A Fae in the Drive Thru

 By Lecian Yavetil

-

Why do I have to do this again? Xieranon knew the question was pointless, but he had long found that asking a question silently was an excellent way to relieve excess stress caused by situations outside of his control. If he didn’t relieve the stress in some other—unnoticeable—way, then he might accidentally reveal it in his expression. At that point, he’d be so hopelessly behind the rest of his Court that he’d have to give up and live openly, like a human, so mental conversations it was.

Because it is my Queen’s order, he answered himself. Unanswered questions might increase stress instead of relieving it, so it was best to answer them quickly. Or rather—fae can’t lie, even in their heads, so he quickly had to modify his phrasing—her chancellor gave me this assignment, and explicitly told me that the Queen wanted it.

Grimly, he stared at the location of his assignment from the roof of a nearby building as he mentally tugged at his invisibility charm, making sure it hid him from sight. Moving quickly, he spurred his mount down to ground level and moved a little closer to observe the proper etiquette required for the task he was assigned. Finding an appropriately out-of-the-way spot to stand in, he stopped and checked his charm again.

Why did it have to be me, though? Or—he knew that it was just chance he was the unlucky fae chosen, and again revised the question—why does it always have to be a noble? This is just beneath our dignity!

Because none of the common fae can be mistaken for humans, he answered himself again, and half of them wouldn’t have the wits to maintain a proper glamour, either. Taking a long breath and releasing it again, Xieranon nudged his mount into the proper position and released his invisibility, simultaneously crafting a detailed glamour to take its place. Moving forward slightly, he followed the example of the humans he had watched in preparation for his task. 

“Welcome to McDonald’s, would you like to try—”

“You can order whenever you’re ready,” a different voice interrupted the first, supplying the phrase that Xieranon had recently discovered meant to tell the tall pole next to him what food he had come for.

“A number four with a large Coke, and a number seven with a large root beer,” Xieranon rattled off the order the chancellor had told him before he’d left the palace that morning.

“Alright, that’s a crispy buttermilk chicken meal with a large Coke, and a fish fillet meal with a large root beer, do I have that right?” The second voice read back to him.

“Yes,” Xieranon replied simply, as all the other humans had.

“Okay, you can go ahead and pull around to the next window, then. Thanks!”

Xieranon eyed the pole disapprovingly while carefully maintaining a calm expression. It really should be more cautious than to offer a fae such an easy opening. Oh well, I suppose there aren’t many situations where I could actually use the service of such a tall, obviously immobile pole. No matter it’s apparent sentience to be able to serve the humans in such a way.

Continuing forward, he paid at the next window, and picked the food up at the last.  Finally, it’s done. Now he just had to deliver the food to the queen’s chancellor and remember to avoid appearing in the castle at the times when the “volunteer” to pick up the queen’s food was chosen.

~

“Lord Xieranon, did your hearing fail, or were the directions I gave you too complicated? The queen’s fries were cold! I am rather sure that I told you to make sure it was made fresh.”

Xieranon nearly frowned, but he managed to catch the expression a moment before it reached his face, “I gave the pole the order you told me, a number four with a large Coke and a number seven with a large root beer.”

The chancellor, a changeling the queen had selected for her knowledge of human society, sighed deeply, once again nearly causing Xieranon to frown. It’s like she doesn’t even care whether someone uses her emotions against her.

“It’s no problem, Sylvia,” A gentle sounding voice called.

“My queen,” All the fae in the room bowed as one to the newcomer as she stepped through the doorway, a small smile on her face. She waved her hand for them to rise and turned back to her chancellor and the lord she was addressing.

“After all, he’s already brought the food back. It would be a waste if it weren’t eaten,” the queen continued. She paused, and her smile briefly grew more pronounced and mischievous before she quickly schooled it back to her more subdued, royal expression, “However,” She continued, “as it seems Lord Xieranon could use some more familiarity with the operation of fast food establishments, I believe he should be the one to collect my breakfast in the morning.”

A chuckle sounded in the room, and all the fae present turned to look at the female who had made the sound. “Is something amusing, Miss Nireia Laurel?”

The human laughed again, smiling quite cheekily at the fae queen of the Day Court, “Not yet. Ask me again in a few weeks.”

~

“Welcome to McDonald’s, would you like to try our caramel macchiato?” The pole queried. Xieranon nearly huffed in annoyance. It had been a week since the first time he was selected to purchase the queen’s lunch from the strange human establishment called a “drive thru,” and as yet, he had not managed to retrieve an “order” with adequate accuracy to finally excuse him from this demeaning task.

“Just a—yaaagh!—moment, please!” The second voice requested. Curious, Xieranon inspected the pole for any signs it might display of being in a difficult position. It was, as always, standing upright and with no apparent issues. However, by this point it was several times in his debt, and he reasoned that he might as well show some concern for its future ability to repay that debt.

“Might you be in some kind of difficulty at the moment?” He questioned carefully. No reason to give it the impression that he cared about it. By this point, he could easily negotiate its debt into an indentured servitude if he wished.

“Just a—urgh—little,” the same voice replied again, sounding slightly out of breath.

Xieranon inspected the pole again. Still no differences that he could see. “Very well. I shall wait until you are prepared to begin the order.”

“No problem! Just a second, aaaand. Yep! I’m ready!”

“The order is…”

~

“Welcome to—” The first voice began.

“Could you wait a few minutes, please?” the second voice interrupted, sounding slightly strained.

Xieranon resisted the urge to inspect the pole. “Very well. I shall wait until you are prepared to begin the order.” 

It was now nearly two weeks since he had first been chosen to visit this human establishment to acquire the queen’s “fast food,” and three days ago he had finally managed to retrieve the necessary quality of food for the queen’s supper. Upon which the chancellor had told him, much too obviously gleefully, that the queen had said he should continue fetching it indefinitely so as to avoid wasting his new “expertise.”

“Oh, it’s you!” The voice exclaimed. “Let’s see, it’s breakfast, so you’ll be wanting the two for three and a big breakfast with hotcakes, sub round egg, and everything fresh, right?”

“That is correct,” Xieranon replied, carefully ignoring the half-truth that he was the one who desired the food. He wished to collect it for his queen, so it was true enough for him to ignore.

“Got it, I’ll tell the kitchen you’re here! You can pull around to the next window, and I’ll ring you up there,” The voice directed him. Xieranon gave in to the impulse to inspect the pole again, this time checking to see if it had grown legs or been attached to wheels since he had been there the night before. 

He debated for several more moments before he finally decided that at this point, there was very little the pole could do to clear their debt and he could comfortably question it without worrying it would be held over his head. “Last time I came it was a human who ‘rang me up.’ Has this duty perhaps been simplified to the point an articulate pole can do so?”

The voice fell silent for a few minutes, and then requested in a strained tone of voice, “Could you pull around, please?”

Xieranon considered this request for a moment before wordlessly cuing his mount forward. When he reached the first window a female was leaning out of it, looking at him thoughtfully. He was familiar with her, over the past week and a half she had often been the one in charge of “cashing him out,” but rarely had she looked at him as if she could see through his glamour, as she was now.

“Hello again,” She greeted him, almost as if by reflex. She hesitated a moment, then asked the question he had been working to prevent for the entirety of his recent exposure to human society, “You’re not… human, are you?”

“That is an odd question to ask another human, is it not?” Xieranon commented instead of asked, wary. Humans were vaguely aware that they were not the only ones living on this plane, but any kind of direct revelation was strictly avoided. The current Day Court queen being a near exception, of course.

“Only if you truly are human,” she replied, her eyes searching his face for the emotions he kept buried deep in a place they would not show. Releasing a long breath as if bracing herself for something, she told him, “The pole where you give your orders is neither intelligent nor articulate. The first voice you usually hear is a recording, what we call an auto-greeter. The second voice, the one who reads your order back to you or asks for clarifications, is a human whose voice is carried to you through a speaker.”

Xieranon remained silent, unsure what she intended to gain by providing him with information that she seemed to think was common for humans to know. 

She took a deep breath, and then told him, “For the past week and a half, I have been the second voice taking your orders for breakfast and lunch.”

There were a few minutes of complete silence as she waited for Xieranon to work his way through the implications of that statement. That was… unexpected, he considered, thinking about it, I certainly wasn’t expecting it to be a human. That is… far more useful to have in my debt than an immobile pole with the ability to speak. He examined her carefully as the silence stretched on, taking stock of this new resource at his disposal. She looks… a little young, for a human. I suppose I’ll have to wait for her to grow older before I can collect on her debt with anything useful. But…

“I see,” he said slowly. He nodded, a sharp movement that slipped out before he could catch it, then seemed to refocus on her face.

“Did you actually inform the kitchen of my order?” he queried, evading the question that still hung unanswered between them. She blinked, then nodded in understanding.

Turning back to her screen, she quickly pushed several buttons as she replied, “Yes, it should be ready after another minute or so. Your total is—”

She hesitated as she went to hand him his change. “I-I won’t avoid this debt. When you decide how you want it paid, I will follow your orders to the best of my ability.”

Xieranon eyed her again as he deposited the change in the coin purse he had been given to make the purchase. Yes, it would be best to wait until she has reached maturity. A child makes for a poor servant, as they are limited in physical ability and often require discipline, he decided, and turned away without answering. Still, I will need to inform the queen of this, he acknowledged to himself with some disappointment.

~

“So you have a human McDonald’s worker in your debt,” The chancellor summed up, raising her eyebrow in an excessive display of emotion that nearly caused a muscle in Xieranon’s eyelid to twitch. It seems I should pay more attention to my control. Seeing the chancellor’s over-expressiveness seems to be wearing off on me.

“I didn’t think it was all that important, but I’m glad you agree with me, Sylvia,” The queen told her chancellor, smiling benignly.

Apparently, the queen’s constant companion did not deem the smile nearly as benign as Xieranon had assumed it was, for she hastily corrected herself, “I don’t mean to say that it is useless to us, indebted servants can often prove themselves in unexpected ways. However, as the girl is still very young, I do not think she will be of much use. Humans give their own young very little power, and even as adults they must fight for any power they wish to acquire.”

But the girl may yet be helpful to us,” The queen said, a thoughtful look crossing her eyes before she turned back to Xieranon. “You will continue as you have done so far, but tomorrow you will give the girl a message. Tell her that to repay her debt she must…”

Xieranon listened carefully to the queen’s order, and once she had finished he barely managed to withhold a protest. As if she could read his thoughts, she smiled gently at him. “As compensation for losing your servant,” She continued, “Once she has completed her task you may be relieved of your responsibilities to make my fast food runs.”

~

 And that is why the adventurous of heart might encounter a small building with a familiar double arch hidden deep in the woods of North Dakota. The foolhardy might dare to step inside such an obviously faery residence to find a seemingly normal establishment, despite its remote location. 

However, if they were to tarry long enough, they would soon see the seemingly normal customers have slightly odd habits, such as speaking in rhymes, or paying for their food in gold coins. Most will not stay long enough to observe these things, for the place has a certain atmosphere that discourages even the foolhardy from loitering for long.

After all, this place was built so that the fae could enjoy a taste of human culture without venturing among humans for themselves. The only human who is tolerated there is the owner, a young woman who had worked her way up from a common crew member to store owner as a way to pay off a debt.

 

About the Author
Lecian Yavetil is an aspiring author who is currently studying in preparation to transfer to Franciscan University of Steubenville in the fall 2022. She enjoys everything fantasy and loves finding the ways that the legends could be twisted slightly to understand them in entirely new ways.

FireKeeper

 By Sawyer Johnson

-

“Why? Why did you do it? And don't pretend like you didn't,” the pigface said as he slouched forward. 

Of course I stayed silent. It was my right wasn't it? I just sat back in the chair in a relaxed position, staring at him as though nothing was going on in my head. 

“The motel, why were you there?” he asked.

Again, I stayed silent. I had to open my mouth a bit to breathe because I couldn't stand the smell of him. He reeked of cigarettes, shitty cologne, and whiskey. His unshaven face and bloodshot eyes just showed how tired he was, weak-willed, too. We’d been in there for hours already. I didn't plan on cracking. 

“How did you do it? Flames got pretty big, Rickie. Do you use any accelerants? Gas, lighter fluid? Hell, with the amount of damage I can only assume you used fucking napalm. Killed three people. How did you do it, Rickie?” He showed barely any emotion as he spoke. Only thing that tipped me to his frustration was the glint in the back of his eyes. 

I closed my eyes and thought back, smiling to myself. A match, something small, fragile, and lightweight. Something so simple but so powerful that it can set someone's world ablaze. I remembered ash falling down like snow in the parking lot of that motel on 87. Women shrieking and children crying as they sprinted away with perfectly deformed faces. Our gift to them. That day in June a match gave me an inner light that I never thought I had. Joy. It was so simple, thinking about the scratch against the box sends chills down my spine, even now. Skin raising with goosebumps.

“Fine then, don’t talk. It's clear that you’re reminiscing about what you’ve done. I’ll go ahead and recall that night for you. Maybe get you talking.” He leaned back in his seat. 

He started flapping his fat fucking mouth again, but I ignored him. Lost in the memories. The smell of sulfur dioxide from the lit match was still trapped in my nose. My gaze locked onto him as I started to smile. The sight of the inferno, the sounds of the sirens, the screaming, and that wonderful smell filling the air. All burned into my memory. I am proud of our work. All of the destruction and a few lost lives, they were all worth it. It’s too bad it wouldn’t last. If only I could have stayed there in that moment to watch forever. 

“Nothing? Still?”

Finally, my silence got him to crack. He got up and stormed out the door. My eyes closed while I watched the images pass. 

In my mind I was back outside of the motel. Flames licking clouds. A dozen cops surround the place. I’d put my hands above my head as they approached. I was finally in the spotlight for once in my life, and it felt great. Once the images passed, I was brough back into reality. 

The cop returned with two others to haul me out. I went peacefully; I was never one for fighting. The months that followed were quick to pass. Convicted of triple homicide and arson of the first degree, they sentenced me to the most that the law could toss at me. They said I premeditated this shit. No. They have no idea what the fuck they are talking about. That kind of chaos can only happen spontaneously. At least in my mind.

Time passed fast after the trial. I was in the box for months that went in a blink of an eye. I could still see that inferno when I closed my eyes, and I couldn’t help but smile. The doc here wondered if any of this was just a symptom of a bad childhood. He also seemed to be the only one interested in my case. The visits to his office were always interesting. 

“What do you think about your childhood? Your parents seemed like lovely people,” he would say. 

“Oh, ya know, it was alright, Doc. My parents did okay. They never hit us or anything,” I would reply

“Care to explain further?” 

  I've always been a troubled kid, never had many friends, parents weren't around as much as they could have been, I always kept to myself. A silent bystander even in my own life. Looking back, it's sad, really. My school career was too easy. I made good enough grades to keep the teachers and my dad happy, but low enough not to stand out. Good grades bring the bad kinds of attention from the worst kinds of people. Learned that the hard way. 

“It was good.”

“Did you ever have any activities you enjoyed?” he asked as he took a short note. 

Thinking back even more, I never did much for the summer or even on holidays. The family gatherings were always mind numbing. The only thing I looked forward to each year was June 15th, the family reunion. Ironic, I know. The entire thing would make your tongue numb, bland like a saltine, dry as a desert. The one saving grace was the huge fire we had going from sunrise to sunset. I never let that flame escape my vision, only going to the restroom during lunch and dinner. Only then would I have a title, granted by my goblinoid cousins, FireKeeper. Self-tasked with keeping the embers alive, feeding them timber until the flames leapt so high, god himself would tremble. I felt like a god, breathing life into something so amazing.

“Nope, not one thing. I was a boring kid, Doc,” I replied.

    “Well, there must be something. You hesitate on every one of your answers, Mr. Selder. You clearly remember things, and you seem to have something behind that mask you wear. The only way for you to grow is if you actually participate here and with other inmates. You can't possibly stay alone here. It isn't healthy.” 

    “I'm just remembering the smell of the fire, the people's faces, and how priceless they were.” 

    “Your statements intrigue me. I hope you open up in these meetings. I am not an enemy. Everything here is one hundred percent confidential. Sadly, I'm out of time. See you at the same time next week. Please consider my offer for the group therapy. You could really benefit,” he would say before I was sent back to my cozy little box in the corner. 

We are far from the inferno now. A God of Fire, now a bland mundane man from Jersey named Rickie. Permanently trapped in a drab white room that smelled like a gym locker room that had sex with a gas station bathroom. I'm grateful for the wonder this tiny match has brought me, though. I've found a passion. If I get out, no, when I get out, I hope we will meet again. One day to hear the scratch against your container. One day to smell that lovely smell as a flame is born on the top of your head. One day to set the world ablaze, to show everyone how beautiful we truly are. 

 

About the Author
Sawyer Johnson is a 26-year-old student at Illinois Central College. He is a writer who enjoys writing silly and strange pieces of writing and reading equally strange stories.

 

The Book

 By Teagan Osborn

 -

She loved him.

She. Loved. Him.

I love him, she thought to herself, a little surprised. He’s human, and flawed, sweet, and smart, and funny. He’s so funny. Sometimes she actually laughed out loud at the things he said. 

Yes, she loved him, the only problem was he was fictional. He was a character who only existed on paper, only lived on the pages she read. Somewhere in the middle of that red hardcover book, she had fallen in love. Was falling in love, even as she read on that park bench, she was falling more and more in love with the story as much as the main character. He reminded her of an old college boyfriend, but that had ended years ago, in what she considered to be a completely heartbreaking disaster. This man, in these pages, was everything good that that man could have been, 

Without the constant drinking, she thought to herself. But this is absurd, she shook her head as she snapped the book closed with a thump. I am far too old for this. To be falling in love with somebody who doesn’t even exist is just absurd!

She pondered tossing the book into the public trashcan next to her and ending the absurdity. But she felt actual deep sadness at the thought of losing it, almost as if it were a friend whom she had known for years. 

She limited herself to ten pages a day reading from The Book, that’s what it was titled. The Book, that was it, by Jennifer Armon. A simple cover, all red with a slight texture and no description on the back. She found The Book at a store she frequented a few blocks from her house. She almost didn’t buy it, but the story was on sale, the bookstore man behind the counter had explained, and he had finally convinced her it was worth buying. So, she had, along with three other books. 

It took her a while to even start reading it. The Book had sat on her coffee table for a month before finally, she had decided to give it a go and from then on it has been her favorite part of the day. Embarrassingly, all she could think about was the main character and his story. The Book told the tale of woe and want, of his love, his hardships, his poverty, and exile from his home and from the one he loves the most. She knew it sounded cheesy, but the story, mainly the main character, had merely roped her in. 

She was halfway through the book and dreaded what would happen when she finally reached the end of the story, the end of the man on the pages she had fallen for. So, every day when she opened the book, she placed her bookmark ten pages ahead and read only those ten pages. That way at least it would take her a little longer to finish it. Then one day reading in her loft, ten pages from the end, she snapped The Book closed once again, she had had an epiphany. Perhaps this book was part of a series, or the author had written other books with a character similar to this one, similar to the character who she had fallen for. 

With the book in her hand, she hurried out the door and had to prevent herself from running all the way to the bookstore where she had bought The Book in the first place. She walked down the sidewalk until she reached her destination. She paused, looking at the big wooden door, and took a deep breath, a little nervous. If she couldn’t find another like The Book, she would surely die. She knew that that was a child’s thought, but she’d grown so attached, and honestly didn’t want to say goodbye to a friend ten pages from now. So, she opened the heavy door and walked in. She found the young man behind the counter, the same one who sold her The Book, she realized. And asked him, “This book,” gently setting it on the counter in front of them trying to hide her urgency, “um, hi, does this author write any other books like it, or is it a series? I must know, what else has Jennifer Armon written?”

“Nothin’,” he replied quickly. 

“Nothing?” She repeated in disbelief, “How do you know? That was an awful quick response. Could you please at least look it up?” She gestured to the computer and tried to be polite. She needed answers, and his response just simply wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

The young man behind the counter sighed and typed on the computer, after looking at it a minute or two he looked back up at her and said, “That’s the only book by her that I can find.” 

“Okay, what about another bookstore?” she asked. 

“Nope. I’m sorry but that’s the only book she’s ever written. Like ever. Maybe she died or something,” he said. 

            She gasped quietly, hurt that he would even suggest something so devastating. 

“Okay, well, thank you,” she said curtly and walked away.

She was heartbroken, in ten pages that would be the end. No future in sight. She guessed she should be relieved, finally ending this madness of being “in love” with somebody she’s never even met. Somebody who doesn’t even exist! But she wasn’t relieved at all as she walked towards the door, then before she opened it, she stopped, dead in her tracks. 

She stared to the left of the door at an obnoxious pink piece of paper tacked to a bulletin board amongst others that read in bold letters Jennifer Armon Book Signing. She rushed to the piece of paper and ripped it clean off the bulletin board. In clutching hands, she read the location and time of where she could meet Jennifer Armon, the orchestrator of the man she had fallen in love with. Every day at 8 AM, the poster read, Jennifer Armon, is available at Coffee Bean for anyone who would like The Book signed. She couldn’t believe it, she can meet the creator, perhaps even ask her questions, or maybe inspire her to write another book. She had to write another book. 

That night she couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned and stared at The Book as it sat on her nightstand with the bookmark still ten pages away from the end. She set an alarm for 7:30 AM, giving her plenty of time to get ready and walk to Coffee Bean to meet Jennifer Armon. But she couldn’t sleep, and she stayed awake all the way up until her alarm went off. She flung the covers off herself and jumped out of bed. She threw on her clothes in a rush, brushed her teeth in under half a minute, put on her shoes, snatched The Book from her nightstand, and rushed out the door. She walked as quickly as she could to Coffee Bean, wishing she didn’t live in the city so she could drive there quicker, but finally she made it. The coffee shop was bustling with people, and she was worried that she wouldn’t be able to find Jennifer Armon. After all, she had no idea what she looked like, but she was determined to find her. So, she opened the glass door to the coffee shop and walked in. She was greeted by the scent of coffee beans. With the book in her hand, she marched right up to the barista working the counter. 

“Jennifer Armon,” she said, skipping the pleasantries and hoping and praying that she hadn’t missed the author, or the poster hadn’t misled her. 

The man behind the counter smiled and said, “Finally. Yes, right over there,” he pointed to a table around the corner. 

She clutched The Book and sighed with relief, “Thank you,” she said gratefully.

She turned towards the table that he had pointed her to and when she did, she gasped and dropped The Book onto Coffee Bean’s white tiled floor. She was looking into the face of the man who had broken her heart in college all those years ago. He was much older and had natural age lines on his face, but she knew it was him, she had never forgotten him. She had loved him so.

“It’s you,” she said, still looking at him while picking The Book up off the floor.

“It’s me,” he said.

“I don’t—” she started, “how? What?”

He smiled shyly, “I thought this day would never come really,” he began “I—but I never—oh sorry, well, let me explain. Here, sit down.”

She sat down, still skeptical and confused and a little in awe. She honestly thought she would never see this man again, alive at least, she always figured he died of alcohol poisoning or liver cancer or some other third thing. But the man that was sitting across from her now, had a full face and kind steady hands.

“Let me explain,” he said to her a little apologetically, “you see I wrote The Book. The main character, he’s me, and the woman that he lost, and he loved, that’s you.

“I moved here about a year ago, I had no idea you were in the city when one day I saw you at the bookstore. I knew that I still loved you, I never stopped, but I knew how much I had hurt you.

“So, I wrote The Book and you, right now,” he pointed to the book she had in her hands resting on the table across from him, “have the only copy in existence. I went back to the bookstore after I saw you that day and I placed it on the shelf, then I paid the man behind the counter 20 bucks to sell it to you, and only you, the next time you came in.

“Which didn’t take long, the very next week you bought The Book, and as soon as I knew, I put that bright pink flier up in the bookstore. I’ve sat here, every day at 8 AM for three months, just hoping, and here you are. I’m so sorry Jen, for everything. For everything. I know what I’ve lost, looking at you here,” he smiled in a way that made her feel like if she left right now, just got up and left, he would have been happy simply to have seen her. 

“And if you just give me another chance,” he said, “Our story will be one worth reading. I thought if you liked the character in the book enough then maybe, just maybe, there’d be a chance that you could still like me.”

By the time he finished talking, she had tears in her eyes. She did, she did still like him. She laughed as a tear rolled down her cheek, she wiped it away and took his hand from across the table. “How about I buy you a cup of coffee,” she said.

“Actually,” he replied with a smile and shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t even drink coffee anymore.” They laughed together there sitting at the table as if they were back in college, before the drinking when their love was young and pure. 

They sat there at the table laughing and talking and before long she forgot completely about The Book.

 

About the Author
There’s not a day goes by that I don’t have an idea, an idea of something to write, or draw, or create, the list goes on. But the small obstacle that is time always seems to get in my way. That and motivation. We can use our minds for so much more than just a filing cabinet for facts, it’s easy to forget that when you’re a college student. 

Teddy

 By Sawyer J. R.

His eyes flicked open, counting back from ten while gazing into a blinding light mere seconds before, now surrounded in a dimly lit place. The only light came from a few feet ahead of him through a set of double doors. Pink in color, with horizontal slants that allowed him to barely sneak a peek through the other side. He made an attempt to look at his surroundings, coming to find that he could not move his head, his arms, nor his feet. From where he lay, he could easily see the toys strewn about this tiny room he was trapped in. The doors swung open and at his feet stood a young girl, maybe five years old at most, gazing down at him with a smile that only a child could have.

"I'm Sarah. Who are you supposed to be?"

            To no surprise, he could not speak. Nor could he remember his own name. Anxiety began to swell in the back of his mind. Thinking to himself, “Why can’t I remember? Where the fuck am I?! This cannot be real—”

            “Oh no! Teddy can't remember? I have just the thing!” Sarah said.

            The word Teddy sent more waves of disorientation through his mind. It was at that moment that he began to panic within. She scooped him up with ease and bolted with the speed of a bullet, going to a well-kept table and bright red pillows on either side. She set him down and posing him in an upright position, giving the perfect view of this child’s room. Only then, did she sit opposite of him. Seeming to pull a full set of China out of thin air, she placed it on the table. It’s far too small for practical use but seemed perfect for someone as small as the child across from him. She set one of the cups in front of him and poured a hot cup of bright red fluid from the empty pot.

            “I hear a hot cup of tea is great for a hurt head and a hurt soul. Go ahead, you drink first! Where are you from, how old are you, why were you in my closet, why does your face look funny, do you like my tea?”

            He barely had time to process, as she started projectile vomiting questions at him. The curiosity of this child made something click. He knew her, he didn’t know how, but he knew her. A memory manifested itself: he was sitting in this exact spot, legs crisscrossed on top of this pillow. Sarah and him were laughing. He glanced over to the nearby mirror, his thick head of hair, his thin happy smile, and he was much taller than he was now. The memory faded before his very eyes and all that he saw now was a teddy bear sitting across from this six year old, repair patches attached to his chest and face. The right button making up his eyeball was held on by only a couple of loose threads. All this happened while she continued to bombard him with questions.

             Immediately after she stopped speaking, he felt a soft tingle in his chest and face, his anxiety began to subside a bit as he got at least a bit comfortable in his situation. The cup in front of him emptied before his very eyes, and a pleasant taste coated his tongue as though he had drank from the cup. 

            “Sarah, thank you. I really needed that. I seem to have just appeared here. I don’t remember much. However, I know for a fact that I remember you, and that I've been here before,” he thought calmly.

            “Of course, you know me, silly. You are Teddy. Daddy brought you home a while ago. Been here ever since,” she said with a cheery grin.

The sea of stress in his brain calmed down. He now managed to be able to look around the room. Looking down at his hands, not hands, but nubs covered in felt with paw pad patches stitched to the ends. She poured him a cup of orange. Something felt off after drinking whatever that was. It left a numbing warmth in his chest. Despite feeling a bit off about the whole situation, he was comfortable. She stared at him, breathing through her mouth like a goblinoid creature. Happiness spread over her rosy cheeks. He couldn't help but chuckle.
            “Where are your parents?”

            “Momma is downstairs on the couch. She seems sad all the time now that dad isn’t home much anymore. Daddy hasn't been home in a long time. Mommy says he will come home soon. He’s just been sleeping all the time. It's weird cuz he isn't in bed ever. He hasn’t even been home!” she said.

            “Well, I'm sure he will come back. If your momma says so, you should trust her. She wouldn't have stuck around if she would have known your pops was gonna walk away from you two.”

He was finally able to move his plushy arms, reaching out to awkwardly grab the cup with both paws. Politely playing along, he bringing the cup to his muzzle. The orange drink disappeared into his lipless maw.
            “Dad hasn't been himself lately. I heard auntie say he's got a cancer in his head, which means there's a chance daddy’s brain might get eaten. But it's okay, though. Daddy is strong. He's beaten worse before,” she said.

            He set the cup back on the table, and she poured a cup of yellow. He sat there, completely calm, this whole situation was a dream, afterall, and he would wake soon. He took the drink up, and just sat there quietly with the young child. He let her ramble on about whatever she wanted, not a care in the world. As his cup emptied, she replaced it with a different color each time. The pot was totally empty when she poured the last drink, a violet drink, out of the pot. He heard the soft clack of heels come from behind the bedroom door, the door handle turned, and the door creaked open.

            “Sarah?”

A young woman entered the room, dressed in a peach blouse and tan pants. Something seemed off about her. She was smiling, but her composure was held back. She stepped forward and knelt beside the little girl before speaking in a calm tone. “Honey, we need to go see daddy. Grab your bear, and let's go.”

Without missing a beat, the child leapt up, happy to go see her father again. It was in this moment that something deep in the back of his mind clicked and crept forward into his forethought. Without a moment to think, all of them hurried down a set of stairs and into a bright red car. The man was dumbfounded, stress starting to overtake his mind again. He found himself unable to move his head, arms, nor legs all over again. His chest felt tight as the girl clung to him in the car ride.

Two questions cross his mind in this instance of shock? “Who were these people?” and “Why does everything seem so familiar?” He racked his brain so hard his head began to spin until another memory appeared: He was in the driver’s seat, a long stretch of road ahead of him. To his right, the woman was there. Sam. His heart filled with warmth looking at her, the sound of a small child giggling in the backseat.

The sound of Sarah humming snapped him free of his vision. They were now outside of a giant hospital. From his point of view, within the arms of a young girl, the building felt even bigger, daunting even, as they exited the car and approached the hospital. The surrounding air that should have been noisy from the wind, the sounds of people passing in and out of the building, and the sirens blaring off in the distance, but it was deathly quiet.

He tried so hard to move, but he couldn't. Not because the girl was clinging and carrying him so tight, but because he just simply couldn't, no matter how hard he tried. He refocused himself to stay calm. He was fairly certain that all his questions were about to be answered, if not already answered. He couldn't bear to believe that he actually knew these people. For this was all a dream, wasn't it? He couldn’t help but notice how numb his body felt. The only warmth he felt came from the child carrying him.

In his distraction they had already climbed in and out of an elevator. The air surrounding them was noisy with the ring of silence. He was only able to hear the tiny heartbeat of little Sarah who didn’t understand. They made it to a room at the end of a hallway. The air felt clean to breathe, but very heavy the closer they got to the door and even more so when they got inside.

Sarah's mom nearly broke upon walking in, and he was the only one that could see it. Once the doorway was behind the little girl, she turned and propped him up in a chair overlooking a sad sight. There was a man in the bed, and upon closer inspection, the bear realized something sickening.

“That’s me? No, that c-can't be right,” he thought.

 The child ran to the bed to grasp onto her father’s hand, holding it to her chest with a smile before bringing it up to her lips to lay a quick peck on it.

“Daddy, I know you might be sleeping, but I hope you’re coming home soon. Mommy misses you. I miss you, too. I want to go back to doing teatime with you. I want to go to the park with you, and play, and read bedtime stories. Nobody reads like you do.”

It was then a warm hand grabbed onto the bear from behind and carried him over to the young girl who hugged him with one arm. Her mom was now at their side, hugging onto both of them tightly. He couldn’t help but feel the pain in his chest. He yearned to just wake up, he yearned to hug them both and tell them that everything was going to be fine. Then the silence was pierced by an ear-tearing beep. Her mom scooped them both up, clinging Sarah tightly to her chest. The bear wedged between the two of them. As Sarah began to cry, he managed to move his plush arms around her as best as he could.

“Don’t cry. I’m right here. I'm still here, Sarah.”

 

About the Author
Sawyer J.R. is an amateur writer. He is 25 and was born in Texas. He first studied the culinary arts here at ICC before falling out and reigniting his passion for writing. He specializes in vivid description within a fictional setting, testing the boundaries within the mundane. Currently, he is working on a private project, “The Pocketbook of Depression.”