Nine Story Studios giving story a voice. This is Addison Peacock and you're listening
to The Wicked Library. Warning. The Wicked Library is a horror fiction podcast
created for immature audience. Our stories contain graphic descriptions of pain, murder,
violence, blood, betrayal, and inhumanity. Monsters win, people die,
and hope is often shattered. There is also beauty, heart, catharsis,
and raw emotion. Fear may be deeply personal, but we all share.
If at any time a story takes you to a place too dark, turn
on the lights, press pause or press stop, and always remember that,
unlike in the real world, these nightmares and your participation in them, are
under your control. Welcome back to the Wicked Library, and welcome to season
twelve. This is episode number twelve oh one. I'm Daniel Foitech and I
thank you for listening. It's been a while since I've shared a new story
with you. Ninth Story Studios is recently relocated to the deep dark woods of
Central PA, so I apologize for the delay in getting fresh Wicked tales out
to you all. But now that I'm settled into the ancient mound of Appalachia
where the stars are bright, the woods are dark, and the voices of
ancient things come on the wind. You can expect more regular content. I'm
thrilled to present two Wicked tales as we kick off season twelve. Going forward,
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Now, today we present two dark tales told by Graham Rowitt with custom scores
written by Nico vites of We talk of dreams. Now let's get wicked with
today's first dark and creepy tale one last performance in GiB Town by lamont a
turner. Whose idea was it to go to Gibsonton, Nicole asked, as
Brandon beat his head against the steering wheel with exaggerated angst. Let's go see
the freaks. You said it'll be fun. You said it would have been
fun, he moaned. If you told me your dad's car had an oil
leap before we were already a hundred miles out, you should have told me
you didn't have a car before you asked me out, she shot back,
sounding a lot harsher than she had intended. Brandon waved his middle finger in
her face, grabbed a viny old poncho from the back seat and pulled it
over his head before pushing open the car door. The wind blue rain into
his face as he jumped out and went around to the front of the car
to raise the hood. Nicole saw plumes of smoke drift back to envelope the
car and imagine the sound of rain drops sizzling on the hot engine. Even
with the windows up, she could hear Brandon cursing. The hood went back
down, and a moment later Brandon was back in the driver's seat, reaching
around the seats to retrieve a towel. He rubbed his hands on the towel,
leaving black smudges on the white terry cloth. There's oil all over the
place, he said, from beneath the green hood. I don't think the
engine is fried, but the alternator belt got too slick and came off.
Can't you just put it back, she asked, trying not to sound too
naive. It's all chewed up, he said dejectedly. Besides, the batteries
already dead. Maybe we could get a jump, she said, Hopefully you
see any other cars in the last hour, snapped, We're out in the
sticks in the middle of the night during a thunderstorm. Nobody's stopping for us.
Besides, jump would only get us a few miles before she died again.
We're screwed. Nicole started tapping on her phone while Brandon lit a cigarette.
Where are we, she asked, patting at the smoke. Brandon jabbed
at the button on the door and quietly cursed himself for forgetting the windows had
died with the battery somewhere on Old US forty one, he told her,
opening the door just far enough to toss his cigarette out. Good luck getting
anybody to come out in this mess at this time of night, though,
Can you be more precise? I don't know. We're probably a few miles
from the main highway. Find us on your GPS. She was still trying
to determine their exact location when yellow, flashing lights appeared behind them. A
minute later, knuckles appeared out of the darkness to wrap on Brandon's window.
Brandon and Nicole both jumped. They'd both been looking in their side mirrors and
had seen no one approach. Brandon opened his door a crack and saw a
giant in gray coveralls staring down at him. Broke down, asked the giant,
seemingly unfazed by the raindrops splattering on his bald head. Brandon, spellbound
by the man's thick, asymmetrical features, could only nod with his jutting brow
and a chin that disappeared into a thick bull like neck. The man would
have looked at home in the Prehistoric Man exhibit at the museum, but for
his lack of hair, lacking even eyebrows, he seemed somehow unfinished, like
a Halloween mask, just out of the mold. You picked a bad night.
There was a tornado touched down just a few miles north of here.
Go ahead and put her in neutral. The new folks can go sit in
my cab, he said, jerking a thumb the size of a cucumber at
the flashing lights. Brandon nodded again. He turned the key in the ignition
and shifted the car out of park, before pulling another poncho from the back
seat and dropping it in Nicole's lap. A few minutes later, they were
both in the cab of the Giant's truck, with Nicole sitting on Brandon's lap
in the bucket seat. I thought you said no one would stop to help,
Nicole chided, I'm not sure anyone human did. Did you get a
look at that guy, Brandon asked, pulling back her hood so he could
see her face. I could only see he was big, she responded.
He has to be at least seven feet tall. I almost tripped over his
boot when I got out of the car, Brandon said, I could have
got in it and sailed to China if I put a sail on it.
The guy must have a hell of a time walking upstairs. Despite the rain,
it took the man surprisingly little time to hook up the chains and get
the car onto the bed of the truck. Before Brandon and Nicole could decide
if the monkey skull on the dashboard was real or just a plastic prop,
the man was climbing into the driver's seat. What's wrong with her, he
asked, wrapping a big hand around the shifter. She talks too much and
bites her nails, Brandon quipped, changing his answer to alternator after getting elbowed
in the ribs. I know a good mechanic over in Giptown. You won't
be open for a few hours, but there's an old night diner right across
the street, the giant responded, ignoring the joke. Giptown is that far,
Nicole asked, shifting her weight on Brandon's bony lap. That's what the
locals call gibsonton, Brandon told her. Looks like we'll be making it there
to night, after all. What do you folks want to go there for,
asked the giant, his deep voice expressing genuine puzzlement, as though they
had just told him they wanted to spend the night in a public toilet.
I was wondering the same thing, Nicole said, digging her heel into the
side of Brandon's shin. I heard there's a bar where all the sideshow performers
hang out, Brandon said, giving Nicole a jab in the thigh. I
thought I might try to interview them for an article I'm planning. If you're
looking for freaks, I can take you someplace where there's all kinds of em,
said the giant. It's just a few blocks down from where we're taking
your car. Brandon expressed his enthusiasm for the idea, and then the conversation
died as the driver turned his attention to the road. The headlights barely made
a dent in the blackness, leaving Brandon with only Nicole's weight on his legs
to distract him from the sound of the rain pounding on the roof of the
cab in a constant staccato, like the tapping of a thousand skeletal fingers.
If he had been in his own vehicle, he would have had the radio
at full volume and a cigarette between his lips, but he was merely a
passenger, and the Giant didn't seem to mind the noise. He sat hunched
over the wheel, squinting at the darkness beyond the windshield, while Nicoll's attention
was fixed on him. She studied the man, mesmerized by his ugliness.
The patter on the roof subsided as they drove out of the storm and passed
the sign identifying the border of gibson Ton. The Giant took a detour off
the highway onto a narrow road strangled by the overarching trees. Branches came to
life in the yellow light, strobing atop the truck and clawed at them as
they passed. Weeds reached up from cracks and the pavement to rake the bottom
of the truck as they rolled over them. Brandon wanted that cigarette now more
than ever. What's that up ahead, Nicole asked, drawing Brandon's attention from
the swamps on either side of them. They were coming upon a fence stretched
across the road. As they grew closer, Brandon saw the road widened and
ended just before an iron gate set in the middle of a fence about eight
feet in height. Did you make a wrong turn? Brandon nasked a giant
as the truck slowed to a stop, out ordered the man, opening his
door and jumping out onto the road. Nicole twisted around to search Brandon's face
for some clue as to how she should react, but saw only confusion reflected
in his eyes. Brandon opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off
by Nicole's scream as the passenger door was thrown open and she was yanked from
the cab. Out repeated the giant, reaching back in again to pull Brandon
out. He landed hard on his shoulder, next to Nicole, who was
already scampering to get up and away from the big man. What are you
doing, Brandon shouted, clutching his arm. You said you wanted to talk
to the freaks, replied the giant. Well, here they are. He
stretched out his long arm toward the gate, guiding Brandon's gaze to the rows
of stones behind the iron bars. Brandon tried to rise, but a huge
hand shot out and wrapped around his throat, slamming his head against the side
of the truck. Brandon dreamed he was being stabbed. In the face by
a thousand tiny daggers. Waking, he opened his eyes and immediately raised his
left arm over his face to block the rein. He tried to push himself
up off the ground with his right but couldn't get it to move, so
instead he rolled over on his side to face the road. He was alone.
The wind whistled through the trees, mocking him as he shouted Nicoll's name.
He shouted it again and again, but Nicole did not answer. Finally
managing to get his knees under him, he tried to stand, but a
sharp pain in his head forced him back down. He lay there, panting,
unable to fend off the rain that pelted his face, while waiting for
the pain to subside. As it faded to a dull ache, he rolled
over and crawled to the gates of the cemetery. Pulling himself up on the
bars, He noticed a light off in the distance. He hung there,
squinting at the yellow square of light floating in a sea of black. It
was coming from the window of a fishing camp on the edge of the swamp.
He knew he had to get to that house, but he would have
to cross the cemetery He slowly let go of the gate and tested his legs.
They wobbled a bit, but he could stand, and as long as
he didn't try to move too quickly, the pain in his head was tolerable
enough for him to walk. He tugged on the gate, and it had
started to creak open when he lost his footing and stumbled back. As he
steadied himself, the wind howled and blew the rain back into his face.
The gate flew open, clanging against the fence. Brandon took a deep breath
to clear his head, and then staggered into the cemetery. His feet sank
in the soft earth as he wandered between the stones, heading for the light.
Under other circumstances, he would have been eager to investigate such macabre surroundings,
searching for material for one of his articles on the arcane and outra,
But now all he could think of was finding help. God only knew what
that monster was doing to Nicole. He wondered how long he had been unconscious,
and how far the giant could have gotten. Maybe it was already too
late. The rain slowed, coming in fits now, but the wind was
unrelenting. It pushed back against him striking out on behalf of those whose graves
he trod upon. His head throbbed, and the pain returned in flashes that
blurred his vision and took away his breath. He collapsed on the steps of
a crypt, a few feet from a stone obelisk adorned with bar reliefs of
circus clowns. In the dim light of the distant camp, they seemed to
move, cavorting around the monument, as though performing one last show for him.
He shook his head and looked away, but when he looked back,
expecting to see a static sculpture, he found none. The clowns had vanished.
He walked over and ran his hand down the surface of the smooth stone.
There were no markings other than an inscription at the base, reading,
in memory of those who lost their lives in the Midland Fire of nineteen thirty
two, May they find the joy in the next world that they brought to
others in this one Midland fire. He had heard of it somewhere. He
stared at the inscription, trying to remember, yes, he had read about
it while researching an article on circuses and the Depression era. A circus tent
had gone up in flames as the fire spread. Rather than rushing to safety,
the clowns had continued their performance to calm the children in the audience while
they were led out to safety. By the time the last of the children
were out, it was too late. The tent came down, smothering them
in a blanket of flame. The fire then spread to the stables and the
trailers inhabited by the side show performers, many of whom were not able to
escape due to their physical limitations. Almost fifty performers, as well as two
lions and several horses, died that night. He traced a crack in the
stone with a trembling finger. The stones around him leaned in the tall weeds,
the inscriptions worn away, along with the memory of the people lying beneath
them, lives erased by neglect. Nobody had been here in a very long
time. Brandon fell to his knees and began sobbing like a drunk on his
tenth shot of Bourbon nicole. The pain in his head and numbness in his
arm, the wind and the rain, it was all too much. He
couldn't go any further. He was done. He curled up in the mud
at the base of the monument, the numbness in his arm spreading throughout his
body. Then somebody laughed. Brandon looked up to see a clown standing on
the steps of the crypt. A gust of wind threw muddy water into Brandon's
face and slammed the cemetery gait shut, but the balloons in the clown's hand
did not waver. The clowns laughter grew louder, more manic. Other voices
joined the chorus as shadowy figures stepped out of the darkness. Some were clowns.
Others scurried forward on their hands and loped over the stones, dangling extra
limbs. A thing with no limbs at all flopped in the mud, propelled
by the undulations of its torso. Brandon screamed, and the light in the
distance went out. Brandon awoke with a light in his eyes. Looking past
it, he saw the tow truck driver standing over him. I thought I
killed you, said the giant. Guess your head is harder than I figured.
He clicked off the flashlight and stuffed it into the pocket of his coveralls.
Then he reached down and grabbed Brandon by the shoulders, lifting him up
to stare into his face. What the hell are you screaming about? You
mu have gotten away if you'd kept your trap shut, he said, giving
Brandon a shake before casting him back down. Where did they go? Brandon
muttered, looking about the giant looked around too, and, seeing nothing,
let out a long, mirthless chuckle. Guess I must have scrambled your brains,
he said. Don't worry, you won't have to deal with it much
longer. Brandon watched the giant kick over a tombstone with his oversized boot.
He picked it up and raised it over his head. Brandon covered his face
and waited for the stone to come crashing down. Something snarled and then roared.
It echoed through the cemetery, rattling the gate. A brass urn fell
from a niche in the wall of the crypt, and the weeds bent down
and parted. As the roar grew louder. Brandon lowered his arm to see
the giant, the stone still over his head, had turned to stare at
something approaching from the direction of the road. What the hell it ain't possible,
he shouted, before hurling the stone. It obviously had no effect on
whatever was out there. For the big man turned to run. Brandon leapt
up and ran as well, going as fast as his trembling legs would allow,
weaving around the gravestones. The giant had less luck. He stumbled as
his boots collided with the stones hidden in the tall grass. As Brandon overtook
him, he saw the man go down. The roar was replaced by the
sound of the man's screams as Brandon passed the last graves and found himself on
a gravel path leading to the camp. As he got closer, he saw
the bed of the tow truck jutting out from behind the cabin and knew he
would find no help there. He might, however, find the coal.
Reaching the cabin, he peered in the window, afraid he might find the
giant had accomplices, but the room was empty. A large pot simmered over
the fire in the hearth before a long table. In the light of the
flames, he could see straps hanging over the side, dangling above a large
metal tub. Finding the door unlocked, he crept in, still wary of
the possibility of someone lurking. In the next room, he saw a set
of knives of various sizes arranged neatly on a tray beside the table. The
table itself was metal and had a groove along the edge, with a hole
in the corner over the tub. He stared at the dark stains and the
grooves and the scratches on the surface, and swallowed the bile forcing its way
up his throat. He found the coal tied up on a bed in the
next room, unconscious but alive. The cell phones ill in her pocket had
just enough power left to call the police. Brandon watched the workman he had
hired put the new cemetery gate in place. Behind him, another crew was
replacing the stones in the newly mode yard, straightening them after cleaning them up,
scraping away years of mold to give names back to those resting below them.
In some cases, records had been consulted and new stones were erected.
Brandon's account of his escape from the man the press had dubbed the Cannibal Killer
had become a best seller, resulting in a fortune in book sales and a
lucrative series of lectures. The people buried in the cemetery had saved him,
putting on one last performance in an effort to spur him on and then saving
him from the certain death at the hands of the giant after their efforts to
revive him had failed. Keeping their memory alive was the least he could do.
As for the giant, all that was ever found of him was a
foot still lodged in an oversized boot. Nobody was able to identify for certain
the animal that had gnawed that foot off, but Brandon was certain if the
tooth marks had been properly examined by someone with the proper experience, it would
be revealed that the giant had been killed by a lion. Up next,
we dig deep into the darkness with the quiet ones intent on nurturing the most
delectable soil. By TM Morgan. I leaned back on the grass and watch
them. A few were overalls. One guy walks by wearing a bear skin
smock and nothing else, his white hairy ass exposed when he passes. Some
carry pails of dark soil, like my dad. I bet none have ever
been near a farm. I feel the urge to grab one and shake sense
into them, but they are bedazzled. The mold has turned them into these
strange agrarians. It's obviously a lot more complicated than that. But the frustration
is hard to stifle, or it's not frustration at all, but fear.
Near By, a man and woman, each clothed in dirty jeans, t
shirts and green kitchen aprons marked with whole foods in white letters, tidy a
spot they've dug and filled with potting soil. A wheelbarrow rests to their side,
a worn shovel leaned against that. The mound of darker soil bumps up
from the grass. They rest their weight on their tibia's knees bent and gaze
in reverence at their creation. I see no seedling. Maybe they've only begun
to carry out their plan. The woman is young, pretty dirty, blonde
hair freckles. Hard to say if she knew the guy before this, or
if they became enamored of the same spot. On the way back to the
office, I stop at a corner store for some smokes. Better'll watch out,
the clerk says in his thick New England accent, handing me the pack.
They say, the molds got into the tobacco crops. Yeah, thanks,
I say. The thing is, I know the risks just like everyone
else. Not that it will matter much soon enough. Besides, cigarettes are
making a comeback outside, leaned against his bodega wall, I taste the sweet
relief of the tobacco leaves, letting the smoke swirl in my mouth, before
inhaling all the way down. There's something thrilling about that tartness, even more
so than the nicotine. A man strolls past me with podding soil caked to
his face as if he had been eating it, and nods as my cloud
of smoke drifts into him. His hands are heavy with dirt, too,
dark half rings under the finger nail tips, while the nails themselves are nearly
black with the mold under the surface. I take my time walking home.
The weather is perfect, such a blue sky, lots of sun, a
touch of breeze. The sidewalks are full. Kids ride their bikes and run
play ball. A grown man does somersaults in the grass at Procter Park.
This is the first stage, which some people have remained at with no further
symptoms, not yet anyway. It includes a rejuvenation of what people have been
calling loving nature, akin to loving kindness. If this were the only way
it affected us, we might call it a silver lining. But it is
not, and we do not at my building. I find the three tailor
brothers there used to be four, passing a basketball to each other in front
of the stoop bounce pass, quick throw, too high into the street.
An oncoming tesla quickly slows and stops, the driver asleep seth The oldest boy,
johns after the ball, and the car drives itself off when he's clear.
Hey, mister Dallat, they say nearly in Unison, boys, how's
your mom? Josie Taylor has had sad eyes whenever I've seen her in the
past week. Irises like black cups of coffee. She's on the phone,
says, Reggie, your dad again. It's not the sort of assumptive thing
I'd ever say to her mom, But the boys don't notice. Don't know?
He says, she's crying, so probably. I shrug, hiding the
concern. The boys go back to passing the ball, and I slip up
the steps. The building foyer smells musty, not a good sign. I'd
call the landlord about it, but he never did anything, even in the
best of times. At the third floor hallway, I put an ear to
the tailor door, complete silence. The urge to knock is so strong that
I clench my fist. My intentions are impure. I'm thinking about taking her
in my arms and kissing her. I head back up the next flight to
my fourth floor apartment. Cable news is once again dominated by angry talking heads.
That hasn't changed through this slow moving apocalypse. For some reason, the
primary reaction I have when people discuss it is shame. I want to hide
from it, and wherever I turn, it's there. So I fill myself
with the idea that though everything is fucked up, I can make the world
small, as tiny as the crevice in cupped hands. Yes, the threat
is real, an older blond woman shouts, but the crazed reaction of Democrats
is just another of their socialist attacks on capitalism. Her eyes bug out so
weirdly that I think she must be on acid. The liberals on the panel
jerked back in full horror. This isn't global warming, Lanna, one of
them, a young Latina, says drolly, not realizing she's just unintentionally shit
on global warming. And older man is wearing a straw hat and overalls on
otherwise bare shoulders. Maybe they needed a token Moldy, but he looks ridiculous.
A short length of hay even juts from the corner of his mouth.
I change the channel before more shouting erupts. Discovery has a show about the
meteor and the scientists who first investigated it, poor bastards. After a commercial
break, they display projections for the fate of humanity. The curved graph bends
sharply upward, its peak, coinciding with a date within the next two months.
I turn off the TV. Two snowbirds tweet in the tree next to
my kitchen window. The little kitchenette table for two pushes against the low frame
a rusted fire escape just beyond. I watched the white breasted song lings hop
from branch to branch and wonder if birds have empathy, and decide this is
doubtful. My cell vibrates Mom. I let her go to voicemail. Last
we talked, Dad had taken to sleeping on his dirt pile. I quickly
stream some music. It shuffles to my classical channel and starts right off with
Debussy's Prelude to the Afternoon of a Fawn. It transports me far and deep,
until I imagine I'm looking through the eyes of one of the birds.
The ground glows red with squiggly lines, which I realize are the heat signatures
of worms burrowing through the top soil. Wind currants rustle the leaves. The
scent of pollen is overpowering. The piece ends so softly that I linger in
my meditative state. My tea kettle's whistle alerts me back i'd forgotten. I
turned on the burner, camomile tea made. I grasped the cup with both
hands to feel the warmth. The brown spotches or my thumbnails are right in
my face. Sip turned to look outside. I need a lemon wage for
this tea. More music and meditation, another cup of tea. After my
heart beat so fast, I can't help but focus on its intense pulse.
The birds, I think, and the wind, the pollen and bees seeds
and those curling sprouts. I put my tea cup in the sink and drop
the lemon wage into the coffee can on the counter. A peek inside the
growing heap will be a good start to my compost. Mom coughs rather than
cries. It's an involuntary reaction she's always had through the phone, though it's
hard to tell the difference. James, why can't you come home? I
gulp down whatever. My first thought is, no planes are flying, Mom.
I can't drive across the country. It would take me weeks. Gas
stations are closing. It's not like it used to be. What about a
bus? Sarah Watkins daughter took a bus home from Chicago. Do you need
money? I can wire some to you. Wire some money. I wonder
if banks still do that. On the street below, the tailor boys are
screaming, not in a fighting way, but in a pubescent boy adhd way.
Their easy routiness makes me smile, though I'm trying to be distracted.
No money, Mom, Look I'm in Boston. The bus would take weeks
too. Any driving would be risky. I wish I could come. I
know you need my help with Dad. Her sigh nearly breaks me. It
points an accusing finger at me. I understand, to be honest, it
won't last another week anyway. The silence carries a heavyweight. I want to
talk to dad. No, what I want is to hold his hand,
look in his eyes, and shake him. Mom slouches at her kitchen table,
without her even speaking. I can picture it, Mom, I love
you. I'll try to figure something out. She pauses these long silences from
her are unusual. Her overeager nervousness always has her mouth moving, filling every
empty space. I taste dirt, James, as soon as I wake up
in the morning, like during the night, someone has dribbled it into my
mouth. She starts to cry quietly. My own tongue has tasted like it's
slimed with mud for the last few days. It's made eating a chore rather
than a pleasure. Have you tried planting your teeth? What she says incredulously
brushing. I'm to snap back, realizing my slip. Brushing your teeth.
That should help. Another excruciating pause. I wonder if she's blanking out as
well. The two of us grasping in the dark for each other, three
thousand miles apart, and our words carried on digital currents. Such a long
break in conversation an emptiness akin to listening to the wind. Mom, I
love you too. Go on now, I've taken up too much of your
time. Before I can answer, she calls out, Bruce, no,
no, don't lay in it, please, dear come. The line cuts
off. It's like reaching from a boat edge to a drowning person, only
to watch them disappear into the waves. Calling back would do no good.
Mom has carried the curse of empathy her whole life, and she's decided to
let me be, to let each of us be. Around ten o'clock and
knock rattles my door, not loud, not belligerent, but timid, like
tree limbs brushing against the side of a house. In the peep hole.
Josie Taylor bites her lip and tries not to stare directly ahead, and takes
several deep breaths and open the door. She wears a white sleeveless blouse with
a rounded black collar. Tight jeans grip her legs all the way to the
ankles. Her head bends down so that her black hair hides her face.
My gut tightens and then releases fast in spasms. James, I swallow hard,
Josie, do you want to come in? She hesitates, though with
obvious agitated energy bustling through her Yes. I let her go first down the
short hallway to the living room. My apartment isn't much. Kitchen opposite the
front door, short all tiny bathroom, living room, bedroom. My furniture
is an accumulation of things inherited and purchased items made of thin fabric over cheap
wood. She takes the same spot on the couch she did the last time
she was here, and I plopped beside her as I did before. Listen,
she says, glancing up with those fathomless eyes. I've missed you.
I'm sorry I haven't responded. I understand. She shakes her head. No,
you don't, especially with everything going on. It was cruel of me.
I said things in the heat of the moment that I know gave you
a different impression. It's just you don't need to explain. I take her
hand. Her fingernails show brown streaks underneath them. I know for a fact
they weren't there the week before when my lips kissed her finger tips. It
occurs to me that one of us might have infected the other, but that
doesn't bother me. The mold is in everything now. One way or another,
it'll get all of us. I came to ask you something, though
your opinion, sure, anything, I say, Then she immediately begins to
cry. I squeeze her hand so soft, like a bundle of moss.
I still have him in the apartment. I wanted to know if I should
take him somewhere else outside. I guess what does Jimmy think? It still
feels awkward to say her husband's name out loud. Jimmy can't face it.
He won't travel back here. He says, it's too difficult, that the
interstates are in bad shape. I said, but these are your sons.
I think maybe he doesn't have long himself. I nod. Don't reveal my
own shame at using the same excuses. That's hard, then, could I
see, Ben? Would you allow that? A shiver runs down her arm
and transfers to me. It's a kinetic shock, like when someone has shuffled
across carpet and pushed out their finger, except this is more a slow wave,
sensual, almost communication of a kind. We both sensed the connection.
Both see the brown spotches under our nails shift and swirl. What's going to
happen to my boys? What? James, I've no one to give them
to. Do you understand? I was going to ask you? We embrace?
I would say, I let her sob on my shoulder, but I'm
doing plenty myself. Her neck bend so gracefully, lilting soft. The scent
of lavender wafts from her hair, her body heat flames against my cheek.
We'll figure something out. Let's see what we can do about Ben. I
stand and lead her. Rentant weight fights me, but only slightly. It
is less hesitation than weariness. Out my door, down the stairs, the
landing's bulb of fazing with a tense strobe, a mouse skittering in its magical
way down what must be giant steps. Thank you, she says when we
are at her door. It is not so much a thank you as a
sigh of relief. What are the boys doing in bed? Despite appearances?
I manage to be a good mom. I kiss her. There's little passion
in it, more come passion. It soothes both of us, like something
needing to be done and put out of the way. She slides in her
key a gentle click. Where inside her layout mimics mine, but her furnishings
are one economic class higher foe Leather tables that don't wabble, bookshelves that hold
actual books rather than junk. She's right, she has been a good mom
despite everything. Her apartment is tidy and even inviting the brothers think the youngest
Ben went with their dad to visit his family. Her world is a shambles.
It's them. She's still the best mom in here, she says.
The one difference in her apartment compared to mine is a second bedroom to the
left of the living room. The boys must share a bedroom. I've never
seen her bedroom, and being led in this way is comfortably intimate. Once
inside that sanctuary, I'm happy to find it's packed with personality. A thin
bed cover shows a woman in medication, each of her chakra points glowing a
different color. Beads hang on the wall as a substitute to a headboard for
the bed. Three lava lamps bubble and cycle through different colors. Bookshelves otherwise
fill every wall, crammed with books, incense burners, wooden and bronze sculptures,
smiling cement buddhas as book ends. The smell isnog, chompa and sage.
On the open window's ledge, a foot tall plant grows from a pot,
plain looking with several tendrils of thin green leaves. It is not any
kind of house plant. That's him, She points at the plant. I
suspect Ben gets a lot of sunlight in this east facing window, and that
he will outgrow that pot quickly tears fill the edges of my eyes. I
hope the transition wasn't painful. The news keeps saying it's not. But how
would the doctors know. The stages from flesh and blubber to cellulose and chloroplasts
don't allow the victim any detailed narration. At that point, a gelatinous cocoon
has wrapped them. I release her hand and walked to the window sill,
putting out a finger to stroke one of Ben's leaves. Oh no, she
moves quickly to grab my wrist. He's poisoned. Sumac. The image of
her peeling away the layers of the shriveled cocoon to find the sapling inside,
and then fill the pot with soil and gently mounded over his roots. It's
too much to think that she's been looking at him as she falls asleep and
then wakes again. Each day we embrace like a couple beside their infant's crib.
Tomorrow it's all I can manage to say, do you want to sleep
here? A wave of shame again. It's made me at hadn't heard about
that one in all the reports. She grasps my hands again, that current
between us. Just sleep, Let me curl into you. I'm gone before
the boys wait for school. How and why school still goes on as a
mystery to me, Though I still go to work, well, did go
to work starting today. There isn't much sense in it anymore. Josie arrives
at my door with Ben. Once they're gone, I make coffee. Ben
sits between us atop my little kitchenette. I can see why she smiles rather
than cries in his presence. It's like a wave of energy emanates, as
if he's still there somehow. I pull up the text message my mom sent
early this morning and show it to Josie. She gasps, is that your
dad? I work up half smile. Yes, I'm not sure where mom
got that glass case. It reminds me of the one from Beauty and the
Beast. Josie actually laughs at that, right the cursed rose. She hands
me back the phone. I take another look at the picture, A stiff
dandelion head, thick with puffed seeds. I can make out my mother's reflection
in the curved glass phone pushed close. You must have opened in the night
and half buried himself in his mound in the yard. He did her a
favor she says, such innocence in her face. I again picture her pulling
apart Ben's cocoon to plant his seedling. Are you okay? Funny? Since
I saw the text, I'm relieved just that Mom's alone. Now I feel
like I should be upset about that us how to take care of herself.
Her tone implies more hope than certainty. We take our time with the coffee,
no rush, another sunny day, blue as an ocean above us,
the song lings dance, and the tree again. Once we decide to leave,
I carry Ben, and once we reach the store, we switch so
that I can carry the shovel and bag of potting soil we've purchased. Her
choice is de Laney Park. Even though it's a half hour walk, it
passes by in an instant. Suddenly we're crossing within the line of trees,
taking careful steps through the undergrowth, and making our way to a little clearing
with ample sun. Do you mind digging? I take the shovel. Soon
we're bent over Ben's spot, each patting at the mound. It's so soothing,
that feel of cool soil. The important part is to craft the perfect
shape. When my hands are thick with wet, black dirt. I wipe
them on my t shirt. Josie chooses her pants. We only used a
third of the bag. We should make another mound, she says, excitedly.
I can only smile because she's right. I dig another round hole.
She pours the soil in carefully. That sun is perfect directly overhead, now
as warm as the womb. When she starts patting down the dome of soil,
I kneel and help our shadows shift around us, even though no time
seems to pass. Each time I touched the dirt, I stopped to admire
the work. Then must touch it again. A worm wriggles through the grass
near my leg as delicately as possible, with my fingers barely grazing its flesh.
I pinch it up, scoop a cubby into the soil, place it
inside, and move over the top. That is so beautiful, James,
Yes, I think it really is. Thank you for listening to episode number
twelve oh one. Today's authors were lamont A Turner with his tale One Last
Performance in GiB Town, and Tim Morgan with his tale The Quiet Ones intent
on nurturing the most delectable soil. Today's stories were told by Graham Rowitt.
I'm Daniel Foytek and I've been your host today. If you'd like to find
out more about my work, you can check out ninth Story dot com,
Victoria'slift dot com, or follow me on Twitter at Defoytech. Our resident composer
and executive producer is Nicovites of We Talk of Dreams. Artwork for today's episode
was created by Greg Schaefer. Our producers are Meg Williams and Daniel Foytech.
To find out more about The Wicked Library and our other shows, visit the
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