surges through me, and I allow the monster to take the reigns…”

The ‘Nocturnal’ series by Villimey Mist has returned for part 3 and it gets better with each book – that’s the awesome thing about a good book series- the characters grow but so does the author. I highly recommend all of the books in this vamp-action and sometimes gory, but always satisfying series. You can read my review here.

Don’t Lose Your Head by Dave Williams

Dave Williams uses a unique blend of symbolism and metaphor to present a great story…

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Book Review: ‘Eternal Road’

Front cover of Eternal Road, with a 1956 blue and white Oldsmobile on a road

Eternal Road: The Final Stop by John W. Howell

An imaginative story of one man’s entrance and journey in the afterlife. This is quite different than St. Peter standing before the pearly gates and checking a book to see if you can enter, or if you’re sent downward.

James Wainwright dies in a car wreck early in the story. As a spirit, he’s still driving, and he picks up a hitchhiker — who turns out to be Samantha Tourneau, with whom James had a childhood love. Samantha (mostly going by Sam) has grown up in the afterlife, as she was killed when she was in the first grade.

So a trigger warning: a girl is murdered at the beginning of the book. More depth comes to that plot line toward the ending.

James and Sam embark on a time-traveling journey: jumping into Tombstone, Arizona during the OK Corral gunfight, to the Alamo just before the battle, to more. I don’t want to list all the destinations and give away surprises in the story.

The time-travel locations have a feeling of randomness, but that gives an entertaining unpredictability. Also, these are times and places where James could spend his eternal home. Sam serves as a guide to help James find his eternal home, but the jumping through times is mostly out of their control.

Indeed, the time bouncing makes for a fun story, and it helps James and Sam get reacquainted after not seeing each other for 17 years. Their relationship deepens beyond that childhood affection. And Sam is a good guide to get James acquainted with this stage in his spiritual life.

However, James must face some struggles alone, as Lucifer himself makes several appearances in trying to convince James to join him in the hot place.

The book works on several levels and isn’t simply a time-travel adventure. In the book’s dedication, John talks about a lesson from his father: “we all have challenges in our lives, and those that can succeed in reaching their goals despite them will find happiness.” John certainly wrote a story to describe challenges for James to endure. James needs smarts and courage and assistance from Sam for those challenges. And throughout, he holds on to hope.

The book is available on Amazon.

Also, John is a prolific blogger, and you can read more of his stuff here.

Emergence

This story was published a year ago, on 365 Tomorrows, one of the highlights for me in the sludge year that was 2020.


Emergence
by Dave Williams

When the warnings blasted on radios and TVs and cellphone texts, Sasha called Tony and their frantic voices collided. “Is this real”—“Do what we planned”—“I’ll come get you”—“Get in the bunker”—“It’ll be faster if I get you”—“Stick to the plan.”

Then Tony’s voice vanished. Sasha tapped the phone’s screen, but the rings ended with his voicemail greeting. If she drove to his office, they’d be back home before he got here on the bus. If buses were running. Streets would’ve been packed with cars.

The plan had seemed ridiculous months ago, but they said “just in case” and figured searching for each other would’ve led to getting lost in chaos. Smarter to head home on their own. Her luck to be working from home today. Why couldn’t this happen on Saturday?

Sasha crammed food into bags—fruit, veggies, cookies, potato chips—and carried them into the bunker disguised as a shed in the backyard. A floor hatch opened to a ladder leading underground. A main room and tiny bathroom.

She had thought Tony was nutty for thinking the bunker was a great idea to buy the house. The bunker was a relic from the Cold War, when the homeowners feared Soviet and American missiles could fly in both directions. Tony had said, “It’d be cool to have something different. The kids could use the bunker as a fort.”

Two kids. Another plan. Since the bunker was well-maintained and not creepy, Sasha took the plunge. Tony became boy-like as he stocked the bunker with provisions. And he participated in decorating the nursery. Her doomsday-prepper jokes died off; let him have his fun. A joy to make the home their own.

Stick to the plan. Tony’s last words echoed in Sasha’s mind as she kept redialing his number.

The hand-cranked radio said, “Confirmation that missiles are targeting major metropolitan areas.”

Shock made way for tears lasting for weeks. Sasha gripped hope she’d hear a knock and Tony’s voice: “It’s me! Unlock the hatch!” Giving up on that, she gripped hope that Tony found a safe place. She cursed their choice to live in suburbs close to the city. Why not live in a small town? But those didn’t have as many jobs.

Madness threatened beyond her depression. She paced the room, ate junk food and raw produce, probed radio stations for news and music, hated herself for gratitude that she wasn’t pregnant. She yearned for children, but a newborn would’ve made this situation much more challenging.

She struggled into a routine. Did stretches throughout the days. Read used paperbacks. Acted as four opponents in Scrabble. Rearranged the old bed, table, chairs. Wrote her worries in a notebook. Frugally consumed the canned and dried food.

As months dragged, the food supply lowered. She grew disgusted with the bunker’s stale, unwashed odor.

The devil’s advocate won her inner debate, and Sasha opened the hatch. She ached for different environment, different air. In the shed, she listened to sounds of the outside world. Thankfully, birds were chirping. But no noises of cars. She was too scared to open the shed’s door.

Then she had to open it. The food was gone. She felt bad for nagging Tony about wasting money on canned goods. She never thought he’d be right.

Outside, she breathed deeply without caring if the air was radioactive. Either that or starvation. The sky and trees were gorgeous.

She went into her house for a shower, fresh clothes, large meal. Then she would decide where to search for other survivors.


copyright © 2020 Dave Williams