Grandpa visited the afternoon of Aden’s birthday.  He brought a gift in a paper bag.  Aden opened the bag and found a hat.  Not a store-bought hat, but a hand-made one Grandpa had picked up at the second-hand shop.  The hat’s design was made of four different colours, and sort-of looked like a hockey toque but the colours didn’t match any team Aden knew of.

He thanked Grandpa just the same.  Aden put the hat on to show how much he liked it, even though he didn’t, really.

Grandpa winked at Aden.

“It’s a magic hat, Aden,” said Grandpa.

“Magic, like how?” asked Aden, unconvinced.

“Well,” said Grandpa, “just put it on and make a wish and you’ll see!”

Aden put the hat on.  He closed his eyes tightly and said his wish in his head.  I want to ride on a bus.

“Have you made you wish?” asked Grandpa?  “Well, let’s go outside and see if it came true.”

Aden’s mother helped him get his coat and boots on, and she pulled the zipper right up to his chin.  “Have fun,” she said.

Aden didn’t think going out in the cold was going to be fun.  He hoped Grandpa wouldn’t make him walk too far.

Grandpa and Aden walked halfway down the block.  Then Grandpa stopped, and he turned around as if he was looking for something.

There it was, right on time.

Aden stood at the curb with his mouth hanging open.  It was a bus, and it stopped right next to him and the front doors opened wide.  Aden felt a blast of warm air exhale from the bus.

“Get on,” said Grandpa, giving him a little nudge.  “It’s your birthday wish.”

Aden climbed up the steps and turned left to face all the bus-riders.  Grandpa paid the driver, then held Aden’s shoulder and steered him to an empty seat.

Aden was entranced.  He didn’t utter a single word during the whole ride.  He just looked at the people getting off the bus and getting on.  He was fascinated by the cord some people pulled, and the red lights that spelled S-T-O-P near the front of the bus.

The windows were fogged up and Aden wiped a window with his coat sleeve so he could see the shops and cars they passed.  He unzipped his coat, put his mitts in his pocket, and took off his hat.  It was so hot in the bus, but he loved the feeling of the wheels rumbling under his feet.

A few blocks later, Grandpa told Aden to pull the cord.  Aden pulled it, and watched the S-T-O-P lights come on at the front of the bus.  When the bus pulled up at the curb, Grandpa and Aden got off the bus.

“That was awesome!” breathed Aden.  He spoke quietly, as if he’d just come out of church.

“We’ll have to walk back,” said Grandpa.  “I only had the fare for one way.”

Aden pulled his zipper up to his chin again, and pulled his mitts out of his pocket.  It was then he realized he’d left the magic hat on the bus.

He felt a bit sad about the hat, but he was still floating in elation from the bus ride.  Aden pulled his hood over his head and walked back with Grandpa.  Aden chattered the whole way about the bus ride.

*****

Gary found the hat as soon as he took his seat on the bus.  He felt sorry for whoever had lost it, because it was a miserably cold day out.

Gary took the bus every day to and from work.  He had only moved to the city a few months ago and riding the bus was his only social life.  He saw the same people on the morning bus, and a different group of people on the afternoon bus.  He nodded to his fellow passengers, but nobody ever talked much on the bus.

I wish I could meet some people my age, thought Gary.  He’d like to go to the movies or to coffee shops, but he didn’t like going alone.  It was difficult to meet people in a big city.

When Gary got off the bus at the downtown depot, he hesitated.  His apartment was only a block away, but he decided to make one stop before he walked home.

He went inside the bus depot building, where people waited for their connecting buses to arrive.  He walked up to the ticket desk and asked if there was a lost-and-found box somewhere.  He held up the magic hat.

“I found it on the bus,” Gary told the ticket seller.  She was a nice-looking girl about his age.  She smiled at him as she reached for the hat.

“That was nice of you to turn it in,” she said.  “I haven’t found people in town to be too helpful since I moved here.”

“I’m new here, too,” said Gary.  He had an idea.  “Say, do you like movies?  I’ve been wanting to see the latest Rapid Ryker flick.  Just need someone to go with.”

“Funny, I was just wishing a second ago that I could go see that movie!” said the girl.  “I’m Ellen, by the way.  I’m off work in, like, two minutes.  Can you hang around and maybe we can grab a coffee and make plans for the movie?”

Ellen tucked the magic hat in the lost-and-found box next to her desk, where it waited for its next assignment.

Having some regular fiction in The Voice Magazine was always something I looked forward to, and this year it came to fruition, with Lucy D’jorno submitting a number of flash fiction pieces.  Being able to write complete stories in such a short format is a difficult skill, and I was happy to see she gained some recognition for it as this was one of a couple of her pieces that were nominated.  I chose this one from issue 3132 on August 25th because, in a way, it’s actually two short stories, both complete, both wholesome and somewhat heart-warming, and both providing the reader a real picture of the story and characters, including the titular character, an inanimate object that is left with just enough mystery to make it interesting.

Before too long, he heard a sound behind him.  Turning, he saw a fox trotting in his footsteps.

“You’ve got an easy time of it,” grumbled the bear.  “Walking in my footsteps and sheltered by my body from the wind.”

“I can’t deny my advantageous position,” conceded the fox.  “However, in the interest of fairness, on the way back I’ll walk in front.”

The bear thought this was splendid of the fox.  The bear leaned into the wind once more and continued toward the river.  The snow pelted his nose with ice shards, and he squinted into the storm until his eyes were nearly closed.

The bear felt miserable.  It was bad enough being awake in the middle of winter, but to have to trudge through a storm just to get a sip of water was abominable.

To keep himself motivated, the bear began imagining himself back in his den and drifting off to sleep.  It won’t be long until we’re at the river, the bear told himself, and the return trip will be much more comfortable, with the fox out in front.

With this pleasing thought in his head, the distance seemed to shrink and before long, they arrived at the river.  The bear and the fox made their way to the frosty edge and sipped long and deep at the ice-cold rapids.

Refreshed, they headed back the way they came.  As promised, the fox led the way, walking in front of the bear.  Too late, the bear realized he’d been tricked!  They were going in the opposite direction and the wind was coming from behind them now!  The bear was still blocking the icy wind for the fox.

The bear roared at the fox, but the fox was already scampering off in the tracks they’d made earlier.  Before long, the fox’s jaunty tail disappeared into the gloom.

The bear trudged back to his den, even more grumpy than when he started out.  He just wanted to curl up and sleep, and forget about the scheming fox.

When the bear arrived at his den, he stopped outside to have a shit.  While he was squatting, he noticed fox tracks leading right into his den.  “That double-crossing fox!” thought the bear, “I’ll fix him!”

The bear leaned forward and reached into his den.  He groped around, then hauled out the sleeping fox by the tail.  The bear wiped his ass with the fox, then flung the fox into a snowbank.

Feeling much more cheery, the bear crawled into his den and curled up in the warm spot the fox had left.  Or so the story goes.

He’d been dreaming.  Ingrid again.  He missed her.  She’d probably laugh, seeing him now.  She always said he’d be helpless without her.  That was before dementia took away her quick wit and left her with vacant eyes.  She was probably right.  He would have been helpless without her.  But when she got ill, he had to learn to care for both of them.  Good practice for being a widower.

Lyle was glad he’d listened to her when she wanted to move into town.  He loathed leaving their little hobby farm, but there was no way he could have taken care of the farm and Ingrid.  They’d only lived in town for a year before she started slipping away.  He didn’t feel like moving anywhere now.

Ingrid died last spring.  In the summer he had a stroke.  He figured that was it, he’d be joining Ingrid soon.  But he recovered, mostly.  He walked with a limp, and the left side of his face drooped.  Talking was laborious but he didn’t have anyone much to talk to anymore.

The phone rang.  He counted off the rings.  After the fifth ring, the answering machine clicked in.  A voice announced to the machine that it was time to have his ducts cleaned.  Oh well, Lyle thought, at least they call me.

It had been a while since either Gordon or Alexie had called him.  They’d always been closer to Ingrid.  Anyway, they were pretty busy with their own lives now.  Lyle thought of his five grandchildren, two of them Gordon’s and three Alexie’s, with a shadow of a smile.  He almost wished he’d kept the hobby farm.  Maybe they’d visit more.  Kids love goats and chickens.  But they were all so far away now, Gordon on the west coast and Alexie in the States.  They don’t even come back for Christmas anymore.  They phoned on New Year’s Day, though.  So he wasn’t expecting them to call again so soon.

Lyle woke with a start.  Dark again now.  Clammy wetness where his pants pasted against his crotch.  That was when things seemed hopeless.  That was when he first cried.

Lyle woke later to bright light pouring through the windows.  The sliver of sky he could see was grey, not blue, so Lyle guessed it had finally snowed.  The thought of snow made him realize how thirsty he was.  How many days can someone go without water? He couldn’t remember.  He wasn’t even sure how many days he’d lain here after he fell.  His leg throbbed and was obviously broken.  A couple of ribs maybe, too.  He wasn’t sure about his left arm; it didn’t seem to have any feeling in it.  It hurt to move.  It hurt to not move.

A noise roused him from a doze.  It was still light out.  There was the noise again.  Scraping.  Familiar but he had trouble placing it.  Ah! The little fellow from down the street who shovels his driveway.  What’s his name.  Allen.  So it had snowed, he hadn’t dreamt that.

Allen was barely taller than the shovel handle, but he did a pretty good job shovelling.  Lyle paid Allen nearly every time he came, but Allen often seemed reluctant to take the money.  Probably his parents made him do shovelling for the old man in the neighbourhood.  Lyle tried to offer him hot chocolate a few times, but Allen refused to come in the house.  He seemed nervous around Lyle.  Lyle wondered if it was his laboured speech and slack face.  I must seem like a monster to him, Lyle thought.  He started to chuckle but quickly stopped when his broken ribs hurt.

He could hear Allen on the porch now, scrape, scrape.  When there was a pause between scrapes, Lyle tried to call out.  His throat was paper dry and his voice only a raspy whisper.  The shovelling continued, then stopped.  Allen must be gone now.

So that’s it, Lyle thought.  Nobody else would be coming by and nobody besides salespeople would be phoning.  Nobody would miss him if he didn’t go out.  Nobody needed him, really.

He felt at peace.  He wouldn’t be missed, so he just may as well close his eyes and die.  Go and tell Ingrid that she was right, he really was helpless without her.

Lyle woke.  He wasn’t sure.  Was he awake? He thought he’d heard bells.  Again, the bells.  Then a tinkling crash as a boot came through the window beside the door.  More glass tinkling and a glove grasping for the deadbolt.  The door swung open, and a police officer stepped over the broken glass.  Allen and his parents right behind him.  “See, I told you!” shouted Allen.  “Garbage day was Tuesday.  He never leaves his garbage can at the curb this long!”

Again, he woke.  Soft lights, hushed voices.  A swish of polyester uniform.  “How are you doing?” asked the nurse.  He nodded, not feeling able to speak yet.  “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Dunbar.  You owe that kid a big thanks for alerting his parents when he thought something was wrong.”

A few days later, feeling a bit stronger and taking dozy pleasure of the pillows at his back, he heard the tentative footsteps of a visitor.  Lyle opened his eyes and saw Allen standing beside the bed with two steaming take-out cups.  “This is for you, Mr Dunbar.” Allen offered Lyle one of the cups.  “I knew you liked hot chocolate.”

“Thank you, Allen,” Lyle was working hard to make the words come out right, but his throat was still sore.  “I’m grateful for something to drink.  For everything.”

The Autocratic Lizard:  the most sought-after cocktail lounge in the city.

If anyone called asking for an address, they’d give you directions to O’Grady’s on Parkview Drive.  Or they’d send you down a dead-end street in the dodgy end of town, where you’d find the cellar of a burnt-out house or a drug deal in progress.

You couldn’t get in unless someone took you there.  And even if someone did take you there, it wasn’t a sure thing.  The doormen would barely flick a glance at you, so you didn’t need to worry about them.  As long as you were with someone who was “in”, you could at least get in past the gatekeepers.

No, it was the owner you had to watch out for.  Liz Ardouin.  She was the one who controlled the clientele.  She’d never talk to you.  Oh, no, not a word.  She’d just stand behind the bar, pretending to be absorbed in polishing the glasses or straightening the bottles.  But she’d be watching you.

Nobody ever knew what criteria she used.  Was it the way you signalled the wait staff?  The drink you ordered?  Your request for a slice of lemon?  Your clothes?  Your hair?  Nobody knew.

But Liz knew.  And once she decided, she’d glance at the doormen, who sat around a table by the entrance playing cards.  Then she’d nod in your direction.  And you were done.  The doormen would have you halfway dragged across the floor before the others at your table registered that you’d just been yanked out of your chair.

Out the door you went.  Don’t ever come back, they’d say.

All the other patrons would carry on, as if you’d never existed.  Even those at your table—the very people who brought you—would soon resume their conversation, laughing over their drinks as if they’d never heard of you.

They were alright, you see.  They’d been here before.  It was only the first visit you had to worry about.  If Liz didn’t have you expulsed during your first visit, you were fine.  You could return to The Autocratic Lizard any time.

A bit odd, that.  The food wasn’t much good at the Lizard.  The drinks were overpriced.  The service slow as snails.  And the music—my god it was awful.  Don’t even get me started about the lavatories.

No, the patrons at The Autocratic Lizard went there for one reason, and one reason only.  For the pure pleasure and smug satisfaction of being “in.”

Lemuel did sometimes wonder about things.  Like why they all ate certain foods.  But he noticed that other lemmings did not ask questions like that, so he figured he wouldn’t ask questions like that.  Go with the flow.  Like other lemmings.

One day, while Lemuel was engaged in the normal everyday business of being a lemming, he heard a strange sound.  A rumble.  Lemmings around him lifted their heads, so he did too.

The rumbling was the sound of many lemmings running.  They were running in the same direction, and coming right at Lemuel and his companions.  When the crowd of running lemmings enveloped them, Lemuel and the other lemmings began running, too.  Go with the flow.  Like the other lemmings.

After running for a bit, Lemuel began to wonder why they were all running.

“Why are we all running?” he asked the lemmings running next to him.

“Because everybody else is running!” several lemmings replied.

“Umm, do we know where we’re running to?”  asked Lemuel.

“To the cliff!”  was the answer.  “We’re running to the cliff to jump off!”

Lemuel continued running while he thought about this.  He couldn’t make sense of it.  We’re running to the cliff to jump off.  No, Lemuel thought.  That makes zero sense.

“That makes no sense!”  yelled Lemuel.  “We should stop!”

Some nearby lemmings looked at Lemuel.  They were a bit startled.  We should stop?  But every other lemming is running.

Lemuel angled to the edge of the sea of running lemmings.  There, he was able to slow down, extricate himself from the mass of lemmings, and come to a stop.  A few other lemmings noticed that he stopped.  Some of those lemmings stopped too.

“Why are you stopping?” they asked him.  “Everyone is running.”

“Running makes no sense,” replied Lemuel.  “We’re just running to jump off a cliff.  Jumping off a cliff is a bad idea.  We should not keep running to the cliff.”

Some of the other lemmings thought Lemuel made sense.  Others weren’t so sure.  Everyone else was running.  Maybe they should ALL keep running.  Some of the stopped lemmings decided to run anyway.  Others stayed with Lemuel, uncertain what to do.

Lemuel decided to climb up a small hill to see what was going on ahead.  After all, he had only been told that they were running to jump off a cliff.  Maybe that wasn’t true.

What Lemuel saw astounded him.  As far as he could see, there was a mass of lemmings, running straight for the cliff.  At the edge of the cliff was a lemming standing on a rock, urging the lemmings to jump.  This lemming had a parachute pack on his back and looked important.

The other lemmings didn’t slow when they got to the cliff, they just ran right off the edge.  Lemuel couldn’t see what happened after they ran off the cliff, but he could imagine.  The thought sickened him.

Lemuel returned to his dwindling band of followers.

“Look, guys,” he said, “I saw up ahead.  There’s a leader at the cliff urging lemmings to jump over the edge.  I think he’s wrong.  I think he’s not a good lemming.  A good lemming would not do something to harm other lemmings.”

Lemuel’s lemmings agreed.  But what could they do?  They’re lemmings.  They go with the flow.  That’s what lemmings do.

Lemuel convinced his new lemming friends to help him stop other lemmings from running.  They worked their way up the fringe of the mass of lemmings, urging other lemmings to stop.

Some lemmings did stop to listen to Lemuel and his friends.  Some of those lemmings joined Lemuel.  Others agreed that running made no sense but felt compelled to run anyway.  So many other lemmings were doing it, and they felt uncomfortable not doing what most other lemmings were doing.

After a while, Lemuel could see the futility of his task.  He and his friends just could not convince enough lemmings to stop running.  His little band had grown, but they were still so small in number compared with the many lemmings running by.

Lemuel returned up the little hill, seeking inspiration.   He looked to the right, to the cliff.  He looked to the left, where the lemmings ran from.  He looked straight ahead, across the sea of running lemmings.  That’s when he saw it.

“Hey guys!” Lemuel called, skidding down the hill.  “On the other side of the running lemmings, I see other lemmings like us!  They’ve stopped running, and they seem to be trying to urge other lemmings to stop too.”

The other lemmings in Lemuel’s group thought this was great!  It wasn’t just them.  More lemmings had stopped running!  But there was just one problem.

“How can we get to those lemmings?” they wondered.

Lemuel had an idea.  He explained his idea.  He scratched in the dirt to demonstrate his idea.  Some of his lemmings doubted, but most were game to try.  There wasn’t much time to lose.  They had to act.

Lemuel and his lemmings formed a V-shaped wedge and began working their way into the sea of running lemmings.  With Lemuel at the front of the V, their wedge cut on an angle through the flow of lemmings.  Their wedge went against the flow.  Some of the running lemmings changed course and began to follow Lemuel’s wedge of lemmings.  By the time they got to the other side of the flow of lemmings, they’d gained dozens more lemmings.

After they came out of the flow of lemmings on the other side, they made their way to the group of stopped lemmings Lemuel had seen from the hill.  Both groups were so pleased to find each other.  Now, instead of two little groups separated by masses of running lemmings, they were a larger group.

The larger group of lemmings quickly made a plan.  The wedge idea had worked well, so they headed back into the flow of lemmings, heading upstream away from the cliff.  As the running lemmings had to part to make way for the growing wedge, many of them slowed and then turned to follow the wedge.

While many lemmings—so many that it would break your heart—continued running and did jump over the cliff, Lemuel and his friends of both groups managed to turn the tide and stop many more lemmings from running and jumping.

What Lemuel did wasn’t easy.  It’s difficult getting lemmings to go against the flow.  That’s not usually what lemmings do.

But Lemuel Lemming saved so many lemmings by doing what was unusual, what was difficult.  Lemuel did what average lemmings never thought to do—go against the flow.

Lemuel turned the tide of lemming history.

We were both professors, he of anthropology and me of archeology.  Overlapping interests propelled our life, our love, and our careers.  Before we were profs, we spent many years in fieldwork and research.  Our travels took us all over the world, and we brought bits and pieces of the world back with us.  Urns.  Jewelry.  Bronze sculptures.  Stone carvings.  Shards of pottery.  Fragments of textiles.  Bone tools.

We constructed a house around these objects.  We constructed our lives around them, as well.

When we began planning our retirement, we began planning our wills.  Well.  What to do with our collection?  Tony had definite ideas—he wanted to start dealing off the more valuable objects to museums now, so we could get tax receipts.  No way, I said.  This collection took too long to build.  I wanted to see it form the nucleus of a museum collection in our name.

Things began unravelling.  The collection formed the core of our relationship, and that core was under threat.  The fabric of our marriage disintegrated, and the only thing we could agree upon in the end was divorce.

Okay, fine.  But, that still left us with the question of what to do with our collection.  Now Tony seemed more interested in keeping it—all to himself.  He grudgingly assigned me the objects of lesser value, trying to persuade me that those were the items I had more of a personal interest in.

By then I just wanted out.  I was prepared to accept his uneven division of the collection.  Except for Achilles.  This marble sculpture wasn’t ancient, but it was old.  It was I who found it at the back of a dealer’s stall in a souk in Rabat.  Sure, Ancient Greece was more Tony’s particular interest.  But, finders’ keepers, I say.

Tony knew I wanted Achilles.  That made him want it more.  In the end it was the one thing we couldn’t agree on, even though agreement would mean we could finally walk away from each other.  He threatened to throw the sculpture in the river, rather than let me have it.  I began hiding it, first in the basement then later in the garden shed.

In the end, neither of us got Achilles.  Our shed was broken into and Achilles was one of the only two items taken—the other being a wheelbarrow to cart it away in.

Two days later, we finally went to the lawyer’s office to sign the divorce papers.  Afterwards, we went out for champagne to celebrate not having to spend one more day in each other’s company.  Cheers to that.

While we were out, an unmarked moving van backed up to our house and stole much of the rest of the collection.

As we divvied up what was left behind by the thieves, I pondered the irony that the objects we collaborated to collect so carefully turned out to be the biggest source of friction between us.

And that our downfall became the catalyst for the collection’s downfall.

I mean, he literally made himself a home.  Using the tools he’d brought with him, he felled trees and built a comfortable cabin.  Once the cabin was completed, he built cabinets and other furnishings—he was a skilled woodworker.

The windows and woodstove and other hardware he mail-ordered COD to the post office in a town about 16 miles away.  He used the sled that he also mail-ordered to haul the goods up to his cabin over the firm mid-winter snow.

Once his house was set up comfortably, he settled into his daily routines, chopping and hauling wood for the stove, hunting rabbits and other game, baking bread and muffins, and reading books he picked up from the Little Free Library in town.

In summer he set up a vegetable garden in the clearing next to the cabin.  He also went for hikes in the woods.  His cabin was only half a mile or so from the Appalachian Trail, and he alternated walking a ways north or south.

There wasn’t much hiking traffic on the trail in that area, except for the determined AT through-hikers.  Most through-hikers started in the spring at the southern terminus of the trail in Georgia, and by early September those that had made it that far were trickling through Maine on their way to the northern terminus at the top of Mount Katahdin.

Whenever he saw through-hikers plodding north, he invited them to stop by for muffins or a meal.  He always kept a pot of rabbit stew simmering on the stove in late summer, and the often-emaciated hikers—having walked almost 2000 miles already—were hungry and grateful.

The man built a few bunkies next to the cabin, so hikers could spend the night in some comfort.  He kept his cabin and the bunkies scrupulously clean, and by late summer he still had fresh wildflowers in vases in each room.

The hikers would go to bed, full of rabbit stew, then wake up in the morning to the aroma of a hearty breakfast cooking and coffee brewing.  The man kept a few goats, and he always had fresh milk for the coffee, and his chickens provided the eggs for both breakfast and muffin-making.  The hikers were sent on their way with a few muffins for later.

The hikers were grateful, and some tried to pay the man, but he would take no money.  Sometimes the hikers would sneak off after having left some money under the pillows.  The man always gave this money anonymously to the food bank in town, or left it in the Little Free Library when he swapped out books.

Some of the female hikers, as well as not a few male ones, offered more intimate expressions of gratitude, but the man turned these offers down politely yet firmly.  He figured the hikers were better off saving their energy for the trail.

Many hikers, having walked solo for several months, burbled with pent-up conversation.  The man let them talk, never interrupting, and made comments when appropriate.  He never gave advice unless asked for it, but he gave encouragement to all.  He hoped all the hikers made it to Mount Katahdin safely, although he seldom heard from them after they left, as they wouldn’t have known how to contact him except to hike to his door.

Winter comes early to Maine, and by then there are no passing hikers.  The man spent his afternoons knitting wool socks that he would give to next year’s hikers—by the time through-hikers reached Maine, whatever socks they had left were in shreds.  He also knit wool beanie caps, as the autumn weather in Maine can turn wet and chilly, and wool hats provide warmth to hiker heads while repelling water.

He was always happy to help the hikers, even though he was aware doing so put him at risk.  He was under no threat from the hikers themselves—they all loved him and his trail magic.

One year, a hiker who was celebrating having completed the Appalachian Trail, gushed a bit drunkenly about the man near Copper Brook who lived on the land and helped the hikers.  In this hiker’s opinion, the man was perfect.

That comment was caught by alert ears, and it was duly passed on to the authorities.  A Perfect Man had been located.

In the early days of summer the next year, the Cancel Committee sent a small task force of cancellers up to Maine.  They accessed the Appalachian Trail south of Copper Brook, and hiked to the man’s cabin and asked for shelter.

The man welcomed them like he would welcome any hikers.  He hadn’t any rabbit stew on, since it was a bit early in the season, but it would take no time to whip up a batch of muffins.  And, in no time, the man was serving fresh coffee and steaming muffins.

While the cancellers were sleeping off the mild but effective sedative the man had baked into the muffins, the man packed what little he needed and left.  He understood that Perfect Men were a constant threat.  The Cancel Committee would keep looking for him.  But he had evaded them before and he would do so again.

The perfect man walked away and later made another perfect home elsewhere.

Always curious, Zander surreptitiously examined the camera before fastening it over his left ear.  Before Xidoun came to power, personal cameras were techno toys that people lined up to acquire.  Consequent to the takeover, these cameras, now called SecuriCams, were declared mandatory during waking hours to track each citizen’s activities and interactions.  Data from HealthWatches—also mandatory—reported sleep and wake times based on heart rate and breathing patterns.  Errors were possible, of course, and unjust prosecution difficult to fight.  Fooling a SecuriCam was possible too, Zander believed, but it wasn’t until his best friend was taken away that he put his theory to the test.

Gazing out the window at the forlorn streets one morning, Zander decided it was time.  Holding a book close to his face, he turned the pages at intervals as if he was reading.  Inching to the kitchen, he fumbled around for the tools he needed, never moving his eyes off the page.  Just as the tension threatened to trigger an increased-heartbeat warning on his HealthWatch, Zander shoved the tools in his bedside table drawer and pushed it shut.  Keeping his breathing steady to tame his racing heart, he put down the book as though tired of it and went back to the kitchen to forage for breakfast.  Later, he mechanically performed his assigned tasks while he mentally rehearsed how he would override the SecuriCam’s feed.

Moving through his routines the next day, Zander recorded everything with an old pre-Xidoun camera clipped to his right ear, out of sight of the live-feed SecuriCam on his left.  Next morning, controlling his breathing to mimic the slow and steady rhythm of sleep, he reached for the tools and soon had both cameras connected.  One camera would replay yesterday’s routine in a continuous loop and feed it to the other camera, which was transmitting the visuals to the monitoring station.  Pulling together a few essentials, he left the apartment with only a small bag, an umbrella, and his late friend’s dog on a leash.

Quite a few people were already on the streets but weather was on his side.  Rain pelted down, giving him a reason to shield his face—and his camera-less left ear—from other citizens’ cameras.  Soon reaching the park at the edge of town, he casually strolled on the grass as if merely walking the dog.  Then, sheltered by some trees, he slipped the HealthWatch off his wrist and buckled it around the dog’s neck.  Unleashing the dog and commanding him to go “home” marked Zander’s point of no return.  Very soon Xidoun agents would discover his evasion and come looking for him.

When he emerged from the woods to where the abandoned rail line skirted the edge of town, he headed east.  Xidoun’s reach did not extend beyond the mountains, barely discernible in the distance.  Yellow shafts of sunlight pierced the clouds, making the rain-wet corridor of iron gleam like a path of gold showing him the way.  Zander shifted the bag on his shoulder and, after one last glance behind him, headed east.

(An Acrostic story is one told in exactly twenty-six sentences, each of which begins with the letters of the alphabet, in order, from A to Z.)

Wiley unclipped a photo from the dossier cover and tucked it in his shirt pocket.  Then he reviewed the warrant information again.  Joseph Gulliver King, formerly of Harrison Street, Buckthorn, but in recent years of no fixed address.  The list of misdemeanors on the warrant wouldn’t have normally justified the long drive to execute it.  The unstated reason was King was wanted for questioning on a recently-revised cold-case murder investigation.

Sounds like a busy guy, Wiley thought.  He hauled himself out of his unmarked car and stretched.  Looking around, he noticed a pub near the waterfront.  Good place to start, and maybe they’ll have coffee, he thought.

Jingling bells announced Wiley’s entrance into the pub.  The place was deserted, but a bearded man soon came from the kitchen wiping his hands on a towel.

“Help you?” the man said, looking Wiley up and down.  It was a bit late in the year for tourists.

“Got any coffee?”  Wiley replied.  “It’s been a long drive.  Just came up from Milltown to take some photos.  Of the harbour.”

“Sure.”  The man poured a mug of coffee and pushed it across the bar toward Wiley.

“I also thought I’d look up the son of a former co-worker while I’m here.  Haven’t seen him for years, but I heard he moved out this way somewhere.  I suppose you probably know everyone around here, right?”

“Most,” said the man behind the bar.  “What’s his name?”

“Heh, heh,” Wiley rubbed the back of his neck.  “I’m getting old, can never quite recall his name.  Jim or John or something.  I’ve got a photo of him.  It’s not that recent but maybe you’ll recognize him.”

Wiley drew the photo out of his pocket, lay it on the bar, pivoted it around, and slid it over to the barkeep.

The man studied the photo carefully.  “Nah, don’t know him.”

“You sure?” asked Wiley.  “I thought he moved out here a while back.”

“Positive.  Never seen him in here.”

Wiley drank most of the rest of his coffee, leaving the dregs in the mug.

“Okay, thanks anyway.  What do I owe you for the coffee?”

Outside the bar, Wiley paused to look around.  He noticed a marine-engine repair shop nearby.  The shop’s door was open and Wiley heard the unmistakeable sounds of air tools and expletives.

Wiley found the proprietor cajoling an outboard motor to please-for-the-love-of-jaysus-turn-over.  The man looked up when Wiley’s shoes came into his view.

Wiley gave him the son-of-an-old-friend spiel and showed him the photo.

“Huh,” the man said, rocking back on his heels.  “Pretty sure I’ve seen that guy at the pub.”

“The barkeep at the pub said he’d never seen him,” said Wiley, his eyebrows arched.

“Maybe he hasn’t,” replied the engine man.  “But I’m sure I have.”

Wiley returned to the pub to talk to the owner again.  He asked him to take a better look at the photo.

“Nope,” said the owner.  “Definitely have not seen this guy come in here.  How’s your photography going?”

Wiley grabbed the photo and left the bar again.  This time he went to what appeared to be a small pharmacy.  A sign out front indicated this was also the postal depot for the village.

He showed the photo to a lady behind the counter.

“Oh yes,” she nodded.  “I know this face.  He’s usually at the pub.”

“No,” answered Wiley, a bit exasperated.  “The guy at the pub swears he’s never seen him.”

The lady reached across the counter and patted the back of Wiley’s hand.  “That may be what he told you, but I’m sure he’s joking.”

Some joke, thought Wiley.  He bought a postcard from the lady, then left the shop.  He tried the florist’s shop, but it was closed.  Wiley trudged down to the docks and pretended to take some photos.

Noticing two fishermen loading gear on a boat, Wiley approached them, holding out the photo for their inspection.

“Sure,” said one of the fisherman.  “You’ll find him at the pub.”

Wiley felt defeated.  After a few more stops with the same result, he headed back to his car, which was further away than he had remembered.  When he passed the pub, he paused to catch his breath, pretending to take a photo of the pub’s exterior.

He glanced through the pub’s window, and he could see there were now people in there.  He decided to give it one last try before giving up.

At the bell’s tinkle, the pub’s customers all looked toward the door.  Wiley noticed the marine-engine guy there, and the lady from the pharmacy, and some other faces he recognized.  The engine guy pulled his newspaper in front of his face and studied it intently.  One of the fishermen studiously cleaned his fingernails with a folding knife.  The pharmacy lady stifled a giggle behind her hand then dashed to the ladies’ room.

There was nobody here that Wiley hadn’t already shown the photo to.  He turned to the door and reached for the handle.  Then paused.

Wiley spun around, then marched up to the bar.  The barkeep didn’t move, just stood there with his hands spread on the bar.

“You’re him!” gasped Wiley.  “You’re Joe King!”

Joseph Gulliver King took his hands off the bar and nodded.  Not at Wiley, but at the men in the pub.

Wiley’s body later turned up a few miles along the coast.

Sabrina had loved this walk.  She’d peer in all the shop windows and sometimes pause to have a lingering look.  Roland often had to tug her along, otherwise they’d never get their food shopping done.

In the months since Sabrina died, Roland walked alone.  He seldom glanced at the shop windows now.  Window-shopping reminded him too much of Sabrina, and that reminded him of how morose he felt without her.

He had tried to pull himself out of his grief-fueled listlessness.  He worried that Sabrina would feel sad if she could see how unhappy he was.  What he had always wanted most was for Sabrina to be happy.  But he couldn’t seem to shake himself out of his low spirits, even for the sake of his dead wife’s post-life contentment.

Today, when he walked past the flower shop, he almost collided with a woman rushing out.  She was cradling a bouquet of cut tulips in her arms.

Sabrina had loved tulips.  Roland’s late mother-in-law used to run a florist’s shop and Sabrina had grown up in a house full of blooms.  For their wedding, Sabrina’s mother donated the flowers.  Sabrina’s bridal bouquet was a simple arrangement with bright-pink tulips.

All through their marriage, Sabrina had fresh flowers in the house.  She loved early spring, when the tulips were available, and she would fill a vase in every room with them.  Roland had not seen a cut tulip since Sabrina died.

At the supermarket, Roland filled a basket with the few items he needed for the week.  Just before he reached the checkout, he passed the store’s small floral display—and came to a halt.  Among the roses and the carnations and the mixed bouquets stood a single bunch of bright-pink tulips.

Roland stared at the tulips.  They reminded him so forcefully of Sabrina.  It’s foolish, he thought to himself.  A waste of money.  But he felt strongly he was meant to take them home.  Almost like a message from Sabrina.

He heard her voice behind him now.  “Are you happy?  The only thing that matters to me is that you are happy.”

Roland whirled around.  A woman he didn’t recognize shuffled by, pushing her cart and speaking earnestly into her mobile phone.  He stood staring after her, then turned back to the flowers.

Roland lifted the bunch of tulips, cradling them in one arm.  He gave the surprised checkout girl one of the tulips before she wrapped them in paper.  Then he carried the blooms home.

That evening he ate supper at his kitchen table, gazing at the bright-pink tulips.  And, for the first time since Sabrina died, he smiled.  And felt almost happy.