by Eric Juneau
One morning after such a night, Boggart awoke, his mouth and eyes filled with cotton, to the sound of a rap upon his door. Clearing his throat, he rose and made his way slowly to answer it. He opened the door to reveal a young gentlemen beaming at him in the doorframe.
“Yes?” Boggart frowned and tied the sash of his dressing gown tight. The gentleman was probably no more than eighteen years of age. He had a high forehead crowned with an unruly thatch of black curls. His bright blue eyes, large and bulbous, threatened to pop from their sockets. His smile was bright and animate, revealing large white teeth.
“You may call me Mr. Gray, if it pleases you sir.” The young man extended his hand.
Boggart found the man’s manner, polite though it was, disturbing. He took the proffered hand automatically, finding it cold and its grip weak. Mr. Gray released first and, smiling, made his way past Boggart into the apartment. Boggart continued to stare at his strange caller as he shut the door and sat down in the upholstered chair. Mr. Gray remained standing and addressed his astonished host.
“Mr. Boggart. My time of opportunity is brief and so I will come to my point quickly. I wish you to use your process to take my portrait, sir.”
Boggart now placed what it was about the man’s manner that put him so ill at ease. Gray gesticulated wildly as he spoke, like a mime or an amateur actor. His expressions, too, were exaggerated and broad. Taken as a whole, he reminded Boggart of a living marionette. Further, his voice was high, lacking any resonance, and his words flowed with a strange, not-quite-musical cadence in an accent that Boggart could not quite place.
“Mr. Gray, was it? What do you know of my process?”
Gray’s head bobbed up and down vigorously. “We—that is, my compatriots and I—have been observing your endeavors with much interest of late. In fact, I personally availed myself of your manuscript when the opportunity presented itself.”
Boggart leaned back in his chair, his mouth agape. “Are you a member of the Society then? How have you seen my treatise?”
Gray’s head swiveled back and forth like a vane trapped between conflicting winds. “No, sir. I am not part of your esteemed Society.”
“Then how in blazes...”
Gray waved the thought away. “It is not important. As I say, we have been watching you of late. Our business has nothing to do with your Society; in fact, your process cannot be appreciated by such men as those. However, this process is of great interest to my people.”
Boggart blinked. This man was apparently familiar with his discovery and thought it of merit. Was this not the way it often was with genius; unappreciated by peers and only understood by fellow visionaries? Boggart smiled.
“And you wish me to use my process to take your portrait?”
“Yes, Mr. Boggart.”
Boggart nodded and rose from his chair. “Allow me to get dressed and gather my apparatus.”
Boggart brought Mr. Gray down to the docks and found a suitable place to take the portrait. Fortunately, the sky was clear and the sun shone brightly on the water. Boggart positioned the thin young man such that the harbor itself acted as a frame for the picture. The resulting plate would also encompass the cylinders that had appeared in the previous images. After an adequate span of time passed to ensure a good exposure, Boggart gathered his equipment and escorted Mr. Gray back to the apartment.
As the two men made their way along the narrow streets, Mr. Gray rested his hand upon Boggart’s arm. Boggart stiffened at the affront of familiarity, but also wondered at the staginess of the gesture; there was no warmth in it. “Mr. Boggart, I am also prepared to offer you a unique position.”
Boggart glanced down at the light hand on his arm, effeminate and strange. Mr. Gray continued. “The position, of course, would require you to travel. You would have to abandon your fine apartments here in the Baltimore. I suspect that would pose little hardship in your current circumstances.”
Boggart answered, his voice stiff, “What do you mean by that?” Gray’s light tone betrayed no sense of sarcasm or insincerity, but his implication offended the older man.
Mr. Gray stopped walking and cocked his head sidewise, like a robin. “Only that I think my proposal would be appealing to you, considering your disgrace amongst your colleagues.”
Boggart’s face flashed with anger. He had stopped with Gray and shifted his grip on the equipment. “This city seems singularly invested in my disgrace; far more than assisting in my triumph.”
Gray patted his arm, slowly, a pantomime of sympathy. “Yes, Mr. Boggart. I’m afraid I must apologize for that. But it is important, you see, that my people continue their work. It seemed a small price.”
Boggart narrowed his eyes at the strange young man. “What are you saying? You make no sense. What price?”
Gray cocked his head to the other side, adjusting his robin-pose. “We were speaking of your disgrace, sir. It was a small price to pay to allow us to continue our work.”
“What?” Boggart trembled, red-faced, and nearly dropped his equipment as he regarded Gray. His eyes widened. “The plates! You took them!”
Gray nodded. “As I said, it was necessary. Your process reveals that which was previously hidden. Our platforms must remain hidden to continue our work unimpeded. A simple equation.”
Boggart drew himself to his full height, though the effect was spoiled by the heavy boxes he continued to balance in his hands. His voice emerged as a low growl. “You are a thief and a liar, sir, and I’ll conduct no business with you. In fact, unless you produce my plates forthwith I will be contacting my attorney and the authorities.”
Mr. Gray shook his head twice, quickly. “No, Mr. Boggart. The plates cannot be returned; they pose too great a danger to our work.”
Boggart grunted and started walking toward his apartment with long strides. “We’ll see about that, my little popinjay,” he snarled to himself. As he rounded a corner, he turned back; Mr. Gray was gone.
When he got to his apartment, Boggart placed the box containing the unprocessed portrait in the developing closet and left the rest of the equipment sitting on the floor of the parlor. He started rummaging through the drawers of the work desk in search of Mr. Appleby’s calling card. He had met the attorney at a Society function and was impressed by his imposing demeanor. Finding the card, he turned and found Mr. Gray seated in his upholstered chair.
“How the devil did you get in here?”
Gray rose from the chair as if connected to strings being pulled from the attic. “It is a process, Mr. Boggart. One of many you could learn if you take me up on my offer.”
Boggart raised a finger and opened his mouth to shout at his unwanted guest, but paused. He then lowered his hand and looked at the floor, his eyes darting left and right as if comparing two different images set before him. He was ruined—and apparently due to the machinations of this strange man and his “compatriots.” However, no one could ever say that Edmund Boggart was a man who ignored an opportunity. He sat down heavily on the stool by his work desk.
“What do you want of me, Mr. Gray? What is this position that you have gone to so much trouble to drive me into?” His voice was quiet and resigned.
Gray smiled. “My colleagues and I are scientists, Mr. Boggart. The cylinders that you have revealed could be described as observation platforms. We travel to many different places and observe many different peoples. In our work, it is imperative that we are not seen and do not interfere.”
Boggart rubbed at his brow; he could feel a headache coming on. “But you have certainly interfered with me, Mr. Gray. I have lost my social standing and my ability to find work. I am a laughingstock because of your interference.”
The strange young man nodded slowly. “Yes. It is regrettable, but as I said, necessary. So I have come to offer you a position in return. I believe you would term it ‘taking responsibility.’ A fascinating concept.”
Boggart gaped at the man grinning in his favorite chair. “So you ruin me and then de
ign to give me charity?” His face flushed in sudden indignation.
Gray raised his hands in a gesture of placation. “No sir, not charity, nor pity. You can fill in certain gaps in our understanding. Further, your process obviously counteracts our obfuscation devices. We are very curious as to how you managed this with such young technology.” Boggart shook his head in incredulity as Gray continued. “Have you developed the portrait yet?”
“Of course not! We’ve only just arrived!”
Gray looked up, as if calculating in his mind, and nodded. “Yes, I see. Well, by all means, do not let me keep you from it.” He made shooing gestures toward the linen closet.
Boggart continued to stare at his guest as he rose and made his way to the developing room. Finally, he shook his head and shrugged grandly. “Fine. Let us complete this madness.” He entered the pantry and shut the door behind him.
As he worked he actually found himself entertaining the notion of taking Gray up on his strange offer. Gray’s theft had certainly precipitated his ruin, but it was actually Lawrence that cemented it. Further, not one person in Boggart’s circle was willing to speak up for him to prevent his downfall. If not for this difficulty, then it would have been some other that revealed the shallowness of his friendships. He smiled ruefully as he realized that there could be no doubt that his process revealed that which was hidden.
As he gazed through the developing box he once again saw the tell-tale smudging that would eventually become the cylinders hovering over the city. Gray’s image began to take shape in the frame of the harbor scene. At least this Mr. Gray appreciated his efforts. For the first time in a great while, someone was soliciting Boggart, not the other way around. Once he was satisfied with the image Boggart dipped the plate in the fixing agent and then set it in the presentation glass, thinking again about the offer. If Gray could be taken seriously, they apparently would be leaving Baltimore. Perhaps it was for the best; he would leave the city a disgrace but return some day in triumph. The Society would ask—no, beg—for Edmund Boggart to return to their fellowship. Smiling to himself, he emerged from the closet.
“Mr. Gray, I am prepared to entertain your proposal.”
“Excellent, Mr. Boggart. You will not regret it.”
Boggart sat at his work desk and lit the lamp to chase away the afternoon shadows. Setting the plate upon the surface, he turned to his guest.
“Your work, it is important?”
Gray nodded, his head bobbing loosely on his neck. “Oh, yes. Vital.”
“And when our observations are done, we shall gather our conclusions and publish a treatise for some Society, back in your home country?”
Again, the loose nod, coupled with a broad grin. “Yes, Mr. Boggart. When your scientific communities are ready to comprehend our discoveries and put them to proper use, we will reveal ourselves. You shall be credited with your part, make no mistake.”
Boggart smiled broadly. “How long do you think your experiment will take? When shall we reveal ourselves?”
The strange man shrugged. “It is difficult to say. We are in the early stages and time, as you will find, is relative. Rest assured, Mr. Boggart. You will discover much on your journey and will act as our emissary. It is the least we can do in light of our egregious interference.”
Boggart nodded sagely, unsurprised to be asked to be the spokesperson for his new scientific fellowship.
Gray rose from the upholstered chair and moved to join Boggart at the work desk. As both men looked down at the plate, Boggart turned to his young guest. “Now, you said that the position would require travel. To and from where, Mr. Gray?”
Mr. Gray motioned for Boggart to look at the plate. In the background, as before, were the infamous cylinders hovering over the harbor. Framed by the dockside scene was a figure in Mr. Gray’s suit. Its inhuman face was blank, without mouth or nose to give it character. The head was bulbous and smooth, as if rolled from clay. Two large dark eyes were set into the face, like almonds pushed into a bit of dough.
“Distant shores, Mr. Boggart. Very distant shores, indeed.”
Shedrick Pittman-Hassett is a professional librarian and amateur writer trying to do that the other way around. He is a past book reviewer for Library Journal and for Shroud Magazine Book Reviews. Shedrick currently lives in North Texas in the lovely city of Denton (“The Home of Happiness”) with his lovely wife and the obligatory demon-spawned cats. When not writing, gaming, or watching cheezy kung-fu flicks, he can sometimes be found in a pub (or in the American equivalent) enjoying a fine brew.
50 FOOT ROMANCE
By Eric J. Juneau
“SO HOW DOES THE SEX THING WORK?”
I smirk and shake my head. That’s the first thing everyone asks. Some politely side-step it, but not my best friend Seth. Seth, who I haven’t seen since Jessica and I made it “official.”
“We don’t have sex,” I say. “For one thing, it’s just impossible. We’ve already talked about it. If we had the right tools, maybe. But more people would have to be involved, and that takes all the intimacy out of it. Besides, we’re in love, and that’s more important.”
Seth is probably thinking about a vagina big enough to walk through, like the double doors of a mansion. I don’t blame him—it crossed my mind too. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had the conversation with Jessica.
Seth has not taken his eyes from me as I remain focused on the road, driving through the beautiful old-growth forest. “This isn’t some weird fetish thing that I didn’t know about, is it?”
“You mean macrophilia? No.”
“I didn’t even know there was a name for it,” Seth says.
“I had to look it up. Technically, it means ‘love of big things’, but in psychology it means sexual fantasies revolving around ‘giant women’. And no, this has got nothing to do with some fixation on my mom.”
Seth rubs his forehead. “Well, if you don’t have sex, you must do something. Do you kiss?” he asks.
“She’d suck me up like a straw.”
“I know, but... nothing?”
“I kiss her. She can hold out her finger, and I... lean against it. Like what a cat does. It’s like hugging, sort of. It’s better than I’m making it sound.”
“So you’ve touched her?”
“Of course.” Actually, she’s held me. The warmth of her palm feels like being wrapped in a fuzzy blanket.
“How did you two meet?”
“The government hired me for press pics when she did the quarry excavation. They wanted her in all these glass-figurine poses. I wanted to go for a ‘Rosie the Riveter’ thing. So I got her to smear herself with coal dust, look exhausted. The government was pissed, ‘cause they had to clean her off afterwards, but she was laughing.”
Those pictures are what swayed public opinion toward her as a hard-working female icon, instead of a B-movie monster with nice skin.
After I adjust my rear view mirror, I continue. “Then afterwards, we got to talking. One thing led to another...” I shrug.
“Wait, wait, hold on,” Seth stutters. He has so many questions they all want to come out at once. “One thing does not lead to another. Not in this case. I need details. How does this even work? How do you go out with someone that big? What do you talk about? How did you start liking her that way?”
“I don’t know. How does any relationship start? You see someone you like, she’s cute, you start talking. There’s never one big inciting event. Just a lot of little incidents where you get to know each other, then realize you’re in love.”
“What do you guys do together? Do you go on dates?”
“We go on a lot of walks. She puts me on her shoulder so we can talk better. We’ve gone to the zoo, state parks, the drive-in. That’s perfect for us.”
“Doesn’t that scare everyone off? She could sit on you and squash you like a grape.”
“No, she’s careful. And we can go anywhere as long as we let her people know.”
“Her people?
”
“She has government aides, publicists. She calls them ‘her people’. She told me everyone she works with is either scared or yells a lot to try and intimidate her.” I laugh and turn the wheel. “That’s mostly the army guys. Believe me, that does not work when you’re fifty feet tall. That’s like a Barbie doll barking orders at you.”
“Are these ‘people’ with you when you... go out?”
“No, they leave us alone. She’s hard to miss anyway. It’s not like we’re trading nuclear secrets. We mostly walk in the woods and talk. She wasn’t always a giant, you know. She loves regency novels and eighties music.”
“Oh yeah. She’s just like anyone else,” Seth says mockingly.
“You’ll see when we get there. She’s working on a radio tower nearby.”
Seth stares out the window at the passing trees. “You know, I shouldn’t be surprised. You always were into those alternative girls.”
“Maybe I was just searching for something that wasn’t there. It’s like dating someone who’s blind or in a wheelchair. They’re people too, they’re not defined by their disabilities. You can love someone in spite of that. I would have liked her if she was black or Asian or if she had no feet or burn scars.”
Neither of us say anything for a while. Then Seth asks a question.
“Where does she poop?”
I half-sigh, half-groan. “In a landfill. Geez, Seth.”
“I just want to know.”
I park my SUV in a dirt lot at an overlook. We walk up a hiking path that leads to a clearing.
The ground trembles. I notice it first, because I’m used to noticing it. A few more steps and Seth asks, “Did you feel that?”
Behind the redwoods, her silhouette flickers. Then her head pushes through the pine tops. Her auburn bangs drift down her forehead and I’m reminded her hair is being used as rigging ropes for ocean liners. But I love bangs and they’re so cute in front of her big brown eyes.