Survival of the Fittest (Part 3)

Dinnertime came quickly for Allan. As promised, not long after general’s departure, a maid had come in with some hot tea and dry clothes. She talked even less than the general and only nodded her head to what was said, but despite her unfriendliness, the small, plump woman was very efficient with her tasks. She set the folded clothes neatly on a chair, handed him his hot tea, and went instantly to work, straightening the room and checking the long cut on his forehead. In fact, it wasn’t until she headed for the bandage that Allan even realized it was there. He figured he must have been pretty lucky. He may have been bruised and slightly beaten, but overall he was alright. 

He was alive.

Even so, Allan couldn’t help but keep wondering about his friends. The general had mentioned others. How many others were there? Did these ‘others’ include his fellow band mates? Would he get to see them? What of the other passengers? Surely he wasn’t the only survivor.

Please, don’t let me be the only survivor.

After the maid left, Allan spent the next hour thinking over his cup of warm tea. Thoughts of the others swirled in his head and after a while his brain tired, and having cried himself dry with tears over his lost friends, he fell asleep and napped on and off until about seven when the maid returned and told him dinner was in an hour; don’t be late.

Allan quickly dressed and washed up in a connecting bathroom. Now, it was nearing eight and, as he followed a butler down the dark hallways of the house, he couldn’t help but feel a distinct unease in the pit of his stomach. Wandering through those dark, bare, stonewalled hallways of silence, Allan couldn’t help but notice the place felt so very much like a tomb. Dark, silent, lonely. He shivered and shook his head to clear it of the eerie thought. A tomb? No, it was in a house. A very large house. A fortress.

A prison.

“The dining room, sir.” Allan looked up as the mountain of a butler stopped suddenly outside an open door.  His hand swept towards the entrance in a welcoming gesture, beckoning the young singer to enter.

“Thank you.” The Clarke boy dolefully nodded his thanks and walked through the door into the amber-lit room beyond. The dining room was extravagant, like something out of a medieval picture book with large wooden furniture, a stone fireplace, a shining chandelier, but even more extravagant to Allan was a specific someone seated at the table with the general. The count of dinner guests was small, only two in fact, but one was very familiar, the face of someone he knew quite well.

“Allan?” The blonde man rose to his feet, his blue eyes mirroring the same disbelief and hesitant joy that Allan felt. His toupee was gone, and he had medical tape strapped around his chest, but never had the drummer looked better. After all, anyone looked good when they were alive, especially after having been accepted and assumed dead.

“Bobby!” Allan was in shock, “How― what―?” He couldn’t help but laugh in relief as his face broke into a smile. Bobby was alive! Alive! They hurried towards eachother, and beside themselves with relief, the two men hugged earnestly, both crying happy tears.

Allan was so relieved. He wasn’t alone after all. A friend of his had survived. But what of the others? What of Graham, Tony, and Bern? Were they alive as well? Allan didn’t want to think about it.

Bobby’s grin was weak. “Looks like it takes more than a plane crash to finish us off, hm?”

“I guess so.” Allan’s eyes danced feverishly around the room, but there was no sign of the others. One thing at a time, he prodded himself. Yes, one thing. Bobby was alive. That was a blessing in itself. There was at least one survivor Allan could put a name to.

“Ahem.” The general cleared his throat and the two lads turned to face him. “Dinner,” stated their host calmly, folding a red silk napkin onto his lap. “The reunion is all very touching, but perhaps you would both like to join us?” He nodded to the other man who remained at the table with a faraway look in his eyes. Allan didn’t recognize the other dinner guest, but from the look of the bandage wrapped around his upper arm, the young musician figured he was also a plane-crash survivor.

“Of course.” Allan and his band-mate quickly exchanged glances and then complied, each claiming a seat at the large table. Scooting in his chair, Allan noticed that the clothes of his friend were very similar to his own wardrobe-on-lend: Camouflage trousers and a green turtleneck shirt. Bobby even had a matching green bandana tied around his neck.

General. A retired war general perhaps?

“Now, may the meal commence.” Their host picked up a silver bell and let it jingle. Soon several men in suits entered the room with various trays and bowls. They set each entree onto the middle of the large wood table straight in the inquiring views of the plane crash survivors. Not long later, platters were passed around and the wine and the water were poured. Allan hated to admit it, but he hardly tasted what he consumed at the general’s table. It was just too hard to enjoy something as trivial as good food and wine when over half of your friends were still missing. Especially when your best friend was one of the unaccounted for.

Allan felt a slight tug at his elbow and turned slowly.

“Seen any of the others?” Bobby asked him.

“No, not since we were on the plane. I was hoping that you had.”

Bobby shook his head making Allan’s fears grow. What if there weren’t any more survivors? What if this was it: Bobby, the quiet stranger, and himself?

“May I have everybody’s attention up here please?” The general’s bell jingled again, calling attention back to the head of the table. Despite his concern, Allan found his head turning with the rest. The general was just that type of man; he demanded respect.

“Thank you.” The general smiled at them, before letting it fade to a serious and yet very desolate frown. “Gentlemen, as all of you probably agree, the events of last night were all very tragic, but even more tragic is how few survivors my people and I have recovered so far.”

Three survivors. In a plane filled with a hundred, that wasn’t much. It was far from enough.  Looking around the table, Allan noticed the stranger seemed to be shaking his head in dismay. Perhaps this man was missing somebody too? Perhaps he was also hoping for the sudden appearance of someone close to him as Bobby and Allan longed to be reunited with the remainder of the band. Tragedies did things like that; they pulled people apart, both physically and emotionally.

“Furthermore, I am willing to offer my home as a place of healing until help arrives or the three of you are well enough to carry on by yourselves. I will also have some of my servants scaling the shores and woods for any additional wounded survivors. I am a believer in human resilience, after all, and am not willing to give up hope that there may be more of you out there.”

There was more nodding of heads.

“That said, if there is anything you need, just ask, it will not be kept from you. There is plenty of food and bed to go around. You have full use of the rooms already presented to you, and to the rest of my home. My only request is that you do not venture outside of the house. There are very dangerous animals in the surrounding jungles, after all. Some of which who can smell a man’s blood from miles away. I would like to avoid the event of any further accidents as it were, so please, stay inside.”

Once more, heads were nodded. Allan hated not having the opportunity to help search for his friends but then decided that perhaps it was better. He couldn’t imagine what he would do if he suddenly came upon the corpse of one of his buddies lying still on the sand or worse, mutilated by an animal’s jaws. He actually didn’t know what he would do if he came upon anyone’s body. Probably feel faint, lose the contents of his stomach… Allan groaned softly as the thought came to mind. He needed to stop being so negative. Like Bobby, the rest of his friends were alive. Alive!

Then why did he feel so hopeless?

Allan looked over at Bobby whose head was still bobbing to the general’s request. Did Bobby feel the same about the search, or did the drummer possess some unheard strength that Allan lacked?

Like his dinner, Allan ate his dessert just as slowly, unaware of the taste and texture, only identifying it with use of his eyes. His mind was too full, packed hard with the hope of finding the remaining of his friends alive and well. At this point, Allan was sure he’d be happy if they found practically anybody. Three survivors was just much too small a number. They needed more, and not in a body count. They needed more walking, talking survivors. They needed more living, breathing souls.

Allan needed his friends.

Survival of the Fittest (Part 2)

“…help to make things bright. Mixin’ hot licks with vanilla, Jukebox Saturday night…”

Allan’s eyes eased open. He first became aware of the warmth, and then the softness, followed by the stiffness of his body and the aches and the pain. Reality flashed before his eyes and then slowly came into focus. His limbs groaned, his throat stung, and his ears picked up the fuzzy music of an old phonograph sitting by the door.

The Door?

Allan slowly raised his head from the mountain of feather pillows waiting for it to all disappear. If he had been confused on the seashore, he was absolutely mad now. Hadn’t he been on the beach? Hadn’t he been in a place crash? Then where was he? What of these new surroundings? Why was he in bed?

“They put nothin’ past us, me and honey lamb. Making one Coke last us …”

It was a large room, expensively furnished with dark wood and velvet. The bed he was on had four posts and an elegant canopy hanging from above. There were several clocks and landscape paintings scattered on the crimson walls between the molded doors, fireplace, and windows.  Sunlight filtered through the windowpanes, basking the room in a soft, yellow glow.

 It was morning.

Allan figured he must have slept after falling back into unconsciousness last night on the beach. The beach? Now he almost doubted that event. Yes, perhaps there had been a beach, but it had only an image of his mind.  A dream. It was very likely that he was only waking from a nightmare, still back in that fancy hotel room in New York City.  In a few minutes his alarm clock would sound, and he would be out and packed and ready to take the first plane back to London with the lads. Yes, that had to be it! He had dreamt the beach and the accident. Everything was fine. Everything was fine!

Oh? Then who had turned on the phonograph? Where was his alarm clock? Where were his clothes?

“After sippin’ a soda, we got a scheme. Somebody else plays the record…”

Allan had been stripped down to his pants, his wet clothes gone. If not for the layers of sheets, blankets and a downy quilt, the young singer would have been red with embarrassment. Where was his clothing? Had he been rescued? Perhaps his liberator had found is necessary to get him out of his wet clothing. Surely someone had found him half-dead on the sand and had brought him here, home, taking it upon themselves to nurse him back to health.

 It was a warm thought, but Allan felt deathly cold. Something didn’t feel right. For some reason, he didn’t feel rescued at all, he didn’t feel safe. Perhaps it was the unknowing. Not knowing who had rescued him, where he was, and what had become of his friends. That was enough to put anyone on edge. But that was crazy. Hadn’t he already decided he was still back at the hotel?

“Money we really don’t need bad, we make out alright. Lettin’ the other guy feed that―”

The record stopped suddenly, and Allan turned from his thoughts to see what the trouble was.  The trouble turned out to be a well-dressed man by the door; a peculiar, unexplained stranger with an odd smile on his lips. He held the old phonograph’s tone arm in his fingertips, his bright eyes fixed upon the bed.

For some reason, Allan shivered.

“I see that you are awake,” the newcomer spoke suddenly.

Allan nodded. He studied the man further, taking notice of his unusual attire and thick, dark eyebrows. He was wearing expensive evening clothes and his graying hair was neatly combed back from his face. It gave him a look of authority, of great importance. The man obviously had a lot of money, perhaps he was the owner of the hotel? But Allan knew this was foolishness. He had been in a plane accident and he had been lying on a beach for dead. This was for real. His mind just didn’t make things up like that. Now he was lying on some unknown bed in some unknown bedroom with some unknown person without the slightest clue to the fate of his comrades, his clothes, or his sanity. Dread washed over the young musician making him feel tired, cold, heavy. There was so much he needed to know. So many questions he needed to ask.

“Don’t bother trying to speak, I understand you had quite the adventure last night and you needn’t strain yourself.” As if reading his thoughts, the odd man placed the tone arm back onto its resting place and turned off the turntable. He straightened then so that his large, muscular form filled the doorway with little space left to look past. He had to be at least six feet tall. Allan was shorter. “I’ll bet you’re hungry.”

The last thing on Allan’s mind was his stomach. “Please… where am I?”

“You are on my island.”

“Your… island?”

“Please, don’t strain your voice. There will be plenty of time to talk later ―at dinner.” The man placed his hand on the doorknob, leaning against it slightly. “As of now, you are my guest and you must rest until you are feeling better. I will send the maid up with some tea and soup after she is finished with the others.”

The others? Allan’s heart quickened its pace. There were others? Other survivors? He hoped so. Perhaps the rest of the lads had survived the crash? If he had survived, surely they had as well, right? Perhaps there were more than a couple of survivors? Perhaps everyone had walked away unharmed?  He couldn’t help but cling to this weak hope and a very weak hope it was.

“You poor boy,” the man continued, shaking his head slowly. His voice was sympathetic, but his face held no sigh of emotion. His eyes stay trained on his guest.

“You mentioned others…” Allan’s words died on his lips. His throat was raw, it hurt to talk.

“Shhh…” The man said soothingly. “Rest. We’ll talk later.”

“But―”

“Rest.”

Allan sighed and settled back against the pillows. He knew it’d be senseless to argue. The man had a certain air to him, the type that demanded respect. He wanted silence? He wanted Allan to rest? Fine. Who was he to disobey? He was tired after all. His eyes felt heavy and his head hurt. He was physically and emotionally drained: tragedies did these things to a person.

“I will leave you now. The maid will be in shortly.”

“Thank you.” Allan nodded slowly, watching as the man began to close the door, “Wait!” He cried suddenly, remembering something, “I- I don’t believe I caught your name.” He needed a name, a label for the face. A name for the man with the eyebrows and the piercing stare. A name for his rescuer.

“My name?” The man paused for a few moments and then turned slowly on his heels. Amusement shone in his eyes and that odd smile was again on his lips. “Just call me General.”

“General?”

The man nodded slowly, his smile unwavering. “Yes. Just the General.” He turned then, and exited, leaving Allan alone with his mixed up mind and troubled heart.

*Lyrics from ‘Jukebox Saturday Night’ written by Albert Stillman and Paul McGrane*

Gonna Keep on Scheming

    *My first attempt at a non-romantic Hollies story…I apologize for any inaccuracies; I’m not a Graham expert by any means!*            
                
                 Riiiiing! Riiiiiing!
                Graham had been lying awake for almost an hour, staring at the ceiling of his old bedroom. The ringing of the alarm was merely a harsh reminder that he did, in fact, have to get up.
                He hit the clock to silence its persistent ringing, but still couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed. 
                Graham had practically forgotten what it was like to be in his old warm bed in his childhood bedroom. He’d come home just for the weekend after months of touring with his band, and he was pleased to fine everything just as he’d left it.
                He remained still under the covers for a moment, taking in the familiarity of his bedroom. The faded, peeling wallpaper. The musty but sweet smell of mothballs and piped tobacco. The glass window he and Allan had once smashed with a baseball. The opening in the floorboards where one or two girly magazines had been stashed in his teenage years. The card table where his father had helped him develop pictures. His beat-up old acoustic still leaning against the wall. 
                It was different from all the hotels and buses Graham had become accustomed to sleeping in, and he wanted to prolong the feeling of being home just a bit longer. 
                “Graham!”
                Mary Nash’s voice drifted up from somewhere down in the house. “Don’t you have to leave in an hour?”
                Graham reluctantly slid out of bed. “I’m up, Mum!” he called. “Getting dressed!” 
                Graham hurriedly changed out of his pajamas into some casual trousers and a sweater.  He took a glance in the mirror above his dresser, quickly combing his bangs down with his fingers, and checking up on the growth of his goatee. A few hairs. Not bad. 
                Graham left his little room and lumbered down the small flight of stair, noting he now could take two steps at a time. The tantalizing smell of a home-cooked breakfast caught Graham’s nose as he entered the kitchen. He smiled at the sight of his mother bent over the stove in her housedress and apron, frying strips of bacon. 
                “Morning, Mum.” Graham gave his mother a peck on the cheek and immediately snaked out his hand to snatch a piece of bacon cooling down on a paper towel. Mrs. Nash slapped the top of her son’s hand lightly with the spatula. 
                “Oh, no you don’t, squirt.” She laughed. 
                Graham grinned smugly. “’Squirt’? I’m a head taller than my mother now.”
                Mrs. Nash looked up and began to fuss with her son’s unkempt hair, muttering that he needed a haircut. “But you’re still my little boy. That same boy who used to stick his fingers in all my pies, and trample through Mrs. Clarke’s flowers, and put tacks on his teachers’ chairs.” 
                There was a laugh, and the two turned to see Elaine at the breakfast table, peeking out from around the newspaper. “And don’t forget putting frogs in my bed, and pulling my pigtails.” she added.
                Graham’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “It’s a shame you wear your hair up now, Elaine.”
                “For good reason.”
                Graham pretended to pout. “Don’t you think I’ve grown up at all?”
                “Besides getting taller…no.” Elaine laughed.
                Mrs. Nash took hold of Graham’s chin and studied the hairs sprouting from it and above Graham’s upper lip. “Oh? And what’s this?”
                “I’ve been working on some facial hair, Mum.” Graham announced proudly.
                Elaine let out a snort. “You’ve been working on that for years. Finally.”
                “Like how you’ve been working on getting the Connors boy to notice you?” Graham winked, and Elaine’s dropped her mouth and feigned a shocked gasp. 
                Mrs. Nash swatted at Graham once more with the spatula. “Give it a rest, you two.” she said, trying to hide the smile produced by watching her two oldest children tease each other again. “Graham, go get Sharon up. She’ll want to say goodbye to you.” 
                “This isn’t over, Elaine.” Graham warned as he headed back up the stairs. He paused for a second and turned back to his mother to confirm something that had been puzzling him since he’d arrived yesterday evening. “Mum…is Sharon mad at me?”
                Mrs. Nash didn’t look up from the stove. “I don’t think so. Why? Did you say something to her?”
                “No,” Graham replied slowly, “But she barely said two words to me all last night and wouldn’t even come near me. That’s not the chatterbox little sister I know.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’m just imagining it. I’ll go get her.”
                Graham took the stairs up to Sharon’s room and knocked loudly on her door. “Sharon! Get up, you goof! Mum’s making breakfast, and I’m hungry!” 
                No reply.
                “Share! Get out of bed, Sleeping Beauty!”
                Nothing.
                Graham swung open the door, but was met by an unmade bed and a messy room. 
                “Mum! Sharon’s not in her room!” Graham declared as he tromped back downstairs and into the kitchen.
                Mrs. Nash frowned. “She’s not normally an early riser. Go check outside for her, Graham?” 
                “Yeah…yeah.” Graham muttered, going out the kitchen door.
                Graham shivered as he stepped outside into the chill early fall morning. A blanket of fog hung in the air and little drops of morning dew clung to the unmowed grass. Graham rubbed his arms and called Sharon’s name impatiently. “Where is that brat?” 
                Graham suddenly noticed a trail of little footprints trodden down in the wet grass. They led straight to the tree house at the edge of the tiny lawn. Of course. He went to the base of the big oak and called for his sister once again. “Sharon! I know you’re up there! You better answer!”
                There was a short minute of silence. Then a small voice chirped, “No one’s here! Go away!”
                Graham rolled his eyes. “Come down here, or I’m coming up.”
                “No, Willie! Go away!”
                “That’s it.” Graham steadied himself on the first rung of the tree house’s ladder and began to climb up.  With each step, the splintered wood creaked forbiddingly, as if to inform him that tree houses were meant for 10-year-old girls and not grown men. 
                Graham reached the top in no time at all and crawled into the small house, taking care not to bump his head on the low ceiling. Sharon was curled up in the corner, her face down in the folds of her nightdress, her arms hugging her knees. 
                Graham edged over to crouch beside her. “Sharon…what’s wrong?”
                “Nothing.” Her quivery voice betrayed that she’d been crying. 
                “Aw, Sharon.” Graham wrapped an arm around his sister’s skinny shoulders. “Tell me?”
                Sharon’s voice was muffled with her head down. “I don’t want you to go.” she sobbed.
                Graham shook his head, smiling to himself. “Is that all? I’ve been gone the last six months. I came back for a visit, and I’ll come back again.” He lifted her chin up to see her face. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying.
                Sharon swiped at her nose with the sleeve of her sweater. “But…I just…” her voice broke again. “I hate saying goodbye.” She dropped her head back down to her knees. 
                Graham pulled her shaking frame closer to him. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me since last evening? You didn’t want to have to say goodbye this morning?”
                Sharon mustered an “Mm hm” between her sputtering of crying and hiccups. 
                “I hate goodbyes too.” Graham stroked his sister’s matted hair. “But it’s a part of life. It’s how we grow up.” 
                She sniffed. “It’s like when Dad left. And when Elaine gets married, it’ll happen again. I don’t want to grow up.” She looked up. “Why’d you have to grow up, Graham?”
                Graham sighed. “We all have to grow up, Sharon.  And saying goodbye to the old things is a part of that.”
                Sharon turned her head away and wouldn’t look at him. “Fine. Goodbye, Graham.”
                “I want a hug from my baby sister.”
                “No.” 
                “And I want to see her smile before I leave.”
                “I won’t.”
                “Oh, really?” Graham grinned and proceeded to tickle Sharon’s middle. Sharon bent over, giggling. “Graham, stop! Stooop!” 
                “Gonna give me a proper goodbye?”
                “Yes!” More giggles. “Stop, Willie, stop!”
                Graham released Sharon and smiled as she caught her breath and shoved him roughly. “You big doofus.” She laughed, wiping away her tears. “I love you, even though you’re mean and ugly.”
                “And I love you, even though you’re short and annoying.” 
                They exchanged smiles and Graham ruffled Sharon’s brown hair. “You’re always going to my favorite girl, Share.” 
                Sharon smiled sweetly. “And Allan’s always going to be my favorite Hollie.”  
                Graham couldn’t help but chuckle. “I guess I deserved that.” He reached out and brushed some stray tears off of Sharon’s cheek. “I won’t be gone for long, Sharon. I’ll come home for Christmas. Maybe I’ll bring you back something from America.” 
                “A bicycle?” 
                “Don’t press your luck.” Graham enveloped his sister in a hug. “I always think about you, and Elaine, and Mum when I’m away. I couldn’t leave all of you for good.”
                Sharon offered a hearty hug back. “Then do I have to tell you ‘goodbye’? How about ‘See ‘ya, Willie’?” 
                “I think that’s perfect, Sharon. I’ll be seeing you soon enough.” 
                The sound of a motor and the screeching of wheels against asphalt were heard suddenly from the street in front of the house, and Graham pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. “Oh, looks like Allan’s here early.” He turned to Sharon. “I’ll have to be going now.”
                Sharon’s smile faded instantly. 
                “But,” Graham added, “What do you say we go and have some of Mum’s bacon first before Elaine hogs it all down?” 
                Sharon bobbed her head eagerly and Graham took her hand to help her down. “Between you and me,” Sharon confided, “Elaine’s a bit of a drag sometimes.” 
                Graham nodded knowingly.  “If someone were to routinely put some frogs in her bed,” He mused, wiggling his eyebrows goofily at Sharon, “I think I might have to find a new bicycle for that person.” He winked. 
                Sharon began her descent down the tree house ladder. “I guess we’re in luck, Graham.  I happen to know a very good place to find frogs, and a girl in desperate need of a bicycle.” 
                “Is that so?” Graham’s eyes were glimmering again with mischief. When Sharon had safely made it to the ground, Graham took his turn on the ladder. 
                “If this same girl also happened to want a new record player and a baseball bat,” he said over his shoulder, “there are some other matters we should discuss as well.” He hopped off the last ladder rung, and held out his arm to Sharon, who had a scheming look on her face, matching his own.
                Sharon accepted his arm and the pair went across the wet grass back to the house. “Do tell, Graham Nash. Do tell.” 
                                                                                  **********************   
                Graham had moved out and started a new chapter in his life…even taken to growing a mustache and goatee. He wasn’t a boy. He was a grown man in his early twenties with a huge future ahead. Yet, throughout Graham’s last breakfast at home for what promised to be several months, Mrs. Nash, Elaine, and Allan had to smile as Graham whispered back and forth with Sharon about rotten eggs, tacks, and frogs.
                 No doubt, he was going to keep on scheming.

The Traveling Companion (Part 2)

“Hey, Gloria.”

            His soft voice interrupted the sheer blackness of my dreamless sleep and my eyes slowly opened. It was still night, still raining, and I was still in his car, but it was no longer moving. Shifting into a straight sitting-up position, I looked to him from out of my drowsy aura. My hair had somewhat dried, and I was stiff from remaining in the same position for too long.

            “Graham?”

            I couldn’t make out much in the dim light that leaked through the windows, but I could see the slight smile set on his lips, a friendly smile. “Sorry to disturb you, but I’m stopping for the night.”

            “Oh.” I wondered where we had ended up. I wasn’t sure how long I had been asleep, but seeing that it was still dark, it couldn’t have been more than an hour or two. We could have covered a lot of distance in that amount of time. Maybe he had taken me far enough away and then I could continue on my way? My tired, limp muscles reminded me that I needed to rest first.

            “I found a motel where we can stay for the night. I’d be glad to pay for your room.” He pulled my coat out of the backseat and lifted my bag from my lap. “Come on, let’s go see about their vacancy.”

            He exited the car. I stretched and then reached for the handle, but just as I grasped it, the door flew open, revealing Graham and my bag. I hastily exited and he closed the door behind me. Together, we dashed to the dryness beneath the eaves of the motel.

            Readjusting his grip on my things, he opened the door for me and then entered in tow. A small silver bell rang on the door, announcing our arrival. The desk was vacant, but a small old man was slowly making his way toward it.

            “Welcome, welcome. How can I help you two?”

            “Hello,” Graham stepped forward, nodding politely to the elderly man. “Your sign says you have a vacancy?”

            The little man flipped through a check-in book at the front desk and nodded. “Yes, that is correct.”

            “We’d like two rooms, then please. Just for one night.” Graham set my bag on the floor and placed my coat on top of that. He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a brown leather wallet.

            “Sir, I said we have a vacancy.” The elderly man looked to Graham.

            “Oh.” He turned and looked to me, probably to check if I would be okay with the arrangement. He then looked back to the clerk. “What are your accommodations like?”

            “Unfortunately, you get what you pay for. Two beds, a table, a bathroom…” He shrugged. “It may be basic, but there’s heat and the prices are quite reasonable.”

            “Okay,” Graham replied, opening his wallet. “We’ll take it.”

            While the clerk had Graham sign in and pay, I looked around the small lobby. It was a tiny, outdated room, filled with nothing but the desk, a few chairs, and an old clock. The walls were sheathed in outdated wallpaper, and the wood floors were in dire need of replacement. The clerk did have a point, though. It was well heated. And it was dry.

            Lifting my bag, Graham turned toward me, a key in his hand. “Come on, Gloria.” He said goodnight to the small clerk and then opened the door. Together we reentered the blaze of rain and wind and walked along the small building under its even smaller eaves. Stopping in front of a door, Graham used the key to unlock it and then reached inside to flip on a light. We entered and shut out the weather.

            The room was outdated like the lobby had been and dimly lit. Two twin beds sat side-by-side, separated by a single bedside table with a lamp. They were blanketed with old, grotesquely colored but probably terribly warm blankets. A door leading to a blue-tiled bathroom sat against the back wall, and an old radiator rattled as it spit warmth into the room. The overhead light buzzed.

            “Which bed would you prefer?” Graham looked to me.

            I shrugged. “Either will do. You choose.”

            He set my bag and coat on the bed closest to the wall. “You may brush your teeth first, if you’d like.” He headed to the door. “I’m going to get my own suitcase.”

            “Here,” I began slipping out of his coat. “Take this with you.” I handed it to Graham, who accepted it with a smile and put it on.

            “Thank you. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” One more smile and he was out the door.

            I opened up my bag and pulled out the necessary items to complete my bedtime ritual. By the time Graham returned, I had already brushed my teeth and hair and was at last changing out of my wet clothes. I hung them to dry over the shower curtain rod and then opened the door, stepping out into the bedroom. Graham was rummaging through a green suitcase atop his bed.

            “Bathroom’s all yours,” I told him, setting my things on the floor.

            “Thank you.” He closed the suitcase and carried his own items into the bathroom. I peeled back the covers from my bed and climbed in. The mattress was actually quite hard, but it felt comfortable anyways. I lay on my back and looked up at the ceiling, thinking of what my father would say if he knew. Then I began wondering if he even missed me.

            Graham returned several minutes later, smelling of mint and shaving cream and wearing striped pajamas. He removed the suitcase from his bed and went to the light switch. “Alright if I turn this off?”

            “Yes.”

            The overhead light switched off, but the bedside lamp stayed on. Graham must have turned it on while I was changing. He approached it. “Okay if I turn this off, too?”

            “Yes.” I nodded and the light turned off, plunging us into a dark silence.

            I heard Graham’s mattress squeak as he climbed in bed and then as he situated. Once the squeaking stopped, there was a moment of silence, and then he spoke.

            “Why are you crying, Gloria?”

            Crying?

            I reached up and touched below my eyes, feeling the wet puddles there. How was it he had noticed the tears before I had?

            “Gloria?”

            “I don’t know,” I responded. “I’m just thinking, I guess.”

            He was quiet for a while and then spoke softly. “Does this arrangement bother you?”

            “No, no, it’s fine. Thank you for everything.” I shifted. “Remind me to pay you for half of the room tomorrow.”

            “You don’t need to worry about that.” His mattress squeaked. “Look, I know it’s none of my business, but what are you running from?”

            I was quiet for a moment. If he was giving me a ride and paying for my motel room and everything, didn’t I owe him some kind of explanation upon request? But it was none of his business and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to talk about it all.

            “Please Graham, I’m tired.” It sounded silly, but it was all I could say.

            “You’re right, I’m sorry.” His voice was peaceful and kind and I could tell he was truly sorry. I couldn’t blame him for being curious and concerned. Concerned. “Goodnight.”

            First pneumonia, now my well-being. It felt nice knowing that somebody seemed to care.

            “Goodnight.”

            I reached up to brush the tears off of my cheeks and pulled my blankets close, loving the warmth that I found there. I felt an inner stillness that I hadn’t encountered for a long time. It seemed that since I had left home, everything inside had been a confusing jumble of all sorts of emotion, but then, I felt somewhat peaceful.

            I drifted off even faster than I had in the car.

Survival of the Fittest (Part 1)

By: CactusTreeBlossom

A lone figure weakly pulled himself onto the moonlit beach. An ocean wave crashed over him as he collapsed; an exhausted heap on the shoreline. His head hurt, his whole body hurt, he was cold, wet, disoriented. Where was he? What had happened? Was he still alive? He remembered the plane, the emergency, and then it all came back to him. Plane crash… ocean… It was a wonder he had survived.

He survived?

Allan breathed heavily, the stink of wet seaweed looming in his nostrils as sea salt stung at his eyes. He felt terrible, fatigued. He couldn’t remember how long he had been swimming or if he had been swimming at all. His last memory was while he was still in the plane and the flight attendant had given them the bad news. There was a problem with one of the engines; they were going to have to make an emergency landing. Allan had gotten a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, a tightness in his chest, and as he and his fellow passengers locked their seatbelts and placed their heads between their knees, he could only envision one thing ahead: death.

But he was alive.

Allan wondered how many more had survived. Tony? Bobby? Bernie or Graham? All four had been with him on the airplane. All seated close by. Allan remembered how his ears pounded with the desperate screaming of the other passengers as the plane went down. Graham had taken his hand at the time, squeezing it tightly in a solid pledge: Brothers to the end. The end? Allan hadn’t met the end. Then where was Graham? Where were the others? Allan had encountered disasters before, but this one took the cake; and a bitter, distasteful cake it was!

Allan’s eyes filled with tears, but they didn’t fall. He soon became aware of his breathing: quick, raspy, and faltered. The sea lapped behind him, throwing salty foam onto the shore and dampening his already soaked slacks. Somewhere in front of him, trees rustled and the cry of some unknown animal broke out into the night. He slowly opened his eyes, and the world began to focus. Jungle, beach, moon… he was on an island. He had drifted to shore.

Allan remembered a light, a jingle, and then, he remembered no more.

The Traveling Companion (Part 1)

Submitted by SadSadSunshine

The rain was picking up and the wind was droning harder, even my good wool coat was much too wet to do me any good. With each step my long hair was becoming more of a tangled web and my sheer black shoes were becoming muddier and muddier. The ground below me was becoming much too soft and unstable and I had to be careful; one misplaced step would send me sliding off into the ditch to my right. Those country roads had such narrow shoulders.

            Mud sloshed onto my legs, caking onto the stockings. I felt chillier and emptier with each lick of the wind against my slender frame, yet I didn’t want to go home. Nothing could make me want to return. No storm or amount of mud or dreary, encasing darkness closing in. It was a one-way journey and looking back, physically or in mind was completely forbidden.

            Headlights were slowly looming up over the invisible horizon, illuminating just how much rain was actually coming down. I wondered if I should try to avoid the grabbing elucidation or if I should allow it to touch me, revealing my dripping frame to the driver. The lights loomed forward before I could decide, shining bright on me as the long-absent sun, and quickly screeching to a halt. Fearing I should have hidden in the safety of the dark, murky shadows, I tried to quicken my pace, but the mud slowed me down.

            I tried to not look at the car, but I caught sight of it anyways: a red sports coupe, fairly new, in good condition. I wondered what a car like that could be doing out in such rural country on a violent night such as that one. The window rolled down and I froze.

            “Do you need a ride?”

            The voice that called to me was definitely male, but it was pleasant and high.

            “Uh…” A ride? I pondered his proposition. It was a chance to get out of the rain and make some quick progress. He was a stranger, though, and my mind emphasized the he part. It could be dangerous.

            He waited patiently. I decided to go for it. “…Yes, thank you.”

            “Well, come on then.” He gestured to me with his head. “No use standin’ out in that rain.”

            Quickly looking both ways, I jetted across the street to the car. I fumbled with the door handle, but once I’d pulled it, I threw myself into the toasty, dry comfort of the car and pulled my bag on top of my lap.

            I sat heavily against the warm seat, not even considering how wet I was making the nice interior. The heat was turned on to just the right, pleasant temperature, like a summer oasis in the middle of the pounding tempest outside. It was quiet, too, and comfortable. I suddenly remembered how tired I was.

            He was looking at me: probably wondering where I’d come from, or maybe even laughing at the dripping mess I’d become. I wearily turned my head to face him. He wasn’t laughing; He looked slightly puzzled, maybe, but his blue-sky eyes showed concern.

            “Where are you headed?”

            I shrugged. “Just go on your way. I’ll get off sometime.”

            That seemed to puzzle him more, but he shifted gears and looked out the windshield. Thank goodness he wasn’t turning it into an inquiry. He turned his turn signal on to return back to the road, but then looked back to me.

            “Gosh, you’re all wet…” I couldn’t figure out his tone, but I’d understand if he was mad for me ruining his upholstery. I felt like I was toting all of Ullswater around in my coat. His car looked pretty new and I was going to waterlog his nice car. I thought of how to apologize, but I ended up not having to.

            “I’ll bet you’re freezing…” He shifted around, pulling off his own coat. “Why don’t you take off that old thing and put this on?” He held out his coat to me. “We don’t want you to catch pneumonia.”

            I stared. I think I was shocked by his kindness, or maybe just shocked in general. Here was somebody I wasn’t even acquainted with, and he didn’t want me to catch pneumonia.

            He smiled slightly, a comfortable, kind smile, and held his coat out. “Come on, don’t be shy.” His smile closed, but still upturned the corners of his mouth. “I’ll look the other way if you want me to.”

            I kind of laughed a silly, squeaky giggle. He was feeling just as uncomfortable about the whole situation as I, maybe even more so. I untied my coat, unbuttoned it, and tried to pry the sticking, wet cloth from my skin. I accepted his coat and as I put it on, he folded mine nicely and set it in the backseat.

            His fit a bit too largely, but it was warm and comforting and dry. I kept my hands within the long sleeves and crossed my arms, keeping it tight around me. I was surprised at how much comfort and ease those few minutes had already brought me. All it’d been was kindness and a warm coat. Those few minutes had been the nicest moment I’d had in months.

            He pulled back onto the road and continued his travel. I wasn’t sure where he had planned to go, but I hoped that it was far. I wasn’t ever going back.

            I relaxed a little, pulling his coat tightly around me, and turned to look out the window. I couldn’t see much through the thick dark and the torrent of rain. Ahead, the headlights didn’t illuminate much more than wet pavement, mud, grass, and maybe an expanse of fencing or a tidbit of pasture. What a terrible storm to be out in, even in a car. Everything was miserable and cold… I closed my eyes and thought up of where I would have liked to be at that time.

            I dreamed up a thick, knitted sweater paired with my favorite red skirt and a clean pair of stockings. My hands were wrapped around a pleasantly warm cup of tea, and a fire was roaring in the fireplace. The rain made a pleasant pitter-patter on the roof and out on the street and a clocked ticked. Mother was sitting on the couch, a healthy pink coloring her cheeks, also in a warm sweater, reading a book. Father was in a casual yet warm ensemble, sitting beside mother, an arm resting over the back of the couch. Our cat, Snowball, hopped up on my lap and curled up, purring. I closed my eyes and got lost in a dream somewhere, somewhere sunny and happy and warm…

            “What’s your name?” His simple request shattered my imagined destination and I looked to him.

            “What?”

            “Your name. What is it?” He kept his eyes on the road as well as his concentration.

            I brushed some of my wet hair out of my face and looked out the windshield again. “Gloria.”

            He nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Gloria. I’m Graham.”

            I nodded to him in greeting and then leaned back into the seat, my eyelids growing heavy. It was silly how drowsy a little bit of warmth and quiet could make me feel, but after all of the day’s walking, it made some sense.

            He glanced over. “Been out walking all day?”

            I yawned and nodded. “Yes. All day.”

            “Car break down?”

            I shook my head. “No.” I fell quiet and shifted, trying to get comfortable and trying to stay awake.

            “I’m sorry. I’ll stop all the questions and be quiet. You’re probably very tired.”

            I nodded, though I hadn’t caught most of what he’d said. I could understand his curiosity, but I wasn’t in the mood to explain. I had my reasons for leaving, and I didn’t want anybody to try to convince me to return home. There was nothing to say that he would, he seemed quite friendly, but I wanted to play it safe, just in case. Besides, why should it matter where I was going? He was simply giving me a ride.

            Leaning against the door, I gazed out the window at the forever blackness, growing drowsy in the warmth of this stranger’s coat and the lull of the rain. I blinked with fatigue, trying to keep myself awake, but I was growing more and more tired with every mile, and my eyelids finally met. 

Little Girl

Author’s Notes: This is just my little creation story of innocence, nothing romantic just sweet… Hope you like it : )

Little Girl

It was late at night and rain was bucketing down onto the city. A little girl of around five years old was walking through the streets of Knightsbridge. She was wet, frightened and cold. In her left hand she was clutching a teddy bear and in her right and tiny brown suitcase. Her brown hair hung down to her shoulders and her blue eyes were filling with tears.

A few doors up from where the little girl was, a young man of twenty-three was looking out of the window. His dark blonde hair fell to just above his shoulders and his piercing blue eyes were deep in thought of lyrics for a new melody he had just created. While he was scanning the street below he caught sight of the little girl and noticed how frightened she looked. He hurried down the stairs and opened his front door.

“Sweetheart come here!” He yelled through the pelting rain.

The little girl saw him and hurried over to the open door. Tears were streaming down her face as she got wetter and wetter and more frightened by the second. When she reached the open door the young-man quickly shuffled her inside.

Once inside the young-man kneeled down and took off the little girls coat.

“My name is Tony Hicks” he said as he took off the coat, “there’s no need to be afraid I’m here to help you.” he told the little girl in a soft voice. He picked the girl up and carried her, her suitcase and teddy upstairs. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The little girl sniffled and replied in a soft voice, “Heather.”

“Well Heather I am very happy to meet you. I hope you have some warm clothes in that suitcase of yours so we can get you all dried and warm. Then you can tell me how you happened to be wandering the streets of Knightsbrige in the pouring rain.”

Heather allowed Tony to rummage through her tiny suitcase. It did not contain any warm pajamas so Tony told the little one to wait where she was. Her ran upstairs and grabbed a nightshirt  of his own and some socks. ‘I guess this’ll have to do’ he thought to himself. Off he ran back down the stairs and found Heather looking at his collection of guitars. 

“Are these all yours?” she asked in a soft voice.

“Yes they are. What do you think of them” 

“I like them, my Dad has one…” tears welled up in her eyes and she sneezed.

“Come on lets run you a bath and get you warm.” Tony picked her up and carried her to the bathroom. He ran the bath as she rested her wet head on his shoulder. Tony was getting wet too but he didn’t mind, all he cared about was making sure this newly found little Heather was alright.

“Hey wake up sweetie, bath-time” Tony shook his shoulder and gave her a bath, dried her then put his makeshift pajamas on her.

Taking Heather outside to the lounge room he wrapped his little one up warm in a blanket and held her as she started telling him her story…

“My mummy and daddy where yelling about something again and so I ran upstairs to my teddy bear and even my teddy couldn’t do anything. I don’t know why they were arguing like that but they were and I didn’t like it so I packed my suitcase and decided to leave so I wouldn’t have to listen to it anymore. Then I heard silence and it lasted a while so I crept downstairs with my suitcase and teddy and I couldn’t see anyone so I yelled out to mummy and dadda but no one answered me so I looked around the house and saw nobody so I left and then it started to rain and I got lost and now I don’t…” she started to cry.

“There there little one it’s all going to be alright.” He hugged her closely and waited until she had stopped crying to say “How about you stay with me until we find out what’s going on?” 

Little Heather nodded. 

“Do you want to hear a song?”

Tony was met by another nod.

“Ok”, he got up and grabbed his guitar and made sure it was tuned and started playing Pegasus.

Heather listened intently. “Follow me follow see what you see I’ll take you somewhere that you’ve never been, high on a mountain, deep down in the sea to far away lands you can travel with me…” With the soft, sweet lullaby and the beautiful voice of Tony, Heather fell asleep.

On seeing this Tony finished the song and carried her upstairs. He took her to the spare room next to his and tucked her in nice and warm. As her teddy was wet he found an old one of his in a cupboard and tucked it in next to her. Tony kissed his little girl on the forehead and whispered, “Sweet dreams little one.”.