The experimental collaboration with J.F. Juzwick continues in this post with chapter 3 of A Little R and R. To read chapters 1 and 2 click the links below.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
A LITTLE R AND R
CHAPTER 3
I could hardly believe that I was more or less back where I started. Alone, isolated and with just George's shot gun for company the cabin did not feel like a great place to be.
On the plus side the storm had passed and George's SUV had made quick work of clearing the fallen tree off the track during the journey back from the scene of Slick's demise. Lifting up the telephone handset and immediately hearing the tone confirmed that service had been resumed. However, my sorry looking drowned cell remained inoperable.
I stood outside the cabin's front door and took in the surroundings. A blustery wind made me shiver as I looked through the break in the trees where the track entered the clearing. In the far distance beyond an expanse of pine forest I could see down to the coast, the straits and the mainland beyond. The ferry, a distant toy boat surrounded by waves capped with white horses, was sailing away from Snug Cove. Beyond the ferry I could see another vessel, perhaps something military, on a different course but it was too far away to make out any meaningful detail.
Although the sky had cleared to reveal a cloudless blue I was in shade and quickly driven back indoors by the cold. I found myself drawn to the utility room off the kitchen. The loose panel in the ceiling looked the same as I had left it. Once again two fingers easily prised it free. This time, however, there was no package taped to the rafter.
I sat down in the swivel chair by George's desk. It wasn't yet midday but I decided not to be precious about whether it was too early to help myself to the Jack Daniels.
Had I imagined the bizarre phone conversation? Did the cocaine really exist? I was beginning to feel like the previous night was all a bad dream. The sequence of events played out in my mind like a film. "Come on Frank, pull yourself together," I said out loud. It was all real and I knew I was in serious danger. Whether George was involved or not someone had killed Slick. Whatever it was the petty thief had known it would be safe to assume the killer would not want to take any chances on me knowing too much as well.
There seemed to be just two logical possibilities in relation to the whereabouts of the coke. Either the killer had made it to the cabin and recovered it while my brother and I were busy with the police or George had sneaked it out in front of me. As I mulled this over I opened a desk drawer. I wasn't looking for anything in particular but it felt like I needed to get to know George a little better. There, in a neat row, was a series of ring binder folders. Identical, they each had the imprint of the Bank of Montreal on the spine. I guessed they contained statements. Why did he keep them at his vacation retreat? If I knew George half as well as I thought I did the most recent would be the furthest to the right. Sure enough, on turning to the last page I found the latest balance in a savings account. It was in excess of a million Canadian dollars. Not bad for a career civil servant. Perhaps I didn't know my brother at all.
On the wall above the desk were a number of photos. They were mostly of yachts. George has a big thing for messing about on the water. Off towards one side at the top was a picture that grabbed my attention. It appeared to be of a hunting party. All told there were a dozen people in the shot. A little separate to the main group three people stood together. The two guys were recognisably George and Danny. The third was a woman. She was about the same age as George and good looking. Could this be Janine? She and Danny were facing the camera. George was staring at her.
Further along the wall there was another small picture. This one had just the three of them together, all smiling at the camera. George and Danny were dressed in their Coastguard gear. The female was in the uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
The desktop was tidy, just as you would expect with George. Lined up at the back were some neatly labelled box files. I opened the one marked 'Maps'. It was immediately apparent George kept a comprehensive selection covering British Columbia. Spreading a topographical chart of Bowen Island on the desk I studied my location. I was grateful to George for marking his own cabin with a highlighter. Using the same pen he had also traced a meandering path down through the woods from the cabin to the coast. It went in more or less the opposite direction to Snug Cove and seemed to terminate at a small inlet about five miles away. The presence of a jetty was marked. I couldn't rationalise why but I felt my PI's radar pointing in that direction.
My thoughts turned back to the killer. If he had made a mistake when hitting Slick he would quickly realise. I knew I was a sitting duck at the cabin. If I had to be a target I preferred to be of the moving variety. Time, I decided, to get some kit together and make another move.
I didn't want to get lost in the woods again. The vehicular access track was the only way back to the ferry terminal. It would be easy for someone to lie in wait in the trees and pick me off somewhere between the cabin and Snug Cove. The only other option was the path to the inlet. I decided to take the gamble that the killer was working alone and would not risk me getting away via the main track because he was covering that path.
Two hours or so later I was at sea level and approaching the inlet. The walk downhill from the cabin had been uneventful. I might even have felt it had been a pleasure but for fretting about George. Inexorably, I was running out of excuses or innocent explanations as to why he had become embroiled in something that was both big and very wrong.
In the lee of the hillside the inlet was sheltered from the bitter wind. As I emerged from the trees the view was initially obscured by a large boat house. As the angle changed I could see the jetty jutting out into the dappled water. There was a yacht moored on the landward side. I'm no expert but I estimated it must have been at least 30 feet long and looked both new and expensive. This was unexpected. Taking the shot gun off my shoulder I approached cautiously.
The boat house was locked up. I looked through a dusty window. From the little light that penetrated it seemed there was no sign of life.
I carried on down the jetty to where the yacht was moored. There was no indication that anyone was aboard. I stepped over the safety wire and on to the deck. Having clambered down into the cockpit I then tried the door to the saloon. It was unlocked. Inside I flipped a light switch. The 12 volts circuit was working. A charged leisure battery meant the yacht had seen recent use but, I surmised, surely not during the storm.
This could be my means to slip away from Bowen Island unseen but first, I decided, I needed to check it out thoroughly. I went to the forward cabin. The two bunks in the bow were covered by a mess of sails. Whoever had berthed the boat had seemingly dropped them down through the deck hatch and not bothered to put them away. I pulled the sails into the saloon and lifted the cushions off one of the bunks. In the stowage underneath there were a dozen football sized packages. The similarity to the one I had found secreted in the cabin was striking. I had no doubt about what they must contain.
There had been no real attempt to conceal the cocaine on the yacht. The person who put them there was not expecting the attention of the authorities. If George was involved with the transportation of cocaine did he see himself as having some kind of immunity from the police or Coastguard when at sea? How could my own brother have access to an expensive boat without me knowing about it? Probably, I thought, for the same reason I was not aware of his millionaire status.
Were there more drugs on board? I searched the storage in the saloon. There was nothing out of the ordinary. I ducked down into the low corridor that passed under the cockpit and made my way into the aft cabin. In the dim natural light entering through two small portholes I could see there was a double bunk with a pile of bedding on it.
I flicked the light on. There was more than just untidy bedding. A body was stretched out diagonally across the large bunk and partially concealed by a duvet. The face wasn't visible because the head was pitched back over the edge furthest from me. With deepening foreboding I moved round the perimeter of the bunk. As the angle changed I could see the chest and abdomen were a complete mess. It looked like both barrels of a shotgun had been discharged at close quarters. I carried on to where I could see the head. My recognition of the face was certain. It was Danny.
Back out on deck I strove to keep it together as I gasped in the fresh air. I thought I was going to be sick and held on to a railing as I looked down at the water. The distinctive thrum of a powerful diesel engine penetrated my consciousness. I turned my head and saw a Coastguard cutter rounding the entrance to the inlet.
My first thought was that George may be on board. I then realised that if he wasn't my situation did not look so great. I was standing on the deck of a yacht containing a large quantity of cocaine and a dead Coast Guard officer. Bearing in mind the nature of Danny's wounds, George's shot gun suddenly felt very heavy.
Saturday 29 September 2012
Thursday 27 September 2012
Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 97
This week's challenge from Flannery Alden:-
Gray and Gold, by John Rogers Cox
"This week’s prompt is my favorite painting, that you can see at the top. It lives at the Cleveland Museum of Art, tucked off to the side of the modern art section, near the coat racks. Every time I go there, I seek it out and ponder it longer than anything else there. It’s captivating to me and suggests so many possibilities.
I’d like you to use it as an inspiration for a story and I’d like your story to feature this particular crossroads as a setting. Are you meeting someone? The devil, perhaps? Have you been walking aimlessly down a country lane and found yourself here, not sure which way to go?
Take a few moments. Absorb the scene and then decide to go down the write path."
HOMECOMING
As the plane touched down at Cleveland-Hopkins 15 years suddenly felt like a long time to have been away. I had got on with a busy life. Time had passed at a pace I hardly noticed in the hurly-burly but coming back home for the first time after such an interval put things into perspective.
Aunt Clara allowed the tears to flow freely down her cheeks when she smothered me in a huge embrace at the arrivals exit. "Goddammit, I wasn't going to cry," Clara said as she dabbed her eyes. Uncle Josh gave me a firm handshake and looked embarrassed as he shuffled from foot to foot. Perhaps this first meeting of my homecoming was too public for his sensibilities.
My aunt and uncle drove me from the airport to their house. I was seated in the back of the car, just as I had so very often as a boy. We passed familiar landmarks. Aunt Clara filled me in with a steady commentary on the changes to Cleveland I would encounter. Uncle Josh maintained an almost unbroken silence as he drove. Every so often Clara would seek his agreement on some point of geographical interest and he would respond with a firm nod. Josh always had been the silent type.
The first few hours back at the old house passed in a whirl of renewing acquaintances. A constant stream of cousins and neighbours progressed in and out of the front door. I was polite but found I had little to say to any of them. They asked what I was doing with myself these days. Fairly bland, perfunctory answers seemed to keep them happy. Mostly, they just wanted to tell me about their own lives. I realised that I had moved on in more than just the physical sense of the phrase.
That evening I found myself alone in the yard lighting a cigarette. It was good to have some time to myself. After a couple of minutes contemplating the dark I became aware that Uncle Josh was standing by my side. I had no idea how long he had been there before noticing. We were both comfortable with the silence.
"It's great to see you and Aunt Clara looking so well Uncle Josh," I said, stubbing out my cigarette at the same time.
"Oh, you know how it is," Uncle Josh said. He paused then continued, "We keep going but we ain't getting any younger either."
"I know it's a long time but I really have missed you two."
There was no response.
"Looking back now, Uncle Josh, I do appreciate everything you and Aunt Clara did for me. Taking me in like that. With no children of your own it must have been a shock to the system to suddenly have a nine year old kid taking up space."
"There was never any question for us. It was just something we had to do."
"You know I've still no recollection of what happened."
Uncle Josh looked down, turned and started towards the kitchen door. Pausing, he said, "Probably best to just let it go, Sam," and continued indoors.
At no other time did Mom and Dad get mentioned during that first day back in Cleveland. Everyone knew that I came to live with my mother's brother and his wife after the disappearance. I guess, though, nobody wanted to rake over the painful past. It was more comfortable to steer away from the tragedy and concentrate on the trivia of the here and now.
By the second day Aunt Clara could probably sense that I would benefit from a change of scene. Uncle Josh, who was way past a normal retirement age, had gone to work. My aunt suddenly announced that I needed to be re-acquainted with the 'sights' of Cleveland and drove me into the city centre.
After a late morning caffeine fix at Starbucks I expressed a wish to call in at the Case Western Reserve University Bookstore. It was an old haunt that I genuinely wanted to see again. When we came out my aunt said that in all her years living in the city she had never visited the Cleveland Museum of Art. It was close by. I agreed it would be a good idea to go. It would placate Clara and provide a subject of conversation other than meaningless small talk.
I dimly remembered visiting the museum during the course of, perhaps, one school trip. The lay-out was unfamiliar. I was happy to meander in an unplanned way. Eventually we came to the modern art section. There, near the coat hooks, was a painting called Gray and Gold.
The shock caused by what I saw was visceral and instantaneous. I found myself rooted to the spot and utterly transfixed by the picture. Waves of panic started to surge through me and then I was nearly overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. The light in my peripheral vision started to fade. For a moment there was nothing but the intensity of the painting then that, too, dimmed. Eventually, there was only blackness.
When I came to I was aware there was a huddle of people - museum staff and members of the public - standing round me. I was flat on my back in the modern art gallery. I heard Aunt Clara's voice and tried to focus in the direction it came from.
"Oh Lord, Sam, are you alright? What came over you?"
Paramedics gently pushed her aside and tended to me. Full consciousness slowly returned. After a series of tests and questions satisfied them I would be alright Aunt Clara was permitted to take me home.
During the drive back to the house recollection started to surface. I realised that when I had looked at Gray and Gold snatches of memory of what happened the day my parents disappeared were triggered for the first time.
I was standing alone at the cross-roads portrayed in the painting. We had been in a car. Something was wrong with it. We pulled over and we all got out. A light appeared. It seemed to be all around me. Then Mom and Dad were gone. I stood there, shouting at the brooding clouds and calling for them to come back.
“Aunt Clara,” I said, “Uncle Josh was there wasn’t he? The day Mom and Dad disappeared.”
“Yes Sam, he found you. He arrived at the cross-roads in his truck and saw you there alone. It was a squally day and you had your waterproofs on. He said you were screaming at the storm clouds.”
“Why doesn't he talk about it?”
“Oh Sam, it's been so hard for him. He’s a black and white kind of a guy who has had to come to terms with something unexplainable and extraordinary. He lost a sister he was close to in circumstances he can’t fathom. You were the only one left behind and he doesn’t know why.”
The rest of my stay in Cleveland passed without incident or further reference to the loss of my parents. I felt relaxed about realising how deeply I loved my aunt and uncle. The need to get away from Cleveland 15 years ago had been overwhelming. Then I had been confused about my past and haunted by self-doubt brought on by the amnesia. Now I had the beginnings of recollection. I still had no understanding of how or where my parents had been taken but, for the first time in my life, I had the feeling that I was at the beginning of a journey of discovery.
On the day of departure Aunt Clara and Uncle Josh drove me to the airport. They agreed to stop off at the Cleveland Museum of Art on the way. I made my way quickly to the modern art gallery while they waited in the car.
I stood in front of Gray and Gold. There was no physical shock but, once more, I found myself transfixed. This time, however, it was not a flood of memories that induced my reaction. It was the appearance of a small figure in the painting itself. A child in rain gear was standing at the cross-roads staring towards the clouds and surrounded by luminescence.
It came to me then. I was the portal.
Gray and Gold, by John Rogers Cox
"This week’s prompt is my favorite painting, that you can see at the top. It lives at the Cleveland Museum of Art, tucked off to the side of the modern art section, near the coat racks. Every time I go there, I seek it out and ponder it longer than anything else there. It’s captivating to me and suggests so many possibilities.
I’d like you to use it as an inspiration for a story and I’d like your story to feature this particular crossroads as a setting. Are you meeting someone? The devil, perhaps? Have you been walking aimlessly down a country lane and found yourself here, not sure which way to go?
Take a few moments. Absorb the scene and then decide to go down the write path."
HOMECOMING
As the plane touched down at Cleveland-Hopkins 15 years suddenly felt like a long time to have been away. I had got on with a busy life. Time had passed at a pace I hardly noticed in the hurly-burly but coming back home for the first time after such an interval put things into perspective.
Aunt Clara allowed the tears to flow freely down her cheeks when she smothered me in a huge embrace at the arrivals exit. "Goddammit, I wasn't going to cry," Clara said as she dabbed her eyes. Uncle Josh gave me a firm handshake and looked embarrassed as he shuffled from foot to foot. Perhaps this first meeting of my homecoming was too public for his sensibilities.
My aunt and uncle drove me from the airport to their house. I was seated in the back of the car, just as I had so very often as a boy. We passed familiar landmarks. Aunt Clara filled me in with a steady commentary on the changes to Cleveland I would encounter. Uncle Josh maintained an almost unbroken silence as he drove. Every so often Clara would seek his agreement on some point of geographical interest and he would respond with a firm nod. Josh always had been the silent type.
The first few hours back at the old house passed in a whirl of renewing acquaintances. A constant stream of cousins and neighbours progressed in and out of the front door. I was polite but found I had little to say to any of them. They asked what I was doing with myself these days. Fairly bland, perfunctory answers seemed to keep them happy. Mostly, they just wanted to tell me about their own lives. I realised that I had moved on in more than just the physical sense of the phrase.
That evening I found myself alone in the yard lighting a cigarette. It was good to have some time to myself. After a couple of minutes contemplating the dark I became aware that Uncle Josh was standing by my side. I had no idea how long he had been there before noticing. We were both comfortable with the silence.
"It's great to see you and Aunt Clara looking so well Uncle Josh," I said, stubbing out my cigarette at the same time.
"Oh, you know how it is," Uncle Josh said. He paused then continued, "We keep going but we ain't getting any younger either."
"I know it's a long time but I really have missed you two."
There was no response.
"Looking back now, Uncle Josh, I do appreciate everything you and Aunt Clara did for me. Taking me in like that. With no children of your own it must have been a shock to the system to suddenly have a nine year old kid taking up space."
"There was never any question for us. It was just something we had to do."
"You know I've still no recollection of what happened."
Uncle Josh looked down, turned and started towards the kitchen door. Pausing, he said, "Probably best to just let it go, Sam," and continued indoors.
At no other time did Mom and Dad get mentioned during that first day back in Cleveland. Everyone knew that I came to live with my mother's brother and his wife after the disappearance. I guess, though, nobody wanted to rake over the painful past. It was more comfortable to steer away from the tragedy and concentrate on the trivia of the here and now.
By the second day Aunt Clara could probably sense that I would benefit from a change of scene. Uncle Josh, who was way past a normal retirement age, had gone to work. My aunt suddenly announced that I needed to be re-acquainted with the 'sights' of Cleveland and drove me into the city centre.
After a late morning caffeine fix at Starbucks I expressed a wish to call in at the Case Western Reserve University Bookstore. It was an old haunt that I genuinely wanted to see again. When we came out my aunt said that in all her years living in the city she had never visited the Cleveland Museum of Art. It was close by. I agreed it would be a good idea to go. It would placate Clara and provide a subject of conversation other than meaningless small talk.
I dimly remembered visiting the museum during the course of, perhaps, one school trip. The lay-out was unfamiliar. I was happy to meander in an unplanned way. Eventually we came to the modern art section. There, near the coat hooks, was a painting called Gray and Gold.
The shock caused by what I saw was visceral and instantaneous. I found myself rooted to the spot and utterly transfixed by the picture. Waves of panic started to surge through me and then I was nearly overwhelmed by the urge to vomit. The light in my peripheral vision started to fade. For a moment there was nothing but the intensity of the painting then that, too, dimmed. Eventually, there was only blackness.
When I came to I was aware there was a huddle of people - museum staff and members of the public - standing round me. I was flat on my back in the modern art gallery. I heard Aunt Clara's voice and tried to focus in the direction it came from.
"Oh Lord, Sam, are you alright? What came over you?"
Paramedics gently pushed her aside and tended to me. Full consciousness slowly returned. After a series of tests and questions satisfied them I would be alright Aunt Clara was permitted to take me home.
During the drive back to the house recollection started to surface. I realised that when I had looked at Gray and Gold snatches of memory of what happened the day my parents disappeared were triggered for the first time.
I was standing alone at the cross-roads portrayed in the painting. We had been in a car. Something was wrong with it. We pulled over and we all got out. A light appeared. It seemed to be all around me. Then Mom and Dad were gone. I stood there, shouting at the brooding clouds and calling for them to come back.
“Aunt Clara,” I said, “Uncle Josh was there wasn’t he? The day Mom and Dad disappeared.”
“Yes Sam, he found you. He arrived at the cross-roads in his truck and saw you there alone. It was a squally day and you had your waterproofs on. He said you were screaming at the storm clouds.”
“Why doesn't he talk about it?”
“Oh Sam, it's been so hard for him. He’s a black and white kind of a guy who has had to come to terms with something unexplainable and extraordinary. He lost a sister he was close to in circumstances he can’t fathom. You were the only one left behind and he doesn’t know why.”
The rest of my stay in Cleveland passed without incident or further reference to the loss of my parents. I felt relaxed about realising how deeply I loved my aunt and uncle. The need to get away from Cleveland 15 years ago had been overwhelming. Then I had been confused about my past and haunted by self-doubt brought on by the amnesia. Now I had the beginnings of recollection. I still had no understanding of how or where my parents had been taken but, for the first time in my life, I had the feeling that I was at the beginning of a journey of discovery.
On the day of departure Aunt Clara and Uncle Josh drove me to the airport. They agreed to stop off at the Cleveland Museum of Art on the way. I made my way quickly to the modern art gallery while they waited in the car.
I stood in front of Gray and Gold. There was no physical shock but, once more, I found myself transfixed. This time, however, it was not a flood of memories that induced my reaction. It was the appearance of a small figure in the painting itself. A child in rain gear was standing at the cross-roads staring towards the clouds and surrounded by luminescence.
It came to me then. I was the portal.
Saturday 22 September 2012
A Little R and R, Chapter 2
J.F. Juzwik has paid me the enormous compliment of writing chapter 2 to my tale posted on 12 September, A LITTLE R AND R. Click here to read the continuation. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
Sunday 16 September 2012
Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 96
The brief this week:-
"I imagine I’m not the only one who does this, but sometimes when I watch a movie or read a book my mind drifts and I begin to wonder how I would have written the final cut. That could just be a bit of narcissism. Grandiose ideas and whatnot.
So this week’s challenge is simple. Take a classic movie scene and rewrite it."
Apologies, in advance, if you conclude the following is not strictly in the spirit of Ron's challenge but a train of thought was triggered and I decided to follow it through. For reasons that will, hopefully, become apparent there are two movies referred to in my piece - 'Modern Times' and 'One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich'.
ONE DAY IN THE LIFE
Summer 1948, Siberia
My dearest Svetlana,
I have no idea whether this letter will get to you or not.There is a young guard who seems to have a little kindness about him and says he will smuggle it out in return for a day's rations. Maybe I am being very foolish trusting him but I have to explain - have you understand - how our lives could fall apart like this.
I do not know the date today. No-one here does. We have all lost track of time. It seems like it must be summer. The weather is a little kinder than it was during the long months of the march to the camp. That was so hard with many falling by the wayside. It is still very cold but, "Hey-ho," we joke, "the work keeps us warm."
It makes me so angry, the fact that I could not speak to you during either the long weeks of my incarceration and torture in the Lubyanka or that farce of a trial. Every day I prayed that I could just see you and the children one more time. Anyway, I do not know what lies they have told about why I have been torn from our little family. Here is the truth of it my darling Svetlana.
It is as simple as this. I upset Uncle Joe with my grandiose plans to try and entertain him. Our people do not know that Stalin loves foreign films and particularly those by the great Charles Chaplin. Foremost among the films played in the Kremlin night after night is “Modern Times”. My ambitious plan was to have this film re-made in a Soviet setting. I had presented my script to Bolshakov, the People’s Commissar of Cinema, and the next I know I am being plucked by the NKVD from our lovely nest at three in the morning. It seems my proposals for a Russian comedy disturbed Stalin’s sensibilities. Why, I do not know.
I would like to tell you a little about my life here but I fear it will be too upsetting. It is very grim. There is no comfort. None of the tattered clothes issued to us fits and we have to make and mend all the time. I work for 16 hours each day outside in the bitter cold. They only let us stay in if it falls below -41. There are scant rations and what little we have is rotting and has no goodness in it. My teeth are falling out. I sleep on an ancient thin mattress filled with horse hair. The guards fare little better than us prisoners although we are very jealous of the fire they are allowed at night.
This gulag system is brutal. Mostly, the guards are vicious and vengeful towards us. They resent the work they do and take it out on us. We have to keep them happy by meeting our work quotas. They are punished if we do not.
I am in a fine team, the 104th. We are led by a good man called Andrey Prokofyevich Tiurin. He has been here 19 years and knows how to argue for the better jobs. We all have to pull our weight. If one of us slacks the whole team is punished.
They gave me 10 years. It is not unusual for another sentence of the same length to be added on before the first is served. Expecting the worst is better than being disappointed. It will, I know, be many years before I am able to come home. I cannot bear the thought that we will not be together but I have to be strong and tell you it is too long for you to have to wait. Your happiness is everything. I know our good friend, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, has a soft place in his heart for you. Svetlana, my love, you and the children could do a lot worse.
Maybe Alexander will write one of his books about me and my time here. Perhaps they could make a film of it. To describe one day of my life would say so much about the awfulness of what the Soviet system does to its people.
What folly it was to think that I could re-write a masterpiece of the cinema! How foolish I was to incur the wrath of Stalin in this way! I do not know how you can ever bring yourself to forgive me.
Please kiss the children and tell them how precious they are to their father.
All my love forever,
Ivan Denisovich Shukhov
"I imagine I’m not the only one who does this, but sometimes when I watch a movie or read a book my mind drifts and I begin to wonder how I would have written the final cut. That could just be a bit of narcissism. Grandiose ideas and whatnot.
So this week’s challenge is simple. Take a classic movie scene and rewrite it."
Apologies, in advance, if you conclude the following is not strictly in the spirit of Ron's challenge but a train of thought was triggered and I decided to follow it through. For reasons that will, hopefully, become apparent there are two movies referred to in my piece - 'Modern Times' and 'One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich'.
ONE DAY IN THE LIFE
Summer 1948, Siberia
My dearest Svetlana,
I have no idea whether this letter will get to you or not.There is a young guard who seems to have a little kindness about him and says he will smuggle it out in return for a day's rations. Maybe I am being very foolish trusting him but I have to explain - have you understand - how our lives could fall apart like this.
I do not know the date today. No-one here does. We have all lost track of time. It seems like it must be summer. The weather is a little kinder than it was during the long months of the march to the camp. That was so hard with many falling by the wayside. It is still very cold but, "Hey-ho," we joke, "the work keeps us warm."
It makes me so angry, the fact that I could not speak to you during either the long weeks of my incarceration and torture in the Lubyanka or that farce of a trial. Every day I prayed that I could just see you and the children one more time. Anyway, I do not know what lies they have told about why I have been torn from our little family. Here is the truth of it my darling Svetlana.
It is as simple as this. I upset Uncle Joe with my grandiose plans to try and entertain him. Our people do not know that Stalin loves foreign films and particularly those by the great Charles Chaplin. Foremost among the films played in the Kremlin night after night is “Modern Times”. My ambitious plan was to have this film re-made in a Soviet setting. I had presented my script to Bolshakov, the People’s Commissar of Cinema, and the next I know I am being plucked by the NKVD from our lovely nest at three in the morning. It seems my proposals for a Russian comedy disturbed Stalin’s sensibilities. Why, I do not know.
I would like to tell you a little about my life here but I fear it will be too upsetting. It is very grim. There is no comfort. None of the tattered clothes issued to us fits and we have to make and mend all the time. I work for 16 hours each day outside in the bitter cold. They only let us stay in if it falls below -41. There are scant rations and what little we have is rotting and has no goodness in it. My teeth are falling out. I sleep on an ancient thin mattress filled with horse hair. The guards fare little better than us prisoners although we are very jealous of the fire they are allowed at night.
This gulag system is brutal. Mostly, the guards are vicious and vengeful towards us. They resent the work they do and take it out on us. We have to keep them happy by meeting our work quotas. They are punished if we do not.
I am in a fine team, the 104th. We are led by a good man called Andrey Prokofyevich Tiurin. He has been here 19 years and knows how to argue for the better jobs. We all have to pull our weight. If one of us slacks the whole team is punished.
They gave me 10 years. It is not unusual for another sentence of the same length to be added on before the first is served. Expecting the worst is better than being disappointed. It will, I know, be many years before I am able to come home. I cannot bear the thought that we will not be together but I have to be strong and tell you it is too long for you to have to wait. Your happiness is everything. I know our good friend, Alexander Solzhenitsyn, has a soft place in his heart for you. Svetlana, my love, you and the children could do a lot worse.
Maybe Alexander will write one of his books about me and my time here. Perhaps they could make a film of it. To describe one day of my life would say so much about the awfulness of what the Soviet system does to its people.
What folly it was to think that I could re-write a masterpiece of the cinema! How foolish I was to incur the wrath of Stalin in this way! I do not know how you can ever bring yourself to forgive me.
Please kiss the children and tell them how precious they are to their father.
All my love forever,
Ivan Denisovich Shukhov
Wednesday 12 September 2012
Flash Fiction Friday, Cycle 95
The brief this time is quite a long one. In summary, the requirement is to imagine being ensconced in a remote cabin for some much needed R & R. There is no cellular coverage and the roads have been cut off due to mud slides during a storm. The brief continued,
"As you sit to remove your wet shoes before preparing some dinner, the phone rings. You pick it up and hear two people discussing something, but they ignore you when you try to interrupt, or perhaps they really didn‘t hear you. All at once, they hang up and the crossed-up connection is broken."
The allowance is up to 1,800 words. No key words for inclusion this time, though.
It would be really interesting to have your thoughts on what the hero says or does next...
A LITTLE R AND R
I pulled off the Sea-to-Sky Highway at Sunset Beach and parked by the marina. The sprawl of Vancouver was 30 minutes behind me. Bowen Island was set across the straits of Howe Sound under a steel sky. I closed my eyes and felt the strengthening cold wind on my face. A deep breath and a moment of relaxation. The first in a long time. I couldn't have cared less about the appalling weather forecast.
That moment on the mainland shore popped into my mind's eye unbidden three hours later as I pushed the cabin door closed. I could hardly believe the sudden ferocity of the storm that arrived soon after the ferry docked in the island's biggest harbour at Snug Cove. The drive to George's hideaway had been both hair raising and exhilarating. It must have been a good mile back down the track where I had been forced to abandon the rental by the fallen tree. As I looked down at the pool of water gathering by my feet the wind continued to howl outside. Though no-one was there to hear me I laughed.
I sat down and started to unlace my saturated shoes. The telephone on the coffee table in front of me rang. I was startled. George told me when he handed over the keys that I could expect nothing less than complete peace and quiet. My life is spent on the phone. George had seen that I was strung out, near to the end of my tether with stress. My elder brother tended to be a man of few words. Letting me have the cabin for the week was George's way of helping.
For a moment I just looked at the insistent instrument. 'It must be George,' I thought and picked up the handset. I was about to say hello when I heard a voice at the other end.
“Danny, there is no way you can get to the cabin at this time of night and in this weather.” I didn't recognise the unmistakably female voice.
“I’ve got to. It's the ideal opportunity. That guy is up there by himself. If he turns out to be a problem I can easily make it look like the storm got him.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to take a chance on him not finding the package and wait until he heads back to the mainland?”
“No we can’t risk it. I’m setting off now. I’ll call again later.”
"Who is this?" I said.
"Shit." This was the female voice. The line went dead.
I listened to the tone for several seconds. Lightening flashed outside. There was a click then complete silence. I put the handset on the cradle and picked it up again. Silence. I stared at it for a few seconds before putting it down once more. Thunder rolled through the cabin.
The conversation replayed in my head. Disbelief was the strongest emotion. I decided that if I could speak to George he would be able to confirm whether it would be a good idea to call the mounties. I lifted the handset one more time. Still dead. The next option was my cell. I retrieved it from the pocket of my dripping coat. As soon as I saw the droplets of moisture on the inside of the perspex screen I knew it wasn't going to work. I was right.
A bottle of Jack Daniels beckoned from the top of an antique dresser on the other side of the room. I poured a generous shot and downed it in one. My next priority was to get into dry clothes. Picking up one of my bags I located the master bedroom and stripped off. Less than ten minutes later I had been warmed by a hot shower and I was dressed again. I wasn't inclined to linger. The activity distracted me but by the time I came back through to the living room I was feeling uneasy.
Questions filled my head. My instincts as a private eye were starting to kick in. What was the package and why was it so important to this seemingly homicidal couple? How did they know I was here alone? Had they been tipped off by someone? Was George involved in some way?
I decided I had a little time to play with. Thinking back to the conversation my feeling was the man and woman were talking on a landline. A crossed line would place them on the island. If correct, they still had to be some distance away. The last building I remembered seeing - another vacation cabin - was five or so miles back down the track, the nearest hamlet another three miles on beyond that at least. Even if the guy had a vehicle he couldn't get closer than a mile away. He would, I reasoned, then take at least half an hour in these conditions to finish on foot.
My first thought was to see if I could find a package. Thankfully, George was a fastidiously tidy person. His Coastguard colleagues joked about him displaying the symptoms of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. A cursory inspection through the cabin's five rooms - living room, bedroom, kitchen diner, bathroom and utility space - revealed nothing obviously out of place.
A package worth killing for would be put away or concealed. I started again and took my time opening all the cupboards, drawers and storage I could find. The utility space was the last area I looked in. Nothing. I pondered what to do next. As I did so I turned to go back through the door into the kitchen. Then I noticed. A hardboard panel in the wooden ceiling was not fully attached in one corner. I managed to hook two fingers into the gap. The panel came away easily as I pulled. There, taped to a rafter, was a plastic wrapped package about the size and shape of an American football.
In the living room I placed the package on the coffee table and started to cut through the layers of plastic with a fruit knife. Four clear plastic bags containing white powder were soon revealed. Similarly sized, each must have weighed about one kilogram. I was a bit rusty on the street value of cocaine but my guess was that, in total, I was looking at about CA$60,000 worth. Definitely enough to kill for.
My next thoughts were about what on earth George had got himself into. Was this a drugs haul related to his Coastguard duties? What was his relationship to the two people on the phone? Was he even aware the drugs were in his cabin? There were no obvious answers here and I was starting to feel distinctly vulnerable.
I decided to put the drugs back where I found them. My assumption was that if they were recovered I might be less of a target. What concerned me about my line of reasoning was that the potential assassin had known someone would be at the cabin. Even if I was long gone he might still be anxious to eliminate any potential witness.
George had a good supply of outdoor gear. I was not too interested in how well any of it fitted me.
As I started to hastily put some food into a rucksack the lights went out. I froze and listened intently. The wind was making too much of a din to be able to distinguish anything else. I quickly realised the sudden power cut could have been man made. I had to get out as soon as possible. The gun cupboard in the living room was securely locked. I didn't feel I had the time to break in. I would have to take my chances unarmed.
Despite the sheltering trees the force of the gale outside almost knocked me off my feet. It was pitch black but I couldn't risk the flash light giving me away. I stumbled across the clearing in front of the cabin and into the woods.
The next few hours passed in something of a blur. I had no proper means of navigation. I just hoped I was headed in the approximate direction of Snug Cove. The terrain was tough. I kept to the trees as much as possible. The steep, treacherous hillside I traversed away from the cabin seemed to go on interminably. The wind and rain showed no sign of abating. Time and time again I generated mini mud slides as I lost footing. Adrenalin drove me on.
It was only as the wan light of the new day started to penetrate the forest that I realised how exhausted I was. Soaked to the skin for the second time in eight hours I was in a dishevelled state with both upper and lower waterproof outer garments ripped as a result of numberless falls.
The trees were thinning out and the ground levelling off. Suddenly, there was the unmistakable whoop of a police siren off to my right. I changed direction and headed towards the sound. Emerging by the road side I recognised the cabin I had passed on the drive in. It made me realise I must have walked in a few circles during the long and arduous night.
I could see there were several police vehicles and an ambulance parked up in the cabin's yard. Looking down the track I then recognised George's Coastguard SUV pulled on to the verge. Near to where I was standing there was another fallen tree. The power cable the tree had brought down with it was still sparking.
As I took in the scene the door of the cabin opened. Two paramedics emerged with a wheeled gurney. A body was completely covered with a blanket. They were followed by police officers. George was talking to one of them. I cannot recall ever feeling such relief.
"Jeez, look at the state of you Frank," said George as I jogged towards him.
"I know, George, I know."
I was about to go on and tell him the whole thing - the phone call, the drugs, my escape from the cabin - when George interrupted me.
"What an awful night. I was so worried about you. It was only yesterday afternoon in the office when the weather forecast came through that I said to Danny it might not be such a good idea for you to go up to the cabin."
George paused when the ambulance door clanged as it closed.
"Janine phoned last night to say that Danny had taken it upon himself to come looking for you. I thought I better follow him. And now this. Single shot to the head. The poor bastard wouldn't have known a thing. Judging by the way the place has been ransacked it must have been a burglar."
"Is there any sign of Danny?" I asked.
"No."
I realised I had to think very carefully about what I was going to say next to my brother.
UPDATE 22/09/12
Please see the exchange of comments between J.F. Juzwik and myself below. Click here to go to the second chapter of this story.
"As you sit to remove your wet shoes before preparing some dinner, the phone rings. You pick it up and hear two people discussing something, but they ignore you when you try to interrupt, or perhaps they really didn‘t hear you. All at once, they hang up and the crossed-up connection is broken."
The allowance is up to 1,800 words. No key words for inclusion this time, though.
It would be really interesting to have your thoughts on what the hero says or does next...
A LITTLE R AND R
I pulled off the Sea-to-Sky Highway at Sunset Beach and parked by the marina. The sprawl of Vancouver was 30 minutes behind me. Bowen Island was set across the straits of Howe Sound under a steel sky. I closed my eyes and felt the strengthening cold wind on my face. A deep breath and a moment of relaxation. The first in a long time. I couldn't have cared less about the appalling weather forecast.
That moment on the mainland shore popped into my mind's eye unbidden three hours later as I pushed the cabin door closed. I could hardly believe the sudden ferocity of the storm that arrived soon after the ferry docked in the island's biggest harbour at Snug Cove. The drive to George's hideaway had been both hair raising and exhilarating. It must have been a good mile back down the track where I had been forced to abandon the rental by the fallen tree. As I looked down at the pool of water gathering by my feet the wind continued to howl outside. Though no-one was there to hear me I laughed.
I sat down and started to unlace my saturated shoes. The telephone on the coffee table in front of me rang. I was startled. George told me when he handed over the keys that I could expect nothing less than complete peace and quiet. My life is spent on the phone. George had seen that I was strung out, near to the end of my tether with stress. My elder brother tended to be a man of few words. Letting me have the cabin for the week was George's way of helping.
For a moment I just looked at the insistent instrument. 'It must be George,' I thought and picked up the handset. I was about to say hello when I heard a voice at the other end.
“Danny, there is no way you can get to the cabin at this time of night and in this weather.” I didn't recognise the unmistakably female voice.
“I’ve got to. It's the ideal opportunity. That guy is up there by himself. If he turns out to be a problem I can easily make it look like the storm got him.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to take a chance on him not finding the package and wait until he heads back to the mainland?”
“No we can’t risk it. I’m setting off now. I’ll call again later.”
"Who is this?" I said.
"Shit." This was the female voice. The line went dead.
I listened to the tone for several seconds. Lightening flashed outside. There was a click then complete silence. I put the handset on the cradle and picked it up again. Silence. I stared at it for a few seconds before putting it down once more. Thunder rolled through the cabin.
The conversation replayed in my head. Disbelief was the strongest emotion. I decided that if I could speak to George he would be able to confirm whether it would be a good idea to call the mounties. I lifted the handset one more time. Still dead. The next option was my cell. I retrieved it from the pocket of my dripping coat. As soon as I saw the droplets of moisture on the inside of the perspex screen I knew it wasn't going to work. I was right.
A bottle of Jack Daniels beckoned from the top of an antique dresser on the other side of the room. I poured a generous shot and downed it in one. My next priority was to get into dry clothes. Picking up one of my bags I located the master bedroom and stripped off. Less than ten minutes later I had been warmed by a hot shower and I was dressed again. I wasn't inclined to linger. The activity distracted me but by the time I came back through to the living room I was feeling uneasy.
Questions filled my head. My instincts as a private eye were starting to kick in. What was the package and why was it so important to this seemingly homicidal couple? How did they know I was here alone? Had they been tipped off by someone? Was George involved in some way?
I decided I had a little time to play with. Thinking back to the conversation my feeling was the man and woman were talking on a landline. A crossed line would place them on the island. If correct, they still had to be some distance away. The last building I remembered seeing - another vacation cabin - was five or so miles back down the track, the nearest hamlet another three miles on beyond that at least. Even if the guy had a vehicle he couldn't get closer than a mile away. He would, I reasoned, then take at least half an hour in these conditions to finish on foot.
My first thought was to see if I could find a package. Thankfully, George was a fastidiously tidy person. His Coastguard colleagues joked about him displaying the symptoms of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. A cursory inspection through the cabin's five rooms - living room, bedroom, kitchen diner, bathroom and utility space - revealed nothing obviously out of place.
A package worth killing for would be put away or concealed. I started again and took my time opening all the cupboards, drawers and storage I could find. The utility space was the last area I looked in. Nothing. I pondered what to do next. As I did so I turned to go back through the door into the kitchen. Then I noticed. A hardboard panel in the wooden ceiling was not fully attached in one corner. I managed to hook two fingers into the gap. The panel came away easily as I pulled. There, taped to a rafter, was a plastic wrapped package about the size and shape of an American football.
In the living room I placed the package on the coffee table and started to cut through the layers of plastic with a fruit knife. Four clear plastic bags containing white powder were soon revealed. Similarly sized, each must have weighed about one kilogram. I was a bit rusty on the street value of cocaine but my guess was that, in total, I was looking at about CA$60,000 worth. Definitely enough to kill for.
My next thoughts were about what on earth George had got himself into. Was this a drugs haul related to his Coastguard duties? What was his relationship to the two people on the phone? Was he even aware the drugs were in his cabin? There were no obvious answers here and I was starting to feel distinctly vulnerable.
I decided to put the drugs back where I found them. My assumption was that if they were recovered I might be less of a target. What concerned me about my line of reasoning was that the potential assassin had known someone would be at the cabin. Even if I was long gone he might still be anxious to eliminate any potential witness.
George had a good supply of outdoor gear. I was not too interested in how well any of it fitted me.
As I started to hastily put some food into a rucksack the lights went out. I froze and listened intently. The wind was making too much of a din to be able to distinguish anything else. I quickly realised the sudden power cut could have been man made. I had to get out as soon as possible. The gun cupboard in the living room was securely locked. I didn't feel I had the time to break in. I would have to take my chances unarmed.
Despite the sheltering trees the force of the gale outside almost knocked me off my feet. It was pitch black but I couldn't risk the flash light giving me away. I stumbled across the clearing in front of the cabin and into the woods.
The next few hours passed in something of a blur. I had no proper means of navigation. I just hoped I was headed in the approximate direction of Snug Cove. The terrain was tough. I kept to the trees as much as possible. The steep, treacherous hillside I traversed away from the cabin seemed to go on interminably. The wind and rain showed no sign of abating. Time and time again I generated mini mud slides as I lost footing. Adrenalin drove me on.
It was only as the wan light of the new day started to penetrate the forest that I realised how exhausted I was. Soaked to the skin for the second time in eight hours I was in a dishevelled state with both upper and lower waterproof outer garments ripped as a result of numberless falls.
The trees were thinning out and the ground levelling off. Suddenly, there was the unmistakable whoop of a police siren off to my right. I changed direction and headed towards the sound. Emerging by the road side I recognised the cabin I had passed on the drive in. It made me realise I must have walked in a few circles during the long and arduous night.
I could see there were several police vehicles and an ambulance parked up in the cabin's yard. Looking down the track I then recognised George's Coastguard SUV pulled on to the verge. Near to where I was standing there was another fallen tree. The power cable the tree had brought down with it was still sparking.
As I took in the scene the door of the cabin opened. Two paramedics emerged with a wheeled gurney. A body was completely covered with a blanket. They were followed by police officers. George was talking to one of them. I cannot recall ever feeling such relief.
"Jeez, look at the state of you Frank," said George as I jogged towards him.
"I know, George, I know."
I was about to go on and tell him the whole thing - the phone call, the drugs, my escape from the cabin - when George interrupted me.
"What an awful night. I was so worried about you. It was only yesterday afternoon in the office when the weather forecast came through that I said to Danny it might not be such a good idea for you to go up to the cabin."
George paused when the ambulance door clanged as it closed.
"Janine phoned last night to say that Danny had taken it upon himself to come looking for you. I thought I better follow him. And now this. Single shot to the head. The poor bastard wouldn't have known a thing. Judging by the way the place has been ransacked it must have been a burglar."
"Is there any sign of Danny?" I asked.
"No."
I realised I had to think very carefully about what I was going to say next to my brother.
UPDATE 22/09/12
Please see the exchange of comments between J.F. Juzwik and myself below. Click here to go to the second chapter of this story.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)