In a post-apocalyptic city, Kit ekes out an existence by tending to her rooftop garden. A rift in time brings her a new friend from the past and something else far more menacing.
You can also listen to this story here, narrated by Ashley Klanac.
In the mornings, I slip out the broken window so anyone still living in this building will not hear me. Footfalls echo in the empty hallway, and since debris blocks the stairwell to the roof, no one climbs to the top anymore.
Except me. But I take the long way.
I slide along the tenth-floor ledge, rough bricks scraping my shoulder blades, heels locked against the building. My fingertips inch from brick face to mortar. It’s this I concentrate on. To think of the fall is to wish for it.
In the mornings, mist hides the city and dampens the stench of rotted wood and flesh. In the mornings, I inhale the scent of damp soil from the rooftop garden and the sharp odor from the volunteer tomato plants. When I was little, I always imagined the plants with tiny flintlock rifles over their shoulders, marching from one garden to the next. I know better now. But as I tug weeds from around their stems, I like to think we’re both fighting a good fight.
This morning, when I pull myself onto the rooftop, my foot strikes a rake. The handle flips up and plops back onto the tarpaper shingles. I freeze, certain that yesterday I left the rake leaning against the stairwell to the floors below. I take a cautious look around.
In the garden itself, a set of footprints, much larger than my own, crosses the expanse. Tiny hairs prickle on the back of my neck, like someone has come from behind and blown a stream of air against my skin. I remain stricken.
By the time the sun touches my face, my feet ache, and my calf muscles knot, so when I do move, my gait is hobbled. I study the outline of the footprints. Some sort of heavy work boot—the depression is deep and the soil crushed. Yet my spindly volunteer tomatoes stand proud, all green except for a faint yellow blush. No one has tugged on a carrot or dug a potato. The soil is moist. The watering can sits on the east side of the garden, not the west, where I left it yesterday. And then, of course, there’s the matter of the displaced rake.
Only when the sun warms the top of my head do I notice them. My heart jolts. I grip the rake, certain I’ll snap the ancient wood in half. There, on the roof’s edge, is a perfect set of fingernails—the press-on kind, that, once upon a time, were advertised on TV. They are such a brilliant red, they make the brickwork around them look dull and dowdy. They are so pristine and lined up so exactly, I’m surprised they’re not attached to some starlet hanging on for dear life, waiting for the man in those heavy work boots to clomp across my garden and rescue her.
I whirl around, certain he’s here to do just that. The roof is empty. A breeze rustles the leaves of the tomato plants. They bow their heavy heads and whisper to each other. They will not tell me what they know.
* * *
All week, I sneak up to the garden earlier and earlier, until there’s a danger I’ll miss the ledge in the dark. Fresh footprints greet me each morning. Mid-week, someone clears the scum from the top of the water in the rain barrel. Weeds gather in wilted piles along the edges of the garden’s cedar container. Most unsettling, every day I find a set of press-on nails in the same spot. Today they glow sparkly pink, glitter catching the early morning light.
Something compels me to search for the starlet. I kneel at the ledge, stretch out a hand. It’s silly, but at the same time, I’d want someone to reach out for me. Today, the sun strikes my face at the same moment my fingers reach the air beyond the ledge. A burst of light blinds me. Wind kicks up dust, and I duck my head.
Warm hands with sharp nails grip my arm. I jerk backward and tumble across the roof. Someone tumbles with me. After the noise and light, all is quiet except our haggard breaths.
“I’m through!” the girl next to me says. “And look! My fingernails. I thought I’d lost them for sure.”
Her clothes flow with her every move. Her hair is tall, so tall, maybe taller than her head—well, at least the bangs are. Brilliant blue is smeared across her eyelids. Dark pink streaks her cheeks. And her lips are as red as my tomatoes should be. I touch my own face, but brick dust and mud can never compare.
“Are you an actress?” I ask.
“What?” She shakes her head, but her hair barely moves. “No, silly. I just live—” Her brow creases and she scans the rooftop. “Well, here, but not here.” Her gaze travels until it reaches the garden. “Oh, how strange. I keep wondering how my grandmother’s garden changes. But it doesn’t. I’m just seeing yours.”
“Thank you for pulling my weeds,” I say.
She laughs. “But then I get in trouble for not pulling my grandmother’s. And I always put my nails there.” She points to the ledge. “So I won’t ruin them. I thought the wind was blowing them away.”
The air shimmers above the nails. Something bright flashes from the space beyond but vanishes before I can even grasp what it might be.
“I’m Shelli, by the way, with an i.” She stands and her clothes flutter, their colors startling, like the blue jays and goldfinches you still sometimes see.
Her feet are tiny, her shoes so clean and bright. They do not have the heavy soles that crisscross my garden and trample the soil.
“I’m Kit,” I say, “with an i.”
Shelli laughs, but as she walks the rooftop’s perimeter, her features grow somber. “This isn’t all like my grandmother said it would be.”
“She’s been here?”
“A long time ago.” Shelli shields her eyes with a hand and peers out over the ledge. “Is this the end of the world?”
“No, unfortunately.”
She scrunches up her face. “The future, then?”
I shrug. That glimmer catches my eye again. I wonder what it is about my rooftop that makes the air do that. I wonder what it is about my rooftop that brings strangers to me.
“I’m from 1999,” she says. “What year is it here?”
Some claim to know the year, but no two claims match. I’ve since stopped caring, so all I do is shake my head.
Shelli leans forward where the ledge is still waist high. “I go to school …” She points. “There.”
I follow her gaze and her finger to the charred remains, where wisps of smoke rise in the morning mist. “I used to go there,” I say.
Her mouth turns down, but she is still so pretty. I want to work in her grandmother’s garden, have shiny, tall hair, and fancy nails—a different color on each finger. I do not want to stay on my rooftop. I do not want to use everything I have to coax tomatoes from the soil. I want to go to a place where hope still lives.
“I don’t know how to bring you back,” she says, as if reading my mind. “I’m not even sure how I got through.”
“That’s okay.” But the words leave my mouth with a sigh.
Her gaze darts from black-streaked buildings to my garden and then to me. “It’s not really okay.”
She’s right, of course, but I don’t have words to tell her that. “I want to show you something,” I say instead and point to the heavy footprints in the garden. At the sight of them, it feels like a boot is crushing my heart. “Someone else is slipping through.”
Shelli kneels at the garden’s edge and traces the impression as if that will tell her what we need to know. She says, “Be careful.” And I think that maybe it has.
Before I can respond, all the air around us is sucked away. I duck my head, bring a hand up to cover my nose and mouth. Soil and dust swirl around me. Grit stings my eyes. Then, all is quiet. Shelli is gone. Only her pink, sparkly nails remain, not clinging to the edge, but at my feet in a little pile. I scoop them up and hold one against my finger.
Oh, so pretty.
* * *
Today, I find the tomatoes crushed, their seeds and pulp spread across the garden, their juice soaking into the soil. I tunnel my fingers beneath the dirt, excavating tiny bits of green flesh in hopes of saving it. My efforts only drive the dirt deeper into what little remains.
I gather the tomatoes anyway. Perhaps with water from the rain barrel, I can rinse the bigger chunks clean—or clean enough. Perhaps …
The slap of the rake handle against tarpaper shingles forces my gaze up. At first, all I see are big, white boots, with heels so enormous, they could smash my largest tomatoes with one step—and probably have. His clothes do not billow. They are sleek and stiff, an exoskeleton that encases him from foot to head. The man before me is not from the past, not like Shelli. If he’s from the future, then I think humanity may be better off among the remains. My gaze darts to the building’s edge and the nails there—a set of brilliant blue. Only today, one nail points toward the rooftop stairwell.
“You don’t belong here,” I say to the man.
His image flickers then solidifies again.
“This isn’t your world.”
More flickering, but he stubbornly stays on my rooftop. Not only that, but he takes a step forward, followed by another.
I dodge his steps, like a mouse out-maneuvering a feral cat. The toe of one boot catches me and sends me flying toward the building’s edge. I roll, palms scraping tarpaper and grit. I grip the ledge, stop my descent, heart thudding against the brick, lungs inhaling dust. When I open my eyes, bright blue nails greet me, pointed toward the stairwell. I scramble to my feet and dash for safety.
Shelli flings open the door and pulls me inside. “Thank God! You’re okay.”
“You too.”
We cling to each other in the shelter of the stairwell.
“He can’t open the door,” she says.
“Did he try?”
Shelli nods and I clutch her tighter.
“What do we do?” she asks.
I shake my head. What can we do? He’s already destroyed my garden. Once the noon sun strikes the rooftop, cowering in the stairwell won’t be an option. We’ll broil in here, and with the stairs blocked, there’s no way down. Perhaps the two of us could rush him, using our combined strength to push him over the ledge.
I open my mouth to voice this idea, but can’t force the words from my throat. So little remains—of my garden, of this world—that I don’t want to take one more life, even one that doesn’t belong here.
In front of us, the man crouches, lifts a handful of tomato and soil to his face. He pushes back his visor and inhales as if it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever smelled. Then, he turns toward us. Sorrow washes across his face. His mouth moves. After a long moment, I piece together his words.
I’m sorry.
Oh, and so am I.
“He’s trapped,” I say to Shelli. “He’s not in this world, or his own, but in between.”
She nods, but her eyes are huge, the beautiful blue around them caked and creased. Dark smears travel down her cheeks. I venture from the stairwell, Shelli gripping my hand.
“You need to get back,” I say to the man. “Right?”
The sorrow fades, and he nods. He steps from the garden, trailing mud and tomato innards. I try not to cringe at the destruction or his approach.
“There must be a way.” I glance toward the now-empty ledge. “Shelli! Your nails! They’re gone.”
I creep forward and take the man by one of his stiff, gloved hands. His fingers swallow mine whole. The safety of the stairwell is too far away; he is too strong. But he trots by my side like a compliant puppy.
“Where, exactly?” I ask Shelli.
She bends over, hair sweeping the bricks. “Here, where this dent is.” She peers at me through the strands of hair. “My grandmother told me to stand here and wish upon a star. Funny how it’s lasted all this time.”
We position the man at the ledge and stand across from him. An urge hits me, like I should salute. Instead I stretch out my hand. A smile lights his face that makes him look like an action hero. He shakes my hand, then Shelli’s.
Then, it’s as if the wind steals him. When the dust settles, speckling my arms and face, nothing remains except for me, the crushed tomatoes, and one of Shelli’s bright blue fingernails.
* * *
Footprints no longer mar my garden. The rooftop’s ledge looks lonely without Shelli’s colorful nails. I may have salvaged a tomato plant. A week has passed, and it seems to have a hold on the soil, if a tenuous one. I am its fiercely protective mother. I spend hours on the roof, chasing away chattering crows, providing sips of water from the rain barrel.
This morning when I crest the rooftop, something bulky sits on the opposite ledge. I creep forward slowly, still on all fours. There, in the spot where Shelli’s nails used to clutch the edge, a basket of tomatoes sits, along with packets of seeds. Beneath those, I uncover a set of press-on nails, the very shade of the tomatoes.
The sun hits the ledge, warming the tomatoes, making their skin glow. The nails dazzle my eyes. Together, they are the color of blood and hope.
And oh, so pretty.
Sometimes a character and her voice arrive in my head and I’m simply there for the dictation. This would be one of those stories.
Filed under Free Fiction Friday, Reading, Stories for 2020
The road to popularity at Fremont High School is paved with rose petals.
Or, to be exact (and I usually am), petals from three-dollar roses.
This year, I have a three-part plan to conquer those roses:
1. Money (Christmas, babysitting, minimum wage from the Sub Shoppe)
2. Handwriting samples (AP World History projects, chemistry lab, Spanish class)
3. Selection of boys (valedictorian, quarterback, swim team captain)
They’re all going to send me a rose on Valentine’s Day—even if they don’t realize it.
The problem? Girls from the cheerleading squad run the rose booth. I must make sure no one sees me take more than a few notecards. But a sweater with big pockets and a little misdirection work wonders. I slip in before school and give Sienna my biggest smile.
“For my best friend,” I say, a lie, of course.
One, that rose is totally for me. Two? Maybe next year at this time, I’ll have a best friend—or any friends, for that matter. First, I must tread the rose-petal path.
“Aw,” Sienna says. “That’s so sweet. Some girls don’t get any roses.”
Not that Sienna would know. She’s never been one of those girls. The thing is, everybody knows that girls buy for each other. It doesn’t make you popular. It doesn’t make guys think you’re hot. All it does is make you look desperate. I will not be that girl. Not anymore.
That night, I neglect calculus in favor of perfecting Marcus Hanson’s blocky boy letters and Toby Preston’s lazy scrawl. In the end, I spend fifty-four dollars for eighteen roses. I can always stash a few in my locker if lugging around so many roses turns out to be too much. On Valentine’s Day, I choose a pink sweater. When I walk into school and see Sienna wearing a similar style in a similar shade, I know it’s perfect.
This day will be perfect.
All morning, roses flood the classrooms. It’s a record sale, the principal announces over the PA system, with the proceeds going to Operation Smile. We are, she tells us, a most generous group of young people. Some more than others, I think.
More roses arrive, but by the time class ends, not a single one is for me. Next class. I’ll practically drown in all the roses. But by lunch, I trudge to the cafeteria empty-handed. Sienna, at the cheerleading table, has a stack of roses—red and pink and creamy white. She plucks one from the pile and hands it to a freshman girl passing by.
Oh, to be Sienna. To have roses to spare.
During chemistry, the collar of my pink fuzzy sweater chokes me. My armpits produce massive amounts of sweat. I blow an easy pop quiz. Then, I have the best thought.
All my roses will arrive during last class! I’ll stagger to my locker under their weight. When I pass Sienna, she’ll give me a secret smile, the sort only shared by girls who struggle under the burden of so many roses.
When the last bell rings, I stay rooted in my chair, convinced there’s been a mistake. Not a single rose! Mrs. Meyer clears her throat, then asks:
“Are you okay?”
I nod, but I’m not okay. I’m out fifty-four dollars. The path to my locker is strewn with other people’s rose petals. My books make my arms ache. I dial the combination, but don’t lift the handle.
“Hey, Emily.”
I turn. Toby Preston stands to one side, pink-cheeked and adorable.
“This is crazy,” he says. “But back in sixth grade, I never gave you this.” He pushes an envelope at me. “It was stupid, because we had to give everyone a valentine, but I didn’t want anyone to know I liked you.”
I hold the valentine like it’s made of spun glass. This is better than a rose.
“Would you like to go somewhere?” he asks. “Coffee shop, maybe?”
Oh! Even better. Who needs roses anyway? I nod and open my locker for my coat. Out spills a rose. Then another. They tumble out, cover the linoleum, bury me up to my ankles.
Toby’s cheeks blaze red. His Adam’s apple bobs once, twice, so hard my throat aches in response.
“I guess coffee’s out of the question,” he says. Before I can stop him, he sprints down the hall.
A custodian helps me clear away the roses. She loans me a pair of work gloves, but the thorns find my skin. One pricks my cheek, and I can’t stop the blood tear that rolls down my face.
“Seen this before,” she says after I shove the last rose to the bottom of the dumpster.
“Really?”
“It happens. Every few years or so.”
“What happens?” I want to know why and what it all means.
Her eyes are kind, but she shrugs. “I think that’s up to you.”
I leave school empty-handed.
A block from home, I spot a little girl at a bus stop. In the center of the road sits a smashed shoebox. Red construction paper hearts flutter in the wind. Tires grind Red Hots and conversation hearts into powder. Her sobs fill the air but do nothing to stop the cars from plowing through her valentines.
“They’re all gone,” she says, “I don’t have any left.”
Neither do I. Then I remember Toby’s valentine. I pull it from my backpack. The wind nearly steals it, so I hang on tightly. Then I wonder if I can let it go.
“What’s that?” the little girl asks.
“It’s yours.” I kneel at her side and hand it to her.
“Oh! It even has my name on it! Right here. It says Emily.”
“See? It was meant for you.”
She skips down the sidewalk, clutching Toby Preston’s valentine to her chest. I turn for home. Only when I reach the front porch, do I feel it.
I am one rose lighter.
The Burden of So Many Roses was first published in Kazka Press as part of their monthly contest. The theme was an undelivered Valentine. And it’s one of those Valentine’s Day stories for when you’re not feeling Valentine’s Day.
I was thrilled when Toasted Cake picked it up for the podcast. Tina’s narration is, as always, amazing.
Miss a story? Check the titles here.
Filed under Free Fiction Friday, Reading, Stories for 2020
So not a blistering pace or anything here, but I did manage two stories this week. If I can keep that going, I’ll be pleased.
I also sent out a slew of stories, some new, some reprints. My submission tracker was looking a little thin.
Not a bad week. Plus, Nothing but the Ghosts is up at Audible (and a bunch of other places as well).
Filed under Audio Books, Coffee & Ghosts, Weekly Writing Check In, Writing
The Official Jo March Writing Tear Picture
I’m on a roll. I wrote another short story this week, revisiting the characters from Knight at the Royal Arms (Pulp Literature Summer 2017: Issue 15).
I’ve missed writing short stories, and I’m going to continue this trend for as long as the ideas keep coming. Also, with the school year (and dance team) about to start, they fit nicely into what is going to be a busy year.
The technical checks are done on the audio for Nothing but the Ghosts. It’s making its way through the audio distribution system and is already popping up in places.
Last week, I added Ghost in the Coffee Machine to the sidebar. Click to listen to Amy’s marvelous narration.
Filed under Weekly Writing Check In, Writing
This week, I finalized the audio for Nothing but the Ghosts. The wonderful people at Findaway Voices are doing their technical checks, and then it’s off into the world.
In writing work, I finished one short story and started on another. I have a couple of notions that I think I want to write before I dive back into a longer project.
Earlier this week, we were all over the place, the Landscape Arboretum, Lake Minnetonka, and downtown Wayzata for a senior picture photo shoot. And it’s a little hard to believe we are gearing up for senior year. I’ve already updated the calendar with dance and school activities.
It’s going to be busy.
Filed under Audio Books, Coffee & Ghosts, Weekly Writing Check In, Writing
Finally, the first season of Coffee and Ghosts is nearly everywhere in audio. There are a few holdouts, but it’s making its way through distribution.
You can find it all over, too. Check your library because you might be able to check it out right away or request it.
In the meantime, you can list to episode one for free.
I can’t say how much I love Amy’s narration. She’s really captured Katy’s voice and the overall feel of the Coffee and Ghosts world. I couldn’t be happier (and season three is coming my way for review in a week or so).
Amazon (Whispersync, get a discount with the free ebook)
Filed under Audio Books, Coffee & Ghosts, Free Fiction Friday
I did a lot of listening this week and made it through the audio for Coffee and Ghosts 2: The Ghost That Got Away.
The narrator, Amy McFadden, has done a fantastic job. I can’t wait for it to make its way through the audio distribution system. This could take a while when you consider that Coffee and Ghosts 1: Must Love Ghosts still isn’t up at Audible.
Otherwise, I’m finishing up a time travel class (writing, not a how-to) and getting ready for my writing retreat at the Iowa Summer Writing Workshop.
Filed under Uncategorized
On Friday, a nice surprise landed in my inbox. The audio for Coffee and Ghosts 2: The Ghost That Got Away is ready for review.
I’m really looking forward to getting the entire series out in audio.
Season 1 is making its way through the distribution system (sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly), but listeners are already discovering it in various library systems. I have to say: I love this pay-per-checkout model.
That’s about it. I’m gearing up for a week of listening (and maybe some writing as well).
Filed under Audio Books, Coffee & Ghosts, Weekly Writing Check In, Writing
Sending you over to Cast of Wonders for my short story The Secret Life of Sleeping Beauty, along with a few other stories that put a new spin on an old tale.
Happy reading (and listening)!
Filed under Audio Books, Free Fiction Friday
Come for the coffee. Stay for the supernatural adventure!
Writing Wrongs 