Recycled Life

     This story is a Twilight Zone type story that I wrote a few years ago. No contest wins and it needs a little polish. Tell me what you think. Is it too confusing?

     Like most days in life, at least my life it was a pleasant and uneventful day. The city park was two blocks away down Central Avenue, through the heart of this Midwestern town of Longdale. I enjoyed living there. It had an upbeat vibe. No one seemed to be a stranger and it was very safe. My door could be left open without any worries. Despite having lived here for only six months, I had a few friends with similar interest. We met regularly to discuss the latest book or sometimes spent a few hours hiking one of the many nature trails. After being widowed my life had changed. Moving here was the best thing I could have done. Despite it’s being small, compared to the likes of Chicago, St. Louis or Atlanta, everything I’ve ever needed or wanted was here. At least, that’s how I described it to others.

     Taking an occasional day off for no reason is something I liked to do and did more often this past summer. I aired up the tires on my cruiser bike, hopped on to ride to the park with a coffee stop at Java the Hut. The park had an easy seven-mile trail, meandering around ball fields, past the golf course, and through a forested area. Along with my coffee, I brought a book, always a book. I took one everywhere I went. It was the lifeline to my imagination. 

        On this day I rode the trail to a bench, near the Indian Hawthorn bushes, parked my bike and sat down with my coffee to read. This was the quiet part of the park. Most of the activity was near the golf course or ball fields. I felt good, thinking I got a little exercise for my body, now I would exercise my mind with a good read. I didn’t need an exciting life just a purposeful one. 

     This novel by Norvel Thomas, My Alternate Reality was about unsolved mysteries, originally published in 1783, over one hundred years ago. It contained eyewitness reports about real-life thrillers. I liked these types of stories, mainly non-fiction about true-life events. Mysteries are all around us in big cities and small towns all over the world. Most people didn’t take time to notice because they’re too involved in everyday life. Even this town of Longdale, my adopted town, had an obscure secret, but that is something I was unaware of at the time.

     The afternoon flew by with the pleasant weather and my book of intrigue. I barely noticed anything, not even a dog or squirrel. If it wasn’t for my stomach growling and the sun setting, I might have read into the night. 

* * * 

     It had been a great day, but I needed to get home. I planned to pick up a sandwich on the way and continue my reading once I got home. The ride back was easy, but odd in a couple of ways. As I passed the golf course, I saw no golfers or carts. I knew it was getting late, but it wasn’t dark yet so the empty golf course was shocking. The same was true with the ball fields. There were no cars in the parking lot. I had never ridden past the ball fields without seeing someone in the parking lot if only drinking one last beer before they headed home. My spine tingled as if a spirit jumped at me from behind a tree.

     Everything looked unchanged, but the silence was unnerving as I rode down Central Avenue toward Main Street. It seemed like there was an absence of life in Longdale. The shops were empty, lifeless as if they were just storefronts on some Hollywood set. Where were my friends? Usually any day of the week I could find one or more of them at our hangout drinking an espresso while debating the latest hot topic. But, it too was empty. The quiet produced an eerie silence that chilled me to the bones. My hunger dissipated by the distraction of nothingness I saw in my town. 

     I expected to wake at any moment in a cold sweat, realizing my fascination with mysteries had penetrated my dreams, but little did I know this was my new reality. It became immediately apparent when entering my apartment. I found everything to be too perfect for my personality. The furnishings were familiar, but nothing was out of place. It was like no one lived here.

     I picked up the phone receiver to call a friend and heard a voice. It sounded like my own voice. I replied but received no response, no acknowledgment at all. I yelled into the phone but it made no difference. I listened intently. It was my voice on the line but not my words I heard, rather my thoughts. Every thought that came into my mind, I heard on the phone repeated back to me. Petrified with fear I collapsed to the floor, lying there dazed and confused, unable to move a single muscle. I drifted in and out of consciousness for hours.

     In my foggy mental state, barely knowing my name, Samuel Coan. I felt different, not myself. My features looked strange in the mirror, somewhat familiar but odd in most ways. 

     My book lying on the floor was open to page 178, to the chapter entitled, “Alternate personalities and Alternate Worlds.” This seemed meaningful but why?

     I left the building and immediately noticed a difference in the town. People scurrying around were dressed in period clothing like you would’ve seen in the 1700s. I was recognized and greeted by many, but not by my given name. The buildings were there but the shops were different. A General store took the place of the coffee shop and sat next to a tobacco, cigar and snuff store. The entire street was buzzing with activity but of another era. It was a strange feeling but pleasant in a way. As I walked down the street, I felt an odd comfort that my life belonged in this town and in this time.

* * *

     Moving was stressful, but this town of Longdale had been welcoming, and I had my books. My new job will start in a week, so there was time to get familiar with the surroundings. A walk through the park was pleasant with the fragrance from Lilies of the Valley filling the air. My book on mysteries gave me comfort. I found a bench in a secluded part of the park and sipped my coffee as I read. The title My Alternate Reality Samuel Coan, the name that sounds familiar for some reason. The book was published in 1783, over one hundred years ago, but it still seemed relevant. Someday, I would like to write a book. It would be fulfilling to see my name Norvel Thomas as an author.

     It was a quiet, uneventful day and I started to dose. I awakened abruptly to stark unearthly silence. And so began again another recycled life . . .

An Unexpected Letter

    "It's time we meet." These four simple words were about to change my life. The envelope was handwritten and addressed to me, which was odd since the Internet, invented over one hundred years ago, had virtually made letters and postcards obsolete. I'm not even sure why there are still physical mailboxes in the year 2112, Maybe it's a nostalgia thing. Even more puzzling is why I opened the mailbox. Mail deliveries are once a month and haven't contained anything significant in years. The letter was signed, Charles Decker.

     The address was Brussels, France. I remember from history books that Brussels was a city in the country of Belgium, but that was many years ago when the radical terrorist groups traumatized the world. Since then, many countries disappeared and boundaries have changed. One other notation in the letter is a reservation number for the Silver Streak Hyperloop Express. Now, it dawns on me! This is a mandatory meeting with a stranger. The World Council set up a program over fifty years ago to promote better communications.  

     I’d been selected to meet Charles Decker and learn about his life. He, in turn, would be tasked with the same from me. My great grandfather told me the selection process for this opportunity was similar to the jury selection they used many years ago. The World Council was an organization established to address the unrest around the globe. They determined the underlying problem was lack of understanding and poor communication with people of different nations and backgrounds, so they started this program called Strangers Meeting Strangers. The program has been around for fifty plus years. Every year thousands of people from many countries are selected to travel to places far and wide to meet strangers and educate themselves on different cultures. 

     To assume that the participants are selected randomly would be a mistake. Each set of strangers is paired explicitly so that the maximum exposure to each of their lives will be beneficial to future generations. Participants document their visit in a detailed report that’s signed by both parties. These reports then become part of the educational system to teach future generations.

     I'm eighteen and a citizen of Amerinada. My passport allowed me to freely travel to friendly countries, France being one, without the hassles of being confined for weeks after my return. I could be in Brussels in four hours if I take the International Silver Streak Hyperloop Express. I'm not sure what to expect from my month-long visit with Charles Decker. It's very likely Mr. Decker is old so what could I possibly learn from him? Communication will be difficult at best.I have no choice. Once selected you cannot refuse to go.  

    The World Council pays for the trip and I will be staying with Charles but I dread spending time with an old man that is out of touch with today’s world. I found my great grandfather told compelling stories, although exaggerated and unbelievable. It was important for him to share these stories with me. I must admit I enjoyed hearing them and learned a few things as well.  

    Since the inception of this program, there’s been a notable improvement in the tolerance people have toward one another. I never thought much about the Strangers Meeting Strangers program making a positive impact until now.

Early Riser

    It was late, much later than I’d been out in a long while. I was a night owl in my college days, but that is no longer my life. I rose early to get to the office first, because success didn’t happen without effort, for some never at all. Failure wasn’t going to happen to me, I always told myself. Some people call me driven, but others said I had no life. I disagreed; my life was my work, which was all I really needed.

    People didn’t understand, but why should I care. I kept to myself. There was no need to get involved with the problems of others. It never turned out well. 

    My life was routine, but it worked for me. I usually picked up dinner on the way home from work, takeout, but that night I ate quietly in the diner at the back booth. A couple of young thugs with gang tattoos walked in. They made some rude sexual comments to the waitress then grabbed her and pawed at her blouse. Her name was Julie. I knew her but not intimately. She was pretty, but she had a kid, and that was a problem for me.

    I watched in silence from the booth, trying to be invisible. I'd seen this before, but Julie was adept at handling creeps. These guys were different, more persistent and obnoxious. She was flustered, and the place was almost empty, except for an older couple and me, but they left quickly once the thugs started trouble. 

    Now it was just Julie, the creeps with gang tattoos and me left in the diner. I no longer went unnoticed by the gang members. They wanted me out so they could stalk their prey. I should have gotten my order to go, but now my conscience wouldn't let me leave. Dammit. This could get ugly. I left my phone at the office so calling for help wasn’t an option.

     Julie tried to dial 911 from her phone, but they slapped it out of her hand onto the floor, then pointed at me and motioned to the door. I got up not sure what to do, but I couldn't leave her alone. She’d be a statistic on tomorrow’s newscast. 

    I strolled toward the door. Time was not my friend. Seconds were ticking away as I approached the exit. I had to do something, but what?

    Without giving it much thought, I grabbed a chair and swung it at the guy who appeared to be the top thug, striking him in the side of the head. He clutched his bleeding scalp. Julie immediately reached down and picked up the phone and dialed 911. The other guy came at me with a knife; thank God he didn’t have a gun. I fended him off like a lion tamer, holding the chair in front of me. I advised him to leave with his buddy and pointed to Julie.

    She waved the phone at him. “I called 911, the cops are coming.” She pointed out the window at the flashing lights. 

    They ran out and yelled, “We’ll be back.”

    Julie screamed back. “I’ll be ready.”

    “That was close,” I said. “Lucky you were able to get the phone and call the police.”

    "I was bluffing, the phone's broken." She held it up to show the broken screen. "In this neighborhood, you always hear sirens, so I was gambling."

    “Holy shit! That’s gutsy.” I remarked. “I’m not playing poker with you,”

    She smiled, “I better lock the door.” She turned the deadbolt and started to lower the shades. “That was brave of you, to stick your neck out for a stranger. What’s your name?”

    “Thanks. It’s Timothy . . . just call me Tim. I’ve been here before, so you’re not a stranger. I don’t normally get involved, but this is different.” I started to lower another shade. “They threatened to come back. What are you going to do?”

    "I'm not sure what to do. I need this job." She looked into his eyes. “I recognized you, but you’re quiet . . . you rarely say a word.” 

    “Yeah, I fly under the radar, most of the time. We should get out of here before your admirers realize they’ve been duped.”

    “Admirers... that’s funny. But you’re right let’s go, now.”

    “Do you need a ride?” He pushed the chair back under the table.

    “No, I only live two blocks away. I’ll be fine.”

    “Let me give you a ride. They could be waiting around the corner for you.”

    I checked the parking lot and saw no signs of trouble. After locking up we hustled out to my car, a dinged up Ford Focus. It had a dented rear fender and only three hubcaps, a thief’s nightmare, so no worry it would ever be stolen.

    I felt good doing something to help her. She was a young single mother doing her best to support her child. It was a short drive. I’d drop her off and get back to my bland life. It was two blocks, no big deal. She thanked me repeatedly, as we turned west on Second Street toward the projects. When we rounded the corner, I spotted two cars riding side-by-side exchanging gunfire.

     “Holy Crap! We have to turn around.” 

    Julie looked at me with tears rolling down her cheek. “But my son, I have to get home.”  

    I made a U-turn in the middle of the street. "We will, but we have to go a different way." 

    Just then a third car turned the corner at high speed heading my direction. Now driving east on Second Street, I stomped on the gas, but my economy car was no match for their go-fast car. They were gaining on us quickly. At least I was driving a direction that was familiar to me. Two blocks down on the left was Compton Avenue, which leads to the rail yard. If I could get to the yard, I might be able to lose them.

    Compton was quickly approaching but so was the thugmobile. I didn't slow down. As I made the turn on to Compton, I could feel the car lift up on the left almost leaving the ground. The tires screeched like an animal being skinned.  

    Julie huffed, moaned and yelled. “Shiiiiiiiitttt.”

    I was too focused and scared to say anything until we exited the turn unscathed. Then brilliantly claimed. “That wasn’t so bad.”

    Through the rearview mirror, I could see the chase car take the turn at a high rate of speed, much faster than I had. They made the turn but sideswiped two parked cars, which slowed them down. But they didn’t stop. 

    They were further back now. So, there was a chance I could lose them in the rail yard. When I worked there in my teens I knew a back way out. I hoped it hadn't been closed off.  

    Julie regained her composure. “For a quiet guy, you have a wild streak." 

    Before I could respond with a witty remark, I heard the churning wheels of a train.  

     “I hear the train . . . a coming.” I gripped the steering wheel.

    Julie braced herself, “It’s rolling around the bend.”

    “No time for Johnny Cash." I teased. "Maybe a duet later, June."

    She laughed. “You’re nuts.”

     With the gang not far behind, my car launched over the tracks. I could see they were trying to beat the train. It was going to be close. The screeching of tires, the blaring horn from the train and the sound of the crushing metal filled the air. 

    I looked at Julie. “They won’t be bothering you anymore.”

     “There’ll be someone else to take their place.”

    We drove in silence to her apartment; relieved the nights' trauma was over. As I pulled around to let her out, she yelled. "Watch the curb." Too late my front wheel jumped the curb, and I hit the light post. 

    I ignored the minor bump and smiled. “Can I give you a ride to work tomorrow?” 

    "I think it would be faster taking my son’s skateboard . . . definitely safer.”

    I winked. “I’m an early riser.”

Chained to the Old Oak Tree

This is a fictional story I wrote for a club contest. I didn't win so I thought I'd post it to get your comments to improve it.

Chained to the Old Oak Tree

It’s been years since I visited Grandpa’s farm. Nothing much ever changes there, in southern Missouri, so it’s likely still the same. An oak tree stood on the back of the property, down by the river. It seemed to touch the clouds. The trunk so big it took three of us with stretched out arms to reach around the base, just barely touching our fingertips. The branches were muscular looking, like biceps of a bodybuilder. Initials were carved on many of the branches and the trunk, which was the most interesting thing about the tree. An old rusty chain was wrapped around the trunk with a keyed padlock. Not a new padlock but one you might find in an antique shop with the kind of lock that used a skeleton key.

I often asked Gramps about the chain, hoping to hear an exciting tale, which I did, but he told me a different story every time. The first thing I did when we arrived for a visit was rush down to the oak tree looking for clues about the chain and the purpose it served -- an intriguing mystery that would ultimately lead me to a hidden passion.

When I turned eleven, I received a camera for my birthday. I took many pictures of the Oak tree, the carvings, the chain and the padlock from different angles to study later. My curious mind wasn’t happy with unanswered questions or unfinished puzzles. The chain had a history, dark and disturbing tales involving slaves, Indians, and criminals; all believable but none verified. My imagination was untethered trying to fill in the holes of this mystery.

The stories I heard, and local newspaper articles I read, spoke of slaves and Indians. Shackled to this gigantic tree after working sixteen hours in the field. There were no beds and minimal food. The chain was woven through the shackles securing their feet to the tree. They could lie on the hard ground or sit up facing the tree. The tree had carvings about two feet high that circled around the trunk. Slaves carved their lives into the mighty oak, maybe to pass the time or a journal of their pain? These weren’t the typical carvings of sweethearts one might expect, but etched into the tree were stick figures hauling logs, working in the fields. There were many carvings, some too deteriorated to recognize and others too disturbing for comprehension by an eleven-year-old. Those carvings showed beatings and whippings of slaves and Indians. The oak tree was a memoir of times past, times never to be forgotten, never to be relived.

***

One Full Hand was his name, more a description than a name, but that's what they called him. Branded as a criminal, he worked in the field, by himself with a guard to watch over him. "Mean as they come" the term law-abiding folks used. His right hand was missing, no one knew why and too afraid to ask. One Full Hand didn't speak. Either he couldn't, or he chose not to, he only grunted. After the workday ended, they shackled his hand to his leg, laid him face down, then chained him to the old oak. It took three guards. When bound to the tree, he was alone. His captors didn't believe in compassion; they didn't want to clean up the bloody mess he would create.

An American Indian, One Full Hand grew up in the Osage tribe. His birth name, Achak, meant spirit. When he reached the age of reason, he was given the tribal name Spirit Painter because of his talent. He painted animal skins, headdresses, jewelry, pottery, and carvings. The tribe honored and recognized Achak for his ability. He traveled to big cities selling his paintings and promoting his tribe.

Times were good, too good. Accused of a crime, he didn't commit against a woman, just a young girl. He wasn't guilty, but . . . an Indian. No one believed him to be innocent. He was found guilty on the charge of molesting a woman. Without representation, he had no chance. Sentencing was different in those days. There were options other than jail. The punishment for Spirit Painter was cutting off the offending hand, his painting hand.

Many didn’t live through the trauma of losing a hand, he did. For him, his life was over. His talent had been taken with his hand. He grew bitter and mean. Times got bad, very bad. Trouble followed him wherever he traveled. Drunken bar fights and nights in jail, then finally he found himself chained to a tree. He was Spirit Painter no longer; people called him One Full Hand.

He worked the fields and spoke to no one. Angry at life he wanted nothing to do with people. He noticed the carvings on the tree, they showed the life of a slave, and he knew they suffered as much as he.

One morning when the sun was high in the sky, the guards were few and very distracted. An opportunity to escape presented itself. No words were needed between One Full Hand and the slaves. Their instincts took over. Shovels and picks wielded by the captives, shots fired by the guards, with many injuries, but the guards succumbed.

Their lives were different, the Indian and slaves, but also the same in many ways. Now they were free with a dark memory to share. They went their separate ways to start a new life. The canvas was Spirit Painters medium; painting was his talent, part of his past, but not his future. One Full Hand needed a new passion to drive his life forward. Paper became his medium. He wrote stories about his past to heal his emotional wounds. The more he wrote, the more passionate he became about exposing his struggles. Writing had become his new passion, and people took notice. It didn't make him wealthy, but he made a living, supported by his people. Most important was the impact he had by exposing the truth. He no longer was called One Full Hand. His name was now Spirit Writer, how fitting. He wrote about life's tragedies and dreams, until the day he died. On his tombstone, a small inscription read, “Spirit Writer recorded his life and dreams, enlightening the world.”

***

The tree never released all the chained mysteries from the past, but I discovered a remarkable thing chained to the tree—my curiosity. Putting words to paper can be powerful and liberating.

Verbal Crucifixion

     I learned at a very young age that attacking someone verbally is as damaging as physically. When you verbally attack someone they will likely attack back, as would anyone with an ounce of self-respect. There are only two viable choices fight or flee. Unfortunately, in today’s world verbal attacks are commonplace. People are verbally crucified if their opinion differs from another's. These attacks come from the news media, Hollywood celebrities, politicians and most importantly the public.
     You may be against what the Republicans stand for or in total support, but the facts haven’t changed Donald Trump was elected to the Presidential office. You may feel Hillary Clinton should have won the election, but she didn’t.
     I don’t agree with all the decisions made in the last two years but in truth I don’t agree with all the decisions made in the last seventy years. Throughout the years both parties have done some good and some bad but we elected them. No one is perfect, neither political party is perfect. This is not a perfect world.
     Verbal attacks don’t work, just look around. When has someone being verbally attacked said, “Oh! You’re right, why didn’t I know that.” Never, the answer is never.
     As a young child I heard an old proverb, “You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” We seem to have forgotten that simple advice. We adults have become a bad example to our children. We have forgotten the basic rule of life, “Treat others as you would like to be treated.” It starts with us to set a better example for our children. They are the future generation.
     This is not to say we should never disagree with others but do it intelligently and respectful.  Hateful verbal comments toward another person won’t get you the desired results, despite your social status in life. Posting hateful or false statements about others on the Internet is a verbal attack. “Just Saying....”

Being Offended . . . Is it a Choice?

     So many people become offended by others. The truth is you can’t offend anyone, unless they allow you to offend them. That’s crazy talk. You can’t control if you’re offended. Actually you can. We make thousands of decisions/choices everyday. You control your own destiny by your choices. If you turn over your power to choose, to others they control your destiny. No matter what anyone says you have a choice; to be offended or not be offended. After all they’re just words, not stones they’re throwing. If you choose not to be offended you take control of your emotions.
     Most people struggle with this concept. It’s easy to forget that you have the power to choose. I’ve done it often. I wonder what the world would be like if we all chose not to be offended. Here’s what I imagine. Insults would slowly disappear, because there would be no point. People who insult others are looking for a reaction, but if they are ignored, they lose.
     I agree it is unreasonable to expect everyone to do what I’ve suggested. It’s also likely that the harasser will seek other ways to offend people. This post isn’t about people harassing you. It’s about how you react to verbal harassments and it’s not foolproof. I’m simply suggesting that your choices can have a positive affect on your life. When I was young the term ‘grow a thick skin’ was often used by parents which meant don’t let others negative comments take over your life.
     It’s nearly impossible to traverse life without hearing words that may offend your personal beliefs. Sometimes these need to be challenged but more often than not they can be ignored. It’s your choice.  “Just Saying . . . ?”

Are People Really that Bad?

     If you believe the news, whether it’s on Facebook, national news or some magazine it’s depressing. You’re led to believe the world is filled with scumbags. There’s no denying that this world has it’s fair share, but I believe there are far more good people. The thing is good people doing good deeds or just living an upstanding life aren’t news worthy. Well, except for three minutes on Friday night when the national news has an uplifting story.
     People put most of the blame on TV news, but that would be a mistake because social media sites publish news all day long. The problem with that is people can post virtually anything without being monitored, so there’s a lot of fake news. To call it fake news is mild, because much of it is just outright lies.
     It would be impossible for Facebook, Twitter, YouYube, or any of the hundreds of other sites to protect against the many fake news post made on a daily basis. It doesn’t take a cyber expert to make fake news post look legit but just because it looks legitimate doesn’t mean it is. The main purpose of these fake post is to get a click or even better a share which promotes the lies.
     To be honest, I’m not always sure which stories are true and which ones are false, so I rarely click or share them. Even the heartfelt stories about animals or children could be fake, because it’s really all about the clicks and shares. Many people become accidental promoters of fake news, because they believe what they’ve read. We have been raised to trust others until they prove their self to be untrustworthy which is a good characteristic. However, the Internet social media sites are not trustworthy, because much of the information posted is fake. This is the reason I have trust issues with information posted on social media sites.
     Getting back to the main topic of, how bad are people. In my experience the people I meet on a daily basis are friendly and in some cases kind and generous. Am I just lucky? I don’t think so. I believe if you have positive expectations it will increase your chances of interacting with similar people.
      The bottom line is that I believe there are many more good people than bad. You meet them everyday, look around. “Just Saying . . . ?”