by Words (lit)
Well, that’s not what I wished, exactly. What I wished was for things to be normal, for Marco to be here as he always was, commanding and rewarding and just plain there, unnoticed perhaps, but omnipresent.
When I write, it’s all a race to capture the words before they get away. They fall onto the page in the order they’re meant to go: it’s magic, perhaps, or some small vestige of talent. I don’t analyze it, because it’s a bad idea to tamper with success.
That’s why, when the words failed to come, I’d had no idea how to fix it. Marco had been the key to open that lock.
But he wasn’t here now, and I needed to do more than write. I needed to speak. Out loud. To someone who didn’t know the first thing about me, and probably cared even less.
It was terrifying.
The thought of never knowing what had happened to Marco was doubly so.
The receiver was heavy in my hand, cold plastic alien against my palm. Its weight against my ear was bizarre, enough to trigger wave after wave of nausea.
I dropped the phone, startled at the loud clatter it made against the countertop. Stomach clenching, I ran to the bathroom, arriving just in time to let waves of bile splash into the toilet. Drops of cold sweat followed, tumbling from my forehead like so many discarded diamonds.
After, I was hollow. Empty. Drained.
The way I would have to remain, I realized, if I couldn’t find Marco.
“McHugh, Dispatch.”
“Hello.” My voice sounded like it had been dragged backward through a briar patch: scratchy and rough. I should have done a warm up run before ever picking up the phone. “This is Gregory Hewitt on Wilsonshire Road, and I’ve got a problem.”
My heart was pounding so loud that I could hear it echoing in my head, the thud-thud-thud almost obscuring what McHugh had to say to me.
“What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Hewitt?”
The thudding was louder then, a veritable pounding.
“I think I need to file a missing persons report. My... companion is missing.”
“His name?” McHugh’s voice was like a dog barking, short and explosive. It hurt my ears.
“Marco.” It was so hard to get the words out. My throat was closing up, the muscles in my neck screaming from the unfamiliar strain of speaking. “Marco Sarandakos.”
“When did you last see Mr. Sarandakos?”
“Late last night.”
There was a snort then, or a cough. I couldn’t tell. “Mr. Hewitt, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do until at least twenty-four hours have elapsed. If your friend hasn’t shown up then, give us a call.”
“But his car is here.” My voice broke then, hitting a register that I hadn’t visited since I was a teenager. “Please, I’m very worried.”
“We can send some around,” McHugh said. “Tomorrow.”
Abruptly, the call was over, an obscenely loud dial tone buzzing in my ear.
I dropped the phone, hard enough that the handset gave a sickening crack. “God damn it!”
“Don’t worry, Gregory. I can fix that.” The words had come from behind me.
I whirled, and there he was: clad in jeans and a t-shirt and covered with more grease and mud than I’d ever thought possible. “Marco!”
He was smiling. “It is good to hear you say my name.”
I grabbed for him, wanting to wrap him tightly in my arms. “Where were you?” I asked, as he stepped nimbly out of the way.
“In the basement I have been, trying to fix the heat exchange unit.” Marco spread his arms. “A dirty job.” He cocked his head. “You don’t hear how quiet it is?”
“That’s all I could hear.” Tears, unexpected, sprang to the corners of my eyes, but I ignored them. “I didn’t know where you were.”
“I see this.” He reached out with one hand. “Or maybe I should say that this I hear?”
“I had to.” It was all I could say, yet suddenly it was enough. I was in Marco’s arms again, wrapped round with grease and dirt and heat and joy.
“And for this, I am so very, very glad.”
After that?
His kiss spoke volumes enough for both of us.
Contributors’ Bios
Misa Izanaki
Originally from Hawaii, Misa has been writing since she was twelve. She has a fondness for cats, squirrels, and anime. Most of her stories come from her muses, the constantly evolving group of pretty anime-style men who live in her head, and she is constantly poking at them for new ideas. When she's not writing, Misa can be found painting war game miniatures or trying in vain to catch up with her backlog of comics and books.
A. Leigh Jones
A. Leigh Jones lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, where she works for a travel agent and dreams of faraway places. Her short fiction can be found right here at Torquere, as well as in the archives at Ideomancer and flashquake. Her first novel, Forever Crossed, is now available from ImaJinn Books.
CB Potts
CB Potts is not nearly as normal as she seems. Really. We know. In between penning epic cowgirl love epics and explosive action adventures for the Chasers line, she stalks prominent economists and participates in guerrilla gardening campaigns. Rumors have it that she's now on a one woman quest to find the highest pair of high heels available without a prescription, and from what we know of this chick, it's probably true. She has a website, but it sucks, and if she doesn't pay the webhost soon, it's sure to disappear. Instead, visit her Livejournal: cbpotts.livejournal.com which is full of trivia, random musings, memes, political commentary, a disproportionate amount of whining (or whinging, if you're British) and the occasional recipe. If you want to email her -- and you should only do so knowing that she is incredibly bad about responding -- reach her at [email protected]
Toy Box: Words
Edited by M. Rode
What to Do on a Friday Night © 2008 by Misa Izanaki
This Sweet Trade © 2008 by A. Leigh Jones
Shattered Silence © 2008 by CB Potts
All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.
Printed in the United States of America.
ISBN-13: 978-1-60370-454-0
ISBN-10: 1-60370-454-X
Torquere Press, Inc.: Toy Chest electronic edition / August 2008
Torquere Press eBooks are published by Torquere Press, Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680
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A Torquere Press Toy Box - 2