A Chasing After Wind: A Collection of Speculative Fiction Short Stories

A Chasing After Wind

A Collection of Speculative Fiction Short Stories

By Marc Drummond

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2000 Marc Drummond

All rights reserved

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Dedication

For Nana C

Who never chased the wind

Table of Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

One

Reflection of a Salesman

Two

Farewell, Obesity

Three

Steel Gold

Four

Jack of All Trades

Five

Pinky’s Price

Six

Hamster Wheel

Seven

Afterword

About the Author

Epigraph

The words of the Teacher, the son of David, king in Jerusalem.

Vanity of vanities, says the Teacher,

vanity of vanities! All is vanity.

What do people gain from all the toil

at which they toil under the sun?

A generation goes and a generation comes,

but the earth remains forever.

The sun rises and the sun goes down,

and hurries to the place where it rises.

The wind blows to the south,

and goes around to the north;

round and round goes the wind,

and on its circuits the wind returns.

All streams run to the sea,

but the sea is not full;

to the place where the streams flow,

there they continue to flow.

All things are wearisome;

more than one can express;

the eye is not satisfied with seeing.

or the ear filled with hearing.

What has been is what will be,

and what has been done is what will be done;

there is nothing new under the sun.

Is there a thing of which it is said,

See, this is new?

It has already been,

in the ages before us.

The people of long ago are not remembered,

nor will there be any remembrance

of people yet to come

by those who come after them.

I, the Teacher, when king over Israel in Jerusalem, applied my mind to seek and to search out by wisdom all that is done under heaven; it is an unhappy business that God has given to human beings to be busy with. I saw all the deeds that are done under the sun; and see, all is vanity and a chasing after wind

What is crooked cannot be made straight

and what is lacking cannot be counted.

I said to myself, I have acquired great wisdom, surpassing all who were over Jerusalem before me; and my mind has had great experience of wisdom and knowledge. And I applied my mind to know wisdom and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also is but a chasing after wind.

For in my wisdom is much vexation,

and those who increase knowledge increase sorrow.

—Ecclesiastes, Chapter One

One

Down, the Mississippi toils from Itasca to the Delta. Some young man walks across the headwater stones beneath a sea of pinpoint stars. While wondering at Orion’s belt and Cassiopeia’s throne, bright flashes singe the sky with a meteor shower. The blue blue waters flow between his toes and past the reeds to meet with meandering streams. Those currents curl past farms and fields, greeted by phosphate fellowship along the way. The glow of power plants blossoms the creeping cover of clouds into peach petals. This stream strengthens to a river before the Oz-like glow of the Twin Cities on the horizon. The waters, browner now, tumble turbidly over St. Anthony’s Falls between the monoliths of abandoned grain mills. Then, the river rushes between the banks of the University’s campus and heads on a long and twisted journey—ever widening, ever burgeoning—through locks and dams, its forces chained and channeled at every step towards a final Gulf.

Yet long before that, the Mississippi passes just a short drive north of Uptown, Minneapolis. These days, the coffee shops’ conversations have mellowed into silence. The Lagoon has lost its charm: its art films no longer fill a niche. And fashion has moved on beyond these blocks. The days of tuxes and limos and diamond-jewelry have left this quadrant. Still, a twinkle remains in a window or two.

The Café de Crème hangs on, just barely, its clientele dwindled from the haute couture to the denim collared. Here, the gold filigree has lost its luster on the fixtures. Two or three chandelier bulbs flicker intermittently. The espresso scent, twinged with cinnamon, smells slightly cindered now. At the long java bar, with its tattered-cushioned stools, smudges stain the grains of wood. Behind, the Torani and Monin bottles look only half-stocked, and the barista looks only half-awake, pulling a bit too long on the espresso, leaving lungo and not ristretto shots behind. Where the Café once cacophonied with chic crowds, solitude now fills table after table with stragglers and loners. The wait-staff has vanished. Self-service is now the rule. A bare few sit in the Mezzanine: the staircase once raised that upper level farther above the common coffee drinker than now. The old Mezzanine bar, which once served only the pearliest of the pearly, now stands empty, bereft of supplies or even stools, a mere decorative monument. Where minks once flocked in droves, there now hangs only tattered scarves and threadbare coats. The three unkempt beards and four frizzed failed perms that sit above look right at home amongst the wilted browning ferns.

Yet by the rail sits a reminder of the Café de Crème’s gloried nights. Still in topcoat and fedora, his lean legs stretch beneath the rickety table. Graying hair—once golden—tapers down to his neck’s nape. His sea-blue eyes still sparkle in the lingering laugh of a shining chandelier. His cheeks look a bit thinner, his knuckles a bit redder. Yet the collar still stays starched and crisp. The posture still seems firm and formidable. The gaze still penetrates, unflinching. The frizzies sit up here, three tables over, night after night, to marvel in mirth upon his figure. He never looks over, never. Hour after hour, he just watches the floor below, his thoughts impenetrable, while sipping long draws of spiced chai.

Yet this night, an old man has trodden wearily up the steps to the Mezzanine. His tweed jacket and corduroy trousers have mismatched plaids. Lines crisscross his brow and crinkle round his eyes. He shuffles along the rail, till he coughs as the lean man exhales his nicotine-free smoke in the old man’s direction.

The old man pants and wheezes a moment, then spurts out, I was told I’d find you here. May I join you?

Stone cold and unchanging, the lean man dryly intones, I’m a busy man. You have fifteen seconds.

The old man laughs like a hinge in need of oil. Busy schedule, indeed. Worn rubber squeaks across the floor as he pulls over a chair. My name’s Lemuel, son. His gnarled fingers extend halfway across the table.

The lean man’s gaze stays steady upon the floor below. Icicles crystallize in his voice: I’m not your son. Time’s up.

Yet Lemuel doesn’t stand, but merely lowers his hand to the table. His head turns to follow the lean man’s stare. There, at the bar, sits a slightly pudgy fellow—unusual to still find these days—sipping a mocha in a worried fashion. He brings the cup to his lips, slurps loud and clear. Lemuel looks around the oblong chamber of the Café de Crème and winks at the lean man’s choice of seat. Marvelous acoustics. When silence re-greets him, Lemuel ahems. Do I get to play a guessing game with your name?

The corners of the lean man’s lips tilt slightly up, but his head still doesn’t turn. If someone told you I’d be here, then surely you know who I am.

Lemuel twines his fingers. His chin nods slowly in pause. I’m looking for the proprietor of Greenwood Towers—an empire builder in the film industry, I’m told. A woman said you’d lost your way. Mischief cavorts in his eyes. She only called you Bastard.

I don’t need your help, old man.

Lemuel.

I have millions. My estate stretches for acres. The glamorous owe their glitz to me. I can make or break careers with a snap of my fingers. If I needed advice, I could hire an entire corporation of consultants.

Then why do you sit each night in such an unfashionable part of town? Why circulate amongst such low life… at least compared to your heights? Why obsess over that pudgy man below?

He finally blinks and turns to meet Lemuel eye to eye. Fierce fire burns upon those watery eyes. You don’t know me. You can leave now.

Your name, before I go.

With a sneer, he spits out, Call me Solomon.

Lemuel cocks his head and scrutinizes those fiery waters. Before I go, tell me, ‘Solomon,’ why do you hate yourself so much?

What’s to hate? he scoffs. I’m the envy of the masses. People would give their souls to be me.

Lemuel’s white eyebrows raise in sympathy. "I’m here to find out what you gave, Solomon. His fingers quiver as they reach inside his tweed jacket and pull a glimmering hand mirror from within. He slides it across with a push on the handle. Tell me what you see."

Solomon’s forehead puckers from a frown as he pulls the mirror to his face. A minute passes as he blinks and breathes deep, tired breaths, flitting his eyes across the reflection. A man who has found greatness.

And hates himself for it?

Solomon’s lips pull back from his teeth like a Doberman ready to snap. You know nothing about me, old man...

Lemuel.

You old sod. You think you can shuffle in here and bother me while I try to relax. Now my chai is cooling and my temper’s flaring... He shakes the mirror in Lemuel’s face. And I don’t buy that whole ‘what’s your name?’ business either. You some stringer for a tabloid sent to disturb my peace once more? Rattle me a little for a story? I’ve dealt with your kind before…

Solomon.

The mirror stops shaking. Solomon waits expectantly.

You’re right, I’ve lied. But I’m no reporter. Still, I have sources that tell me you’re at wit’s end. I don’t think you can last another night in your state. So tonight is decision time. That pudgy fellow, whoever he is, won’t ever forgive you before you forgive yourself.

The corners of Solomon’s eyes crinkle as he opens his mouth,"Who are you?"

A friend you didn’t know you had. Now look in the mirror once more.

He does. After three seconds, he looks away, ready to retort.

Look deeper.

This time, when he does so, he holds the mirror steady. His eyes trace every line in his reflection’s face. Solomon’s breath catches as the reflection winks—winks!—when his gaze has held steady. The mirror blackens into darkness, reflecting nothing. Solomon drops it on the table, startled. The reflection returns to normal. What...?

I have a story to tell you, Solomon, but you must listen. You may disbelieve the story if you wish; I have strange things to tell.

Still shaken, Solomon scoffs halfheartedly. I’ve seen more things in this world, Lemuel, than you in all your tawdry illusions have dreamt about.

Lemuel’s eyes twinkle. I know.

Solomon crosses his arms and shrinks back in his chair. There are few things left in this world that I wouldn’t believe.

Ahh... but Solomon, Lemuel says as he leans near, gnarled fingers creeping across the table till they grip the edge nearest Solomon. He looks around the Mezzanine to find the frizzies have fled and the beards have headed off to quieter quarters.

A voice interrupts, from below. The clear tones of, Another double, chocolate cherry cordial, if you don’t mind. Solomon’s head snaps to look at the bar, straining for another glimpse, another word.

Lemuel grips Solomon’s chin and turns it to face his. You haven’t yet heard my story yet, and until you do, I expect your attention. Solomon strips the wizened fingers from his skin. With calm wise eyes, Lemuel eases back in his chair. A thin trail of smoldering cigarette smoke drifts between the two. Solomon sips his chai. Lemuel clears his throat. Once more, he twines his fingers. For a moment, the black abyss in Lemuel’s eyes seems ready to swallow the sea in Solomon’s.

Reflection of a Salesman

That day, mists lifted from my memories. A Reflection in a gray business suit dissipated my mental fog like sunrise on the Mississippi. Until then, I had lived as just another Reflection, just another purgatorial soul behind the Mirror. The fog lifted, and I could finally see the golden glint upon the waters.

Two Watchers, wraithlike, stepped out of darkness, their robed arms wrapped around the kicking legs and squirming torso of a gray-suited Reflection. The Watchers dropped him. His fist clenched and rattled. Their stance tensed.

The prone Reflection yelled, Sham! He swept his arm at the gathering crowd. Attired in the clothes of those we reflected—dungarees, lab coats, orange construction vests, army uniforms, khakis—we all waited to be plucked by the Watchers for reflection duty. The other Reflections, myself included, shuffled to a stop. All this, a sham! He looked to the dark above, palms pleading. Listen! We are individuals, not mere reflections! His intent glare begged for understanding, but received only blank stares.

When his azure eyes met mine, my mind’s haze thinned enough to reveal a forgotten moment.

He beckoned me closer, cupped his fingers round his lips, and whispered, I have heard rumors of Reflections who have escaped... they make us forget, but...

A Watcher floated between us. Its arm passed over our faces. As it floated away, I wondered why the Reflection’s blue eyes looked so milky.

Now those eyes glittered.

A Watcher with red-rimmed cowl clutched the Reflection’s throat and lifted. The Reflection’s fingers scrambled at the Watcher’s wrist for air. With two swift chops, the other Watcher broke the Reflection’s arms. Then, folds of robe flowed over the widening eyes. His scream could have shattered a mirror. When the Watchers lowered the Reflection, he crumpled. Drool slid down his chin. His arms splayed at his sides. He laid there, a heap of ripped and wrinkled suit. Gravestones had more color than his eyes. The Watchers floated away from this shattered shell whose mind they had just erased like chalk from a blackboard.

For a moment, I watched passively like the rest, but then something stirred in me. The mind-wiped Reflection must have escaped; they must have caught him. An older face came into my mind. A wizened old man with bulbous nose and tufted eyebrows. The rest of my memories still remained dark.

The other Reflections drifted away to mill along this invisible plane suspended in cavernous blackness. Their pasty skin, unfocused eyes, and lethargic steps once mirrored my own. Now I could not mill or pace. Those wraithlike black robes moved through the dispersing crowd like ministers offering Lethean benedictions. I drooped my eyes and wandered off. My arms brushed against the Reflections’, but I barely noticed, still unable to feel anything. The crowd of expressionless Reflections passed each other without a glance of recognition or a word of hello.

Soon, a Watcher would come and force me to reflect... Mel.

The tedious work at the used car lot. My mind squinted, because the warped surfaces of the car hoods blurred my mental Link with Mel. I mirrored every wide grin just right, but still feared that when the wall-sized Mirrror before me went black, the Watchers would punish me if I missed just one facial tic.

No, I had to find that old man.

Black folds moved past my face... and reached towards a child instead.

My eyes flitted over the dozens of faces. Each distinct feature was a piece in a jigsaw puzzle I could not complete. My heart beat faster. That bald man with thin spectacles: why wasn’t he behind a desk? The man in the checkered suit: shouldn’t he smile wider? The thick, dark-haired woman...

Mel’s nights with Sandra. While Mel romped in bed within darkness, I had to twist and turn into his exact position. My mind strained to catch the exact thrusts and moans through the darkened mirror’s Link. Those nights, a vague feeling haunted me: having my arms wrapped around Sandra’s Reflection should evoke something beyond mere mimicry. An emptiness in my chest.

The woman had disappeared. The Reflections I pushed aside seemed not to mind. A Watcher’s cowl turned towards me. I slowed and sagged my lower lip. The cowl turned away. My eyes searched for an older face.

He leaned close, arm around my shoulder. A silver cross gleamed from the chain around his neck. The garlic on his breath twitched my nose. The name’s Mizhka, my boy, he whispered. I glanced over my shoulder. The closest Watcher faced the other direction. Mizhka’s wrinkled hand grabbed my chin and turned my face towards his. His green eyes captured my gaze. You cannot stay here. You want a second chance, do you not?

A second chance? As the cross twinkled, my mind cleared. I haven’t always been here, have I? I shrugged. He pulled me so close I could feel the wrinkles on his forehead. My heart jumped... the touch of another: I could feel it! I can help you escape, my boy. You just need to...

Suddenly, I could no longer feel his wrinkles. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two robed arms grip my shoulders. In front of me, two Watchers pulled Mizhka away. A Watcher grated, You cannot be here, old man.

Mizhka pointed at me with a crooked finger, Don’t forget, my boy! but already, I couldn’t recognize his face.

Yet now I remembered. I slunk through the crowd, peered at all, knew exactly what I searched for. Mizhka. If I could only stay away from the Watchers long enough to guard my memories...

Suddenly, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to find a Watcher looming over me. The cowl. What lurked in those shadows? A face... I peered deeper... Mizhka!

He shrunk to my size. I cannot keep this form long. Take this. He handed me an olive phial. Splash this on the Mirror to escape. Mizhka reached inside a pocket and handed me a charred, hairless tail about six inches long. If the Watchers come for you, throw this at them. Mizhka placed both hands on my shoulders. If they capture you, they’ll wipe your mind, not just memories. You take that risk to stop this mind-numbing reflection, day after day. Escape’s only the first step. Beyond the Mirror, things are different, you understand?

I tentatively nodded my head. Mizhka sighed, You don't, and you won’t. His eyes twinkled within the cowl. But then, you will. He patted my shoulder once more, grew to the full height of a Watcher, and floated away. For a moment, I held the phial and the tail. Then, I stuffed both into my jacket pocket.

I bided my time among the Reflections till a Watcher called me to the Mirror. I followed obediently at its gesture so it would not need to cleanse my memories. Usually, they cleansed after a reflection session, but if I acted strangely…

As we faded out of the crowd, I glanced up at the Watcher. Particularly tall and thin, darkness within the cowl. Soon, the Mirror filled my entire vision. I readied myself. In the Mirror, bathroom tiles shimmered.

Day after day I followed every lackluster gesture, every facial tick. Each morning, Mel pulled his upper lip back and picked at the tartar encrusted on his teeth. Then, he sucked the gunk off his fingernails and swallowed.

My gorge rose as his image blurred into focus. My reflecting began. Pale skin, mussed hair, bluish bags under his eyes. My clothes shifted into his flannel pajamas. We raised our fingers in symmetry. My Link informed me of every precise move I needed to make so that the Watchers would not punish me.

He and I stuck out our tongues, angled to look for any white spots on the back of our throats. My neck prickled at the Watcher’s gaze. We gargled. The sound of running water flowed through the Mirror. I barely kept my breath slow and steady. Mel looked into the Mirror, grasped a pair of tweezers between his fingers, and plucked a nose hair. I did, too. Mel and I slicked hair back with brush and mousse. Soon, Mel would be ready for work. Except this time, I would banish him from the car lot forever.

Mel bent down and washed his face in the sink. I steeled myself and kept looking in the Mirror. My pulse quickened. I tried not to think of what the Watchers could do to me. Hot iron and electricity—oh, they had let me feel that, all right—when they first trained me to reflect, punished even the slightest mistake. I gritted my teeth, reached inside my pocket, and popped off the cork of the phial. I raised it and splashed the shimmering ooze against the face of the Mirror. As the Watcher bore down on me from behind, I tossed the tail over my shoulder.

Mel looked up. I reached through the now translucent Mirror and grasped his wrists. He screamed. I nearly wrenched his arms out of his sockets, but he came through the Mirror and thudded into my chest. I pushed him aside. Squeals crescendoed behind me. I crouched and leapt, turning as I plunged towards the Mirror’s fluidity. The skinny Watcher raised its arms as hundreds of fist-sized dark creatures flowed past it and Mel. I could hear their claws click and their teeth snap as my head passed through the Mirror.

I smashed into Mel’s bathroom. My back nearly broke as I crashed against the sink, flipped, and fell face forward on the cold tiles. I winced at the pain below my shoulder blades. Then, I grasped the edges of the porcelain sink and pulled myself up.

In the Mirror, another Watcher had faded in behind Mel. It grabbed him from behind. Mel kicked at the rats swarming over his legs and the fallen Watcher. Mel pointed through the Mirror. A Watcher’s cowl snapped up. Red lining rimmed the emptiness staring straight at me. The mirror went black.

A laugh tickled the back of my throat. The crimson Watcher did not see me leave. To it, a Reflection had attacked a Watcher with a swarm of rats: Mel would be appropriately punished. The mirror remained black while the Watchers cleaned up the mess, but I felt my smile blossom. Mel trapped, while I ran free? This would be a blast.

I sighed, leaned back... and nearly fell into the shower. I fumbled at the wet curtains and steadied myself. What a feeling, wetness! I lifted my finger to watch a drop of water slide from my fingertip as memories dripped into my mind. I nearly drowned before I blinked.

I glanced around the unkempt bathroom as I exited. Dirty clothes and discarded scraps made a trail from the bathroom, through the disheveled bedroom, and into the kitchen.

A terrible hunger came over me like an explosion. I’d never felt such a hole in my gut on the Mirror’s other side. More than anything, I wanted to make a sub without the mayo, extra cheese, and fatty meats that had bloated both our waistlines. Mel always chowed on them while driving in the T-bird, so I had been forced to reflect the oily mayonaise dripping down my chin. Now, though, as I entered the kitchen, I realized I’d never reflected Mel throwing one of his heart-attack subs together before. It took me fifteen minutes of flinging open drawers and cabinets before I discovered the wonders of the fridge. Even after that, I nearly sliced my fingers off trying to chop up tomatoes and onions. And that, only after realizing you couldn’t eat the darned things whole.

When I finally finished slapping together the veggie sub, I exhaustedly ate it in front of the bathroom mirror. I’d never had to think about these things before, just mindlessly