Well, in case you've wanted to try my fiction on for size, here is a short story, which I like very much. However, it was turned down by the editor at my regular publisher (Untreed Reads) and his reasons for doing so are quite valid. It still doesn't change how much I enjoy the idea of this story, and I think it makes a great story to post on my blog for everyone's enjoyment--completely free of charge.
Feel free to leave me some comments, suggestions for improvement, encouraging words, death threats, earnest pleas to stop writing for good, or recipes for Pots de Creme.
So, without any further delay, here is Sackcloth Angel.
SACKCLOTH
ANGEL
by
Jesse S. Greever
The quarter
that would kill Jim
Karthright jostled carefree
in his front pants-pocket. Jim strode
down Fourteenth
Street, retracing
the same steps he
had taken from 8:02
to 8:13 AM every
morning for the
last seventeen months, three
weeks and two days.
And six
minutes.
And thirteen
seconds.
But who
was counting?
After nearly
twenty-two years overseas
in faithful service to
the National Security Agency,
certain habits lingered
in his demeanor. The average
person might peg him
as a paranoid,
perhaps even a
schizoid weirdy, but meticulous
attention to minutiae had kept him
alive during some pretty
dicey moments in the
past. He
didn't see much use
to messing with the
formula just because he was retired.
He glanced
furtively to his
right towards the mirrorized
glass of the Kerch Building, which
afforded him a
reflected view of
the large picture display
window of the Macy's
across the street. Spring dresses
adorned eerie headless,
yet shapely, mannequins. It seemed
that floral prints were
the “in” thing this
year.
Navy blue
or black suits, crisp,
starched white shirts
and lackluster red or
blue solid ties were
the “in” thing for
Jim every year. He slowed
his pace ever so
slightly, and focused
on the surface of
the display window waiting
for just the right
angle to present itself. He counted
his steps carefully.
Thirty-three—
Thirty-four—
Thirty-five—
Bingo.
He willed
his heartbeat to slow,
as he forced himself
into a calm state
of mind.
He focused his
eyes just beyond the
plane of the large
display window, deep
inside the fleeting reflection
of the space approximately
twenty-five feet behind
him. His
pace decreased imperceptibly,
prolonging the brief
glimpse of his
six-o'clock position.
To his
relief, he recognized
no one from the
last three times he
had checked various reflection
points.
Short of having
eyes in the back
of his head, the
next best thing was
stealing a peek
using a technique
he had picked up
in Leningrad
in the late 1970s. It worked
just as well in
late 1980s America as
it did in Soviet
Russia just a decade prior.
Another forty-six
steps and he would
be at the threshold
of the new Starbucks
on the corner of
Fourteenth
Street and
Rylen
Avenue. At precisely
8:13 AM, he would
assume his position at
the back of the
ordering line and
mentally rehearse his
drink order.
In Europe, this
type of establishment
was quite common, but
in America,
the public was just kicking the tires of the corner
coffee-shop where those who considered
themselves trend-setters gathered and
talked about the issues
of the day. In Germany
they called it a
kaffeeklatsch.
Here they probably
just called it “bickering
about politics and other
random crap”.
This
type of
thing might
actually catch
on here
in the
U. S.
Jim applied
a few careful foot-pounds
of energy to the
well-lubricated front door
of the Starbucks,
and the door swung
effortlessly open. The commingling aromas of
ground coffee and steamed milk
and forced an unguarded
smirk to slide across
his lips.
Caffeine was
a drug, no doubt
about it.
He had been
hooked since the age
of thirteen.
Sitting at the
kitchen table in
rural Missouri,
his father had held
his finger to his
pursed lips while motioning
behind him with an
awkward whip of
the neck, the universal
symbol for “I'm-about-to-do-something-that-your-mother-won't-approve-of-so-keep-this-just-between-you-and-me”. His Dad
slid the coffee mug
across the table. Young Jim
gripped it by
the handle, inhaled the
intoxicating steam rising
up from the surface,
steadied himself and
took a long slow
sip.
The rest,
as they say, is
history.
* * *
The quarter
that would kill Jim
Karthright narrowly escaped
being spent at the
counter of the
Starbucks.
Jim had fumbled
in his pocket to
find the final penny
to complete the exact
change for his $2.87
grande latte.
Under normal circumstances,
he generally only carried
enough change to pay
for his morning coffee,
but today, for some
reason, an extra
quarter had wound
up in his front
pants-pocket.
He studied it
curiously, the same
way a numismatist
might scrutinize a 1913
Liberty
Head Nickel.
He placed it
on the counter, ready
to give up the
search and just shove
$3.00 over to the
cashier when he
recalled that he
had grabbed the other
penny and slid it
into his other pocket.
Such bewlidering
inconsistency drove him
crazy.
Just
over a year
out of
the field
and I'm
already getting
lazy.
The quarter
destined to kill Jim Karthright
slid comfortably back
into his pocket.
* * *
Jim took
measured sips of
his perfectly prepared caffe
latte while the lethal quarter
rested comfortably in
his pocket.
His eyes darted
restlessly from side
to side, scanning the
landscape of humanity
that crowded into this
corner storefront.
Definitely
going to
have to
invest in
Starbucks.
Wonder if
they've had
an IPO.
He examined
each person that walked
through the door
for a moment, noting
height, weight, build,
approximate age, skin
color, hair color, and
eye color (if he
was able to make
it out) with far more precision than the average John
Q. Public, but far less than his previous vocation had required. Every time
the front door popped
open and someone left
the coffee-shop, he
made a mental note
to cross them off
his psychic census.
Outside the
large front window, he
spied a ratty panhandler
begging for loose change. To Jim’s shock and amazement,
the social pariah whipped
open the door and
strolled into the
room with the ease of a regular customer, fouling
the jovial atmosphere with a presence that
could not be ignored.
The clientèle gave
wide birth to the
new arrival, as he
tried his best to
mingle with the general
population.
Caucasian
male.
Five feet,
seven inches
tall.
One hundred
fifty pounds. Moderately
muscular build. Perhaps mid-fifties
to early-sixties. Could be
younger if
hard living
has aged
him prematurely. Salt-and-pepper,
shoulder length,
extremely greasy
hair.
His eyes
are—what
are they? Violet? Impossible. Probably just
deep blue. Maybe indigo.
Fascinated, Jim
watched while the
bum approached numerous patrons,
each one uncomfortable
by the spoilage of
the homogeneous upwardly-mobile
populace of the
coffee shop.
He strained to
hear what the man
was saying.
He seemed rigid in his
determination about something,
based on his facial
expressions and the
tension that rippled
across his forehead when
he made his request. He remarked to himself in disbelief
that on more than
one occasion, he shook
his head in refusal
of dollar bills. He had an inexplicable,
singular interest in something
else.
Jim stared
down at his coffee
attempting to avoid
eye-contact, but still
strained to hear
the man's obviously cockamamie
story.
Probably
dying of
cancer.
Maybe a Viet Nam
vet.
Or maybe
a Viet Nam
vet dying
of cancer.
Jim closed
his eyes and concentrated
on isolating the man's
voice over the tumult
of milk steaming,
coffee grinding and pseudo-intellectual
self-aggrandizing.
Once he locked
in on the raspy
voice of the unwelcome
stranger, he entered
a state of near
trance-like meditation.
“I'm
sorry sir, but I
was wondering if I
could bother you for
a quarter.”
Well,
he's nothing
if not
polite.
But why
just a quarter?
He opened
his eyes as a
yuppie-wannabe across the room reached
into his Dockers and
pulled out a quarter. He placed
it into the derelict's
grime-caked hand, which
was met with a
one-toothed smile (and
that poor tooth was
hanging on for
dear life) and a
wheezy cackle.
Propriety dissolved like saccharin in a hot latte as the
Super-Prep recoiled with a surprising
lack of subtlety, as if a
skunk had just sprayed
directly into his
nostrils.
Jim smiled
with the same smugness a struggling single mother might embrace watching
a rich CEO after a fender-bender with a telephone pole.
That'll
teach you.
Jim watched
the oldish man stagger
over to a lone
pay-phone on the
wall opposite him, a
tiny throng of coffee-sipping,
self-centered, thirty-somethings
scattered to give
him wide berth. Treating the
quarter like a
gold Krugerrand, the
old man cradled it
in his cupped hands
and approached the phone. With a
touch of palsy unnoticed
by anyone else, he
grasped the quarter
between his right
thumb and forefinger,
and guided it towards
the slot.
Rapt, Jim
leaned back in his
seat and folded his
arms across his chest. He listened
with every fiber of
focused attention
in his being. The man
picked up the receiver,
fingers articulating with astonishing dexterity, wedged
it between his ear
and shoulder and slipped
the quarter in the
slot with a fluidity
that betrayed the rest
of his “poor-man-down-on-his-luck”
demeanor.
His fingers
hovered over the
keypad on the dull
silver phone console. His dialing-finger
hesitated for a split-second
before punching numbers that at once seemed
both random and purposeful.
Jim squinted to
catch as many numbers
as he could.
214
area code. Local. Somewhere
in the
Dallas
metro area.
The man
stiffened almost imperceptibly,
and then began talking. Jim leaned
forward, hoping his
attention would remain unnoticed.
“Sam
and Julie's plane just
landed in Haifa, but
they are being detained
by local law enforcement
for an undisclosed
reason and are unable
to contact you.”
He cradled the receiver
and whirled around, scanning the room with eyes that seemed decades younger
than the face that framed them.
What
the—?
The man
resumed his quarter-scavenging
hoedown around the
room, approaching any
new customer who walked
through the door.
After another
success, he repeated
the process.
Jim couldn't help
but stare, only slightly
conscious that at
any moment the bum
could turn around and
lock eyes with him
and the jig would
be up.
He was unsure
that the man would
have cared, but one
could never be too
sure about the privacy
preferences of the
homeless.
He connected
to his next hapless
victim.
“I'm sorry to
tell you that your
husband, Morris, has
been involved in a
bit of a fender-bender. He's hurt
his neck and is
on his way to
St. Bartholomew's downtown. He's asked
you to meet him
there.” Again,
he hung up abruptly.
Guy
probably hasn't
eaten in
days, but
he's begging
for change
to make
crank phone
calls.
Jim grunted his
disapproval as he
waited for the stranger
to find his next
hapless quarter-donor.
The stranger
shifted his approach,
asking for multiple quarters
from each new unsuspecting,
coffee-deprived caffeine junkie
who rushed in the
door. He
hit on his third
request, receiving
three quarters from a
well-meaning woman in
a flashy, royal-blue
pant-suit.
With mounting
fascination, Jim followed
the man with his
eyes back over to
the pay phone, and
watched, spellbound,
as he dropped three
quarters into the
slot, and proceeded
to dial again.
913
area code. Kansas,
I think. That explains
the extra
quarters—long
distance charges.
As before,
the strange caller cocked
his head to the
side, wedged the receiver
against his ear,
and slumped while waiting
for the unwitting
victim to answer the
phone on the other
end of the line.
Another apparent
success.
“Mrs.
Henderson?
This is to
inform you that you
have been randomly selected
by KCMO radio as
a $100 winner in
our 'Hundred-a-Day' contest. You need
to come to the
station today by
5 PM to claim
your prize.”
Once again,
he hung up abruptly
without allowing the
recipient of his
mischief a chance
to respond.
Jim cocked an
eyebrow and found
a sly smile curling
the corners of his
mouth. Bemused,
he dug around in
his pocket to find
the errant quarter that
somehow had found
its way into his
pants pocket.
Not sure whether
to motion to the
vagabond or to
wait to be approached
and officially pan-handled,
the tightness that coiled
in his abdomen, a
result of the momentary
lapse in decisiveness,
dissipated as the
strange man turned
towards him and
strode with purpose in
Jim's direction.
He gripped
the quarter on opposite
edges between his thumb
and index finger. He held
it up in front
of his face, awaiting
the approach of its
new owner.
Jim tried
his best to purvey
a sense of graciousness,
an expression not in his normal repertoire. He cleared
his throat, and the
man locked eyes with
him. Jim's
awkward smile came
off like an impossible
mix of the few
seconds after a
particularly bad toe-stub
and the split-second
prior to a particularly
humongous sneeze. “I certainly
hope you don't have
to dial another long-distance
number, because I
only have one quarter
left.”
The bum
cocked his head to
the side and studied
Jim for a few
seconds before reaching
out and snatching
the quarter with a
confidence unusual for
the beggar type. “Don't worry,
this one's local.” He stood
in front of Jim,
fist clenched around the
quarter.
“If you would
be so kind, do
you have the time?”
Man,
this guy
is abnormally
polite.
Jim was befuddled
at the apparent contradiction
directly in front
of him; shabby, somewhat
malnourished, but educated and
more polite than ninety percent of the customers in the coffee shop. He found
himself captivated
again by the puzzle
that was the exact
hue of the man's
eyes. At
the present angle, they
appeared midnight blue;
seconds earlier, deep
indigo. No matter what color,
vibrant and effervescent.
He tore
his eyes away from
the stranger's face and
glanced at his
digital watch, complete
with calculator. He returned
his gaze to its
previous target and
answered, “It's just
a few seconds before
8:29.”
“Thank
you.”
The quarter
that would kill Jim
Karthright started its
march toward the ultimate
fulfillment of its
destiny.
Jim leaned
back in his seat
and watched as the
same process as before
was repeated.
He was so
preoccupied with eavesdropping
on the next prank
call that he forgot
to spy on the
number dialed.
Once again,
he dropped the quarter
into the slot, dialed
seven digits of a local phone number, and
tapped his foot while
apparently waiting for
the call to connect. He turned
slowly on his heel
and made eye-contact
with Jim, his expression
a swirl of resignation
and something else.
Was it
pity?
“I
need you to go
out on your balcony
and look on the
street below, Mavis.”
Without knowing
why, Jim shuddered,
as icy fingers gripped
the nape of his
neck. The
strange facial expression
from the derelict left
him with a haunted
and hollow feeling in
the pit of his
stomach.
A maelstrom
of inexplicable unease
churned from his
brain to the tips
of his toes, and
he was struck with
an immediate need to leave.
The quarter
that would kill Jim
Karthright dropped into
the reservoir of coins
inside the pay phone
as the man hung
the receiver in the
cradle.
Its work completed,
it rested quietly with
its minted brethren,
waiting for the
next opportunity to
serve some grand design.
* * *
Jim pushed
through the crowd
in the Starbucks,
furiously shoving through
the exit.
Emerging from the
coffee shop, he gasped
for breath, lungs tightening,
chest constricting.
What
WAS that? The vagabond's
expression was forever
burned into his memory. For all
intents and purposes,
it was the kind
of look that a
compassionate person would
have given the bum,
not the other way
around.
The incongruity
of it all tugged
his brain in a
million different
directions, while he
attempted to reconcile
all the information
cascading through his
psyche.
He stumbled
on the pavement,
nearly falling face-first
onto the sidewalk. Righting himself,
he looked up just
in time to see
the silver, late-model
Cadillac buck like an unbroken
stallion as it hopped
the curb, thrusting
itself up on to
the sidewalk.
Frozen by a
fusion of terror, confusion
and acceptance at the inevitability of his own
annihilation, Jim found himself enjoying
the last few moments
of life as he
knew it in extreme
slow-motion.
He made
out the horrified
look of the Cadillac
driver, an old
woman with a beehive
hairdo that nearly reached
the ceiling of the
plush interior cab of
the car.
He observed
the scattering of fellow
pedestrians, milliseconds
crawling by like
minutes, seconds like
hours. He
vaguely heard screams
and shouts of “get
out of the way”,
but the curious, echoing
voices seemed millions of
miles away.
He craned
his neck and peered
back toward the Starbucks
just in time to
see the vagabond making
his egress, head bowed
and feet shuffling. Something wasn't
right, though.
Jim was unable
to discern what exactly
was violating his sensibilities,
but for some reason,
something about the
derelict did not
belong in the tableau
that played out in
front of his eyes.
Wait,
how is
he moving
faster than—
The gigantic
luxury vehicle overcame him
and smashed against his
abdomen, doubling him
over, forcing his face
against the hood. The front
bumper obliterated the
massive front window
of the Starbucks,
glass shards large and
small slicing and ripping
Jim's flesh.
He felt the
first few, but as
his body was torn
to fleshy ribbons resembling ground beef,
agony gave way to
numbness and shock
faded into peace.
As the
universe resumed its
normal pace, screams and
shouts assaulted his ears. His lifeblood
hemorrhaged onto the
floor of the once
bustling coffee shop. Spine shattered,
he was unable to
move his head, but
in the last few
seconds of consciousness,
his facial nerves registered the heat emanating from the hood of the car
against his cheek. He
watched as the
prank-calling pan-handler
approached him, knelt
down to meet his glassy gaze
and placed a grime-laden
hand on his forehead.
He spoke
softly.
“It won't be
long now.”
His voice had
transformed from gravelly
to preternaturally smooth,
his words woven together with beauty and grace. “Just close your
eyes.”
* * *
Iris Pembroke
pulled onto Fourteenth street,
scalp still ablaze after
being under the hair-dryer
for almost thirteen minutes
longer than recommended. She knew
it had been a
terrible idea to
keep her weekly hair
appointment when she
found out that Melanie
was out sick, but
in the last 24
hours, her hair had
become unmanageable. Desperation won
out over common sense,
and she kept her
appointment with the
new stylist.
Ignoring the
instructions of Morgan,
a wretched excuse for
a substitute stylist, she
reached up and
scratched furiously
at her overcooked scalp. At least
for the moment, the
itching had subsided
under the intense scratching,
leaving only the
searing pain of scalp on fire.
She glanced
at the digital clock
on the dashboard,
then looked up at
the road in front
of her, just in
time to see a
young man in those
strange tight exercise
pants and a form-fitting
shiny white shirt on
a bicycle swerve into
the her lane. Grasping the
steering wheel with
a white-knuckle-grip-of-death, she
yanked to the right,
avoiding the cyclist
by inches.
She screeched
as the car jolted,
pitching itself onto
the sidewalk, dividing the
throng of pedestrians
like Moses
parting the Red Sea. The unlucky
soul who had not
been paying attention
slammed onto her
hood as she exploded
through the front
window of the new
coffee shop on the
corner.
* * *
Just
one more
mile to
go.
Courtney Jackson
pushed against the pain
as he pedaled the
bicycle down the
busy street.
He didn't particularly
relish the heavy traffic
this morning, as motorists
generally didn't afford
him the courtesy of
giving him space on
the roadway, but he
shrugged it off. Any cyclist
who chose to ride
through urban areas
was well aware of
the risks.
His mid-week
thirty-five mile ride
had taken him from
the northern suburbs right
into the heart of
downtown.
Most of the
way, traffic had been
light for the morning
commute, but as
the skyline came into
view, the usual gridlock
had taken shape. Courtney had
enjoyed the flexibility
of being able to
weave in and out
of the stopped traffic,
and on only a
few occasions, had he
needed to stop with
the rest of the
traffic.
Making a
split-second decision and
seeing an opportunity
to avoid the automotive
log-jam ahead, he
turned on to Rylen Avenue
from Fifteenth
Street. He inhaled,
filling his lungs to capacity as the
roadway opened up
before him, nearly all
lanes clear.
Not much further.
The weekly
ritual always brought him
to Jackie's apartment,
where he would immediately
shower and then they
would enjoy a leisurely
breakfast before they
were both off to
work. They
had been dating for
nearly three years, and
the time had come
for the inevitable
“popping-of-the-question”. His left
hand fidgeted as he grasped fanny-pack
which held the three-quarter-carat
diamond engagement
ring and the midnight-blue
velvet box.
Satisfied that it
was still in place,
he resumed his normal
grip on the handle-bars.
He glanced
around behind him, checking
the traffic in the
right lane.
Only a large
Cadillac was behind
him, and it was
a good distance away,
so he made the
appropriate hand-signal
and drifted over to
the right lane.
A large
terracotta flower pot
smashed to the
ground a few feet
in front of him,
its floral contents scattering
in the roadway. Courtney jerked
the handle-bars hard
to the left to
avoid puncturing his front
tire on the shards
of the flower pot. His center
of gravity shifted, and
he touched his foot
down on the roadway
to avoid an embarrassing
and likely excruciatingly
painful face-plant
in the middle of
Rylen
Avenue.
The Cadillac
bore down on him,
but seconds before impact,
the driver swerved the
car into the right
lane, and ground the
remnants of the
flower pot into dust
under its tires. Courtney applied
firm pressure to the
handle-brakes and stopped
in the middle of
the street, but not
before checking to make
sure no other imminent
danger was afoot.
Screams wafted
into the air as
the behemoth luxury car
bucked up onto the
sidewalk.
* * *
Mavis Torgerson
ambled through the living
room of her small
one-bedroom apartment
towards the ringing
rotary-dial phone on
the kitchen counter. The clanging
phone had startled her
as it interrupted
her morning routine of
eyebrow landscaping.
Almost no one ever called
her, and certainly
not before 9 AM.
She reached
for the receiver,
lifted it from its
cradle and brought it
to her ear.
“I
need you to go
out on your balcony
and look on the
street below, Mavis.”
Click.
“What? Who is
this?” The
line was dead.
Scrambling to
place the voice on
the other end, her
mind ran through dozens
of possibilities. The person
on the other end
clearly knew who
she was. Could it
have been Harry? He wasn't
supposed to be
home from his tour
of duty until next
month, but perhaps he
had gotten to come
home early, and wanting
to surprise her, had
disguised his voice. Intense curiosity
and anticipation gripped
her as she slid
the glass door open. She stubbed
her toe on the
threshold, and pitched
forward, catching herself
on the railing. Her hand
thrust into one of
her planters, and she
gazed in horror as
she watched it teeter
over the edge, falling
four stories to the
street below.
She regained
her composure, toe still
throbbing.
She peered over
the edge of the
railing and watched
the flower pot crash
right in front of
a bicyclist, missing him by mere
inches. Her
heart pounded as she
watched the cyclist
steer away from the
mess she had created
in the street, and
her breath hitched when
she noticed the large
vehicle approaching
him.
“Oh
my—”
She tried
to look away, but
found herself frozen, terrified
by the scene playing
out before her eyes. She half-yelped
when she saw the
car swerve away from
the man on the
bicycle; she squealed in abject terror when
she realized the car
was barreling into a
crowd of pedestrians
on the sidewalk.
A cacophony
of screams of dread
and despair mixed with
the grinding of glass
and steel as the
car careened into one
of the storefronts
below. Mavis's
own desperate cries mingled
with them as she
collapsed onto the
concrete floor of
the balcony.
* * *
Jim Karthright
drifted in relative
peace, as the horrific
scene faded away. Separate from
his body, a mangled
mess of shredded viscera
laid out on the
floor of the once
bustling coffeehouse, he
found himself at peace,
detached from the
chaos.
Darkness enveloped
him.
The designs
of the inevitable
laid themselves out before
him as the final
words his mortal ears
would ever hear followed
him as he made his way towards the light.
It won't
be long
now.
Close your
eyes.
Jesse S. Greever is the CEO of eLectio Publishing,
a digital publisher for Christian authors. If you are a Christian
author and have a manuscript that you think is worthy of publication,
check out the submission guidelines and follow the directions for manuscript submissions.
Greever is also a co-author of the book, Learning to Give in a Getting World, and numerous fiction titles from Untreed Reads publishing.
Greever is also a co-author of the book, Learning to Give in a Getting World, and numerous fiction titles from Untreed Reads publishing.
You can become a fan of eLectio Publishing on FaceBook: http://www.facebook.com/eLectioPublishing
You can follow 3GPublishing on Twitter (@eLectioPubs): https://twitter.com/#!/eLectioPubs
Learning to Give in a Getting World, by Marc Farnell and Jesse Greever, is available as both a paperback and eBook at the following locations:
CreateSpace (paperback, $9.99)
Amazon.com (paperback, $9.99; eBook, $2.99)
Pastors and church administrators
can contact me directly at jesse@accidental-author.com to find out about discounts available for churches that wish to use this for teaching and small group curriculum.
You can also become a fan of the book at www.facebook.com/LearningToGive.
Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/JesseSGreever
