by Lisa Mangum
“It started a few weeks after he died. I started finding bright, shiny pennies everywhere. On the sidewalk. In the bottom of my purse. On the edge of the bathroom sink. I thought it was coincidence at first. But the pennies kept coming, and I started finding them in even more impossible places. Until one morning I woke up and saw a penny lying on top of Marv’s pillow. That’s when I knew.”
Jae noticed the wheelchair guy had finally made it out into the hall and the way was clear. She looked at the woman, who still had her hand on Jae’s elbow, and glanced at her name tag.
“Thanks for sharing with me, Mary.”
The woman patted Jae’s arm. “Will I see you next week?”
“Sure,” Jae said. She wondered if there was a special hell for people who lied to old ladies.
After her shower, Jae sat down at the computer in her office to check her email one last time before bed. A new email from one of her old college friends was sitting on top.
Hey, Jae,
Hope you’re healing well after your accident. Not sure if you’re back to work yet, but wanted to send over the name of someone I met who’s just started a company and is looking for a great logo designer. I told her you were a fantastic graphic designer, and she asked me to put you two in touch. Her name’s Robin. Her business card is attached. Hope you guys can connect.
Call me when you’re feeling better and let’s get coffee.
—Clint
Jae clicked open the attachment and drew in a sharp breath.
Underneath Robin’s smiling photograph was a clip art image of a single white feather.
Jae remembered what Mary had said. That Felicity was speaking to her, somehow, with feathers. She stared at Robin’s business card a moment longer, her eyes tracing the slightly blurred edges of the feather, before shaking the thought away.
Mary was an old woman and probably going senile. Jae grabbed the handle of her desk drawer and yanked it open to grab her planner. She needed to write a note to remind herself to call Robin tomorrow. And Clint.
As Jae lifted her planner, she felt something soft brush her fingers. She lifted the book all the way out and looked down in the drawer.
A white feather lay curled on the wood.
“What is going on?” Jae muttered. The feather definitely hadn’t been there earlier. She’d cleaned up her desk before going to the support group. She would have seen it for sure.
With a trembling hand, Jae flipped opened her planner and wrote Robin’s name and number on her list for tomorrow along with a reminder to schedule coffee with Clint. Then she dropped the book back in the drawer and slammed it shut.
She needed to go to bed. She was half-starting to believe there was some truth to what crazy Mary had said.
When Jae walked into group the next week, Mary was already there. She smiled and gave Jae a little wave.
“Did you hear from Felicia this week?” the old woman asked.
“Felicity,” Jae responded. But she wasn’t sure what to say next.
Just as Mary had described her experience with the pennies, Jae had started to find white feathers everywhere. Stuck to the screen door of her apartment. On the dashboard of her car. Between the pages of the book she’d bought the day of the car accident but never opened.
Jae hadn’t told anyone about the feathers. Not even her mother. But she was freaked out, convinced that smacking her head against the car window had done more than slam a door shut on her creativity. Maybe it had also put a crack in her sanity.
But Mary seemed to know what Jae was thinking, without her having to say it. “The messages are important, Jae. She’s trying to tell you something. You just have to figure it out what it means.”
The sudden arrival of two other members of the group forestalled further conversation. But Jae kept turning Mary’s words over in her mind all session long. And when it was done, she bolted out the door.
“I have a break between projects,” Jae said. It was Sunday, and she was on the phone with her mother. She absently stirred a spoon through her lukewarm tea. “What would you think if I came home for a little bit?”
Her mother’s response was careful. Guarded. “Did something happen?”
“No,” Jae said. “I just thought it might be nice. To take a break. Rest.”
There was a long pause. “You’re sure you’re okay? You didn’t even want to take time off after the accident. Despite the doctor telling you to. And me.”
“Yeah, and I’m starting to think that was a mistake,” Jae said. “Maybe that’s the reason I’m struggling with my work right now.”
“Well, I’d love to have you home,” her mother said. “I’m just surprised you came to this conclusion on your own.”
What Jae didn’t say, what she would never admit to her mother, was that she hadn’t come to this decision on her own. Felicity had helped her. Felicity and the message written in the feathers.
After her last group session, Jae had woken up without a headache for the first time in a long while. She’d stayed in bed listening to the sound of the birds outside. Enjoying the feeling of being alive and not in pain. Then, she’d slowly realized the pattern of light the blinds were casting on her bedspread looked like a feather.
But instead of feeling angry and afraid, something inside her cracked open, and Jae found herself curled on her side, sobbing into her pillow. Or perhaps weeping was a better word to describe it. She’d cried at the hospital when she’d found out about Felicity. Cried at the funeral. And cried off and on during the days and weeks since the accident. But she’d never truly wept like this. Never felt the pain so viscerally. It completely overpowered her and seized her mind, paralyzing her, pinning her to the bed so she could do nothing but sob and mourn her friend.
She cried for what felt like hours, and when she finally felt her tears slowing, her breathing returning to normal, her thoughts went to Mary and the feathers. Too weak to get out of bed, Jae thought about all the feathers she seen over the last two weeks. Of the places she’d found them, what she’d been doing before, the things she’d been feeling.
Then, almost as if Felicity were standing in her room with her, she heard her friend repeat the words she’d said so many times since Jae had started her career as a freelance designer.
“You work so hard, Jae. You’re going to burn yourself out if you don’t stop to rest once in a while.”
Later, when Jae finally pried herself out of bed and checked her computer, she discovered an email from Robin, the woman Clint had referred. Jae wrote back, introducing herself and outlining the details of the contract. Robin signed Jae’s agreement and sent over the deposit. In her email, she expressed how excited she was to get started when she was back from her trip to Italy in two weeks.
And that was when Jae realized she finally had time to take the break she should have done after the accident. With no other projects on the calendar except Robin’s, she had a whole window of time to herself. She knew she should probably use this time to look for more work, but as she looked at the feather on her windowsill, the one she’d originally found in her desk drawer, Jae again heard Felicity urging her to rest.
Jae was watching TV when her phone dinged with a new text. She grabbed it off the coffee table and opened a picture message from Robin. She was standing in front of a building, pointing at the sign overhead, and grinning. Jae lingered on the photo, feeling Robin’s joy radiating through the photo, before dropping her eyes down to the accompanying text message.
They put up the new sign for the store today. It looks SO good!! I love my logo so much. I can’t thank you enough! It’s exactly what I wanted. I’m so glad Clint introduced us.
Jae smiled as she looked at the picture again. The logo had turned out really well. It was certainly the best thing she’d created since Felicity had died. Maybe even the best piece of work she’d done in the last year.
When she’d gone to stay with her mother, Jae hadn’t really expected the two-week break to do much for her cr
eatively. Sure, she recognized the rest was good for her, that she’d made a mistake in refusing to give herself space to heal after the car accident. But she was under no illusion that it was going to cure all of her problems.
So when she’d sat down to work on Robin’s project, taking the first tentative steps into creating something new, she was surprised to find how little resistance she met. After two weeks off, her mind and her spirit seemed almost hungry to get back to work. As she sketched out new concepts on her drawing pad, she grew bolder and more sure of herself with each pencil stroke. Robin’s enthusiasm about the preliminary sketches and ultimately the final project had only confirmed what she knew already: she was back.
Jae typed a quick reply to Robin and put her phone back on the table. Instead of going back to her show, her eyes went to the window behind the TV. She noticed that the stormy sky from earlier in the day had cleared and the sun was out. But more than that, she noticed something tangled in the bright spring leaves of the tree outside her window. A white feather.
About the Author
Shannon Fox is a San Diego-based writer of fiction spanning multiple genres. She grew up in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies before relocating to California to attend UC-San Diego, where she earned a BA in Literature-Writing.
Her short stories have appeared in the Monsters, Movies & Mayhem anthology, the Cursed Collectibles anthology, The Copperfield Review, The Plaid Horse Magazine, and more. Besides writing, Shannon has a passion for horses. She has competed at the international level in the sport of dressage. Shannon also owns a digital marketing company. For more stories from Shannon, visit her at Shannon-Fox.com.
Into the Valley
Wayland Smith
Back home, June meant warmer weather, baseball games, and spending time out in the woods, or at least it did to Tom Perkins.
In France, it meant a lot of running, hiding, shooting, and trying not to let the German bastards kill him. Most of his squad had managed to find each other after parachuting in, which was a minor miracle and apparently had used up all their luck for the foreseeable future. He ducked as another burst of rifle fire bounced off what was left of the wall in front of him.
“Are there any villages in this goddamn country that aren’t ruins?” Henderson complained, seeking cover behind the same remnant of wall.
“See, that’s what we do.” Johnny Crater laughed. “We get through all this, come back here, and start a construction company. We’ll be millionaires in a year.” Crater always had some get-rich-quick scheme, and each one lasted maybe five minutes, until something new grabbed his attention. He popped up, fired a quick burst, and dove down when the enemy started returning fire.
Ryan, as usual, had nothing to say. His rifle barrel lay on top of a different piece of wall, and he was still as a statue. Finally, he fired a single shot. He nodded in satisfaction and murmured, “Two.”
The enemy fire slackened slightly.
“Damn, Country can shoot!” Rosen was a skinny kid from Detroit who had never been outside the city until he’d been drafted. He was constantly amazed by everyone being so different from the people he’d grown up around.
Perkins leaned around the corner of the wall but pulled back before he even got to shoot as rifle fire kicked up dust and chipped the stone around him. “Damn!”
Sergeant Olson did an impressive baseball slide to end up behind Henderson and Perkins. “What’s the story, boys?” the big man asked.
“Too many of them, and not enough of us,” Henderson said.
“Country’s doin’ pretty good, though,” Rosen piped up from his section of wall.
“Country always does pretty good,” Olson agreed. “Can’t stay here all day, though. We’ve got orders to push ahead. There’s a company or two coming up behind us, and we’re supposed to clear the way for ’em.”
“What are we supposed to do, tell the Germans we gotta be someplace else?” Henderson asked.
“Something like that,” Olson agreed. “We gonna let Country there have all the fun?”
“No, sir,” Perkins answered. He leaned around the end and fired another short burst, immediately ducking back under cover.
As soon as the return fire started, Ryan squeezed his trigger and said a quiet, “Three.”
“All right, enough of this shit. Let’s take them,” Olson said. “Perkins, Henderson, head for that wagon.” He pointed to a wooden wreck a few yards closer to the enemy position. “Crater, Rosen, you’re getting to that wall. Ryan, you know what to do. Everyone ready?”
There was a chorus of “Yes, Sergeant!” and Olson nodded and took a deep breath. He pulled a grenade out of his pack, wrapped his fingers around it, and then jumped up and threw. A shot passed through his upper arm, spraying blood over the ruined wall.
The others sprinted for their assigned positions as the explosion echoed behind the enemy wall. Spreading out their fire, the squad managed to force the Germans back, killing several of them, especially since Ryan took advantage every time the Germans broke from cover.
Rosen and Henderson went through the bodies of the fallen, taking some weapons as trophies. Crater grabbed a few enemy pistols and said something about selling them back home. Perkins patched up Olson’s arm, and the squad took inventory of what they had left and what they had captured.
“Hey, Country, this more your speed?” Rosen held up a Mauser rifle.
A rare smile creased Ryan’s face as he examined the weapon. He squinted through the scope, nodded, and slung it over his shoulder, filling his pockets and the space in his pack with extra ammo.
“You gonna fire a Kraut gun?” Henderson sounded appalled.
“Shoots better,” was all Ryan said.
“Sarge, can he do that?” Henderson turned to Olson.
“Hell, son, he’s the best shot we got. He says it shoots better, I’m not arguing with him. Are you?”
Henderson wilted under Olson’s gaze. “No, sir.”
“What I thought,” Olson said. “Rosen, Perkins. See where that trail goes.” He pointed to a beaten path leading away through the brush.
“You ever seen anyone shoot like Country?” Rosen asked Perkins as they scrambled up the path.
“Not so far,” Perkins said. “I hope I never do, either. Especially not if it’s coming from the other side.”
They’d all gotten used to Rosen’s perpetual excitement, but he wasn’t anxious to have a conversation while they were scouting in German-held territory. They worked their way up a slope but stopped when the ground dropped away toward a river below.
“Holy shit,” Rosen said.
“Holy shit,” Perkins agreed.
“Go back and tell Sarge,” Perkins said, staring at the river and the steep gorge below. As Rosen hurried back down, Perkins got as low as he could and peered over the edge.
“That’s a hell of a lot of Germans,” he muttered.
The squad regrouped near the top of the slope. Ryan moved up to observe while the others clustered together.
“What the hell do we do now, Sarge?” Henderson asked. “There’s no way we’re clearing out that many.”
“You wanna just give up?” Rosen sounded shocked. “We can’t do that.”
“We can’t take on a whole damn company by ourselves, either,” Henderson shot back.
“It’s probably not a full company,” Crater said. “I mean, they gotta have lost some men besides the ones we just took out, right?”
Perkins reached under his shirt and rubbed a medallion he had on a chain, a nervous habit.
“It ain’t gonna be easy, boys,” Olson said. “But we’ve got a job to do.” He held up a hand before Henderson could start complaining. “I’m not saying we take on that many—that’s nuts. But they’re down there, we’re up here, and we can at least keep an eye on them.”
“If they figure out there’s only a few of us here, they’re gonna run right over us,” Henderson said, getting a few glares from the others. “And it’s not like
we can call for reinforcements.”
Johnston, their radio operator, had been lost during the push inland from their drop zone in Normandy. The same grenade that had killed several of their squad-mates had destroyed the radio beyond repair.
“We can do this,” Perkins said quietly. “We can.”
Everyone turned to look at him.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Henderson asked.
Perkins pulled out his medallion. “My daddy carried this, and his daddy made it. He was a blacksmith.” He took off the chain and passed it around. “Ever hear of the Spartans?”
The metal disc, worn smooth from years of handling, showed a profile of an ancient soldier with a huge metal helmet and an impressive plumed crest.
“Way back when the Greeks were a major power, they had these amazing soldiers, the Spartans. They were the best. In the battle of Thermopylae, just three hundred Spartans fought an entire army. They had a narrow pass the enemy couldn’t get through or around.” He pointed up the hill. “Kinda like that. The Spartans were heroes, warriors, and they fought an enemy who was trying to take over the world and end their way of life.”
Olson’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything.
“You think we’re like them?” Henderson asked.
“I think we’ve got better weapons than they did. We’ve got Ryan. We’ve got a company of our own coming behind us. Like Sarge said, all we have to do is watch where the Germans go. But if they start coming up here and taking the high ground?” Perkins looked at each of his fellow soldiers. “We can’t let them dig in up here.”
“You can’t be serious. Tell him he’s crazy, Sarge.” Henderson looked around at the others. “You can’t really be listening to this crap.”
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Olson said. “Henderson, leave your rifle, your pack—anything that’ll slow you down. You’re going to find the battalion behind us and tell them what’s going on. You find any stragglers along the way, send ’em here. We’ll take the help. Everyone else, spread out on the ridge. Stay quiet. We’re lucky, we just wait. We’re not … Well, it’s gonna be a hell of a fight.”