Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day

by Ben Loory

  So the man throws a whole bunch of food in a bag, picks up a gallon jug of water, grabs the photo of his wife off the piano, and gets in, turns the key, and takes off.

  The man looks for years. He flies all around space, from one end to another and then back. He discovers many planets, many galaxies and stars. He even discovers a wide assortment of alien civilizations.

  But every time the man asks: Have you seen this woman? all eyes stare blankly at the photograph.

  No, they all say. We haven’t seen that woman. And what’s more, we’ve never seen a photograph.

  Finally, after many, many, many years of searching, the man returns to Earth in defeat. He has become old—and very sad.

  The UN welcomes him with a grand ceremony.

  For introducing our world to the great family of the stars, the secretary-general says, we give you this medal. And also this certificate. We hope you will hang it on the wall.

  The newspapers are full of accounts of the man’s exploits. Biographies are written, portraits painted. Somebody somewhere composes a cantata. Streets are built and called the man’s name.

  But the man doesn’t care about any of that. He sits in his house and thinks of his wife. He remembers every single detail about her: what she looked like, where they met, what she liked and thought and said.

  He remembers it all, just like it was yesterday.

  He remembers it all, every day.

  And then, finally, on his dying day, the man gets up and goes into the yard. He stands gazing up into the sky. Overhead, the stars twinkle down.

  It was worth it! the man cries. It was worth it just to know you! It was worth it just to even know your name!

  And in response, the sky explodes.

  The gates of heaven open in flame.

  ON THE WAY DOWN: A STORY FOR RAY BRADBURY

  A MAN JUMPS OFF A CLIFF.

  I’m gonna need some wings, he thinks.

  He reaches into his backpack to get some things—wood, nails, a hammer, some string—and then gets down to work building.

  That ground is coming up awful fast, he thinks. I’d better work a little quicker.

  The wings he’s building just begin to flap—

  When the man suddenly slams into the ground.

  Little bits of the man go everywhere.

  It’s a mess.

  Really, it’s awful.

  But then, lo! The angel rises up—effortlessly, out of the wreckage.

  You know, it says, these actually work quite well!

  And it whizzes off to find breakfast.

  THE HOUSE ON THE CLIFF AND THE SEA

  THE SEA WAS ROLLING ALONG ONE DAY, JUST AS IT always did, when it looked up and saw a little house perched on top of a cliff.

  What a beautiful house! the sea said. It just looks so inviting!

  And then it saw that the house was smiling down at it, and waving.

  Oh sea! called the house. I’ve watched you so long, and always admired you so. Why don’t you come up and stay for a while? Isn’t it time you found a home?

  Oh, yes! cried the sea. Oh, yes, it is! And I’d love to come stay with you!

  So it reached for the cliff, and took hold with its waves, and started to climb the rock face.

  But as the sea found, its waves weren’t suited to grasping and holding things, and as a result it had a hard time even starting to climb such a cliff. And—what’s more—every time it did make progress, gravity would reach right up, and grab the sea with its heavy hands, and dash it down on the rocks.

  But the sea was determined. It would not give up. It started to climb again and again. It tried and tried with everything it had to make its way to the house. It climbed with every ounce of its being; it fell without giving a damn. It got back up again and again.

  The sea would not stay down.

  And meanwhile, up on top of the cliff, the house busied itself preparing. It cleaned and scrubbed and put itself in order and swept out all of the dust. It set the table with its very best china, and baked pies and breads and muffins and cakes and scones. And it made very sure that the hedges were cut, and there were notepads and pens by the phone.

  And when the house was all set—and this took a long time—it went to see how the sea was progressing. But when it looked down, it saw the sea at the bottom.

  Still at the bottom—but still trying.

  I’m sorry, the sea said, looking up at the house, but I just can’t seem to do it. I try and I try, but the fact of it is, I just don’t have the strength to climb this cliff.

  Well, that’s okay! the house said, looking down. Don’t be silly—don’t worry so much! If you can’t come up here, I’ll just go down there. This is no problem we can’t overcome!

  Really? said the sea.

  Really! said the house.

  And it got ready to make the big leap. But when it did, something very strange happened—

  The house didn’t go anyplace.

  What the . . . ? said the house, looking around. How odd—I seem to be tied down!

  Tied down? said the sea.

  Yes, said the house. There’s this thing I think they call a foundation? And then there are all of these weird pipes, and spaghetti-like strands of buzzing metal. They’re everywhere—everywhere!—wrapped all around me! How did these things get here?

  What if you just pull really hard? said the sea, from its place at the bottom of the cliff.

  So the house pulled and pulled and pulled and pulled, but it was just no use.

  Oh sea, cried the house, I don’t know what to do! I’m trapped here; I’m stuck here for good! It doesn’t matter how hard I try, these things just won’t let me go!

  The sea didn’t know what to do or say—and there was really nothing it could do. The house was trapped at the top of the cliff, and the sea was a million miles away.

  I’ll just stay down here, the sea finally said. We can tell each other stories.

  Really? said the house. That would be nice.

  And so that’s what they did.

  They told each other all about themselves, about everything they’d ever seen or done. The sea talked about the origins of life, and the house described its living room.

  And as the years passed, the two grew very close, even though of course the cliff was between them.

  And then one day—out of the blue—the cliff just crumbled away.

  Who knows, it may have just been an accident—maybe an earthquake down below. Or maybe the sea’s attempts to climb the cliff had worn the rock away. Or maybe the house’s tug-of-war with its foundation had somehow started the process. Or maybe—just maybe—it was all the talking. Maybe it tired the cliff out.

  Or maybe it was none of that—or all that—or more. But whatever it was, the cliff crumbled. And, as it did—as it fell through the air—so too fell the little house.

  Aaa! cried the house. I’m falling! I’m falling!

  It’s okay, said the sea. I’ve got you.

  And it reached up and caught the house with its waves, and set it down in the shallows.

  And now, today, the two are together. They wander the world as one. They eat cakes and scones and lots of fish, and every now and then some coconuts.

  The sea doesn’t care much for the land anymore, but sometimes they drift on by. And the house smiles and waves at its friends on the shore, and then they drift on some more.

  At night, the sea lies there and listens to the house creaking gently as it floats, and tries to remember that it now has a new name.

  A house on the sea is a boat.

  THE SNAKE IN THE THROAT

  A MAN FINDS SOMETHING IN HIS THROAT. HE REACHES in and pulls it out.

  It’s a snake.

  What are you doing in my throat? the man says.

  Nothing, says the snake. Just hanging out.

  The man stares at it.

  There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there? he says.

  But all the snake does is look away. />
  The man puts the snake in ajar and closes the lid. He sits around and stares at it all day.

  What are you doing? his friends say.

  I found this in my throat, says the man.

  The man’s friends stare at the snake.

  That’s disgusting, they say. Why don’t you kill it?

  Kill it? says the man.

  He looks at the snake.

  I hadn’t really thought of that, he says.

  Long after his friends have left, the man sits with the snake. He imagines himself bashing it with a rock.

  Don’t do it, says the snake. It would be a mistake.

  Really? says the man. In what way?

  You would regret it, says the snake. You would feel bad.

  Can’t you just tell me why you were in there? says the man. Can’t you just tell me what you were up to?

  But the snake just shakes its head.

  I wasn’t up to anything, it says. I already told you. See, that’s your problem—you’re distrustful.

  The man takes the snake out back and finds a big rock.

  Last chance, he says. Last chance.

  Go ahead, says the snake, staring right back up at him. Do it if you think it’ll help.

  The man brings the rock down on the snake’s head. He brings it down again and again. He grinds the snake’s head into a sickening pulp. Then he throws the body away.

  Later that evening, the man goes out with his friends.

  How’s that snake? they say. Still in the jar?

  I killed it, says the man.

  His friends stop and stare.

  I killed it with a rock, says the man.

  The rest of the evening is rather subdued.

  I have to go, says one of the man’s friends.

  My wife is expecting me, says another one.

  Yeah, says a third. See you next time.

  Finally, it is just the man, sitting alone at the table. He sits alone for quite some time. Drinking, and thinking, and thinking.

  Outside the door he finds a rock.

  The man goes to the house of one of his friends, and smashes his head with the rock. Then he goes to the house of another of his friends, and does the same thing to him. He smashes the heads of all of his friends, and then he walks away. He walks to a field on the edge of town and lies down on his belly to pray.

  Please God, says the man, out loud to himself. Please God, I’m sorry I did that. I had no idea I could do such a thing. I didn’t even know I had it in me.

  THE GRAVEYARD

  A MAN MOVES INTO A GRAVEYARD. IT IS VERY NICE—very quiet. He sets up a tent under a tree. He has a small collection of canned goods, which he cooks in a skillet over a portable burner. He plays the harmonica sometimes, and has a phone book he reads when he’s bored.

  Isn’t it creepy out there? people say.

  Creepy? says the man. No, not at all. In fact, it’s really quite pleasant.

  But then one night the man awakens to find cold, dead hands trying to drag him underground.

  Aah! shrieks the man. He bashes the hands with the skillet. Let go! Let go! Let go!

  The hands release him and retreat into the earth, but the man can’t get back to sleep that night.

  I wonder what they want from me? the man thinks. I wonder what’s down there in the ground?

  You have to move, everyone says. That’s ridiculous.

  No, says the man. It’s okay. I figured it out. I just buy some steel sheets and lay them on the ground. Then I sleep on those. The hands won’t be able to get through the steel, and I’ll be safe!

  And he does it, and sleeps soundly for the next three nights or four.

  But on the fifth night the man is awakened again. A group of six cadavers have lifted him up from his bed on the steel sheet, and are carrying him toward a large hole in the ground nearby.

  No! says the man. No! I don’t want to go!

  The man kicks and fights. The idea of going down into the ground sickens him. He fights like a wild animal. And—perhaps because the corpses are dead, and poorly coordinated—he escapes.

  He runs from the graveyard in terror.

  Are you done now? say the people. Ready to live someplace normal?

  But the man looks down at his feet.

  It’s so nice in the graveyard, he says. It’s relaxing. Really, it is!

  The people throw their hands in the air.

  The man goes back, but takes to sleeping during the day.

  They don’t come out then, he says.

  And all night long—every night—he sits there, with his skillet clutched in one hand. Playing the harmonica and reading the phone book, and fighting the cadavers when they come.

  It’s not a bad existence, he says to himself. I mean, it’s sad not seeing the sun; the graveyard is so pretty in the daytime. But it’s also nice at night—and quieter.

  Well, he amends, except when they come, and I have to fight for my life.

  The weeks and months and years go by, and the man has it down to a science. He’s no longer even really scared of the cadavers. In fact, he’s just bored by the whole thing.

  I don’t even know what’s down there, he starts to wonder. All this effort to stay out, and I have no idea. Plus I’m tired of this same old rectangular graveyard. I need a change of scenery. Something.

  A few times he decides to leave and go out for a walk, but for some reason now the gates are always locked.

  So finally, one final night, when the cadavers come, the man stands and goes peacefully with them. And the dead men lead him down into the dark, dark earth, into a grotto lit by phosphorescent lichen.

  The man looks around and sees he is surrounded—by hundreds, thousands of cadavers. All of them lying out on blankets on their backs, underneath the rocky, “starry” sky.

  Somewhere in the distance, a harmonica is playing a quiet, plaintive song. And all around, the cadavers are turning the pages of their phone books, and reading on and on.

  So this is what you do down here? the man finally says. Just lie around and read?

  But nobody answers; no one says a word.

  I’ll go get my book too, the man says.

  The man lives underground with the dead men for some time. He can’t believe how much reading he gets done. But finally, one day, he reaches the end of his book.

  Well, he says, I guess I’ll make some calls.

  The man climbs slowly back to the surface, brushes himself off, and heads for the gate. The combination on the lock stops him for a while, but trial and error eventually take the day.

  He stumbles into town and finds a phone booth. He starts right in with the A’s.

  Party at my place! he says to everyone. Come one, come all! he says.

  Nobody wants to come, but he just keeps dialing.

  Bring a friend! he says. Bring everyone!

  But not a single person in the world is interested.

  No one, not even Mr. Zzzz.

  Still, the man is not disheartened.

  They’ll change their minds, he thinks.

  So he buys a nice bean dip and heads back home, picks up his harmonica, and waits.

  THE FERRIS WHEEL

  A BOY AND A GIRL GO DOWN TO THE PIER AND TAKE A ride on the Ferris wheel. When they get to the top, the gondola stops. They look out.

  It’s beautiful, says the girl.

  It is, says the boy, and then he smiles. We should get married up here!

  Oh! says the girl. What a wonderful idea!

  The only question is when, says the boy.

  What? says the girl, and she looks at him, and then she looks away.

  What is it? says the boy.

  Nothing, says the girl.

  And the wheel takes them back down to the bottom.

  But when they’re out in the crowd, the boy suddenly realizes the girl is no longer there. He turns to look around—he looks all around—but he can’t see any sign of her anywhere. He searches the pier all night long, but all he finds
are strangers around him. And when the night is over, the boy is kicked out, and has to go home, alone.

  The boy spends the next day looking for the girl. But she isn’t at her home or her work. He alerts the authorities and searches for weeks, but nothing ever seems to come of it.

  Time goes by, and the years stretch out, and still the boy wonders what happened. Where did she go? Where is she now? And does she ever think about him?

  But there’s no way to know, and the boy grows old, and his life is empty and sad.

  And then one day he knows he’s going to die.

  I still don’t know what happened, he says.

  The boy (now an old man) goes down to the pier. It takes him a while, but he gets there. He stands staring up at the old Ferris wheel, remembering the time he spent there with the girl.

  Would you like to get on? the operator says, and the old man nods his head. And he gets in the gondola and goes for a ride, and at the top he finds the girl waiting there.

  She’s sitting in the gondola, right beside him, and her hair is drifting in the breeze. And she looks at him, and she’s smiling and waving.

  You finally came back, she says.

  And the boy looks at her, and he takes her hand, and he gets down on one knee.

  Marry me, he says. Marry me right now.

  But we’ve been married this whole time, she says.