The Lady in the Garden

The Stealing of Thins [Chapter 1]

Society still has a difficult time taking in the idea of a woman being the main breadwinner for her family. Even harder to grasp is that I, a woman with a husband and two kids, could and does do so working the graveyard shift. The other ordinary, and comparatively boring nuclear families that ours associates with, or attempt to associate with— and mind you, it isn’t that many— always ask how it works. And I tell that it is in fact, quite simple.

I get home in the early morning hours and make breakfast. Well, the breakfast that the three others in the house eat before heading to school and work. It serves as my dinner if you can be flexible with labels. It’s all food to me.

I go to bed not long after. Sometimes wine is taken before the brushing of my teeth and showering. The house is quiet and the blackout shades are drawn. I made them myself, because what sort of woman would I be without knowing how to sew? I am open to sharing how I did so, but the idea of such monotone home apparel doesn’t stick with the diurnal wives from the neighborhood.

While the world passes by outside, I get my shut-eye. The kids get back first, then the husband not long after, and they all know not to be loud and wake mommy. At first, this was by threat, but since a long time, it has become a clear habit. They manage to get along fine playing outside instead of just sitting in front of the TV set like other kids their age seem to do these days.

Dinner comes after, sometimes by me and sometimes by the husband. Yet another concept that baffles our current-day society, to make the man of the house cook. But he certainly isn’t bad. We all eat together, catching up like a normal family would do.

The question of the evening came up like it so often did, and this time I had an answer that warranted me putting down my coffee to answer properly.

“Are you guarding anything cool tonight, mama?” Jamie, the 7-year-old asked.

I leaned forward in the seat and picked up the fork, tapping it away while I answered. “Well, they actually brought in a big old jewel. From an ancient tomb!”

“What’s a… toom… mama?” James, the 5-year-old, puzzled.

“It’s where they… bury people. Old, dead people.” Jamie explained proudly in my place.

“Where they bury rich and powerful people,” I added, waiving my arms out to my sides. “It must have been, or else they wouldn’t have buried this person with such a big diamond. Or was it something else?”

“Like your ring.” Jamie pointed at the simple band and singular, meager faceted rock on my finger.

“Like that,” I nodded, “but much bigger.” I folded my arms into a ring in front of me to make an unfounded approximation of the size.

Jamison, my husband, laughed. “Next, your mother will want an upgrade to match.” I laughed and shook my head, and the kids joined in to match the mood.

It’s not long after the meal that I go off to work, somewhere between putting the kids to bed and Jamison going to sleep himself. The museum is a ways from where we live, but at least at that time of night, the roads are mostly serene and empty. When I arrive, I enter through the back entrance, gab a bit with the swing shift workers, and leisurely get dressed to start my night. And not to brag, but those next few hours are not much harder.

Yes, despite what my little boys think, my job is certainly not as exciting or dangerous as it sounds. Frankly, to say I am a guard is a stretch. I do guard things. Alas, I have no badge, nor a weapon. My supervisor does allow me the use of a heavy flashlight that could be used to give a potential burglar or thief a nasty clunk on the head. That is, if I were not directed first to shine the bright beam in their eyes to, quote, spook them off. Not that I’ve ever come that close to a conflict, though. But I am sure that I could handle such a thing if it came up.

I have heard from my male colleagues not-so-quietly behind my back refer to me as imposing, perhaps scary by some definition of the word. I am indeed taller than some of them. I’m sure it was with good intention, as well, when they said that with my short hair, I could be mistaken for a man if encountered in the dark on one of my midnight patrols.

The patrols themselves are the core of my guarding duties. They begin after the doors to the public close, just to make sure there is nobody intentionally or otherwise still inside. Occasionally there are folks who overstay their welcome or get lost or find themselves in the bathroom for longer than expected. I am more than happy to escort them out.

Later in the night, I patrol the grounds outside. This is to prevent the teenagers from defacing the statues with bathroom tissue or strange articles of clothing. It has not happened during my time yet here, but I have been warned that it has occurred before.

That night on patrol, I couldn’t help but hear the rustling of bushes outside the hallway of the anthropology exhibit. My imagination turned to a stay cat, even possibly a raccoon. With flashlight in hand, I dutifully stepped off the path to determine whatever cute little intruder we had.

The beam of my light caught the rustle of something in the hedges, indeed, which caused it to stop. Moving up closer, a face, shielded by a hand, popped up in my view from beneath the sill of the window. “Hey-“ I called out, lowering the light.

The face, belonging to a human, one with fine olive features at that, stared back at me from between a pair of neatly rounded shrubs. I blinked several times to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.

“You can’t be-“

Before I could continue the warning, the person rushed up before me, taking the side of my face in her hand. Their soft fingers tugged me lightly by the hair down to her level, not with force but by some sort of magical allure, as if I were smelling a delicate flower. Their lips came to rest upon mine, pressing with a firm but soft touch, and the caress of their hand continued. Just when it felt like my breath was at its limit, the olive-toned individual pulled away, dashing off past me and into the night, a lithe silhouette against the low lights coming through the windows. The moisture from… it was unmistakably a kiss… remained.

My collar was tight, holding onto my body heat underneath the thick uniform. Finding my way off the grass, I turned the still-illuminated flashlight back, hoping to see one last trace of the woman.

Next Chapter –>

The Color of Houm: White Flag Burning on Sale!

Book Two of my ‘Color of Houm’ series is available for preorder right now, available to read this Saturday the 12th! Find it on Amazon right here.

The once silent defiance finds itself unable to hold back any longer. Both sides head towards an emboldened opposition, victories both small and large piling up, yet neither side is willing to make concession. Book Two in the Color of Houm series: White Flag Burning

The startling and triumphant attack by the Sanguine Tears in Akresh City crippled the Moon’s infrastructure and means of commerce. The inhabitants of the city are forced to rely on the Nest Corporation’s Security forces to offer a sense of safety and a hopeful return to normalcy. After receiving a threat and a promise of future action from the rebel group, authorities on Houm as well as the Corporation are forced to decide how they will proceed, rehashing the debate between Houm’s self-determination versus The Nest Corporation’s humanitarian efforts.

Those who carried out the attack hide out still in Akresh, planning their next move while the city remains under the strict control of the security forces. Their focus remains on Veema, who gave herself up to Nest just before the attack, creating a loose end for both sides. Her father, Major Corbin Skye of Nest Security, can’t help but blame himself for her senseless actions. Despite his efforts to reconnect with his daughter, the reticent girl all but refuses to divulge any information about the organization that had enraptured her into their movement.

When the Corporation delivers to the system more forces to secure Houm and its Moon, the division between the local populace and the offworlders deepens, pulling at the seams of the already strained society.

If you haven’t checked out book one yet, you can get it for free right now as well. Click here to get it now!

Clothes Make the Man

Clothes make the man, he thinks to himself.

The little man at the front of the bus has to wear the little blue hat and tight little blue suit because he drives it.  Or does he get to drive it because he wears those things?

The blue-suited man tells them they have to get off, it’s the end of the line.  There’s one other passenger, a young woman, wearing tight, pleasing clothes, who hadn’t dared look at him for the entire ride.

The clothes making him that day were old and certainly out of style, very nearly exactly ten years so.  No wonder the woman didn’t want to look at him.  They weren’t even nice when he wore them the last time he was a free man, but at least they fit.

The only other thing on him was a wallet, full of cards long expired, the stub of a one-way ticket, now served its purpose, and lastly the one thing provided to him out of the kindness of the judicial process.  A prepaid visa for one hundred dollars, to get him back on his feet, they said.

His feet, though, are just as well covered, and suit him just fine.  And so carrying that card of finite subsistence, he finds his way from the bus station to the counter of a fast food restaurant, where the people there are made out of red and yellow stripes and grease and uniformity.  

Then next door, taking however much was left on that card, and subtracting the pack of cigarettes at the convenience store, the workers more smoke and petrol fumes and old coins than most.

They, the cigarettes, were much more expensive than he remembers but certainly a trade more fair than bartering for bathroom supplies, extra food, or unmentionables.  The people behind him in line, regardless of their components, make his gaze turn back repeatedly, but that feeling will go away in time, he tells himself.  The thing to take his mind off of the sensation involves dressing himself in the fresh smoke and fumes, inside and out.

Now, if the ten years had been kind, he would have a place to shed his old layers and fix himself anew.  But the ten years changed more than him.  That old block of houses, stripped down and dressed up into condos.  

Condos with women and their torn jeans and little purses and chihuahuas on limp leashes and men with shiny sunglasses resting in their tight vnecks instead of on their faces, nothing like the friend who was there, more loose and old-fashioned.  Doesn’t matter where they are now, he tells himself.  He is on his own, on his feet, and ain’t nothing wrong with that.

The rest of the card, or what is likely enough to push the balance against the red, is spent on a motel room. One night.  And despite the shower and the remotely clean sheets, he is back into the same clothes the next day, feet back into the old shoes, and back to square one.  But he is himself.

A week on the streets means there’s more than just the young women avoiding turning his way, but just about everyone else as well.  He can’t decide if the cold is from their singular glances or the turning weather, but bundles of newspapers inside the sweatshirt he finds on a bench help stave off the feeling.  

Suddenly those shoes– the socks underneath as well– aren’t as fine as they seemed, and it’s not just the cold eating at his toes, but the moisture.  He finds someone willing to toss their socks his way from a gym bag, and he wears both because it would be a waste otherwise.  

A second jacket comes his way after a fight and a calling of the police, and the person who used it now gets a nice warm cell for however long the dark blue ones decide.

Someone knitted hats and left them out on fence posts, not for people like him, but he figures he and his cold, painful ears would look made up in one.

People throw away plenty of things, things that don’t deserve it, he makes sense of the dumpster.  Those behind stores are full of things like that, which means the contents get taken away unless people like him choose to save them.  Sleeves cut away from a proper, good coat because it couldn’t be sold.  But just those sleeves serve their purpose nevertheless, stretched over the other layers he has on.

When the rains come, and eventually the snow, it’s about all he can do to stay dry.  Plastic bags do the trick, as noisy as they are, but he would never be considered a quiet person either way.

The winter wind will push its way through everything else regardless.  When he can do nothing but conserve heat and energy, the plates of discarded cardboard make him a set of armor, protecting him from the cold ground and frigid air.

Clothes make the man, but none of the layers seem to make him the man that others want to see in any place they would be.  And so the men in dark blue come.  And they tug and pull.  But when they begin to pull back the layers, they find that there is nothing but more and more layers of clothes all the way down.

An Actual Blog Post

As in, this is non-fiction. So if you want to stop reading right there, that’s okay with me. More stories eventually.

I can’t remember the last time I did one of these. Hmm.

The thought of doing this just popped into my head. It’s the last day of a huge heat wave here. It was about 110f all this week, with the highest being 113– that’s about 45 celsius if my ability to roughly translate the two still exists from my time in France. If you ever watched one of my vlogs in the past, you may know that my house is poorly insulated and with no central air. That means trying to not go crazy when the internal temperature goes up to 91f (32c????). Heat that makes just sitting around watching YouTube videos barely bearable. But enough complaining!

Did you enjoy Impasse? It was my Camp NaNoWriMo story this July you might have guessed. It’s seemed to have done good numbers both here and on Inkitt so far. Speaking of Inkitt, it may be easier to read my stories from there, in regard to readability and ease of navigating through the chapters. I don’t mind if you go there to do your reading, and new chapters are uploaded simultaneously here and there.

I don’t know what my next story may be right now, but as always, I have ideas hanging about. The big thing next to look out for is the second book in The Color of Houm series. Look for a sneak peek of it soon? Hopefully, I won’t get too caught up in Minecraft again and let the editing process drag on much longer.

In final news, if you want to call it that: I disabled my contact form here on the website! It was actually getting a lot of use, but… only by spammers! Nope, I don’t want your questionable SEO services or your explicit pics and/or viruses. I was slightly worried that the spammers were the ones pumping up my traffic here, but in fact, them no longer having an exclusive forum in my domain here has done nothing for the page hits and likes I’m getting. Thank you, real people, for your engagement as always!

I’m going to finish off the night here with some hard seltzer and go to sleep knowing that I won’t wake up tomorrow morning covered in sweat. Cheers!

-Sandwich Sean

The End of It All

Impasse – Chapter Twelve [Final]

“Jess called us,” the chief explained as Farva returned to relative consciousness in the back of the ambulance, the warmth burning his digits.

“She…”

“You don’t deserve that woman, Farve,” the chief muttered, shaking his head. “If I called my wife in the middle of the night, expecting her to pick up, I’d get home to a bowl of soggy cereal to eat, leftovers from the kid.”

Farva draped his hand across his face, blocking out the light from the ceiling of the boxy vehicle. “I… don’t. You wouldn’t… know…”

Schultz snuffled and sat back against the wall, his body shuffling up and down with the bumps. “When we picked you up tonight… at the motel on the edge of town… you know what goes on there, right?”

“I know very well, chief. But… it’s already too late for that.”

Schultz stroked his mustache, shaking his head slowly in thought. “You need to make things right with her. Whatever that means for the two of you. Before the ambulance here showed up, we made sure to call her back. I imagine she’ll be at the hospital to meet us.”

“I’ve… had the time to think about… what I imagine her saying. What I’ll say, too.”

Schultz sighed slowly. “I can at least tell here what you did, the good and proper part. What convinced you to head off down the tracks in the middle of the night in the freezing cold, instead of listening to my orders?”

Farva looked up at the ceiling shaking his head. “The train wasn’t the answer. It was… me.”

“You?” The chief scoffed, looking down at him.

“No, never mind. Sometimes, you just need to retrace your steps, find out what went wrong. And even if you can’t… fix it, you can make it up the best you can.”

Schultz chuckled. “Sorry, I shouldn’t laugh at a time like this. But for the records, I’ll have to repeat the stuff coming out of your mouth right about now. We’ll be at the hospital soon enough, just to make sure the cold didn’t bite you too hard.”

Farva shuffled slightly, feeling the blanket on his chest shift about. He found his hands somewhere under the covers, pulling them out before his face. His fingers were restrained under bands of gauze, leaving the sensation of circulation uncertain. He finally allowed his arms to relax and drop his hands back down by his sides. “What about… those people?”

“Well, they’re all fine thanks to you,” Schultz smirked. “The cold didn’t hit them too bad compared to you. We got them back to the train, those who were still there. The others who went off searching were found farther down the line just a little while ago, too. They’ll set off soon enough. There was a con artist, they said, onboard— pulled a fire alarm, had them evacuate, then started up the train when everyone was off. Stole a bunch of valuables, then ditched the train.”

“I told you so…” Farva mumbled.

“Did you?” The chief shook his head. “No way, Detective. Hey, we’re here.”

The chief shifted side to side as the boxy vehicle stopped roughly. The doors open soon after and the detective’s stretcher was yanked down, its wheels folding out to meet with the ground. As it was wheeled up and towards the front of the hospital and its florescent lights, Farva caught sight of the dark-haired woman by the door, hands tucked into her heavy jacket.

Jess caught up to the medics rolling him in. “I’m the wife. I’m here, Robert.”

“He’s stable, Mrs. Farva,” the EMT noted. “But we’ll need to get him in to assess his condition further.”

“I see that. Can I at least talk to him?”

“Of course.”

“Jess—“ The detective sat up slightly.

Her hand found his shoulder as they rounded one last corner and into the observation room. “We’ll have someone in here soon enough to take your vitals, sir. Hold tight.”

Jess had her arms folded at the side of the bed as the employee exited the room. She shook her head slightly, the corners of her eyes moist.

Farva looked down at his toes poking up past the heavy blanket. “I understand if you don’t want to have anything to do with me after this.”

Jess shook her head and ran her fingers through his hair. “This is something we can get through together. You can explain everything when you’re feeling better.”

“But… but I saw… it must have been a dream… you disappearing from… my life.”

“Well, right now… I am going nowhere.”

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