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“Full Moon Harmony” Short Story by Rachel Searcey

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"Full Moon Harmony" Fiction by Rachel Searcey

“You sure you want to be dropped off here?” the man asked, his forehead creased with concern.

I nodded and opened the car door, dry grass crunching underfoot on the side of the road.

“I’ll return at sunset,” he said.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said, but he drove off as soon as I closed the door.

The blazing sun beat down on my black hair and sweat prickled on the back of my neck. I needed to get into the shade. The wind spun howling dust devils across the dead field, spitting up grit that clogged my throat. It ground against my teeth, putting me on edge.

The locals at the diner had looked at me funny when I asked about Tara, my only daughter. We look nothing alike since she takes after her father. I’m dark and short; she’s tall and pale.

“What you want to go out there fer?” a toothless old woman asked. She exchanged a glance with the waitress who remained silent when I showed her the photo of Tara and I.

“She’s been missing for six months.” I was desperate. The police were no help so my mother and I had been searching on our own.

The woman seemed to take pity on me, drawing a crude map on the back of a napkin, volunteering her husband to drive me out. I called my mother from the pay phone; she was staying at a motel on the other side of the state, following a lead.

Sweat beaded between my shoulder blades, evaporating almost immediately in the broiling heat of the afternoon sun. Shading my eyes, I walked towards a rusty shack—the only building on the property. There was nothing else out here for miles. The horizon was dead flat, marked by the occasional mesquite tree or stray cloud.

Dust kicked up as I walked through dead planting rows; the locals had told me it hadn’t rained here in weeks. As I got nearer to the shack, an eerie wind whistled through gaps in the walls, carrying the scent of a distant wildfire. The rough door, held closed only by a simple latch, opened with a screech. I hesitated, afraid of what I might find inside.

There was a distinct smell—not of rot, thank God, but something fragrant—incense? Rags were piled in one corner and against the back wall, an altar with candles and crude figurines. Under the wind I heard a deep sigh, as if a spirit had blown through. The pile of rags moved.

Tara’s blond head raised up from the shadowy pile, banded with sunlight coming through the rafters. I cried out with relief and ran to her, pulling her into my arms. My tears had dried up long ago and none came, even as I hugged my baby girl.

“Oh God, Tara. I finally found you.”

She was groggy and seemed confused by my appearance. In my arms, her bones felt like sticks—collarbones and shoulder blades sticking out beneath a thin cotton dress. She smiled up at me, recognition registering behind her glazed eyes. Her cheeks were ruddy with dried, flaking skin and her hair felt like matted straw. She hadn’t bathed and her body stunk, layered in weeks of grime.

“Mom?” She clutched at me, shivering despite the stifling heat.

I examined her body for track marks but she was clean. “Who did this to you?” She pushed me away with feeble arms, so I took her by the shoulders.

She resisted my attempts to get her to her feet, falling back to the pile of rags. My mind rattled with panic. I needed to get Tara to a hospital. I hadn’t thought to ask the woman’s husband to stick around, figuring he would return before dark.

I forced Tara to drink some of the water from my canteen but she refused the protein bar. She slept, her eyes flitting back and forth under dark lids. There were no lights in the shack and it quickly grew dark as the sun set.

In the fading dusk, I saw bowls with food still in them around the altar; evidence that Tara had been eating something at least. There was also an empty milk jug that must have held water at some point.

When I went outside to escape the strange atmosphere in the shack, the sky was banded in ribbons of red and orange. Under the hiss of the wind, cicadas shrilled.

Mosquitoes pricked at my skin, drawn to exposed flesh. Slapping them, they burst, filled with my own blood, leaving red streaks on my arms and legs. Welts raised where they’d landed and I resisted the urge to scratch them with anxious hands. There was no sign of my ride in either direction.

What was that sound, under the wind?

Then I saw the lights. They came towards the shack in waves, kicking up a dusty haze lit by hundreds of candles. They were humming, the tune carried by the wind. I hurried inside to find my daughter already awake, sitting in front of the altar on her knees. She hummed the same song, low and deep.

“Tara, what’s going on?”

She didn’t answer me; glassy eyes rolled back in her head as she entered a trance. The first of the procession opened the door and they filed in, forcing me against the altar. When I tried to push my way out, they collectively surged forward, preventing escape. I put my arms around Tara, in some feeble effort to protect her. Each person held a candle raised reverently towards Tara. I recognized the man who dropped me off and his wife, along with the waitress from the diner. I could hear more people outside the shack, pressing against the walls. The humming rose to a crescendo before dying out.

A young girl lit fragrant incense and set the sticks on either side of us. The smoke made my eyes and nose itch as it filled the shack. A little boy placed a flower crown on Tara’s golden hair and she shook my arm free to thank him with a kiss on each cheek.

Between the press of the people and the narrow space, it felt like the walls were closing in on me. I fought down the panic that roiled in my stomach. We had to get out of here.

The people stood, silent as the dead, swaying back and forth as if they were in church. Someone touched my hand and I jumped, but it was Tara. She held her hand in mine.

Every nerve in my body was telling me to flee. But I couldn’t leave her behind with these people who had obviously harmed her, making her live in this desolate place.

The waitress bowed down before Tara, her forehead on the ground. She offered Tara a bowl of what smelled like pungent tequila that made my nose burn—moonshine.

“To bring the rain, my goddess,” the waitress announced, loud enough for those outside to hear. Before I could stop her, Tara drank the liquor then offered it to me. The locals turned, waiting. I had no choice. I swallowed a small amount, coughing as it burned my throat. Anything to get us out of here. A murmuring approval went through the crowd.

The liquor was potent, making my head swim; the candle light smearing into gashes of light across my vision.

I tried to get to my feet and was held down by several pairs of hands—including Tara’s, whose iron grip kept me by her side.

“Mother, be welcome.” Tara’s voice rang clear in my head even though she hadn’t opened her mouth. They held me down and poured the moonshine down my throat. My daughter floated above me, her corn-silk hair waving in the wind blowing through the shack. Thunder rumbled in the distance and I could smell dry earth dampened by falling rain. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, streaming down my cheeks.

The crowd pulled back as Tara positioned us in front of the altar. Locals brought us homemade fruit pies, sumptuous kolaches, and other rich foods that we gorged on. The incense smoke filled the shack, wreathing the crowd in haze as the humidity rose. Sweet smelling rain pelted the roof, dripping through the loose slats onto our overheated skin.

My daughter’s face was no longer pale and wan, but radiant with life—glowing by an inner power that had awakened. It echoed within myself and we held hands until dawn, when the celebration of the rain finally stopped. We slept entwined on the bed of rags, until the next night when it would begin again. I hoped my mother would join us soon, following the directions I had given her over the phone.

 Rachel is a filmmaker and writer living in the Florida panhandle with her husband, two children, and two black cats. Her work can be found in PulpCult’s Unspeakable Vol II and Suburban Witch Magazine. To view Rachel’s films and news on published works, visit agirlandhergoldfish.com

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“Money Games” Short Story by Robert Pettus

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"Money Games" Fiction by Robert Pettus

Jim Nash sat in the backroom at the Keno machine looking on as the wrong numbers lit up, confirming his continued failure. He grabbed the bottle of Budweiser sitting next to the machine, its beading moisture dampening his hand, and took a heavy swig, swilling it around in his mouth, savoring the carbonated bubbles as they popped on his tongue. He put the bottle down and grabbed a half-smoked cigarette from the adjacent ashtray, inhaling and exhaling like a monk meditatively calming his ever-accumulating nerves. Jim was as bald as a monk, that was for sure—all his hair was on his face.

Jim wasn’t from White River—he was an out-of-towner. No one in town really knew him, and that was the way he liked it. That was why he moved out here to bumfuck South Dakota in the first place, out near the reservation, where the population was sparse. He loved it.

Grabbing another beer from the cooler and making a gesture to the cashier as if to signal his intention to pay for it later, Jim walked back into the gaming room and slid another five-spot into the hungry mouth of the Keno machine, which subsisted on a healthy diet exclusively of leafy greens. Jim didn’t give a shit whether he won, he just enjoyed sitting there, drinking beer and smoking cigs as the numbers lit up. He scratched at his long, scraggly, salt-and-pepper beard, rubbing away the collected alcoholic moisture collected on his moustache.

Jim lost again. He didn’t have much luck when it came to Keno, or gambling in general for that matter. He patronized all the numerous local gambling establishments, even the Rosebud Casino, but he couldn’t win the big bucks anywhere. He would win the big bucks someday, though—he felt that in his ageing bones. He could wait until then; it was no problem for him. What he would do with the big bucks, he had no idea. Maybe move to Colorado, build a house on top of a lonesome mountain.

Jim lifted himself from the barstool next to the Keno station—an indent of his ass remnant on the cushion—and paid for his beers. He walked out the door—out onto the gravel road. White River, being as small of a town as it was, had narrow gravel roads everywhere other than Main Street. Jim twisted the key in the ignition of his green, 1993 Ford F150, pulling out of the parking lot onto the road. He drove from the side street out onto Main in the direction of Mission, the adjacent, small Lakota-Sioux reservation town. From there, he would drive to the other side of the reservation, to Rosebud Casino. It was Friday evening—that’s what Jim did on Friday evenings. He lit a cigarette and continued down the road.

Turning up the AM radio, Jim caught the staticky action of the Todd County Falcons, who were playing the neighboring—though out of state—rival Badgers from Valentine, Nebraska. Jim liked football; his eyes widened hearing the excited voice of the commentator.

Jim stared out the opened window as he sped down the road, cool wind from the outside autumn air brushing against his face. He smiled. Jim had no real human relationships—he connected with nature: with the wind, the rain, and the trees. That’s what he told himself, at least. It didn’t matter, anyway—he didn’t need any friends. That’s why he had moved out to bumfuck South Dakota in the first place—to escape people; especially people who were ‘invested in his life’. He hated that. He wanted to be left alone.

It was halftime. Jim, annoyed with the lengthy commercial for the local Buche Foods grocery store, switched from AM to FM, to the indie rock station, and turned up the volume. It was Svefn-g-englar, bySigur Ros. Jim leaned back, enjoying the ambience. It was such an amazing song—it fit in so well with the naturally bleak, endless dry plains of South Dakota.

The streets of Mission were empty. They were always empty—the only places anyone went downtown were a small coffee shop and an amazingly shitty pizza place. Jim wasn’t sure how anyone could truly fuck up pizza to the point that it was nearly inedible, but this place managed it. It tasted like soggy dough topped with semi-solidified, overly sweet ketchup. The streets were even more empty than usual, though, because everyone was up at the high school watching the football game. Jim put the pedal to the metal and exited the small town, onto highway 83—that straight road through the beautifully barren South Dakota steppe; its tall, golden grass waving in seemingly endless unison, like an Elysian hay-sea.

The radio continued, now playing Your Hand in Mine, by Explosions in the Sky. Jim liked emotional, ambient music. He wanted the music itself to make him feel something, not the words. Sometimes, when he got good and drunk, music could be powerful enough to make him cry. He would sob like a bearded baby. Not even for any real reason, either—just the beauty of the organized chords.

Jim stared out the opened window, letting the cool breeze invigorate him. It was sad. There should be bison grazing in these fields. Jim knew there were still bison in other nearby places, but there should be more. Colonizers had destroyed the life and land of the bison, just as they had the indigenous peoples. Tatonka meant bison in Lakota Sioux, Jim had spoken to enough people around the reservation to at least learn that.

About halfway to the casino, Jim pulled off the road into a drive-in fast-food restaurant called Moonlight Diner, his favorite place. Looking at the menu, his truck idling in its parking spot, Jim considered his options. He still hadn’t tried the Rocky Mountain oysters—he wasn’t sure that he would ever be able to bring himself to do that. Jim wasn’t at all a picky eater, but eating testicles was too much. He settled on fry-bread taco, a bag of flaming-hot Cheetos, and a banana milkshake. That would be plenty to fill up his stomach—soak up the previously consumed booze so he could level-headedly consume further.

The rest of the way from Moonlight Diner to the Rosebud Casino was a breezy drive. Looking up, Jim saw the Sicangu Village water tower, which stated that Water is Life. Jim always used the water tower as a signpost, alerting him that he had made it to the casino, otherwise—considering how much he enjoyed staring out into the fields—he might miss it.

“Water is life, and casinos are money,” Jim said to no one as he stepped out of the truck onto the cracked asphalt of the parking lot. “Supply casinos with water, and you’ve got both life and money.” Jim chuckled at himself, walking inside.

After grabbing a couple Budweiser’s and an ashtray, Jim went straight to his favorite slot machine, called Sky Rider. It featured artwork of several women who rode dragons. Dragons were good at collecting gold, Jim knew that from reading The Hobbit so many years ago. He trusted them to handle his money.

Jim never played poker, craps, or blackjack—he lost all his money too quickly doing that shit. Plus, he had to talk to people to play those games. Jim just wanted to sit back, relax, drink a few beers, and smoke several cigs—just like he did at the gas station Keno machine, though in a different location.  

Jim slid a ten-spot into the greedy, squealing machine, subsequently mashing the BET ONE button again and again to no financial avail. Eventually, he leaned back in his black, fake-leather chair, taking a momentary break. He would lose all his money too quickly at this rate—he needed to pace himself if he was going to spend the whole evening in the casino. His meager pension only went so far; if he spent much more, he wouldn’t be able to afford Buche’s overpriced ham, eggs, vegetables, and cheese the following week. Jim was never happy when he didn’t have the necessary supplies to make his morning Denver omelets; it was one of the most important parts of his day. He had been using the same frying-pan for years—a chipped nonstick pan that was light as a feather. Jim loved it—he could cook anything with that pan, especially omelets. Fluffy omelets, too—American style—not that rolled, gooey French mess.

Jim blinked. He had been zoning out. Sometimes thinking about food caused him to do that.  He downed the last of his bottle of beer and lifted himself from the seat, walking toward the bar to get another round. The victory bells were dinging, the lights were flashing, it was Friday night at the casino. The sights and sounds always made Jim so happy. It didn’t matter to him that he never won—he didn’t give a shit about that—he just wanted to witness the atmosphere, to silently participate, in however small of a way, in the local culture.

“One bottle of Bud, please,” said Jim sliding a five-spot across the counter. The bartender took it, shoved it in her drawer—which dinged excitedly, just like the slot machines—and handed Jim his one-dollar change, which Jim subsequently dumped into the tip jar.

“Thanks, honey,” said the bartender. Jim hated it when people he didn’t know called him shit like ‘honey’, but he was in a good mood, so he let it slide. Normally, he would’ve been prone to do some serious bitching and grumbling.

He turned away from the bar right into the short barrel of a Glock G45.

Jim blinked. The needles of sudden onset terror and anxiety pricked his face and the back of his neck. He blinked again, now registering what was in front of his face. He felt so weak. His vision blurred. He moved to get the fuck out of the way, but he was too late.

The gunman lifted the pistol and whipped the hell out of Jim’s wrinkly forehead, bruising it black instantly. Jim fell hard to the red-patterned, dirty carpet. He was out cold.

*  *  *

Jim blinked. Everything was dark and foggy. He felt tired. Lifting his head, he again almost passed out, though forcing away the drowsiness and planting his elbow into the carpet, he lifted his body forcibly. Jim couldn’t tell if he was truly tired or not. The blow of the gun had fucked him up bad; that could be causing his drowsiness. Jim also more simply felt tired in stressful situations, and he was at the current moment stressed the hell out.

He got up and looked around the casino. No one was seated at any of the machines. It at first looked like the place was empty, but upon further examination Jim noticed that it wasn’t. There was a collection of people kneeling on the ground on the opposite side of the room, near the free soda and coffee station. Their eyes were sad and uncertain—they looked afraid. Another group of people were squatting near the glass of the front door, looking out into the parking lot. Jim limped over to where they were.

“What the hell’s going on?” he said, rubbing at his throbbing head.

“Fuck, dude!” said a younger man, who introduced himself as Curtis Kills-in-Water, “We didn’t think you were going to wake up anytime soon! We noticed you were breathing—we were checking on you! But no cops or EMT’s have been able to get in here yet.”

“Why not?” said Jim, removing a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.

“Damn, bro!” said Curtis, “Look the hell outside!”

Jim peeked through the glass, seeing outside a black-masked figure encircled by several cop-cars; their lights flashing more brightly than even those inside the casino; their sirens wailing like they’d just won a million fucking bucks.

“Coppers got him, huh?” said Jim, chuckling under his breath while massaging his wound.

“Looks to be the case, my man,” said Curtis. He began laughing as well, but before he could get very far into it—before his sides could really begin aching with the cramp of true elation—a bullet pierced the glass. It then pierced Curtis’s skull, squirting blood and bone all over the screen of a flashing nearby slot machine.

Jim, screaming involuntarily like a rabbit cornered by a coyote, and fell back to the ground, though this time on his ass. He looked back outside. Pops from guns rang out in the parking lot, mixing horrifically with the blaring sirens and the music playing inside the casino, which no one had yet turned off. Come and Get Your Love, by Redbone played loudly throughout the gaming room as if it were oblivious to what was going on. The slot machines, also unaware of the severity of the situation, continued ringing, dinging, and singing—even the one covered in blood—advertising their games.

Jim clutched at his chest, which was quickly tensing up. He again felt weak—his arm had gone numb. He started blacking out, though through the shifting fog of his deteriorating vision he saw the gunman sprinting back into the casino.

A hail of bullets trailed the gunman, but none hit him. Turning behind his back, he fired a shot, striking and killing a police officer instantly. The bullet pushed into the cop’s sweaty brow, through his brain, and then outward, flying into the air and taking his policeman’s cap with it, which spun through the air like one from a Mario video game Jim had seen local kids playing.

Blood and brains painted the parking lot.

Jim fell onto his back, struggling to maintain consciousness. He wasn’t successful.

*  *  *

“We have to help him!” shrieked the voice of a middle-aged woman. She was pointing to the floor at Jim. She was wearing a casino employee’s uniform, but Joe-Ben didn’t give a shit about that. Joe-Ben was frantic; he had fucked up his plan. He had merely wanted to rob the casino; he thought he was doing something good by doing that, anyway. Casino owners were thieves themselves when you really got down to it.

Joe-Ben wasn’t from the reservation; he lived in nearby Valentine, Nebraska. He had played linebacker for the Badgers, playing every year against the Todd County Falcons of the reservation. Joe-Ben liked the reservation—he thought Mission was a nice enough little town—he just hated the Rosebud Casino. His father had spent the majority of Joe-Ben’s childhood at the casino, blowing his money and ruining his liver. He never came to any of Joe-Ben’s football games, and now he was dead, buried back in his hometown—back in Omaha—miles and miles from his wife and kid. It was a fitting resting place. Joe-Ben, feeling robbed by the casino, wanted to rob them back. Plus, he was broke as a fucking joke—he needed the cash.

It was the casino’s fault; that’s why he had never had a relationship with his father. That’s what Joe-Ben thought, at least.

Joe-Ben blinked.

“We have to help him!” again yelled the lady. Joe-Ben looked at her. She was wearing a manager’s nametag which read Sarah Afraid-of-Horses. Joe-Ben then looked to the ground, where Jim lay writhing, detached from reality though still in pain.

“I don’t know what the fuck to do for him, lady,” said Joe-Ben.

“You have to let the EMTs in here so they can get him to a hospital.”

“No can do,” said Joe-Ben.

Sarah turned away.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Joe-Ben, pointing the pistol at her, but Sarah didn’t listen. She returned a moment later with a glass of water, which she tried to give to Jim. Jim sloshed the water around in his mouth, only capable of swallowing a little from within whatever subconscious realm he at that moment inhabited. He smacked his lips, sticking his tongue in and out like a rude child. Then he again passed out.

Sarah Afraid-of-Horses knelt by Jim, doing what she could to keep him alive. Joe-Ben stood stone frozen, unsure of what he should do.

“Fuck!” he eventually yelled. “I can’t go out there, lady! I just killed a fucking cop!”

“That’s on you,” said Sarah, “You need to face the consequences of your actions. You can at least still do something good by allowing this old man to continue living. If you don’t leave soon, he’s going to die.”

“Aw, fuck that old man!” said Joe-Ben aggressively, though his cracked tone of voice communicated doubt and intense guilt. Without another word, Joe-Ben dropped the gun and exited the casino, his hands above his head. The police, which had now converged in force in the parking lot, quickly tackled and cuffed Joe-Ben, grabbing him by the back of the head and shoving him into a nearby cop car.

EMTs rushed into the casino, lifting Jim onto a stretcher, and wheeling him to an ambulance.

Sarah Afraid-of-Horses looked on as the ambulance pulled away. She wondered where they would take the old man. He probably wouldn’t last all the way to Rapid City, but that was probably where he needed to go. Sarah then saw a cop walking toward the casino entrance. Sarah hated cops, but she knew she would have to talk to this one. She wondered whether he had seen his friend get blasted; she didn’t want to have to explain all of that to him.

She looked across the gaming room. Casino patrons were still mostly cowering in the corner, though they had begun to emerge back out into the open. Sarah noticed the blood sprayed all over the nearby slot machine. It was one of the most popular games at the casino—Sky Rider. They would have to get that cleaned up ASAP, she knew; it was a real money-pit, that one. She breathed heavily; it was going to be a long night.

*  *  *

Jim Nash awoke only briefly on the way from the Rosebud Casino to the hospital. His chest still hurt; his breathing was heavy. He was confused.

“Wha… where the hell am I?” he said to no one.

“Stay with us, sir,” said an EMT, “We’re going to get you to a hospital.”

“A hospital?” said Jim, “Why?” Jim couldn’t remember a thing; his memory had been wiped clean—a tabula rasa. That was okay with him, though. He didn’t like knowing things; he didn’t like being acquainted with people. He was only comfortable in quiet, foreign places where people left him alone. He didn’t even dwell on why he was in the ambulance—it would sort itself out, soon enough. He was sure of that.

Jim Nash wondered if he had a family. He then closed his eyes, this time never to open them again. The stretcher was quite comfortable, really.  

Robert Pettus is an English as a Second Language teacher at the University of Cincinnati. Previously, he taught for four years in a combination of rural Thailand and Moscow, Russia. He was most recently accepted for publication at Allegory Magazine, The Horror Tree, JAKE magazine, The Night Shift podcast, Libretto publications, White Cat Publications, Culture Cult, Savage Planet, Short-Story.me, White-Enso, Tall Tale TV, The Corner Bar, A Thin Line of Anxiety, Schlock!, Black Petals, Inscape Literary Journal of Morehead State University, Yellow Mama, Apocalypse-Confidential, Mystery Tribune, Blood Moon Rising, and The Green Shoes Sanctuary. Money Games is one of the stories he recently wrote. He lives in Kentucky with his wife, Mary, and his pet rabbit, Achilles. 

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“The Adit” Short Story by Sarah Jackson

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"The Adit" Fiction by Sarah Jackson

Lisa followed Duncan up the road, shining her torch beam down to dodge the clumps of horse manure. The thrill of sneaking out of their house in the middle of the night was fading; they walked up this road every morning to catch the school bus.       

“This is a stupid idea,” she mumbled.

Duncan’s torch was fixed on the tall, shaggy hedge beside them, and when he stopped she stumbled into him.

“It’s a superb idea,” he said, covering his hand with his jacket sleeve and tearing at the brambles and nettles in the hedge. “Ha! Found our portal.” 

Lisa watched him pulling away more clumps of vegetation and snapping back brambles and branches. When he stood back, and she could see the hole in the hillside, its earthy edges fringed with torn leaves.

“It’s smaller than I expected,” she said. “Are you sure this is it?”

He nodded and snapped off another tendril of bramble. “It’s exactly where Tom said it was, he came up here with his stepdad last summer.” Then he grinned, holding the torch under his chin to make his face gargoyle-ish. “Let’s go inside!”

They had to bend almost double to squeeze through the opening, but after a metre or so the tunnel opened up into a small cavern which they could stand up in. Two arched passageways branched away from the cavern ahead of them. It was dry and cool, and the rich brown earth of the walls and floor was packed solid. A fine dust like cocoa came off on Lisa’s hands where she touched the wall. She wrinkled her nose and wiped her palms on her jeans.

Duncan rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a tent peg and a ball of bright orange twine. He drove the peg into the ground of the entrance passageway with his heel, and tied the end of the twine to it before walking backwards a couple of paces, letting it unravel.

“So we won’t get lost,” he said, pleased.

“What about the roof?”

“Well, it’s been there for two hundred years, I don’t see why it would fall down now.”

Lisa looked uncertain.

“It’ll be fine,” he said brightly and started down one of the passages.

“What about your bag?”

“Just leave it there, no one’s going to nick it are they?” he called over his shoulder. “I want to see if we can find part of the actual mine.”

Lisa followed him, treading gingerly on the packed earth. “Is this not the mine?”

“No, just an adit. They cut them to drain the water away. The mine proper is further in.”

Lisa tried not to trip over the twine that he reeled out behind him like plastic spider thread. She thought about people digging these tunnels by hand, burrowing into the hillside.

“Grandad was a miner, wasn’t he?” she asked, hoping Duncan’s cheerful chatter would fill the gloomy corridors.

“Yeah! Well, Great Grandad. Bill Bennett. He was a hero.”

“Tell me the story again.”

“There was a cave-in up at Boswellen, and three men were trapped behind a wall of rubble, and Bill took his lamp and his pick and he dug them out. Took three hours. One had died but the other two survived. They were all in the paper, Mum got that photocopy from the library.”

The passage had started to grow narrower, and Lisa had to turn sideways so that her shoulders didn’t scrape the dirt from the walls.

“Duncan-”

“Hey, look – I think this is where the adit joins the mine!”

She looked over his shoulder and saw the passage ended in a rounded wall with a slanting, oval-shaped hole about half a metre wide and a metre high. Duncan crouched down, shining his torch through the crevice.

“It is! The walls are rock, and I can see the supports. Look!”

She crouched down beside him and peered through the hole at jagged walls glistening in the torchlight, logs jammed in at odd angles. She looked down.

“Train tracks?” she said, frowning, and Duncan tilted the torch beam downwards and laughed in excitement. “Did they have trains down here?”

“Yeah, kind of. Not engines. They had tracks like these and they’d run carts up and down to get the copper up to the surface.” He stood up and stepped back, sizing up the hole. “We can get through there.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?” she murmured as he knelt down and reached into the crack, twisting his torso to fit the slant. He didn’t answer, wriggling through the gap until his legs and then his trainers disappeared. She crouched down and peered into the hole. Duncan’s face appeared on the other side, bleached in her torch beam.

“See? Easy! You’ve got to come through, Lise, it’s wicked.”

As Lisa stumbled to her feet on the other side she coughed and brushed at the earth on her arms and her legs, then stepped carefully out of a loop of the orange twine they had brought through with them, like threading a needle. It was colder here, and when she reached out to touch the rock it was damp. It looked black, streaked with dull greens and reds and she tapped it with her fingernail. She couldn’t imagine how anyone had carved a whole tunnel into something so hard. How could a man, someone tall as their Dad maybe, even swing a pick in this cramped space? She thought about Bill Bennett and the miners trapped behind a wall of rubble. 

“Did lots of miners die in the mines?” she asked Duncan, who was inspecting one of the wooden supports a few feet away.

“Oh yes,” he said, picking at a bit of sodden wood. “Thousands.”

She swallowed. “Are there ghosts, then? Do you think?”

“Probably! Let’s go a bit further.”

As Duncan started walking down the track and whistling, picking his way between the rusted sleepers, she felt a pit in her stomach as cold and dark and damp as the one they were standing in. She picked the twine up from the floor and let it run through her hand as they walked. It made her feel safer somehow to be tied together like mountaineers.

They reached a sharp curve in the track and Duncan stopped. He turned around and said “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s switch our torches off. Just for a few seconds. It’ll be completely dark, really pitch black!”

“I- I guess. Can we go back after though? I don’t really want to be down here any more,” she said quietly, trying to sound casual. Duncan looked surprised.

“Sure. Yeah, ok. We can always come back.”

She nodded.

“All right,” he said and held his torch aloft, thumb on the switch. Lisa did the same and squeezed the twine with her other hand. “On three: 1… 2… 3!”

Lisa screamed as a pale face swam out of the blackness where Duncan had been standing moments before. Then it was Duncan again, in the torch light, worried and holding her arm, the twine dropped at his feet.

“Are you ok? What happened?”

“I saw one! A ghost!” she cried, hot tears prickling in her eyes.

He squeezed her shoulder. “What did you see? Exactly?”

“His face,” she said, miserably. “Right where you are. It was really close!”

“Was it definitely a face?”

“Well,” she sniffed. “It was kind of blurry.”

He smiled. “It’s ok, I know what happened. I think you saw an after image. You were looking at me, right? When we switched the torches off? It’s kind of an echo in your eyes. An optical illusion.”

“An illusion?”

“Yeah. Nothing to worry about. I’m sorry, I should have thought.”

“S’ok,” Lisa said biting her lip and staring at her trainers. She felt like a little kid.

“Let’s get out of here,” Duncan said and swung the torch around the passage one more time. “Goodbyyye!” he called out in a spooky voice. They listened to the echo until it had faded, then stood in silence. Lisa noticed a sound she hadn’t heard while they were walking, the sound of water ticking on stone. Drip drip drip.

It seemed to be getting louder. Or maybe closer.

She glanced at Duncan, who was frowning. So he’d heard it too. Around the noise the silence was stifling. She wanted to say something – or rather, she wanted Duncan to say something – but the words stayed curled in her throat. It was louder, and longer, and the drips didn’t sound clean and clipped any more, but more like ragged crunches.

Footsteps, she realised, as her stomach twisted. They were footsteps.

She opened her mouth but no sound came out and she clutched at Duncan’s arm in the dark. They stared ahead to where the tunnel curved away. Now they could hear other sounds accompanying the trudging steps: a low rumble, the scrape of metal on metal, the faint squeak of a wheel. They waited, watching down the trembling torchlight beam, unable to move, unable to blink. As the steps reached the corner of the tunnel Lisa felt her heart stop.

She saw a boy, a little boy. His hair stood out in damp tufts, and he was naked from the waist up, skinny body smeared with grime, sweat, and bruises. He was in a kind of harness, pulling a cart loaded with rocks. Behind him and behind the cart was a girl, even younger, dressed in stained rags with hair hanging down in oily strings beside her sunken face. Sweat beaded on her brow as her small arms strained, pushing the cart forward. They looked at Lisa and Duncan with hollow eyes, but they didn’t stop.

“Run,” Lisa said, grabbing Duncan’s hand. He stared at her blankly, mouth hanging open. “Now!” she yelled and tugged him backward. He seemed to come out of his trance and they ran back down the track. The scraping, creaking, rumbling behind them never stopped, and never slowed, and they didn’t look back.

When they reached the crack in the wall into the adit Lisa pushed Duncan into it and he scrambled through. She wriggled through the gap as soon as his trainers were clear and they pelted along the tunnel. Lisa could see the grey glow of moonlight ahead and with a new surge of energy she dived through the entrance, brambles scratching her cheeks and catching at her hands. Then she was out in the air again under the fresh bright stars. Duncan emerged from the hedge too and they stood panting on the tarmac. 

He grimaced. “My bag!”

Before Lisa could say anything he ducked back into the brambles and disappeared.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot as she counted out the seconds, and the minutes, and started to feel panic rising in her throat.

There was a rustle and Duncan reappeared, clutching his bag. He started walking fast down the hill. When she caught up with him she tried to catch his eye but he just looked ahead.

“What happened?” she asked, finally.

He said nothing.

“Duncan!” she demanded and he flinched.

“When I grabbed my bag,”  he started to speak, not looking at her. “I tried to get the twine too, I hadn’t noticed I’d dropped it. So I started pulling it back along the tunnel. I’d reeled up a few metres of it and then I couldn’t get any more,” his voice dropped to a whisper. “Like someone was holding the other end.”

They walked on in tense silence. Soon they could see down the hill to the cluster of houses that made up their hamlet. She could see a light was on in their house. That meant they wer in trouble, but right now she didn’t care. She even felt glad. She was just happy to be out of the ground and walking away from the adit.

She glanced at Duncan, who was still hurrying and looking at nothing.

“The twine was probably just stuck. Maybe it got caught in the tracks or something,” she offered. “No.” Duncan shook his head and turned to look at her, eyes lit with fear. “When I tugged on it, something tugged back.”

Sarah Jackson writes gently unsettling stories. Her short fiction has been published by Wyldblood Magazine, Ghost Orchid Press, and Tales From Between. She lives in east London UK and has a green tricycle called Ivy. Her website is https://sarah-i-jackson.ghost.io.

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“Peanut Butter on a Day of Summer” Microfiction by Conrad Gardner

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"Peanut Butter on a Day of Summer" Microfiction by Conrad Gardner

I had a rough conversation with my boy today, about him and his girl. It put me in mind about the time I found my ma sitting alone in the kitchen on a hot summer day after she had a doctor’s appointment, looking out the window and across the empty, overgrown fields. She’d tried calling my dad at work about something, she said, but he wasn’t there. I asked was Dad gonna be home late and she said no. She told me to sit down; I did. Most boys have their rebel phase around fifteen, but I’ve been a mama’s boy all my life.

I sat opposite her at the kitchen table, not knowing what to do or say. She reached out and grabbed my hand. Didn’t say anything, but kept a hold on my hand. Tight. She had that look, when you want to say something but can’t, you know what I mean? Then she got up and went to the cupboard, took out a two-thirds full loaf of white bread and jar of peanut butter. Setting it on the table with a couple of knives, she said, ‘I’m going to eat all of this, d’you want to help?’ I said sure, not like I had anything better to do, and we set to it.

Now, the peanut butter was smooth and I’m a crunchy guy, but it didn’t matter, not with the white bread, and I could still lick out the bits that stuck to my teeth. That was always my favourite part with peanut butter. It tasted sweet somehow. Time we finished, my ma had flakes of PB smeared around her lips.

She held my hand again and looked at me for what felt a lot longer than the few seconds it had been, then turned and looked out the kitchen window. The sun had started to set and hovered above the fields. ‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?’ she said, before coughing. I agreed with her.

Things were good back then, I thought.

Conrad Gardner’s writing has previously been published by AutoFocus, Superlative, and AEL Press. He is based in Herefordshire, England. 

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“Almost Ageless” Fiction by Kenneth Schalhoub

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Coach Bill Snyder during the Kansas State Wildcats versus the Missouri Tigers game on November 14th, 2009 in Manhattan, Kansas. Photo by Alex. distributed under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0. From Wikimedia Commons
Modified detail of photo by Alex. Distributed under Creative Commons Lic.

The legendary story of his childhood in Pittsburgh has been retold by many. In his final years, when I was a much younger coach, the other assistants and I joked about his legacy. He was older than the stadium where he coached; older than the field house where his teams practiced; older than the last seven university presidents; quite possibly older than the coprolites studied by the paleontology students. He was Frank Benson, the most respected man on campus and head football coach at Division III Mountain State College in central Pennsylvania.

As a young impressionable assistant coach, I listened dutifully when Coach Benson shared his history. He began his career on the streets of Pittsburgh, back when the sky was eternally gray from the belching steel mills. He played sandlot football on fields that were more rock and debris than dirt. The ball they used barely stayed inflated, but they still played every day.

Frank learned when he was a senior in high school that he was never going to get into a major college if he had to rely on his athletic skills, so he began to study the game. “I was called to coaching,” he repeated many times.

The year was 1946 and he had just returned from a six-month stint in the US Army wiping up the last remnants of World War II. He never fired a shot. By the time he finished Basic Training, the Germans had surrendered. The Captain of Fort Bliss in El Paso knew of his football experience and asked him to assemble a team for a friendly game between the enlisted men and the young officers. “That was it,” he said to me. “My chance to see if I could coach.” He was a player-coach, field general, and the enlisted men’s quarterback. He had exactly one week to assemble the team, organize the plays, and beat the tar out of the officers.

The fort had been blessed with a group of Texas and Oklahoma high school graduates who had played mostly seven-man football. They were all fast with good hands. He selected the best of them. He also found a small group of oversized farm boys from Kansas who knew how to get in the way and stomp over lesser-sized men. And so it was. He installed ten plays and drilled them four hours a day for five days.

They played the game on the Fort Bliss field, modest to the casual observer, but a thing of beauty to Frank. It had grass with chalk lines and bleachers to hold about a thousand people, not unlike some of the fields where Mountain State College now played. “I felt like a big-time college coach,” he told me.

The score was 28 – 21 with five minutes to go. The enlisted men found themselves on their own eighteen-yard line with the officers driving for another score. He was about to be down 35 – 21 and humiliated. The officers did finally score on a power run right into the line of farm boys. They collapsed. The enlisted men lost.

Coach knew the captain as an honorable man. He did not disappoint.

“Great game, Benson, your guys did good.”

“Thanks Captain. We’ll get you next time.”

“Won’t be a next time, you’re being discharged.”

#

When I arrived outside Coach Benson’s office for our daily meeting, he sat motionless in the office he has occupied all forty-nine years as head coach. Now in his early eighties, he has more wins than any other college coach in the history of the NCAA. Some of the younger boosters and alumni had called for Frank to step down. “The game’s passed him by,” they said. But there was still a loyal following of old and new fans who loved what he represented: a clean winning program with history and pride. Yes, Coach Frank Benson was the pinnacle of what every college coach should be.

When I entered his office, Coach was sleeping with Sports Illustrated in his lap open to the latest article debating his retirement. And although he should have been honored to be a subject in a national sports magazine, all he could focus on was everyone debating his future, his decision. In his mind there was no decision to be made. They were in late summer, and practice was in full swing.

“Wakeup Coach,” I said.

He startled and almost fell from his desk chair. “Offleman…was I sleeping?” he asked, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.

“Guess you were taking a nap.”

“So, what’s on the agenda for this meeting?” he asked.

“You called the meeting, Coach.”

“Maybe I did. You’re my offensive coordinator and now I want to talk about our true freshman QB, okay?”

No one was ageless, but for a guy in his eighties, he was still spry. Unfortunately, it was one thing to be an old person who still functioned and another to be an old head coach. College football was a complex game that required quick tactical decisions. Kids fresh from high school, no matter how talented they were, needed nurturing. The past few seasons the other assistants and I began assuming more and more of Frank’s responsibilities. He simply wasn’t up to it. Coach lacked the energy and mental acuity to be the father figure he once was.

“I feel the same about the kid as I felt yesterday,” I said. “He’s young, but talented enough to be adequate by mid-season. And as I also said yesterday, our success this season will depend on Cedric’s veteran defense.”

Cedric Jones was our defensive coordinator. Coach promoted him last year from linebacker coach. Cedric and I had both played for Frank, albeit during different eras in his seemingly endless career. When the position opened, I pushed Frank to hire an experienced coach from the outside, but Charlie Pedersen, the Athletic Director, wanted to save money and Coach was hugely loyal to his assistants. He liked to keep things in the family.

“I’ll set up a meeting with Cedric for later today to discuss the defense’s progress,” Coach said.

“Didn’t you guys meet yesterday?”

Coach leafed through his notebook. “Right, I have the notes here. He’s got things in good shape.”

It was time for me to get back to some real work and I let him know.

He waved me off. “Sure, go,” he said. “I have to get back to what I was doing anyway.”

As I walked back to the locker room, I wondered how long it would be before he fell back asleep.

#

Thursday prior to the Saturday afternoon game against Acorn State, Charlie Pedersen called the standard season opening dinner meeting with all the assistant coaches. We met at Ellie’s Steakhouse—the only decent steakhouse within fifty miles.

August preparations had gone reasonably well, but Coach was still a concern to Jones and me. And oddly, Frank had not yet arrived.

When Pedersen arrived, every assistant stopped talking in mid-sentence, filling the room with the silence of uncertainty. Where was Frank?

“Gentlemen, thanks for coming,” Pedersen said while simultaneously waving for the waitress.

“The usual, Sir?”

“Make it a double, dear.” He stared down the rectangular table. You boys all set? Good. Let’s get started. How’s Coach’s leg? I see he’s still using the cane.”

“Is Frank coming?” I asked.

“Wasn’t feeling well. I convinced him to get some rest. The last thing he needs right now is scotch.” Pedersen stopped, took the glass of mahogany liquid from the server, filled his mouth, savored the flavor, welcomed the vapors into his sinuses, then deliberately swallowed and continued. “I’m concerned something bad may happen. He can’t get out of the way when plays hit the sideline. Heck, that’s how he broke his leg in the first place. The man is not ageless.”

“He won’t leave the sideline and go upstairs,” I said.

The event from last season played again in my memory. The two-hundred-and-fifty-pound defensive lineman from Southeast Virginia State plowed into Frank, nearly making him a permanent part of the sideline turf. His leg took a full year to heal, dispatching him to the booth last season. It was clear he would never coach from upstairs again. “I can’t feel the game.”

“We know, Mr. Pedersen, but I think Coach is okay,” Cedric Jones said.

Coach Jones always stuck up for Frank. His career was modeled by the great man. Cedric would probably have died on the streets of Philadelphia if Coach hadn’t found him and convinced his mother to let him play football for Mountain State instead of getting a low-paying unskilled job. Division III schools didn’t offer athletic scholarships, so Frank insisted he pay for Cedric’s education with grants and other alumni help allowed by the NCAA. That was the thing about Frank Benson, once he decided to do something it just got done.

“Cedric, I know you love Frank, we all love him,” Pedersen said. “Guys, I know this may sound alarmist, but I’m afraid he’s going to die on the sideline during a game. I’m soliciting suggestions on how to keep him from a bad turn of events without asking him to step down. He’ll never do that. I’m not asking for any quick ideas. Think about it and let’s get together again next week.”

When the dinner meeting ended, I sat in my car, key in the ignition, feeling traitorous. Did Jones feel the same way? The AD was right, and I knew it, but moving Frank Benson off the sidelines and into retirement wouldn’t be easy. Impossible.

#

The traditional opening season pep rally took place on Friday night in the soccer field next to the stadium. A bonfire, torched from kerosene saturated shipping pallets, blanketed the student body of five thousand with crackling sparks.

“WE WANT COACH—WE WANT COACH—WE WANT COACH!”

The cheerleaders lead the frenzy, flipping each other with acrobatic maneuvers. Cedric and I stood out of view, hoping to keep an eye on Coach when he made his entrance. He always came exactly five minutes after the chant started. I checked my watch, concerned. Eight minutes had already passed and there was no sign of him.

“WE WANT COACH—WE WANT COACH—WE WANT COACH!”

Finally, the frail limping man emerged from the shadows, using his cane to steady himself. He waved to the crowd with his free hand and almost fell.

“COACH BENSON—COACH BENSON—COACH BENSON!”

Two of the cheerleaders did back flips and landed precisely at his left and right, holding his arms to steady him. That had to be rehearsed. Coach kissed each on the cheek and walked with them to his sacred position in front of the fire. The cheerleader on Coach’s cane side, continued to support the frail man.

Frank raised his free arm, signaling the beginning of the rally. “Here we are, back in front of this big—uh—fire—which represents the opening game of the—uh—2009 season, another great football season!”

The cheerleader leaned into Benson’s ear as the crowd quieted a bit.

An immediate sense of dread hit me. I stopped breathing.

“Sorry kids. My wonderful escort just told me this is the 2010 season.” The students remained silent until someone yelled. “It doesn’t matter Coach; we still love you!” And then the chant started:

“WE LOVE COACH—WE LOVE COACH—WE LOVE COACH!”

Coach raised his free arm again. “Thank you. You’re right. What matters is we win tomorrow against Middle Valley State!”

This time the silence was immediate, and I realized I had to take control of the situation.

“Beat Acorn State, beat Acorn State!” I began shouting while running as quickly as possible toward Frank and the cheerleaders. The other coaches followed shouting the same chant. The student body joined the mounting clamor:

“BEAT ACORN STATE—BEAT ACORN STATE—BEAT ACORN STATE!”

Frank Benson stared at the mass of students as if he had forgotten the reason he was there. I motioned to Cedric, and he took the cue, quietly escorting Coach back to the locker room while I finished the pep rally.

A few minutes after midnight, while reviewing the offensive game plan one more time, my mobile phone chimed.

“We have a problem, don’t we—”

“—we do Charlie, we do.”

#

With half the season completed, a goose egg sat squarely in the loss column. Charlie Pedersen left things up to the coaching staff—mostly me. In his mind I was the senior assistant, the head coach without the title.

I met with Frank multiple times a day. He had to be reminded of practice schedules. The game plans were largely lost on him. The daily assistants’ meetings always led to Coach and what to do with him.

“Guys, we all know that Coach is in surprisingly good physical health for his age. And although his mental abilities obviously aren’t what they were, we can fill that gap. My concern is the sidelines,” I reminded them. “Remember that dinner meeting with Pedersen?”

“What’re you getting at?” Jones asked.

“Let’s face it, Coach can’t move. I’m afraid he’s going to get steamrolled.”

“We can’t really protect him,” the offensive line coach said.

“I know and I’m going along with Pedersen. I’m planning to convince Coach to work from the box upstairs.”

“What’s he going to do up there? He can’t call plays—” Jones said.

“First let me convince him. We can work out the logistics later,” I said.

#

“Not going to happen! Forget it. That sideline is my territory. I belong there.”

His reaction came as no surprise to me.

“We can’t protect you,” I said.

“My boys would never let anything happen to me. And besides, who said I need protection?”

“Do you remember last year when that defensive lineman from Southeast Virginia State crushed your leg?”

“That was my fault, Bob. I just didn’t react fast enough.”

“That’s my point Frank. Next time it could be worse. The sidelines are dangerous even for the younger coaches, even for me.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You can call the plays from upstairs. You’ll just be safer.”

“Goddamn it, I said I would think about it!”

“Let me know, Frank. I’ve got coaching to do.”

I stood outside his office door and listened to his mumblings about everyone treating him like a child. Wasn’t that what happened to everyone as they grew old? The difference was that most people Frank Benson’s age were already in assisted living.

The assistants waited for me in the coach’s locker room. “What’d he say?” Jones asked.

I told them.

“We can’t protect him,” the offensive line coach protested.

“I’ll get him upstairs, just give me more time,” I said.

It didn’t take long. Frank must have talked with Betty, his wife of fifty plus years. He always listened to her. He summoned me to his office the next day. I saw the resigned pain in his wrinkled, liver-spotted forehead. He insisted that he have the best headset and the entire game plan on a waterproof laminated card just in case he spilled his coffee.

“Got it, Bob?”

“Got it, Coach.”

#

Before Coach began his decline, I would sit in my office with coffee at four in the morning reviewing the offensive game plan knowing that everything else was in his competent hands. On this Saturday before our formidable opponent, Kentucky Tech, I could no longer rely on Frank’s skills. Pedersen hoped I was the glue that would hold the team together.

The Friday night dinner at Ellie’s before each game had continued without Coach. But this Friday he insisted on attending since the coaching structure was changing with his planned move upstairs. We left the seat at the head of the table open for him. Pedersen also joined us. I was happy to let the AD do his job.

Everyone arrived and took their seats. The usual waitress came to take our drink orders and spotted Frank sitting at the head.

“Coach Benson, so good to have you with us tonight.”

“Thank you. Get me a Chivas, no ice, dear.”

Everyone else placed their drink orders.

“We do have some specials tonight,” she said.

“Forget the specials,” Frank said, waving her off with his hand. “Prime rib for everyone, on me!”

“Frank,” I leaned in. “We all chip in for dinner. Besides, I don’t think everyone wants prime rib.”

“Bull. Everyone likes prime rib, right?” he said to the coaches.

“Sure Coach, that’s great,” they agreed.

“Frank, I want to thank you for deciding to coach from upstairs. We think it’s the best for you,” Pedersen said.

“Hogwash. It’s got nothing to do with me. I just don’t want these youngsters,” gesturing toward the assistants, “to be distracted in their game day coaching jobs trying to protect me. We’ll just have to see how it works.”

That one statement set the tone for the rest of the dinner. The assistants ate in relative silence while Frank recounted every coaching tale beginning with his Fort Bliss Army experience. Most had already heard the stories, but he seemed to ignore everyone’s ill-fated attempt to hide their boredom. He droned on through drinks, salad, main course, coffee, and dessert. While Frank drank his coffee and picked at his carrot cake, I looked at Charlie Pedersen. We both knew I would be officially taking over all day-to-day team functions. It only needed to be announced.

After dinner Pedersen leaned against his car smoking a cigarette. I took the opportunity to say something to him that had been nagging me since the beginning of the season.

“Don’t let me coach beyond—” But before I had a chance to finish, he crushed his butt under his sole and waved me off.

“Don’t worry. If I’m still here I’ll fire your ass before you start drooling.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Least I can do.”

#

Moving Coach upstairs worked for the coaching staff. We crushed Kentucky Tech 45 – 3 with Coach calling plays from the box and me changing them using hand signals on the sideline. Coach couldn’t keep up with the pace of communications and had trouble understanding the chatter in the headsets. But it didn’t matter, he was protected. Pedersen insisted that no changes be made for the remainder of the season.

We ended with our twenty-sixth undefeated season and went on to win the Division III national championship for the twenty-ninth time. The team celebration party, as always, was to be held at Frank Benson’s sprawling home on the most scenic fifteen acres in southeastern Pennsylvania. His house sat nestled in a plot of perfectly groomed lawn between two large hills resembling an unlined football field. The guest list consisted of all the players, every coach with his respective spouse, and Pedersen. In the previous forty-eight years Frank greeted everyone as they arrived. But this year Betty greeted guests assuring everyone that her husband would be along in due time. I watched as the guests filed in and whispered to each other with troubled faces. Even the players, many of whom were upperclassmen and had attended one or more of these parties, seemed concerned.

The hors d’oeuvres paraded through the guests on silver platters. Betty always used the same caterers. She worked with them to design football-oriented gourmet morsels. My favorite was the pâté formed in the shape of a helmet on a football shaped cracker. I grabbed as many as I could without anyone noticing.

“Worried?”

Betty surprised me as I stuffed the last helmet into my mouth. “When’s he going to join us?” I mumbled through the pâté.

“Didn’t you talk with him yesterday?”

“Yes, and he said he felt fine and was looking forward to the party.”

“He’s not fine. I asked him this morning if he had spoken with you, and he said no. Then he asked me when the party was. I’m worried.”

“Hey, look!” a senior yelled out.

The old man limped down the stairs from the screened porch and ambled toward the patio. Only distant birds broke the silence.

“Where’s the microphone?” Frank asked when he approached Pedersen.

“I was just about to begin the festivities,” the AD said.

“Well now you don’t have to,” Coach said, stealing the microphone.

“YEAH, COACH BENSON! LET’S HEAR IT! WE LOVE YOU!”

“Okay kids, thanks,” he said, holding his cane in the air. “This is a great day!”

“COACH…COACH…COACH…COACH…”

Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out an ancient whistle. Everyone watched as he inhaled deeply then exhaled into the opening, barely making a sound. His face turned deep scarlet; he lost his balance, cane flying into the air.

Pedersen caught him.

“Hand me that cane, will ya, Bob?”

I helped Pedersen and gave Coach his cane.

“Well, that’s a little better,” he said, steadying himself. “Back to what I was saying. This is a great day for Mountain State. We’ve won our second national championship and—”

My stomach turned. All the coaches looked at each other with confusion and then resignation. The players didn’t move.

Coach continued. “The second one is always the hardest one. But repeating is the biggest reward!”

Silence.

“That’s great Coach, thanks. Let’s all just have a great time,” Pedersen said as he tried to wrestle the microphone from him.

“I’m not done! Kids…let’s make it three in a row next year! Now I’m getting a hot dog!”

He dropped the microphone onto the concrete patio.

At that moment I knew it was beyond just figurehead status. Coach Frank Benson, my mentor for over fifteen years, was now a person who would have to be managed like a child. Yet no one had the political will to end his career. He had contributed too much to the finances and prestige of the institution. The college president wouldn’t hear of it. I realized at that moment, as he stuffed a hot dog into his mouth and spilled a wad of yellow mustard on his warm-up top, next season would require me to ensure this man doesn’t die on the sidelines.

#

I managed to control spring football the next year and keep Coach thinking he was contributing. Betty had convinced her husband to see a doctor and reluctantly he agreed, protesting as all old men do when they feel their competency is being challenged. He was diagnosed with very early-stage dementia. “Not unusual for his age,” the neurologist had said. “He can still work if his schedule is kept light.”

Early July, a week before fall practice was to begin, Pedersen called me to his office.

“C’mon in, Bob.” Pedersen motioned to the chair directly opposite his cherrywood desk. I felt like a young coach interviewing for an entry level position even though I was three years older.

“Bob, you know the situation.”

“Well, I think there’s more than one situation,” I said.

“How so?”

“We know that Coach isn’t actually going to be coaching this season. And we know that he needs to believe that he is coaching.”

“Agreed.”

“We want to put him back on the sidelines where he belongs.”

Pedersen looked at me with round, unblinking eyes. He filled the next several minutes shouting every reason not to put Coach back on the sidelines. “It is simply not an option! If it were up to me, I’d put him in his recliner at home and let Betty deal with him. But I know that’s not an option.”

“I’m putting him on the sidelines.”

“Are you going against me, Bob?”

It was my turn to explain my position. Cedric and I had put together a plan to assign one of the younger offensive linemen to shadow Coach and protect him. We knew that there would be weekly arguments with him before every game if we tried to keep him upstairs, and none of the coaches wanted that distraction during preparation. Keeping young players on their game was difficult enough without the coaches being sidetracked by other issues. I knew Coach could as easily drop dead in his bathtub as on the sidelines at this point. I had come to that realization in the offseason.

“He needs to be honored and retired,” I said.

“I can’t argue with you there, but you know about the president—”

“Charlie, please find a way.”

“I’ll do what I can, but you need to win and try to keep the old coot alive, agreed?”

Pedersen needed my agreement; he was a consensus man. I nodded and left his office.

At this point I didn’t care if the head coaching job was ultimately given to me. Just get me through this season. I assigned the offensive line coach the job of putting a Coach protection plan in place.

“Find the biggest freshman lineman who has the slimmest chances of playing,” I instructed him.

All went well in the 2011 season. We were, as always, undefeated going into the last game with an assumed laugher against a rebuilding Tennessee Tech. Late in the game two of our offensive linemen were injured on the same play, forcing a rarely played freshman lineman to take the field. My sideline responsibilities kept my attention on the game and not on Coach. The next play was a sweep to the strong side. The freight train of pads and beef moved in a choreography of controlled chaos with little regard for field position or sideline personnel. Frank Benson stood alone and unprotected.

It was the very offensive lineman assigned to protect Frank Benson who barreled helmet first into Coach’s frail, vulnerable body. Later accounts by the sobbing lineman described how he heard “life” leave Coach’s lungs. He never took another breath; his chest completely caved like a sinkhole.

There was the formality of an inquiry after the funeral services. And, as we all expected, no blame was assessed. Everyone including the players understood. Coach had moved on. Sadly, the offensive lineman never played another down.

#

Early the next spring I was again summoned to Pedersen’s office. He awarded me the official title of Head Coach at Mountain State College. I was the first coach to follow the man who made football a religion in this small and proud community. I was the first head coach to be called Head Coach other than Frank Benson for over forty years. I was their new leader; their new institution and I was determined to retire with all my faculties. But coaching college football is a kind of narcotic. It’s easy to become bigger than the job; something Frank Benson never fully comprehended.

I thought I did.

#

It was the thirty-fifth year of my reign as head football coach at Mountain State College in central Pennsylvania. Pedersen was long gone, dropped dead from a heart attack a month after he retired. Now, two days before the 2047 season opening game against Acorn State, my trusted Assistant Head Coach, Cedric Jones, sat in my office as I had done so many years ago with Frank Benson.

“Coach, are you sure you feel safe being on the sidelines? I’m not sure we can protect you.”

At that moment all the memories of Frank Benson in his last days disappeared from my memory.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, feeling almost ageless.

Kenneth Schalhoub writes exclusively short stories. He has published science fiction and western period pieces. Kenneth lives in Colorado with his family.

If you enjoyed this story, you might also enjoy “The Gift of the Magi” by O. Henry.

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