Day 31 - Paper Cuts

 Paper Cuts

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Donnie didn’t know what time it was and Donnie didn’t know what day it was, but Donnie knew one thing – that despite their love of flames, The Arsonists also knew a slew of additional methods of torture. They weren’t very good at the questions though. “Where is the book?” “Where did you hide it?” “Who did you contact?” With little to no variation, they asked the same things over and over.

Donnie had a secret. He had found a book. And he had hidden it. And he had also hidden it from himself.

The book was special, an ancient lost text.

The paper it was made from was special, hand crafted by an ancient order of Librarians.

What was written in the book was special, lost wisdom and sacred prophecies.

Eons ago, this order had been tasked with maintaining one and only one copy of the book. When the book had aged and the paper cracked, it was their job to transcribe another copy. None were allowed to see the entire book, they were instructed to each work on one section, because to see any more would give that individual too many secrets, too much knowledge, and Donnie knew that knowledge was power.

There was great debate as to what had happened. Some said one generation of the Librarians failed at their task and the transcription was flawed. Some thought a small group conspired to keep the secrets for themselves. Others thought the book never had any real power to begin with.

Donnie knew better. He had seen the book. Held it. Read from it. Written on its pages. To write something on its pages meant that thing could come true. The book might have been the most powerful book ever conceived. And Donnie had the foresight to write a note to himself to forget where he hid it.

Donnie didn’t know what day it was or how long he had been here, but he was sure that some of the other Librarians were out there, looking for him after realizing he was missing. He could only assume Nestor was on the trail and Nestor could track paper trails across the globe and back again. Donnie couldn’t remember where he put the book, but if anyone could track his steps, it would be Nestor.

“Where did you hide it…” “Who did you give it to…” the repetition began again.

“Do you know why paper cuts hurt so badly?”

“Nerve endings would be my guess.”

“True. But they hurt so much because the cut isn’t deep enough to trigger blood clotting or scabbing. So the damaged nerve is left exposed.”

“So you’re saying you’re not afraid of fire, but you’re afraid of paper cuts? I would have thought Librarians would be pretty used to those by now.”

“This isn’t an education. It’s a warning.”

“Warning?” laughed the Arsonist. “Are you threatening me with death by a thousand paper cuts? You know that’s not really possible, right?”

“I know that death by a thousand cuts works with a knife when the cuts are deep enough. And I know a paper cut isn’t usually deep. But that’s not all I know…”

Donnie knew a secret. He had written in the ancient manuscript. He had told himself to forget, but that wasn’t all he had written. The book was one of the books of true power. To write in it would give the words strength. And in writing it down, some of the power went into the paper. And if you wrote the right thing down, you could have power not only over what you wrote, but over what you wrote it on. And if you wrote it properly, it would grant you control over the very ink and paper itself.

One scrap of paper had been destroyed when the Arsonist attacked him. But Donnie’s secret was he had a second scrap, hidden for an emergency just like this.

 

 

Paper didn’t normally fly, thought the Arsonist, unaware of the special abilities Donnie had granted himself. Paper doesn’t normally--

The scrap of paper slid across his neck. He didn’t have time to react. There was too much blood.

The Arsonist caught Donnie’s glance and the last thing he saw was Donnie’s smirk and the last thing he heard was “One cut is all I need.”

 

 

 

 

 

Related Reading:

Daily Stories - Missing Pages 

Daily Stories - Paper, the Lost Book, and the Dilemma of Emergency Grammar

The Daily Fischer - Illuminators Story

The Daily Fischer - Paper Trail Story

The Daily Fischer - Monastery Story 

Day 30 - Missing Pages

Missing Pages 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

It had been three days since anyone had heard from Donnie when Nestor landed in Jakarta. Over the next two days Nestor followed the paper trail to room 219 at the Grandia hotel in Bandung. There had been reports of a recent rash of fires breaking out all over the city. Nestor suspected that Indonesia had its very own branch of the Arsonists Guild and this firebrand had something to do with Donnie’s disappearance.

A month ago Nestor had been on his own trail of a secret manuscript when it was lost to a rival. Donnie had sent a card that said he caught a hint of a whiff of the scent of a trail and was going to be in Jakarta and if Nestor could break free, he should join him there. Donnie was a great librarian but a terrible tracker. Nestor wrote word that he’d be there soon, but clearly Donnie hadn’t waited. Maybe he got lucky, or maybe his skills had vastly improved. Nestor was impressed that Donnie had found a trail in a foreign country and made his way through two cities. Still, Nestor wished that his friend had waited. Whatever book was out there, it wasn’t worth Donnie’s life.

Nestor had bribed his way into room 219. Donnie’s things were still there, or at least enough to make it seem as if Nestor were the first one there. Clothes didn’t matter. Normal travel items didn’t matter. Nestor was looking for papers. He needed something to track. He found a pocket notepad with missing pages, and hidden in a pill case in a drawer a scrap of a very old parchment specimen. That was interesting. The scrap had elements of cloth pulp, and perhaps animal skin? Was that possible? Something Arabic? Several hundred years old if nothing else.

What had Donnie found and why hide one small piece? Where was the rest of it? Some ancient text that held too much power and perhaps Donnie paid the ultimate price to hide it. If it was that important, Nestor thought, then he should have gotten out of the country the moment he had it.

The Sky Lounge Bar advertised three beers for just over one hundred thousand rupiah. That couldn’t be right, he thought and he tried to do the exchange rate again in his head. Three beers for about six dollars? It reminded him of a life time ago when he was in college and decided to invest, even if it was the cheap stuff they were serving.

There was rooftop swimming pool and Nestor took his beers and settled in at outside table to think. There was a toy truck left beside the pool some child had left behind. Someone’s vacation was about to become a lot harder, thought Nestor. A disgruntled child would be no fun.  

The notepad was blank, but pages had been ripped out. Nestor examined the paper, but found no indentation from previous scripting. Donnie had been passing notes to someone, but if Donnie was writing notes, Nestor thought, it was after the paper had been ripped from the notepad. Where had they ended up and was there a way to track them?

The toy truck bugged Nestor. Something in the back of his mind was trying to figure out the connection. Something left behind. Something forgotten. Something that wasn’t supposed to be there. Something about that truck was telling Nestor a clue he couldn’t quite figure out. Was there something in the room that was left behind? Or that wasn’t normally there? Something that would be obviously out of place...

A package of cigarettes! Donnie didn’t smoke. But there was a pack in the trash. And a pack would contain a lot of paper. Donnie was clever and could certainly hide a clue on a normal item that would only look out of place to a close friend. Maybe he knew Nestor would be the one to come looking.

Nester leapt from his seat and hurried back to room 219. Two out of three beers went unfinished. 

 

 

 

 

 

Related Reading:

Daily Stories - Paper, the Lost Book, and the Dilemma of Emergency Grammar

The Daily Fischer - Illuminators Story

The Daily Fischer - Paper Trail Story

Day 29 - Paper, the Lost Book, and the Dilemma of Emergency Grammar

Paper, the Lost Book, and the Dilemma of Emergency Grammar 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Donnie reached into the inside jacket pocket of his suit and pulled a piece of paper out. He was being chased and needed an escape plan. He didn’t have that plan, but he had a scrap of paper. It wasn’t much, just enough to write a couple of words or maybe a sentence. He’d have to be precise with no flamboyance. Illuminators were often a bit ostentatious and especially verbose. But extra words were not on his side here. The Arsonist was close and he might only have time to write one thing. He could write himself a weapon, or a vehicle, or perhaps more importantly he could write a message for a Librarian to find. If he chose a weapon and lost, or a vehicle but got caught, then the book would be lost and none of his efforts would matter. But a message, that would be immortal. He might lose his life, but the words would go on.

Only one problem, Donnie didn’t want to die.

Besides, Donnie didn’t have the book on him. He could send Nestor a message where to find it, but that didn’t mean the book was safe. Nestor was a Forensic Librarian and one of the best paper chasers Donnie had ever met, but there was a difference between finding old documents in antique shops and ancient ruins, and fighting your way past a bunch of Arsonists. Nestor had been attacked in Hong Kong once over a book, and had made it out of that in once piece, but Donnie hated to place his friend right back into another deadly situation.

Once upon a time Donnie and Nestor had worked for a branch of The Stacks, a particularly private and secretive library full of ancient and arcane knowledge, but their branch had been destroyed by a bunch of Arsonists, including the firebug that was chasing Donnie right now. Both men had been thrust out into the field and were more often than not left to fend for themselves. The Stacks were dwindling and manpower was at an all-time low. In a previous age, neither of them would be sent out on recovery missions without at least one partner. But now, their numbers were so low, Donnie could go months without seeing another Librarian.

Nestor had found several blank pages and an entire handwritten manuscript in Hong Kong. There was no telling how many other volumes there were floating around that city. But Nestor didn’t know which book he actually had. Donnie didn’t either, but was pretty sure it wasn’t anything apocalyptic. He was pretty sure the so called Books of the Apocalypse were nothing but myth anyway. But Donnie did know that Nestor was one of the best Librarians he had ever met. So if he thought he was onto something, he probably was.

Donnie grabbed his pen and settled on sending his superiors a note. They’d send Nestor and Nestor would find where he had hidden the manuscript. Donnie was sure of it.

Before he could write a word though, a wall of flames erupted. Donnie was thrown back and fell to the ground. A directed flame quickly burnt his scrap of paper to a crisp before Donnie could write anything, and he was left defenseless.

The Arsonist stepped out. Donnie knew he was in trouble. But the book was hidden. That would be enough to keep it safe, Donnie hoped. The Arsonist could kill him, but the book would be safe. 

 

Related Reading:

The Daily Fischer - Day 182 - Illuminators Story

The Daily Fischer - Day 189 - Paper Trail Story  

Day 28 - New Year’s Gut

New Year’s Gut 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

She wanted to see him without his shirt on; he wasn’t convinced. He said he needed to lose twenty pounds; she said she didn’t care about that. Maybe it was true. Maybe she didn’t. He wasn’t sure that mattered. He still wanted to lose twenty pounds.

She wondered if a photograph was the problem, what they would do in real life.

A photograph was permanent. In real life you could turn the lights off.

But if he were really honest with himself, he knew he wasn’t fully honest with her. He had been twenty pounds lighter before and he still wasn’t comfortable with his body. He had been in the dark before and knew that what felt good wasn’t always what looked good. If she liked him, she liked him. Tight muscles or a flabby belly wouldn’t be the deal breaker one way or the other.

The truth was he had to be okay with himself. How to make that happen, he wasn’t sure. If she could help him, he didn’t believe it.

“Give me a month to get ready…” was not his line; he had stolen it from some song from some musical he had seen once. He tried to say it in a breezy casual way. Make a joke of it. Make her laugh. Make light of the problem and try to seem casual. But it probably sounded weak and insecure. At best it would take him months to lose the weight. At best. And he wasn’t the type to work out every day. So to claim that it would any time soon was just a lie he was telling her and himself.

What could he tell her? What could be done to ensure his comfort and her satisfaction? He wanted to impress her and instead he felt like a fool. There was no reset or reboot button he could press. He shouldn’t have acted unsure. He should have just been confident and done it.

He could still send her a picture. It was late but maybe not too late. It didn’t have to be a big deal. It was only a big deal if he made it into one.

It was too much. All too much.

He took a series of photos in various states of undress.

There was no good answer.

He would wake up and start doing sit-ups, he told himself. Tomorrow. Tomorrow we begin. Tomorrow we get it together.

He couldn’t quite hit send, but he couldn’t quite hit delete either. The photos would get a reprieve for now and live for at least another day. She may not know it yet, but change was coming soon. Hopefully she would wait long enough to find out.

Day 27 - the man who could punch through bricks

the man who could punch through bricks 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Reggie Burns might have been the best boxer I ever saw live and in the flesh. Quick, long arms, he had strength and speed and delivery. If need be, he had the endurance to go the distance, but the time I saw him, I saw him take care of someone quickly. No one punch or anything like that. Maybe 58 seconds. Maybe a minute ten. You throw enough punches, you throw them quickly, I have no idea what sort of brain damage that man could employ. I’m not saying I support brain damage or violent sports, but that man Burns could throw a punch.

I was a side show carnival event and I saw a man punching concrete blocks and breaking them in half. Everyone has seen some karate chop video where a man can snap wood beams or concrete tablets. I’m sure there’s some pressure point concept, where if you can hit something fast and just right, the propulsion of force will make it snap for you and you won’t go shattering your knuckles. Maybe any of us could learn to do it with training. Maybe. I doubt it. That carnival man could throw a punch.

I met a girl once who had tattoos covering her entire left arm. Why her left? Because she was young and made arbitrary decisions. She told me that her left arm held all the power. Was it magic, I asked? She told me wait and see. And she put on a show. Martial arts, sword fighting, whips and lassos. Entertaining, exciting. She did it all. But only with her left. I asked her later if she could do any of those same skills with her right. She laughed and smiled and winked as if to say I was a fool for asking and a bigger fool for needing to ask. She said she was an entertainer and the mystery of the gimmick was just as much a part of the show as anything else. I didn’t see it as part of her routine, but I am pretty sure that left arm could throw a punch on top of everything else it could do.

I don’t know who was stronger or the better fighter. Was punching through bricks and stones tougher than knocking a man out in the ring? I wonder if a martial arts master with only one powerful arm could compete with the strongest boxer alive. I wonder what daring feats I could achieve with a little bit of training. What walls could I build and then tear down? What could I blast apart with one punch? Or would I just break myself and every bone in my hand? I want to believe it’s a matter of will and determination. If I could think long enough, desire hard enough, practice often enough, then maybe I could achieve the unachievable.

Their memories haunt me so. Taunting mercilessly. Provoking me into action. One punch. One good punch. That’s all I’d need. I just need to be fast enough. Strong enough. One punch to show them all.

Day 26 - Lower Your Expectations aka Quick, but not too fast

Lower Your Expectations 

aka Quick, but not too fast 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Not to brag, but I’ve always been a little bit above average in most of my classes. I mean the classes like Math or English or History. I’m not some genius or anything. I couldn’t dissect an animal or mix chemicals properly, but I could read a book and remember the important parts. I’m not performing brain surgery or anything.

What does that translate to in life? Well, let’s just say I know how to max out my 401k and Roth IRA and have enough left over to buy that new Honda Civic. That’s a joke, it’s a lease. And I still max out credit cards. But you know, priorities. You pick your battles.

Speaking of picking your battles, I took years of Krav Maga and other various self-defense classes. Classes might be a bit strong of a term. I watched a lot of YouTube videos. I tried to learn to use a knife and I’m pretty sure I could break free if someone zip tied my wrists and then left me along long enough. All of this is to say, I’m no Batman. But I do notices things sometimes and can occasionally put together a clue or two if I’m playing a board game or at an escape room.

I watched a reality show about “real life” superheroes. It was just as underwhelming as you’d imagine. A man with a thick skull who can hammer nails with his head. Contortionists. People who could stand extreme heat or cold or electric shocks. Basically there were a whole lot of interesting acts and routines that would have once upon a time populated road-side attractions and traveling carnivals. But none of these people were going to be world savers who could defeat one of those giant beams of light in the sky that seem to happen in all sorts of movies.

But it’s kind of funny what happens once you start looking at the world in a certain way. You start to notice things. I watched a fire fighter saving people from a burning building. He might have been the fastest man I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if that’s saying much. But it felt like it was something out of the ordinary. I don’t know how many people he saved. I didn’t get to talk to him. I was in the crowd but we were all forced to stay away for our own safety. But I saw him go in and out of the building twice as much as the next fire fighter.

It was a sight to behold. It makes me wonder, if he’s out there, who else is out there? Are there really “real life” superheroes like in the movies and comics? And should someone be actively recruiting them into some sort of squad or team or league? And if I could play some small part, what would that be? I feel like maybe I need to go take another class and get myself back into shape.

Day 25 - Fast, but not too quick

Fast, but not too quick 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Usually when you’re one of the fastest people alive, you get certain nicknames – quick, or flash, or speed demon, or some other such ordinary word or phrase associated with speed. If you can sprint, maybe you go to the Olympics. If you can catch a ball, maybe you end up in the NFL. If you’re trying to be a superhero though? Well, either you give yourself a code name or some plucky reporter might do that for you. Of course, if you’re trying to be a hero, then a million other considerations come in to play.

I might be the fastest man alive. Maybe. Depends on what we’re measuring - sprinting, stamina, marathon endurance, length of time, etc. Some people speed up quickly but can’t maintain it. Some people are slower, but stay that speed for longer. I’m fast for a human. I’m not always quick. Some people can make a change; cut one way or the other. Given a flat surface, and enough distance to really get going, I can run fast. For a bit anyway.

Once upon a time Usain Bolt set a world record when he ran the 100-meter sprint in 9.58 seconds. Or if you don’t know what that means, about 23 miles per hour. And he did that for 9 seconds. Imagine driving on the highway at 23mph and calling yourself fast. Years later scientists used a laser to show that his peak was about 27mph. I ran 40 miles per hour once. For about a minute. It was exhausting. I got a massage and took a nap.

So what is it that makes a man fast? Stride length? Foot-ground contact time? Muscle contraction and ability to bounce back with great force? I think of those old movies of horses running, where there are frames that show all four hooves are off the ground. Seems almost like flying to me. Even if it is for just one-tenth of a second. What if I could stretch that? Double or triple it? Touch the ground less, less wear and tear on the muscles, greater distance traveled. But that only matters if top speed is what I’m after.

If you want to be a hero, you can’t just run in a straight line. Speed over distance at any rate doesn’t really matter if you’re trying to get someone out of a burning building, or move someone out of the way of oncoming traffic. You need to be fast immediately, be able to turn on a dime, and have all other functions operate at the same rate. Who cares if you can get from point A to point B in 9 seconds if you can’t grab someone or push or pull or spin out of the way? Running is one thing, but throwing a bunch or dodging a laser blast is an entirely different thing. You need to start fast, move fast, think fast, react fast, and change directions fast. Do everything and anything fast. What good is being the fastest man alive when you’re only able to do it running in a straight line?

If I hear a cry for help, I react. I have to try. It would be better if I moved a little quicker. One step at a time. Try to get better next time.

Day 24 - One Step Then Another

 One Step Then Another

 Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

His aching body told him to lie there, but some part of his nagging brain kept screaming for him to get up. His eyes were blurred sparkles and low tinnitus made his ears feel hollow.

Just stay here. Roll over and lay for a minute. Just a moment more.

Pain screamed out from all over – shoulders, back, knees, and thighs. His body was hot, but he shivered with cold sweats. It was hard to breath. Something was built up, clogging his throat. Mucus or a clump of dirt. But coughing hurt worse.

Keep your eyes closed. Rest.

Someone was screaming. A cacophony of pain.

He didn’t know why he reached out to touch his left arm, but when he did, it felt sticky wet.

If you don’t move, you won’t have to get up.

There had been an explosion. Suddenly the building next to him and erupted and bricks and stones came raining down.

The street was unsteady, but that was probably him. The world wasn’t angled, that was his head. The air was unclear, but that was probably the dust and debris that he wore a thin coat of. The goal was to move, to get up.

If you close your eyes, you could rest. Sleep. Just for a minute. Let it fade. Just let it.

He pushed down hard, trying to use sheet will to force himself up with one hand. If you close your eyes, he told himself, you won’t open them. You don’t know what’s wrong. You don’t know how bad it is. You have to keep moving.

A cry and a scream and someone was nearby. He couldn’t tell who it was or what was wrong with them. They were close, though. He could tell.

His job was to know these things. His job was to help. His job should have stopped any of this from happening. But it was impossible to account for inability to predict in a moment like this. In a moment like this, he only had one job – to get up and keep moving. There were people to help. People to save. Least of all, there were his wounds to attend to. Closing his eyes was not an option. No matter how good and idea it seemed like at the time.

Get on your feet. Get moving. Then do something about it. One step, and then another. And then another.

Slowly he stood and tried to wipe the dirt from his eyes. There was work to be done.

Day 23 - 23

23 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

You notice the coincidences and somewhere deep down inside that caveman tries to see the predatory in the shadows and your brain tries to make out a pattern that might be the difference between life and death. That’s all it was – coincidences and the desire to make sense of a strange and uncaring universe.  

She told me she had figured the numbers out. The order that would reveal a truth. Patterns maybe. But a secret to the universe? I doubted it. I enjoy speculation about symmetry and the golden ratio, but I’ve never once thought that hexagons or probability thought exercises could prove the cat was live and unalive or that we were trapped in a matrix within a matrix.

Still, she had called, and I had ignored the message a moment too long, so when she disappeared, I instantly felt guilt about all my derision and poor phone-answering etiquette. She was obsessed with order and repetition, clearly believing she could find some pattern within, and within such madness she could find truth.

What was she doing? I found notebook after notebook. Piles of scrap paper. Folders. Notes in books. So much paper. So much waste. Over and over, she wrote the numbers. Again and again. Ascending. Descending. Positive. Negative. It wasn’t an equation. And the pattern, if there was one, was lost or changed on several occasions. What was it? What was she solving?

3:33. He had glanced at the clock and it was 3:33. Damn it, he scolded himself. Don’t you start this too. Never mind that 3:33 really meant 15:33, but if you’re dealing with a 12 hour cycle, then this is what you get. He also realized the date, but chose to ignore that. There was no 23^rd month, so no matter how the day or year fell, it didn’t matter. There could be no significance to the repetition of the repetition didn’t continue throughout.

But still, she had disappeared. Gone. For days now. Where could she be? Her most recent notebook was half full. And it cut off, mid-pattern. The pen still on the page, like it was suddenly dropped in a hurry. What had she seen? What had the numbers revealed? And where had she gone?

It was a maddening thought. He didn’t want to think it. But what if he came back on February Third? 2. 3. 23. Or what about March Second? 3223. Would she be back? Would something great and beyond belief occur?

He had to go. He had to get out of there. He couldn’t stand to look at the pages upon pages of numbers anymore. He couldn’t take it, that lingering feeling, that growing fear, that pressing desire to read through the pages again. He had to stop. He had to go.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something or someone was watching him. Any he couldn’t help put look at the calendar or count down the days as they passed, inching every closer to next repetition in the pattern.

Day 22 - Ticket Stub

Ticket Stub 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

I remember being disappointed by “Throw Momma from the Train” the first time I saw it. I was young and had never seen “Strangers on a Train” and didn’t really understand the reference or the significance of the Hitchcock film. There was a scene where a character shows off his coin collection and they were of no financial value, but they were all coins his father had let him keep when they would go to special events. Basically the aging, grown man missed his father and held tight to his childhood memories. It’s a kind, sentimental scene full of nostalgia and grief and love. It doesn’t make the movie great, but it makes for a very nice three minute scene.

I think about that scene more now that I too am an aging, grown man. I miss my mother and I wonder about the things she kept and the things I am to remember her by. There are mementos and trinkets from a lifetime of things I will never know or have an answer to. Postcards from people I’ve never met. Notes scribbled on scraps of paper regarding events I wasn’t at. These things, that were hers, that represent some life I’ll never know, and mean something I’ll never understand. That or they were leftovers that got misplaced in a drawer one time and survived the years, only to be uncovered now without meaning or context.

I can’t remember the last movie I saw with my mother. I remember the last movie she wanted to see in theaters, the movie I wasn’t interested in, and found a way to be too busy to drive her too. I have a different ticket stub, to a different film, that we saw somewhere in the last several years of her life. But I’m all but certain it was not the final film we saw together. But I have this token, this memento I can hold on to. I can make it mean something if I want it to. And as more memory fades, and I am unable to remember the correct order of things, this ticket stub could represent anything I want it to. If I tried to forget or let my memory blur still more perhaps a dozen years from now I would remember it as being the last movie I took my mother to. Or perhaps I’d forget all about it and wonder why I had saved this strange ticket stub for so long.

I began writing notes in the middle of books from her bookshelf before I donated them to thrift stores. Messages for the new owner to wonder about. Thoughts and sayings and sentences that had nothing to do with the book itself. In one I wrote out a shopping list. In another, a strange sequence of numbers. What will they think? What story will the new owner tell themselves? These books, these messages with no meaning. Someone will assume there must have been one at one point. They might invent their own. Or maybe make strange assumptions about the previous book owner. They’ll assign something to it whether important or not, and then maybe they’ll remember it and wonder for years and years to come. And in that way I’ll be remembered. And in that way my mother will be remembered.

I don’t have a coin collection of leftovers from special events. My memories fade and a few photographs have to do more and more heavy lifting when it comes to telling the past. You could make up anything in between those photos, and perhaps anything did occur. I can tell myself that. I can have whatever memories I want. And I can always make more.

Day 21 - What did she want? What does it mean?

What did she want? What does it mean? 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

There were about two times out of a million that I thought Sadie might be interested in me. Sadie talked to me. But she mainly talked to me when she was single. I don’t pretend to assume that meant anything. And I don’t think those were times she was interested in me. There were two times, yeas apart, when she was nearing the end of a relationship. Now, I didn’t know she was near the end of the relationship she was in. I’m not sure she knew it. I doubt her boyfriend knew. But there was a certain noticeable timing to it. She would be in a relationship, then we would have a close and intimate conversation, then I wouldn’t see her for a month or two and the next time I’d see her, she’d have broken up with her last boyfriend and already have a new one.

Once was at a birthday party for a mutual friend and we had all dressed up and I had a suit and tie on. And the first think she said to me was that I cleaned up nice. Simple. Not even really flirtatious. But then we talked all night and complimented each other several times over, and then she still went home with her boyfriend Mike.

Another time, we were at karaoke and discovered that we both liked way too many of the same songs. It was one of those rent-a-room karaoke situations and every time a song came up that I had entered, she’d grab the other microphone and sing along. And then vice versa. Now normally she dressed pretty punk rock and I dressed in annoying hipster fashion. But we both were singing anything from K-pop to Spice Girls to Frank Sinatra. I think I surprised her by being outgoing and especially FUN! I think she surprised me by her wanting to sit next to me and sing songs.

But then I didn’t see her or hear from her and none of our mutual friends ever said a word and then she always fell from one relationship quickly into the next. Perhaps I was never there during a very brief window of opportunity. Or perhaps I was just a safe enough person for her when she was ready to start talking to other men and test out just how she was feeling about her current relationship. Either way, I never got any indication that from her or our friends that she was interested or that I was supposed to make a move.

Sexy Sadie, as it occurred to me that I might someday call her. It wasn’t funny or original. I’m sure it was one of those super common jokes she had heard a million times. Or if she hadn’t or didn’t know the reference, then I was seriously interested in the wrong woman.

I remember seeing a tv show when I was young where a man loved a woman and couldn’t tell her yet, but the soundtrack started playing Crimson and Clover by Tommy James. I was young and sort of thought that song was in the character’s mind and I didn’t totally understand how soundtracks worked yet. It certainly set the mood for me so it did its job.

I’m not saying I heard a song when I’d see Sadie walk into a bar, and if I had a soundtrack to my life, it probably would have been a different song. But maybe not. Maybe there was something fitting to the song lyrics…

“Ah, now I don't hardly know her

But I think I could love her

Crimson and clover

Ah, when she comes walking over…”

When I saw her walking through the room, I always hoped she would stop and talk to me. And in reality I didn’t know her. Not well anyway. Not enough to know and certainly not enough to fall in love. But silly romantic thoughts and song lyrics don’t work like that. Sometimes a walk in enough. Sometimes a look. I once saw Sadie on a dance floor and something in the way her arms moved, such precision and attitude. I’m pretty sure I could have fallen in love with that dance move, if that’s even possible.

“…my, my such a sweet thing

I wanna do everything

What a beautiful feeling…”

It’s nice to be wanted. It’s nice to want. I think about her too often and too much for what it’s worth. I wonder when I see her with Dan and I wonder when she’ll dip her toes in the water again and start wondering when it’s time to end things with him. Will I suddenly get one more great conversation, one more great moment? Will I be told or know that Dan is about to get some very bad news in a few days? And would she ever consider giving me some good news? If past is predicate, probably not. But what a beautiful thing to think about.

Day 20 - It would have been insane...

It would have been insane 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

She didn’t call the police. She wanted to, but what could she possibly say that would make sense? She thought she was in danger? She thought the man was hiding something? Was that a crime? He had left. He had done nothing and said nothing and she had no evidence of any wrong doing. The police would have thought her a paranoid fool, or a prankster or perhaps something worse.

He had given a name and a backstory in explanation of his physical ailments. The name was likely false, but the tattoos and scars were real. Perhaps link-able and traceable. If he were a wanted man, then those could at least give the police a region to search. If he were a wanted man, then he would have known that showing them to her would give her the ability to identify him. And if he were a wanted man and knew she could identify him then he would have likely done something about it.

Maybe she was just paranoid. He had done nothing. Said nothing. He had walked away. Walked not run. But if he had ran then she would have been suspicious.

Stop thinking, she told herself. But still, there were options like the internet and doing her own research. She could still remember his tattoos. She could try looking that up. Stop inviting danger, she reminded herself. But still, perhaps she had a civic duty.

Once upon a time her mother told her she had a gift – an ability to read people, see their thoughts, and feel their feelings. Her gift right now was her ability to keep quiet. Normally things happened when she was close to someone. Most often while touching them. Still, she had always wondered what her range was. Was it a skill she could develop? Would it be based on her desire or the person in question? He was such a specific individual. She held him in her mind. She remembered the feel of his skin, the look in his eyes, and the design of his tattoo. She was sure she could reach out. She was sure of it. Her gift right now was her ability to keep quiet, she reminded herself. She had no idea what might happen – if she could reach him, feel him, find him, perhaps he would know she was there, and then he would know her suspicions and might return.

Once you tell yourself not to think about something it’s practically impossible not to think about it. She took a deep breath and tried to clear her thoughts. It would be nothing but trouble. Focus on something else, she told herself. Whistle a tune. Sing a song. Read something. Meditate. Watch something. Move on move on move on. Ignore all else. But what about her dreams when she slept? What about her unconscious mind? Now she was just drilling the idea deeper into her psyche. The man, if he were a danger, was now cemented.

 

Three days later she had a random thought about Arizona. The song and the state. A week later she woke up and could have sworn she was in a hotel room until her eyes focused and her dream quickly faded.

What was his name again? She couldn’t remember. That was a good thing. The random thoughts? Well, she’d try to focus on something else, she told herself. Perhaps those would fade soon as well.

Day 19 - Could She Tell?

Could She Tell? 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Something in her eyes changed. He didn’t know what happened, but he could see the change in an instant. She touched his arm and then looked him in the eyes. She hid it, or at least tried to. That was a skill in and of itself. She must have experienced something like this before and had practice hiding her thoughts. Good for her; dangerous for him. No matter her talent, she had slipped, holding her breath and registering the moment. Just for a second, just long enough for him to see. But could she see that he saw, and if she saw his change, did she know what it meant? He wasn’t sure. How could he be? There was no way to know.  

He had to make a choice. He had to decide quickly. To do nothing might assuage her fears and they could both go about their business and enjoy their futures apart. Or it might give her time to hatch her own plan and bring about his downfall. But that was only if she knew. To do nothing was to risk it all, but there would be the one shot that nothing extra would have to occur and he wouldn’t be committed to some violent or horrible task. To do something would all but guarantee some version of something horrible. To him, to her, depending on what he did and if she anticipated it and how poorly things went in either of their favor.

He should ask her something. Get a clue and figure it out. But what could he ask without tipping her off?

“You seem…” he slowly began. Talented… empathic... perceptive… None of those seemed right. “You must get tired, seeing so many clients.”

“I used to try to fit in as many per day as possible. I liked helping people. I needed the money.”

“But now?”

“Now I like to take more time for myself.”

“But you’ve seen some things.”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Injuries. Scars. Strange tattoos. You’ve probably met a lot of strange people.”

“I like to help people. But I guess, sure, I see a lot with a job like this.”

She said it. He knew it. She saw a lot. She flat out told him. He had to do something now. She was a threat.

“But really, people who come here are looking for something. I deal with their pain, but I’m a healer. I treat what needs to be treated. And there’s an intimacy to that, but for it to work, people have to trust me. They put their trust in me, trust that I am trustworthy.”

Trust. Could he trust her? If she was telling him she knew, she was also telling him it was a secret and secrets stayed secret. Was that trust? Walk away. Neither does anything?

“The hour is almost up. Are you feeling better?”

He nodded.

“Take your time. I’ll leave the room and you can get dressed.”

She moved towards the door.

If he was going to stop her, he had to do it now. If he let her walk out, no telling where she’d go or what she’d do. He could get dressed and she could call the cops. He might get out of there, but they’d be on their way.

But this was her trusting him. She was leaving. Leaving him alone. Telling him that she was going to leave him alone. All he had to do was play along and let her walk away. Walk away and they’d both be okay.

No one was at the front desk as he exited the massage parlor. He didn’t slow down as he crossed the parking lot. No telling whose eyes were on him, or who was on their way. He had to move. He couldn’t look back. It was a shame; his shoulder felt better than it had in years. Under different circumstances he would have wanted to come back for more treatments. But he couldn’t risk it. He could never be sure about her or what she had seen that made her look so frightened for that millisecond. It was more important to be safe. He could suffer through an ailment or two, never knowing what he had or hadn’t avoided. The nagging feeling of what might have been.

Day 18 - the empath

the empath

Matthew Ryan Fischer

How many shoulders had she rubbed? She couldn’t count that high if she could even remember. The first had been a lifetime ago – over a quarter century or more. Her mother had called her a healer, a fixer. Back then she saw herself as a mediator between parents. And a fixer among friends. But she would take the title of healer. Physical pain was often rooted in emotional and a wound could be healed in any number of ways.

The room was a place of healing. The soft sounds of rain and percussion played in the background. The smells of scented oils wafted through the air. There were crystals on a table and paintings on the wall.

Her fingers were strong. Once upon a time she enjoyed the challenge of working out a tough not, rubbing a wounded muscle, breaking down someone’s inner stress or fixing their failing posture. She could find the right spot, the pressure point or muscle knot. Once upon a time she could work six seven or eight hours a day. Spas, gyms, hotels, private estates. Her fingers were strong. But her hands were tired. A lifetime of wear and tear and putting others before herself. How many more muscles could she rub? How many more spines could she straighten? The day would come, she knew. Perhaps her desire would fail before her body. Either say, the final day would someday come.

Each body told a story, even if she didn’t ask. She had seen sports wounds. War torn bodies. Post-surgery recoveries. Ruined knees. Deformed feet. She didn’t ask questions. Some people offered answers in advance, revealing insecurities or self-hatred. But she didn’t pry if it wasn’t her place.

Wounds, scars, brands, tattoos and any number of other natural or man-made physical vagaries. They all told a story, revealed a truth, a hint into the humane. She knew what self-inflicted looked like. She could guess which bruises were accidental and which weren’t.

She told herself stories. These moments in time and what these people were and what they could be. She had felt so many muscles, up and down and deeper or softer. More oil, different sounds, different energies. Over and over, so many times, to the point of a sort of meditative trance. She could zone out and still knew how many minutes per side, per arm, per leg and when that hour was almost up.

Very rarely, something new, something different caught her attention. It wasn’t always physical. Yes, there were sometimes new piercings or new tattoos that caught her eye. Some design, shaved or scarred. People could still surprise her. But sometimes, on rare occasion, the surprise was deep and emotional and not always clear. Sometimes it was pain. Other times fear. One man was angry. He didn’t say anything or do anything, and she never feared for her safety while he was there, but she knew he had anger in his heart. Most often it was sadness. Profound emptiness inside. People in pain with no answer, and her fingers at their strongest would not fix that.

She felt something in this man. For nearly an hour she had felt something and hadn’t quite figured out what. He was nervous and kept his eyes closed. But he looked at her towards the end, as if he had realized something or saw something in her. She didn’t know what. She didn’t know if she should be afraid of him or not. He seemed fearful of her. He opened his mouth to speak many times, but caught himself each time.

After it was over, when he was half out the door, he paused and turned back.

“You have a gift. A rare one.”

He stood there, mouth ajar as if he wanted to say more. Instead he nodded and gave her a look as if they shared a secret. She didn’t know what that meant.

After he left, she sat and thought. She felt and connection despite their limited conversation. She did sense a secret, an understanding, even if she didn’t know why or what it was. There as something special in that moment and she was certain she would remember it for a very long time.