The lenses started to clear and two beacons of light radiated outward. He was never so frightened or anxious in all his life when he lifted the viewer up to his eyes and peered inside. What he was seeing now can only be described as a movie, a movie depicting the various scenes of his own life. A bright sunny day immediately came into view. He was once again a boy of maybe eight or nine, surrounded by his childhood friends, playing a simple game of baseball in a field across the street from where he lived. How happy and carefree was the expression on his young face, and at that moment he felt as though he would give anything to be there now and to be that boy again. The scene suddenly changed. He saw his father, suitcase in hand, quietly walking out the backdoor of their house and getting into a yellow taxi. He felt himself barely stifling a shout, or was it a plea? That moment, he remembered, was the last time he would ever see his old man. The viewer cruelly reminded him of the one memory that he tried his best to keep buried. The scene altered again, now showing his mother at the miserable job she had held for many years. She was ironing like there was no tomorrow, like her very life depended on it, and of course, it did. But more importantly, she knew her sons life depended on it. She looked tired but determined, with a seemingly insurmountable mountain of laundry stacked behind her. He could feel his eyes starting to fill with tears. There came afterwards, a rapid succession of scenes from his school days and on through his adult life. Some, a welcoming reminder while others were like sprinkling salt into unhealed wounds. He could see a gloomy figure now, sitting at an office desk, surrounded by a scattering of paper and staring off into space, looking as though all life and meaning had been sucked from his very soul. The scene changed again; he found himself back at the meeting he had at the antique shop. While looking on, he realized for the first time how utterly frightened the old man’s face looked to be while staring at the box. A swirl of smoke suddenly filled the lenses and for a moment he thought that he might be cheated of his promised conclusion, but to his utter horror, that wasn’t to be the case. What he saw now was the end of all ends.
The lenses never quite cleared of smoke this time, and there was a reason for it. The smoke was truly part of the scene unfolding before him. There had been an accident. He could see cardboard boxes and debris of all sorts strewn long and far across what looked to be a roadway. There was a burning hulk of a plane in the background, shattered and broken. His eye caught sight of something yellow lying among the debris field, not unlike the yellow wind breaker that he was now wearing. The scene drew closer. A body lay there, torn and bloody. Even closer now… a face is turned up toward the sky, bruised and purple, a victims face. At that moment the horror of recognition screamed across his crazed and terror filled mind.
“MY GOD! THIS PLANE IS GONNA CRASH!” He wasn’t sure if he actually yelled the words aloud or just inside his head. It wasn’t a moment later that the plane convulsed again, even more violently this time. A few shrieks came up from somewhere in the back of the plane, more like laughter really, but only the sound of fear registered in his mind. Another bucking of the plane followed, causing the oxygen masks to come flopping down from their hidden compartments and dangle in mid-air, strangely reminding him of the stuffed birds that hung from the old man’s ceiling. He felt as though he was on the verge of throwing up and immediately groped for an air sickness bag in front of him. He barely freed it in time before he wretched the entire contents of his stomach into the bag, though some of the puke didn’t quite make it inside. He pulled back moaning, like a wounded animal caught in a steel trap. The plane appeared to be shrinking in size, crushing the very breath from his lungs. He began taking in quick and shallow gulps of air as though he were a fish out of water. He unbuckled his restraint and jumped from his seat. Quizzical eyes stared back at him as he stood crouching in the aisle-way; a sweat drenched figure with lines of puke running down the front of his jacket and a wild look of shear terror on his face.
“WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!” he screamed into a scattered patch of on-looking faces. A few rows back, a child buried her face into her mother’s bosom and started crying. Angry shouts and threats now rose from the passengers. Something red and pointy flew past his head, missing it by inches. A second later, his arm was being grabbed from behind. He spun around and stared into the face of a very angry stewardess.
“Sir, I insist that you sit down and stop upsetting the passengers,” she said, her grip tightening all the while, like a vise. “We’re in absolutely no danger. Do you understand me? We’re only experiencing normal turbulence.” She pushed him into his seat and brought her face close to his, trying to keep her words confidential. “If you persist in this behavior then we’ll have no choice but to restrain you sir, then we’ll be forced to land at the nearest airport where the police can take over from there. Do you really want that to happen?” He was quiet now. For a few seconds she thought he had gone catatonic but his features eventually evened out. He stared back at her with what looked to be calm resignation. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t quite know what came over me. I won’t be any more trouble, I promise you.” With that, he pulled the blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes.
The rest of the flight was uneventful. Much to the relief of both crew and passengers, the crazed man appeared to have slept the rest of the journey. The fight arrived on schedule, and by this time most of its passengers had already un-boarded. However, there remained in seat number thirty two, one lone and immobile figure draped in a blanket. One of the stewardesses stepped up and said to him, “Sir, we’ve landed in New York. It’s time to get up, Sir.” There was no response. She gently shook his shoulder. His right arm fell out from underneath the blanket and dangled lifelessly in the aisle; its wrist slashed open, dripping what was left of his life giving blood to the floor below.
At that moment, somewhere in the terminal a man stands with a sign in his hand that reads “DORIAN.” A faint scream is heard by everyone nearby but he pays no attention, he only looks impatiently down at his watch and shakes his head.
* * *
“I assume that you, the reader, are somewhat perplexed as to the final outcome of Mr. Dorian’s story. This is understandable, especially since the black box did, after all, foretell of a plane crash. Mr. Dorian could plainly see his own lifeless corpse lying on a tarmac, amidst a scattering of debris. This is true, but how was it that the plane he was on made it back safely? How was this possible? Please, allow me to explain what happened. You see, the plane that Mr. Dorian was on absolutely did not crash as he expected, but a crash did eventually occur. Two days after he took his life, his body was being transported back to his home town for burial via a UPS transport plane. That plane crashed during landing which split it in half, ejecting Mr. Dorian’s corpse from his coffin and tossing him onto the tarmac like a rag doll. Had he studied the scene more closely displayed to him by the black box he would have recognized the UPS logo on the side of the burning plane. I know you’re probably thinking that the whole thing was a setup, that Mr. Dorian was deceived. I’ll only keep quiet on that subject. But we must certainly acknowledge the fact that the black box showed him that which was undeniably true. It is up to each of us to put aside the terror of the moment that clouds our thinking and rationally evaluate what is before our very eyes. Don’t you think?”
“I’m sure you’re probably wondering how I know all this. Well, you see, I myself dwell inside the black box, and have done so for time immemorial. Mr. Dorian is only one of countless others who have performed the sacred ritual in hopes of getting a glimpse of their future. Unbeknownst to them, chanting those ancient words allowed me to take possession of their soul. They are now at my side and will do my bidding inside the box for all eternity.”
“The question is…”Would you yourself like to know?” My guess is that you would. So what are you waiting for? Go grab a candle and a razor. I’ll make sure that the black box arrives at your doorstep within a twinkle of an eye. And don’t worry, there’s always plenty of room i
n the black box for one more curious soul…such as yourself.”
SOMEBODY PLEASE CUE THE ORGAN MUSIC…….
A GIFT FOR TIMMY
It was a cool October evening. The crowd exploded in a mind numbing roar that could be heard halfway around the world and partway to heaven. Tonight is the opening night of the World Series and the fans are in an ecstatic mood. There in the middle of it all, stepping up to the plate for the opening pitch is the object of this unbridled enthusiasm, a ten year old phenom named Timmy Williams.
Through the din of the crowd came those magical words, “Play Ball!” and Timmy slowly made his way to the batter’s box, confidently swinging his bat with each stride and drinking in the chaos and excitement of the moment. Flash bulbs popped like tiny star bursts all around him as he reached his destination and tapped the tip of his bat against the cold hard plate. Looking up, his gaze fell upon a young beauty in the front row who immediately sent a kiss in his direction. He touched the brim of his helmet, smiled, then looked toward the pitcher’s mound.
The lanky pitcher appeared less than confident as beads of nervous sweat dripped from his brow in spite of the cool night. He slid a forearm quickly across his face to clear his vision then immediately went into his windup.
The first pitch came in fast and hard, a trajectory clearly intended to displace the batter from where he stood. Timmy avoided the bullet just in time as it whistled past his chin, but the sudden jerk of his body caused him to fall backward and into the dirt.
“Ball one!” screamed the umpire.
A barrage of boos issued forth from the crowd as they signaled their displeasure with the pitchers obvious attempt at decapitation.
Timmy dusted himself off and got set once again, but the next pitch arrived even closer this time and sent him sprawling to the earth in the same manner as the first.
“Ball two!”
The crowd hurled a measure of curses toward the mound, but the pitcher was now feeling a sense of command and shot back a menacing look.
Timmy dusted himself off once more but this time he patiently stood outside the batter’s box and stared long and hard at the man on the mound. A crease of a smile formed across his face as he lifted his bat with one hand and boldly pointed it in the direction of the outfield. The gesture caused spasms of outrage in the pitcher but the crowd was fully behind the boy now and roared its approval.
Channeling his anger, the incensed pitcher screwed himself into a fantastic contortion and let loose a deadly projectile. The screaming fastball streaked toward the boy with the full intention of splitting him in half, but Timmy was ready this time. As the ball left the pitcher’s hand, Timmy cooly took a step backward and swung with all his might; the ensuing collision between ball and wood created a tremendous concussion, the sound of which cut through the noise of the crowd like a sonic boom. For a moment afterward, there was a pause of dead silence as everyone present was stunned by the rocket like lifting of the ball, which seemed to defy gravity and quickly disappeared from all eyes as it left the stadium.
Thunder from the exploding fireworks and the roar of the crowd shook Timmy out of his momentary stupor; he blinked and focused on the first base coach who was sporting a huge grin and frantically waving for him to run the bases. Timmy dropped his bat and started what he hoped was the first of many victory laps that night. The entire crowd was on their feet now, wildly pumping their arms and stomping their feet. The chant of TIM-EE! TIM-EE! broke out and soon every breathing creature, save the opposing team, had the boy’s name upon their lips.
As he trotted along, he felt a euphoria unlike anything he had every experienced before. His senses were on fire as he absorbed every nuance of emotion. He rounded third base and could see his teammates enthusiastically urging him on toward home plate. His heart was pounding out of his chest anticipating the welcome. TIM-EE! TIM-EE! But the chant was echoing strangely in his head now as if calling him from far away. His surroundings became fuzzy. Forms seemed to lose their shape and before he knew what was happening his entire world faded to black.
“Timmy…Timmy, are you awake honey?” came a lilting voice from somewhere outside of him.
Timmy slowly opened his eyes and realized that he was back in his room. The voice, his mother’s voice, was the one who pulled him out of his dream and back into the harsh reality that was his life. He sat there misty eyed at what might have been, forcing back the tears that he knew would certainly upset his mother.
“It’s getting late, Timmy my boy,” she said as she got behind him and maneuvered his wheel chair away from the window and toward his bed.
He let out a slight yawn. “I must have fallen asleep mom, I was watching the guys playing ball in the field and I guess I just nodded off.”
His mother pulled back the covers from his bed and fluffed up his pillow. “Oh my, that game was over hours ago,” she said, undoing the restraints that held his little body securely. She lifted him easily from the chair and placed him on the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and primping in the manner only mothers tend to do.
After finishing, she bent close to his face. “You did have a nice day, didn’t you honey?”
He gave a big smile. “Yeah mom, it was a great party, in fact, the best I’ve ever had. I’m glad all the guys could make it this year.”
She looked a little sad but smiled back just the same, her one hand cupping his cheek as the other gently brushed back the hair that fell across his face.
“Well,” she said, “it’s not every day a boy turns ten you know, and like your father said, you’re practically a man now!” He raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes. She laughed and kissed him on the forehead. “Sweet dreams honey, I’ll have a nice stack of blueberry waffles waiting for you when you wake up.” She got up, turned off the light and left the room.
Timmy lay there in the quiet darkness, his mind returning back to the happy thoughts of his birthday party earlier in the day. His parents had decorated the living room in a baseball motif, what he most adored. There were streamers of baseball cards hanging from the ceiling and an enormous birthday cake shaped and decorated like a baseball. More importantly, the whole gang was there; all of his friends from the ball team for whom he was voted honorary captain last year.
Leading up to the party, his mom was a bit nervous; she knew there would be risks in having a bunch of rowdy prepubescent boys in her home, but after a while she realized that the house was still in one piece and started to relax … until something unexpected happened.
The boys were sitting around the dining room table chatting away after they had sung a horrendously loud version of Happy Birthday. It was time to cut the cake and Timmy’s mother served a large slice to each boy. She was about to feed Timmy his first bite when Bobby jumped up and asked if he could take over the feeding chores. His mother hesitated and looked in the direction of her husband who smiled and nodded his approval. She handed Bobby the plate and fork, taking a seat beside her husband. Bobby stood there a long moment, inches from Timmy’s face, with a big Cheshire like grin that stretched from ear to ear. He looked at the plate then at Timmy and again back at the plate.
“Happy birthday, old boy!” he yelled and proceeded to squash the contents into Timmy’s face.
His mother let out a shriek and the whole room fell silent. Bobby removed the plate and there was Timmy, his entire face covered in frosting, laughing hysterically. Moments later, each boy repeated the gesture to one sitting next to him and soon there were chunks of cake flying across the table in every direction. Timmy’s mom stood in shock, not knowing what to do, until her husband calmly placed his arm around her waist and walked her out of the room. The melee lasted a good five minutes until there was no more ammunition left except for what was stuck to the walls. The boys fell into a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
As Timmy remembered the scene, he started to giggle, but a sadness suddenly came over him as he realized that today had been the first time he had ever seen his mother
cry. It was just before the cake fight when the boys presented him with his birthday present. He asked his mother to open the box and when she did, his eyes got big as saucers. She pulled out a regulation big league uniform and held it up for everyone to see. The jersey had “WILLIAMS” stitched across the back in bold letters; both shirt and pants had been professionally tailored and adjusted to fit a boy such as Timmy, who had no arms or legs. There was also a cap which Timmy’s friend Greg placed squarely on his head for him, and in the box was a new catcher’s mitt. Timmy asked Gregg to hold it up to his face so that he could smell the leather and, as Greg held it in place, Timmy could see his mother over top of the glove, wiping away tears from her eyes.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices coming from the register on the floor near his bed. He could clearly hear the conversations people were having in the kitchen below his room, like the night he overheard his parents talking about how sad it was for their boy to be given such a fate as his.
“He will never know what it’s like to fall in love or even to have his first kiss,” he heard his mother say with an unmistakable sadness in her voice.
He remembered feeling sorry for himself many days afterward, that is, until the night of the dream…or at least he thought it was a dream, but then he wasn’t quite so sure.
Weirder Than Weird Page 11