The Man in Black

Lydia Sylvester thought nothing when she saw the man enter the ballroom.

He was an odd sight, to be sure. He was dressed head to toe in black, from shoes to suit and back down to his pristine black socks. On the top of his head rested a freshly styled black coiffure, and, although she couldn’t quite see from the other side of the room, she could have sworn that she saw ebony irises piercing out from narrowed, searching eyes. His entrance was not heralded, and nobody turned or even seemed to care that he had walked into the room. He was a jet black statue in a colorful and sumptuous daydream, but nonetheless, she thought nothing.

After all, her father’s balls had been attended by eccentrics for as long as she could remember. At the age of sixteen, in fact, when she was first allowed to make an appearance at such an event, she had been greeted by no less than six religious zealots, a score of suffragettes, and a woman who claimed to have seen a unicorn in the woods behind her house. She was frightened of what they had to offer, be it promotional pamphlets or, in the latter case, a large quantity of opiates, but she had learned to grin and bear it over the years. Sometimes, she even welcomed the breath of fresh air that a new individual brought to her life--but only when that breath was sweet. Thus, her only thought after a long while of watching the man was to make a mental note to ask her best friend, much more socially adept than she, who he was.

As if on cue, the minute she made the note, she saw a flash of red hair and pink taffeta from the corner of her eye: signposts of flamboyance and perfect taste, which could mark the appearance of only one person.

She turned towards the pops of color with an easy smile. “Miss Wadsworth,” she said. “I had heard you wouldn’t be coming.”

Amelia Wadsworth turned at the sound of her voice and squealed, as she was wont to do. She grabbed fistfuls of her massive skirt and ran towards Lydia, a wide grin on her face. “Miss Sylvester, I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said, grabbing her friend’s hands and spinning her around in her excitement.

Laughing, Lydia planted her feet firmly on the marble floor, stopping Amelia’s momentum with a start. “Miss Wadsworth,” she said with calculated suspicion. “Isn’t your grandfather on his deathbed?”

“Oh, yes, that,” Amelia said, finally understanding. “Well, he told me just an hour ago, he told me, ‘Amelia, Death will be busy tonight. He will not come for me.’” She shrugged. “I suppose he said it to comfort me. I don’t think he intended to convince me to abandon his bedside.”

Lydia let out a shrill giggle, the kind that Amelia gasped at when she emitted it in public, and this instance was no exception. “Miss Wadsworth, you devil,” she said, briefly turning to survey the room around them.

When she turned, the man was closer than before, around the center of the room now. A chill ran down her spine as she realized that he did, in fact, have ebony eyes, and they were still searching.

Eyebrows knitted in worry, she leaned closer to Amelia, the skirts of their dresses meeting like taffeta oil and lace vinegar. “I say,” she asked, working to keep the concern from her voice, “do you know that man over there?”

Amelia looked where Lydia was looking, scanning the crowd for the source of her friend’s inquiry. “Which one?” she replied. “There are quite a few here.”

Lydia smiled softly. “The one right there,” she said, pointing. “The man in black.”

Amelia floated back down to the bottoms of her feet. “I don’t see a man in black, Miss Sylvester,” she said.

Lydia opened her mouth to respond, then stopped, absorbing the statement. “That’s impossible,” she finally replied. She turned to Amelia, searching for some mirth or joking, a sign that her leg was being pulled, but there was nothing there but a slight mote of concern.

She turned back to the man, in order to point him out again, and gasped sharply--he had progressed. He was close enough that she could see the black handkerchief sticking just so out of his jacket pocket. It, like everything else about him, was neat, perfect, and dark. “That’s impossible,” she repeated in a shaking whisper.

A hand touched her back, and she started, only to recognize the soft, warm feeling of Amelia’s touch. “Miss Sylvester?” she asked. “Is anything the matter?”

Lydia swallowed, barely registering the question. “The man right there, right in front of us,” she said. “The man with the black hair, and the black suit, and the black eyes, standing right in front of us. Don’t you see him?”

“Lydia,” Amelia replied, and it was only the startling breach of politeness that pulled Lydia back to reality. “There is no man in black there.”

A silence passed, stifling and complete. “That’s impossible,” she said once more. She pointed at the man in black but could not form the words spiralling through her panic-stricken head. From this distance, she could just barely see a long, jagged scar under his eye, and her heart began to pound in her chest. “You have to,” she whispered. She whirled to Amelia, who was looking ever more frightened. “You have to see him. Somebody has to see him!”

Her voice, having risen in pitch, called the whole room to attention, and the silence that followed was deafening.

Breathing heavily, Lydia turned back to face the man in black, letting out a shrill and tortured scream as she saw him standing right before her. She could see every stitch of his suit and every pore on his face, and she was trembling in his presence. Lifting up one pale, quivering finger, she screamed, “Doesn’t anybody see the man in black?”

Every eye in the room turned to look at the space in front of her, but no recognition appeared in any of those eyes. The only indication that anything was happening was in the ebony eyes, which twinkled as the man in black smiled wide.

“Lydia,” Amelia said in her ear, forcing her chin to look away. “There is nobody there.”

Before she could respond, she was dragged away. She was aware of a thousand eyes watching her, but she did not care.

“You’re going to sit down for a while,” Amelia continued. “Alright?”

Lydia did not respond, did not nod, just stared straight into Amelia’s eyes--she did not dare to look at the man in black again. She did not dare to see how close he had grown.

When next she blinked, she was sitting in a hard-backed wooden chair, and a glass of water was sitting coldy in her sweat-covered hands, moistening them even further with condensation. Out the corner of her eye, she spotted Amelia and a maid, speaking in hushed voices where they believed she could not see her. She could not, however, hear them, and this frustrated her. She did not want to be sent somewhere for visions or hallucinations. She was not insane or suffering from some malady--there was a man there. A man in black.

Once the tremors in her hand ceased, she raised the glass to her lips and took a long, methodical sip, swallowing the entirety of its contents in a matter of seconds. The cold, fresh taste lingered on her tongue, and she felt better. It could have been a vision, she thought, letting out a breath. It could have been too much dancing. But now I am alone, and sitting, and I am--

“Miss Sylvester?”

She turned to the voice and let out a short, excruciating gasp.

The man in black was standing right before her. His shoes shone under the gas lamps, as did his eyes, which, she noticed with some trepidation, were no longer searching. Whatever they were looking for, they had found it.

His large, calloused hand was held out to her, strong and expectant. “May I have this dance?”

As if on cue, the band broke into a waltz, slow and sweeping: one, two, three, one, two, three. Lydia’s heart was pounding so hard that she was sure anyone could see it pumping in and out against her tightly laced corset.

“Who are you?” she whispered, barely audible.

The man simply smiled. It was a warm smile, showing no teeth but still sending comfort and support to the terrified girl in the wooden chair. It changed his entire appearance somehow, like the darkness was not some evil entity. Like the darkness was simply the sky in the night--constant, expected. Sheltering.

“May I have this dance?” he asked again.

Before she knew it, her hand was in his.

Slowly, slowly, she stood up. Her legs were shaky but stable, and she did not stumble on her way to face him. He was decidedly taller than her; she had to take a few steps to be within dancing distance of him. His smile grew as she drew closer, a light welcoming a moth into its embrace.

She placed her free hand on his shoulder, soft under layers of black fabric, and he followed suit, placing a warm hand, much warmer than any that had tried to comfort her that night, on the small of her back. It was exhilarating. It was an all-encompassing feeling of...of…

Within seconds, she fell backwards, suddenly losing her balance, and the man’s arms followed, dipping her just above the cold floor below. Her heart was beginning to pound again, but slower. So much slower.

Above the blood swirling in her ears, she could barely hear a voice--his voice--say, “Time to go home, Miss Sylvester.”

And the world went dark.

---

Lydia Sylvester, daughter of esteemed parliamentary official Jonathan Sylvester, died suddenly during one of his lavish balls. The cause remains unknown, but she was reported as having vivid hallucinations shortly before her death. An autopsy will be released later in the week, but doctors conjecture that the heiress may have been poisoned (an emptied water glass was spotted near her body). In any case, we ask simply that you send condolences to her grieving family, and pray that her soul will be claimed for Heaven.

Painting in Red

“Kevin, can you call Amy at her office and let her know we won’t be making it to dinner tonight after all? I want to let her know before it gets any later.”

“Sure thing, just give me a minute,” he answered quickly so she wouldn’t snap at him again like she did earlier when he couldn’t find his button-up shirt for work.

“I’ll give her a call on my way to work. I’ll see you tonight when I get home, love you.”

“Love you too! Thanks” Amy exclaimed from the top of the staircase as her husband slammed their front door and followed the stone path outside towards his car in the driveway. He got into his car, started it, and slowly backed out of the driveway onto the road.

I’m so sick of this crap. I don’t know why she thinks she can rule my life. It’s ridiculous. I can’t wait until I don’t have to wake up with her next to me.

Inside the house, Penelope was stirring, wondering what was going on with her husband. Ever since he came back from his trip to Venezuela, he has been distant. Canceling dinner reservations with Amy that were planned months in advance was completely unlike him.

She went downstairs to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. With ceramic mug in hand, she sat down on the tile floor in defeat. It was exhausting trying to figure her husband out. She had no idea what was going on in his head. Before she finished getting ready to leave for work, she gulped down her coffee and put her mug in the sink to wash later. She grabbed her purse from the other side of the black, marble countertop and exited to the garage to her car. Pressing the button to open the garage door, she adjusts her mirror and slowly backs out of the garage and driveway. The door closes slowly as she turns onto the road and accelerates towards the train station. She parks, scans her metro card, and jumps onto the subway that takes her into the heart of the city. Her art studio is located on the corner of Washington Square park off of 5th Avenue in Manhattan; the studio is her happy place. As she exited the station, she remembered that she left her breakfast that she prepared the night before in the fridge. Luckily, there is a great bakery a block and a half away from the studio. In fact, it’s where she first met Kevin. She heads south towards the studio. Upon arrival, she unlocks the door and sets her belongings down behind her desk. She quickly locks up again and heads towards the bakery. Her assistant, Michelle, won’t be there for another hour so she is not in a rush. She passes all kinds of people on her way there. She sees the young couples, the couples with children, the independent women listening to music and drinking their coffee, the men in business suits on their way to the office, and more. It always baffles her mind how diverse the city really is.

The bakery approaches quicker than she expected and she arrives in under ten minutes. A bell at the top of the door rings as she enters and she is quickly greeted by an elderly woman behind the counter.

“Hello there, love! What can I get for ya today?”

“Hey, Marcy! I think I’ll take a egg and cheese on an everything bagel this morning,” Penelope answered after a short pause. Marcy nodded with a smile and plucked a bagel from the racks to bring to her husband in the back with the complete order. She emerged again shortly after.

“So, how is everything? Haven’t seen ya in a week or so! Long time around these parts for the regulars at least. Studio going well and such?”

“I know. Everything is just so busy lately! I have a new woman working in my studio in addition to Michelle helping me out all of the time and the four other regulars I have every day. Everything is good, just busy.”

“I hear ya, dear. Life does get crazy sometimes. What about Kevin? How has he been,” Marcy inquired.

“Oh, you know. Just the same. Since his trip to Venezuela and everything...well, he just seems a little distant these days.”

“Jeez, typical man, doesn’t realize what he’s got! I wouldn’t worry too much sweetie. He’ll come around, they always do,” Marcy explains with a smile. Just as she finishes her sentence, her husband rounds the corner from the back room with Penelope’s bagel and a quick eye roll at what his wife had said.

“She’s a little loopy in the morning, Penelope. I wouldn’t listen to her if she’s talking jibberish. If she’s talking some sense, well, then I would listen,” he stated matter-of-factly. With a smile and a nod of thanks, Penelope set a five-dollar bill on the counter and turned towards the door.

“Thank you both, I’ll see you later,” she stated as she opened the door and exited the shop, the bell ringing again as the door came to a close. She walked back to her studio with a wide smile on her face, that couple can always cheer her up.

She walks slower than before, taking in the bright morning sky and all that surrounds her. Eventually, she arrives at the door of her studio, unlocks it, and swings it open. There is a set of light switches to her right that she quickly flips on to illuminate the light fixtures she crafted from mason jars last month, they really do brighten up the space well. As she turned back towards her desk, she saw something odd on the floor. Slowly, she walks to the back of her desk and around the curvy ending to find a note crumpled up and lying on the floor. She plucked it from the ground and read it, realizing it was just a sticky-note reminder that Michelle had written for her to call a client. Odd. She threw it in the paper shredder under her desk and sat down. The computer was on already and had her calendar open to today. Odd, again. She was the first person in here today. She looked up and scanned the room, nothing suspicious. She decided to ignore it and proceeded to look for the client phone number and give them a call. Upon a second glance up, she spotted something odd again. The closet door was cracked open and a shimmer of light was peeking out through the crack. Bagel still in hand, she gets up and slowly approaches the closet door. On her way, she picks up an exacto-knife from a workbench for some form of protection. Slowly, she places her hand on the doorknob and sheepishly pulls it out towards herself. Her bagel drops to the wooden floor with a quiet thump. There is blood everywhere, the walls and floor are splattered completely. Her mouth opens in horror at her discovery; what the hell is this. As she approaches the body, she catches sight of the static face; the dead body in her studio is Michelle. Her assistant, her confidant, her best friend, the one that keeps her organized and sane, is lying on the floor of Penelope’s studio, dead. She shrieks and shoves the door shut. Running across the room again, she quickly fumbles through her purse, finding her phone, but impulsively shoves it back into her purse. Panicked, she grabs her keys, locks the doors to her studio, and runs back to the metro station.

She gets home in under a half-hour but doesn’t feel right staying there. She drops her studio bag off and gets back into her car. The park in the center of her neighborhood seems to be the place to go at the moment so she drives there and parks her car in the corner of the lot away from other cars. She slowly gets out, locks her doors, and stuffs her keys into her purse. There is a dirt path throughout the entirety of the park that she walks on until the sun sets. The walks the whole path fifteen times before unlocking her car and driving home. By time she pulls into her driveway and opens the garage door, it is 2:30 AM. She creeps upstairs to her bed and tries to fall asleep with her husband snoring beside her. By five, she can no longer keep her eyelids apart and slips into a deep sleep.

Why won’t this bitch wake up. The couldn’t be more of a pain in my ass if she tried.

When she woke, her husband was staring at her from a chair positioned in the left corner of their room, facing the foot of the bed. Penelope jumped with fear.

“Jesus, Kevin! What the hell are you doing? You’re going to give me a heart attack!”

Yeah, I wish I could make you have a heart attack and kill you off that easily. Clearly, you’re not that simple to get rid of.

“Sorry, Pen. I just wanted to be here when you woke up. You were sleeping when I got home last night. I wanted to check in after what happened yesterday, make sure you were alright,” Kevin announced quickly.

Please, for both of our sakes, don’t ask me any questions.

“What do you mean? What do you know about what happened yesterday? I didn’t say a word to you,” Penelope remarked quizzically. She hadn’t spoken to her husband since yesterday morning when he had left for work in an abrupt fashion. Not a single other person knew of what happened yesterday either, only Penelope. She sprung out of bed and began to pace the room with her hand on her forehead. How could he know? She didn’t say a word to anyone. They only people she had spoken to were her husband very briefly and the two bakery owners when she purchased her bagel. She stopped and looked up at her husband who hadn’t moved or attempted to respond to her questions.

“What the hell did you do, Kevin?”

Shit.

“I have to go into the office today. I’ll be home later on. Why don’t you just try to relax today...you’re obviously on edge,” Kevin responded quickly as he gathered clothes from his closet to throw on before leaving the house. He clearly didn’t want to speak to his wife after her outburst.

“Oh, give me a break. What is going on, Kevin? How did you know about yesterday? I didn’t say anything to you,” Penelope stated as she began following her husband around the house, trying to intimidate him into giving her answers.

Why does she never shut up? How did I ever think marriage was a good idea?

After twenty minutes of following, he finally cracked.

“I thought it was you,” he muttered cooly under his breath with agitation, “I thought Michelle was you in the studio, I wanted it to be you.”

Penelope, mouth gaped open in horror, took a step back and away from the monster that stood before her. How does one react to statement like that? She had no idea, she could have never anticipated this comment. She obviously recognized his indifference towards her upon his return home from the trip to Venezuela, but she didn’t know the reason behind it. She thought it was just a bad trip that he didn’t want to talk about, maybe they lost a company or something of that sort; Kevin never wants to talk about issues like that with her because he feels she won’t understand them and their severity. She did not have the slightest clue as to what she should do, so, she ran. She fumbled down the stairs and turned towards the kitchen where there was a door leading to the garage, however, Kevin was right behind her.

Finally. This is is.

He grabbed at her hair and the hood of Penelope’s sweatshirt, dragging her down to the floor just at the bottom of the staircase. As she fell, her temple slammed down on the banister and, suddenly, everything went black. Later that morning, a neighbor called the police after hearing a gunshot come from Kevin and Penelope’s home. They broke down the door and came into the home to find two bodies lying on the kitchen floor, cold and ghostly white.

Setting Influences Society

Setting can make or break a story; if the setting works then all other parts of the story make sense and fall into place, but if setting has no correlation with any aspect of the story then it lacks intelligibility. A story that takes place in a modern, bustling city should not have horse drawn carriages and unpolluted air in it. That is why in “Axis”, by Alice Munro, the setting she gives is crucial to the story. In “Axis” the setting of a small town fifty years ago that follows two young women to adulthood directly supports the theme of women conforming to set roles given by society.

Munro picks a specific setting of small country town around the 1950s to set up the start of how women conformed to societal roles, especially in small towns. She immediately starts off with a description of where young Grace and Avie live. They sit on a bus that “take them north, through the dark, thinly populated countryside, to their homes” (Munro 122). The word “dark” is implying a negative tone to the town that has a small population, and suggests that Grace and Avie have very little cultured experience. Grace lives on “her parents’ farm” where “‘the cows are boss around [there]’’ and this is much different from the university city life, as well as that Grace is never the boss and just does the duties she needs to, such as taking care of the farm cows (Munro 124-125). The small town sets up the perfect place to write about the image of women fifty years ago.

Women went to college, not because of intelligence, but to search for a man to settle down with. Grace and Avie attend university in the city outside their rural town for the same reason other women went to college: to meet a husband. Women at universities “were there to meet men” and “they enrolled [there] to find somebody to marry”, and that itself is clear that their education is valued much less than male education (Munro 122-123). Avie “quit college just before her exams” (Munro 124). She went through all the hard work and money of college, but after meeting a man she decided there was no need for it. Though she could have done well on the exams, she found the purpose for going to university and education had not been it. She goes back to the campus to retrieve books from her boarding house and sell them, but finds “that she didn’t really want to” (Munro 132). She does not want to completely surrender her education, but she is expected to in her surroundings as “male members of both families had joked that they ought to be able to nab somebody” (Munro 123). The family never asks how classes are going or what the girls are studying. The environment the girls are raised in effect how they view everything they do.

The taboo of women and sex is very prominent in the story Munro writes, especially in the religious rural living scene created, which is the reason Grace is so shy about the physical part of her relationship. The precautions Grace takes around her home to have secret sex with Royce are major. She plans every little detail, and for good reason because she is severely shunned when she gets caught. She even “push[es] the bike around to the back of the house, to hide it”, when she comes back to her own house that she is not supposed to be at alone with Royce (Munro 130). Royce thinks she is a “good girl” for being clever enough to hide the bike (Munro 130). Not only is that demeaning, but also a clear indicator that he knows sneaking around is the only way to have sex. Her mother is disgusted and outraged when she catches them. The time this story is written is highlighted when “sleep together, or have sex, as people would say later” is defined (Munro 124). That time period specifically did not use the term sex as if it were a dirty word. It makes Grace feel as if she is doing something wrong and Avie does it to try and fall in love. “If [Hugo and Avie] slept together, [Avie] thought, she might fall in love with him” (124).  Avie is also terrified of pregnancy scares because giving birth out of wedlock is very frowned upon. The stigma around the topic influences the girls in their homes to be quiet about sex.

The setting that Munro puts her story in is crucial for the plot to make sense. Munro acknowledges the way women are viewed in the setting she chose:

When the great switch came in women’s lives--when wives and mothers who had seemed content suddenly announced that it was not so, when they all started sitting on the floor instead of sofas, and took university courses and wrote poetry and fell in love with their professors or their psychiatrists or their chiropractors, and began to say “shit” and “fuck” instead of “darn” and “heck”--Avie was never tempted to join in (Munro 133)

But she ends with Avie not joining. It is the way and where she was raised. From Grace’s final letter, it sounds as if she never joined either. The older time and rural place Munro picks juxtapose with later times and city universities intricately weaves together the issue of women’s societal roles of living on a farm after she marries a man that she is ashamed she has sex with.    

Munro’s setting is one of the most important aspects of the story. Without the time period, there would less plausible reasons that women are treated as only wife material and not true scholars. The small town religious setting is crucial for the type of family farm living that is expected of Grace and Avie, as well as the way they act. The story gives an outlook into women’s lives in the 50’s rural towns. Munro’s purposeful pick of place is the root of integrity in “Axis”.  

Felicity

Felicity

The room was dirty.  But then, the room had always been dirty, the old man thought with a sigh.  Years ago, he had meant to clean it, but he had been unable to find the time.  He had time now, but not the strength.  He could hardly raise his head anymore, much less grasp a broom to clear his little world and remove spider in the corner and his web.  But then, he wondered, would I want to?  That spider has been there such a long time, almost as long as he had been here.  Or had it?  Maybe that was another spider.  Maybe…

He was drifting off again.  The doctor had warned him against it; he needed to try and focus, to keep his mind firm.  A firm mind!  It made him laugh, that the doctor should fear for his mind.  Once, he had been a man of towering intellect and lofty thoughts.  He had written great works, answered great questions with his pen and a bit of paper.  That was so long ago now. She wished him to write.  She had asked him to, just the night before.  What had he answered?  When I am stronger, child.  When my thoughts no longer flee from me; then shall I take my pen in hand again, then brighten the world with the light of my thoughts.  Light, light would be good… It was far too dark, why was it always so dark?  The lights were often lit in his room, but it had been so long since he had seen the sunlight. One could not live without light, as he had for so long.  Light and life, they go together perfectly.  Yet I have neither, thought the old man; they left me long ago.

Perhaps he should call for her, have her draw the curtain back… no, better let her be.  She had already done so much for him. She was so kind, so obedient. Besides, she would be tired now, since evening was settling in.  Wasn’t it?  It was always evening and always morning in this room, for time seemed to matter little, anyways. Whether the sun was rising or setting, he was alone.  At every hour, the same shadows, the same messes, the same spider in the corner with his empty web, empty as always.  Does he ever catch anything? the old man wondered.

His thoughts were interrupted by the door.  It swung, throwing a quick shaft of light into the room.  Light, and life as well.  Voices, laughter, and smells he’d long been apart from.  A world just beyond that door, but beyond him too.  Beyond him or past?  Both perhaps.

Light and life, the same old pair.  In swept both, in the form of her. Yes, here she was, Felicity, the eldest of his grandchildren, as well as his favorite.  Was it wrong to like her best?  No, for it mattered little anyway.  His opinions had ceased to matter long ago, back when he had first set his writing aside.  Until that day, people had trembled at his stern voice and the scoldings he delivered unto them.  But they had smiled too, hadn’t they?  When he had written kindly about them or given them praise, they had felt prouder than a victorious general.  His words once had such an effect. But no more. Now he sat alone and nearly forgotten in his dark little room. His children and grandchildren used to visit and brighten his dreary corner, but now there was only Felicity.

True, he liked Felicity best; but he was vindicated in this, for she liked him best as well.  They were very much alike, separated by years alone; he saw much of himself in her, and thought that a fine thing. They were like one soul separated into two bodies. The old man always admired her easy confidence and persistence. When she set her mind to something, there was no stopping her.  Felicity had a strong mind, a kind heart, and wrote brilliantly.  So different than that fool of a father she had.  He’d tried to teach him, make him think, but the boy had only ever liked numbers.  Perhaps it was the school’s fault; they’d taught him counting first, then reading.  He was a fine mathematician, but a fool.  One couldn’t converse intelligently with him, the way he constantly turned back to his stocks and statistics.  Safety in numbers, the old man thought to himself.

The light was on now.  The brightness hurt the old man’s eyes. Oh, she should have warned him!  Maybe she had, though; he had been lost in thought.  She was carrying a book- no, a notepad.  

“Grandfather!  How are you this morning?”- (so it was morning after all, then) -“I’ve brought you something.”  She set the notepad on his lap, a broad grin playing across her face.  He returned her smile.  How nice that he could see her; the doctor had told him to get glasses, but what did the doctor know?  His eyes were fine and strong.  Years of reading and writing had strengthened them beyond damaging, he was sure of that.

“And what have we here?” he asked her, “Your latest triumph?  Is it an essay, or a story?  Perhaps it’s a poem?”  She laughed and shook her flaxen curls.

He opened the book and beheld a blank page.  Maybe my eyes are going after all, he thought with a shudder.  He turned to the next page and the next, rifling through them all in speedy succession.  He turned a quizzical face towards Felicity.  

“Why, what’s this?  An empty book; is this what passes for a joke these days?”

Again she shook her head, “No, grandfather, it’s no joke.  It’s a gift!”

He eyed her in mock suspicion, “So, a gift.  But what for?  It cannot possibly be my birthday again; I’ve seen enough of those for a lifetime.”

She smiled at his joke (she was always so quick to smile).  “I got you this gift,” she lowered her voice to a whisper “so that you could write again.”

He started up. Oh! Much faster than he should have.  Why must backs hurt? he cried silently.  Better yet, why must anything hurt?  Why pain? Yes, he thought, why pain; but why joy, for that matter?

He turned his head away from her, shamefully, to watch the spider in the corner.  The spider moved less now than he used to.  And the web… it was still empty, after all this time.  Beautiful, but empty.  Was the spider dying as well?

“Write again?” he asked incredulously and looked to Felicity, who still sat eagerly nearby, waiting patiently for the answer, “My dear, I have told you many times-”  She could contain her excitement no longer.  

“Oh, I know, grandfather!” she whispered grandly, “But I hoped… I thought that if you held this paper, you would try once more.  For me!  Oh, grandfather, I’ve read your stories.  Your words could make the sun shine brighter, or the sea rush forward, or the wind howl aloud!”

She was quite out of breath, but her smile was enormous and imploring.  She has a gift with words, he thought, as I did once.  Once, long ago.  Was it many years?  Or merely days?  All time had broken; it did not enter his little room.

He reached out, tucked her hair behind her ear and said, in a quiet voice, “It has been a very long time since I wrote like that.”

Her smile faded.  That hurt him; he had not intended to make her sad.  Maybe, for her sake… but what would he write about?  What was there for him to pen?  He had said so much, for so long, that he was now spent of words.

“I have nothing to write about,” he whispered, hoping it wasn’t true.  “I – I would write of people, but I know them no more.  I would write of the world, but I am apart from it now.  I would write of peace or war, but both are mere words to me.  I would write of hatred, but I have none.  I cannot write of love, for all the words of the world cannot contain it.”  He paused and looked about his room, with its unending mess, familiar darkness, and the spider, sitting as always at his post.  “When I wrote best,” he told his granddaughter, “it was of things I knew about, and I know so little now. I cannot… I am sorry, my dear.”

Slowly, tenderly, Felicity shook her head.  “No,” she corrected him, “that wasn’t your best work.  I have read your stories, your essays.  Grandfather,” the smile had returned “I loved your writings best when you wrote about things you knew nothing about, and only thought you did.  I loved it best when you wrote about your hopes, your dreams; about things so big, you knew your writings couldn’t hold them.  But you wrote them anyway.  And as you wrote them, you came to know them.  And we- me and all the readers who ever saw your words on a page - came to know them, too. You inspire me to write, to try to fathom the great, unexplainable things of the world. And that is what I loved best.”

The grandfather smiled at her, a wrinkled, loving smile.  Yes, he had something to write about.  He would do it, once more.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the spider arouse itself as a fly stumbled into its web.  Once more, the spider would do what it was meant to do, as would he.  And then, they would each do what we are all meant to do in the end.

“Felicity,” he whispered excitedly, “hand me my pen.  I think I shall write about Death.”

Frog in the Basement

“I was looking at the weather forecast for the upcoming week, and there seems to be a lot of rain as well as warnings for flash floods,” my grandfather said at dinner Tuesday evening, “so we should probably go to the basement either tonight or tomorrow before it gets to be too late.”

My grandfather is always worrying about the weather and our safety. This is probably due to his having grown up in southern Mississippi, a place commonly ravaged by hurricanes or cyclones. However, we live in a 19th century suburb with just enough lawn between the houses to fit two bikes and a labrador retriever. All of the houses in my neighborhood look so similar that when Mom and Dad first moved here they painted our mailbox bright orange so they could identify which house was there own. In all of my time living here, our house had stood strong against anything nature throws at us.

“Dad, why don’t you and Lily take care of the basement and I will clean up dinner, “ Mom suggested, “I have a few more pages to type before work tomorrow anyway and don’t have that much spare time.”

Mom works as the local historian for our town, and she is currently typing up the journals of our towns founders, the Friendly Neighbor Builders. I think her job sounds completely boring, but grandad is retired and my dad suddenly died in the shower two years ago, so she works extra hard so we can continue living in our town. The autopsy said that Dad had been taking a hot showers that contained traces of toxic elements from the soil around our pipes as well as the deteriorating metal of the pipes and had slowly poisoned him. The weird thing was that neither my mom nor I had any poisoning, though we both shower as frequently as he did.

I helped Grandad down the steps and we went to the far left corner of the room. I had recently vacuumed down here so I could get my weekly allowance, but now you could barely tell it was clean. Since our house was built in a rush along with the 40 other houses in my neighborhood, our basement isn’t an actual room. It has a cement floor and all of the pipes to the boiler or sewage are exposed. We replaced all of our pipes after Dad’s death, but I still avoid touching them when I’m down here. When Grandad and I got the the corner of the room I set down two pillows for us to sit on and I carefully started picking up parts of our cement floor.

Staring up at me from the dust of our basement is a perfectly preserved mummified frog. Its legs and arms form concentric upside down U’s arching away from the middle. We can’t see its eyes as it is laying on its back with its chin up and belly exposed to us. It is far thinner than any frog I have seen, its skin having shrunk around its body under the pressure of the solidifying concrete years ago. Our frog was discovered when I was four, two years after my parents bought the house. My mom was glad it was there as it gave our house a uniqueness to all the identical copies around it, but my dad was upset that the frog’s body had caused the cement floor to shatter around it. He went to the hardware store and layered cement over the broken area after being unable to remove the frog’s body, but the cement just cracked in the same place three months later.

Once the frog had been fully uncovered Grandad began talking to it.

“As you may already know, there’s a storm headed right toward us,” he told the frog. “Last storm we had nearly took the shingles off our roof. I don’t want to think about what this one could do.”

He sat silent for a while. His eyes weren’t focused, as if remembering something.

“I don’t know if I can make it through the same storms we used to have down in Mississippi: windows shattering, walls collapsing, roofs falling. I’m just too old for this now.”

There was silence for a while, so I figured Grandad must be waiting for me to tell the frog something.

I told the frog about the life cycle of frogs, and how we were learning about it in school right now. I also told it about the book my teacher is reading us, my painting I’m making in art class, and the 100% I got on my spelling quiz last week. Grandad says that telling the frog about positive things will help keep our lives positive. He thinks, because the frog’s life was taken for the construction of our house, the frog’s spirit is now in charge of the well being of the house.

While Grandad and I were talking to the frog, Mom came down holding a copy of one of the journals. I moved over because I thought she would want to tell the frog about something in her journal, but instead she seemed to be inspecting the bricks making up our walls. I finished up my story to the frog, said goodnight to the frog and my family, and went to bed.

Four days later the storm hit. School was cancelled due to unsafe road conditions, and the buses weren’t running so Mom couldn’t get to work. The three of us sat huddled in the kitchen, trying to organize our food into piles of what would expire and what would keep. It was only April, so the house was still a bit cold. We all wore jackets and hats to keep away the slight chill that was taking over our house. Our power had gone out one-and-a-half hours earlier. I was excited, as I have never experienced a power outage before. Our neighbors tend to lose power every time there is a slightly strong storm, but I had never had it happen to our house. We would be stuck with no power for three days.

Mom, with nothing better to do it seemed, continued reading her journals even though she couldn’t type them without power. Grandad spent the first day making sure we had everything we needed (e.g. food, water, and a radio) and then relocated to the basement where he was immovably sat in front of the frog. He planned to talk to it until the storm ended and everyone was safe. I sat around until either Mom or Grandad said anything for something.

“Lily, would you say the color of the brick around the chimney is more reddish or brown?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know, probably brown?”

“Okay…”

None of her questions made sense, I thought she was just trying to keep me from getting bored. About halfway through day two I started getting restless and annoyed.

“Lily, bring me a glass of water would you? I’m quite thirsty down here and all this talking has started to hurt my throat,” called Grandad.

“Fine,” I acquiesced.

“Lily, would you count how many pieces of wood make up the floor in the living room?” Mom interrupted.

“Fine… 27”

“Lily, name every difference between our house and the houses next to it.”

“Fine. I guess our house has an orange mailbox, the frog, new pipes, stepping stones instead of gravel in the backyard, rose bushes instead of plain bushes, and I don’t know what else.”

“Lily, do you think Grandad is right in that the frog really controls the fate of our house?”

“I don’t know, I guess?”

“Because I have been reading these journals, and one of the houses they built was for one of the builder’s sister. This house was made with stronger materials and had a few key differences to set it apart from the other houses. I’m really starting to consider it may be our house that is the different one, especially seeing how much more durable it is than the neighboring houses.”

“Fine.”

Now I wasn’t sure what to do. If I stayed with Mom, she would continue to make me inspect the house for miniscule differences, while if I went downstairs with Grandad I would have to talk to the frog the whole time. I decided downstairs as I wouldn’t have to walk around as much, and my back had started to hurt from leaning over to count the wooden panels in the living room.

“I’m glad you came down,” Grandad welcomes as soon as I reach the last step down. He had lit three candles to make up for the lack of electricity, and had them encircling the frog, almost shrine-like.

“Well, there isn’t much to do in a storm.”

“I’m worried about your mother, if she continues searching the house and doesn’t visit the frog I’m afraid something will happen to her.”

“Fine Grandad, I will tell her to come down later.”

“Don’t sit too close to the candles, I don’t want your socks to catch fire.

I didn’t tell her. Why should I tell her. I didn’t care if our house was protected by a frog that happened to get mixed up with some cement or by higher quality building materials, I just wanted the storm to be over. I ended up falling asleep down there with Grandad, who woke me up the following morning with breakfast.

“Grandad, do you hear rumbling?” I quietly asked, not wanting to make him panic.

“Rumbling? No, not with my old ears anyway.”

“Then don’t you feel the floor sort of shaking, as if something big is moving toward us?”

“I’m sure you’re just restless from having been stuck inside for so long. Why don’t you run upstairs and see if you can get your mother to join us down here.”

I borrowed one of his candles and slowly made my way up to Mom. She was at the kitchen table with a flashlight propped up next to her so she could continue reading the journals. Now she was taking notes on the journals and going through her notes to see which aspects of the different house matched ours.

“Nearly everything matches besides things I knew wouldn’t match, like the interior of the garage, because your dad and I remodeled it two summers ago,” she told me, her eyes never leaving her journal.

“Mom, I think you should come downstairs. Grandad thinks you have been ignoring the frog for too long.” I was beginning to get worried. Maybe Grandad was right and Mom could be in danger? How could we know whether the frog actually had power over our house?

“Actually, according to these journals, the basement would be the most secure place to be in a storm. If our house is the better built one, then our basement should be reinforced within the walls to withstand nearly all hazardous weather. Would you help me carry the rest of these books down?”

I set down my candle and filled my arms with books and the flashlight and went down the stairs ahead of Mom. I could feel the rumbling getting stronger now, but no one else had noticed it, so I didn’t say anything. The water came suddenly, carrying with it bits of detritus from its former destructions. Our house stood against the water, creaking and groaning against the overwhelming sound of the flood rushing around the house’s exterior. Grandad grabbed me and blew out the candles. Together we sat still, only hearing the battle of our house against the water. We heard glass shattering, could feel water begin to collect around our feet and legs. Grandad held me close, refusing to be moved from the left corner of the room. I think we stayed like this for ten minutes, or maybe an hour, I honestly don’t remember.

We went upstairs once the sounds quieted to the constant rainfall again. Mom was standing four feet from the basement staircase, dripping in water. Behind her, one of the windows facing the flood had shattered. The ink on the papers I hadn’t brought down with me had practically disappeared, all washed away with the flood water. There was a layer of mud and murky water all over the kitchen. It looked like one of Mom’s hands had been cut from the glass of the window, but she wouldn’t tell me what happened. Instead, she stood petrified holding a now nearly blank page of notes, looking wide-eyed at the floor near Grandad’s feet. I looked down there as well, and saw the bloated carcass of a drowned frog, it’s eyes permanently stuck open in a glare at Mom.