Yesteryear Fiction

(The Winged Creatures of) Zebjudar
By Tony Rauch


You can't sleep. So you sit up on your bed and watch the night from your bedroom window. You wonder at all the blackness - at the dark clouds passing above, at their blank outlines, like castles in the sky; at the silvery stars blinking on and off; at the fireflies looping around the edge of the backyard. You watch the fireflies scooting about in the indigo darkness like little lanterns balancing and skittering on the breeze. They disappear into the dark bushes and trees, reappearing again and again. Gradually you grow tired and return to bed, laying down and falling asleep. A few days later the same thing happens - you can't sleep again, so you check out the fireflies again, watching their golden sparks loop and whirl, around and around like a miniature circus. Then you get curious and want to see them up close. So you wander out back and watch them. The cool night air is refreshing. Tons of silver stars wink above in the clear night's sky. The sky looks the way lake water does at night - just a shining and sparkly mirror you could just dive right into.

At first you watch from a distance, the flies' golden sparks zipping back and forth at the edge of the backyard. Gradually you make your way over to the enormous wall of nature that borders and defines the entirety of your backyard - the lilies and lilacs, the bushes and tall grass, the willows and scrub, the weeds and thickets - all leading to the eventual meadow with the pond beyond, the tall prairie grass field dropping off to a ravine, then rolling hills and farm fields, and finally a forest.

As you get to the wall of nature - leaves, branches, tall grass, and thick brush - the flies encircle you as bright dots, surrounding you in a blanket of light. You hold out your arms and slowly turn, watching sparks and arcs of light playfully looping around you.

You watch some sparks dart into the curtain of leaves and vines. Others pop from this veil of dark roughage. They seem to form a vortex, leading you into the brush. So you reach to part some of the branches. You step into the thicket to see where the lights are going and coming from. You see a stream of flickering lights dancing before you, as if a miniature city in the air is waiting for you. So you step into the tangle of branches, following the flow of tiny golden dots wiggling into the darkness beyond. The tiny golden lights seem to narrow, as if to form a twirling glow of rope, or a mini-stream of lights in the air, as if to lead you somewhere.

You follow them, the string of waving flickering lights leading you through the rough undergrowth and over a hill and down into a small valley, then over a narrow brook and back up a hill to a clearing in a wooded area. You've never been this far to the east before. You stand in the clearing. The lights flash around you, whirling lazily. Around and around they go, faster and faster until slowly they lower themselves, gradually descending to the ground at your feet. You bend to your knees. The lights collect themselves to gather in a swirling ball just above the ground. They illuminate a small area below. You watch as one of the bigger flies drops to the ground. It becomes brighter, glowing an amber sphere of fuzzy light. The light seems to thicken and then melt, like an intense heat. The light dims and shrinks from the gold color to a smaller fuzz of white. Suddenly you can see through the light. You see the firefly lay on its back in the dirt. The bug grows a little, then slowly turns into a tiny person, right before your eyes. The bug fills out into a human-like form, but with more arms running down its sides. Its bug legs inflate to form human arms and legs. Its bug head shrinks to the shape of a human's head.

The white ball of light fades. Then the others lower themselves to dance in the air and illuminate this patch of dirt. You keep your eye on the one that landed, the one in front of you. But then, as your eyes adjust to the darkness, you notice more surrounding the one on the ground. There are more of them - all spaced out in rows. They look like little people, the size of your finger, little stick people just lying there. Suddenly you notice two of them walking into view. They are dark as shadows and they each carry a set of wings. They walk up to one of the other little figures lying on the ground and bend to affix the wings to that one's back. Then they walk off, disappearing into the shadows. A different one on the ground lights up and begins filling out, as if inflating. It gets bigger and bigger, right before your eyes. As it slowly grows, it slowly lights up, as if transparent. Because of this bright light, you can see through the figure's skin. These creatures appear to be human-like, but with digital circuitry on the insides, and detachable bee-like wings. You can't tell if they are insects or people, or some kind of small machine, or a combination of all three.

The thing grows to about the size of your fist, then stops. But it is still illuminated by its internal circuitry. It flutters in the air before you, several arms wiggling at its sides. Another one in the air, a small one, flies from the floating swirl of lights. It slowly descends and lands on your arm. It balances there, then burrows under your skin with a pinch. You see the light inside, under your skin, a soft glow slowly moving up your arm. You watch as it reaches your shoulder, then loops around and travels down to the middle of your chest. There it stops, its light throbbing with the beat of your heart. And then it begins to grow as well, growing inside your chest. And then you get this feeling, a feeling of understanding. Not a voice in your head, just a realization, as if you were remembering an old dream you had forgotten about but now suddenly remember. They are transferring their circuitry to you, or their genes maybe. Something is going on. An exchange. Somehow you seem to know this. They are giving you their digital cells, attaching them inside you for safe keeping. Then the light inside you begins to shrink and fade. You feel warm all over. And suddenly you can see things that you couldn't before. You see a person walk by, a transparent person carrying a long, transparent spear. Slowly you look around. Several more transparent people with spears pass in the distance, each crouching and creeping carefully, as if hunting or out on patrol. You see a hut, one that wasn't there before, but is right here in front of you now. The stone hut looks to be hundreds of years old. Someone walks out of the structure and steps over to you, as if expecting you. It's an older woman. She extends her arm to greet you. “Hello,” the woman says. And you see several more vague stone huts appear in the shadowy background. They are mere lumps or mounds, yet with crude wood doors, small windows, tall, steep grass roofs, and stone chimneys. The woman is wrapped in what appears to be thick wool blankets tied together by thick leather belts.

“Hello,” You nod, shaking her hand, “It's good to meet you.”

“We have to get you out of here. It isn't safe to be out in the open this late, on the path alone like this,” the woman looks around. And just then you hear a thundering and rustling. The woman pulls you out of the way, off to the side. A wagon streams by, right where you were standing. And then another. And then yet another. Six white horses harnessed to each wagon are galloping along at a fast pace. But they're horses made of smoke. The white smoky horses rush along. They make a rumbling roar as they pass on the sudden sandy path beside you.

“Where are they going?” you ask the stranger.

“Like I said, it's not safe out here this late. They're just passing through. This is the wilderness,” the figure looks about, “There are land pirates and monsters about. Come along, let's get you inside,” she waves and you step into the woods, “You're a new one, aren't you? We have so much to show you, so much to tell you about.” Just then the woman dives to you, knocking you down. You both roll on the hard ground as three dogs made of fire flair over you, leaping into the darkness beyond.

You feel the heat from their fire. You both roll over to watch as they flicker into the rough foliage of the forest, running like mad to who knows where, disappearing into the leaves and shadows and darkness beyond.

“You see,” the woman climbs to her knees to sit up, “It's not safe all by yourself out in the open here. Not at this hour. Now let's get you inside, where it'll be safe until morning.”

You both jog through the weeds and grass, under a wild, ragged tangle of trees, to the stone hut. The hut is partially sunk into the ground so the windowsill line is at the ground. The woman opens a small wooden door with the top curved. You both duck to shuffle inside. You descend several steps. Inside, the main room is small, but with a high ceiling. There is a line of dormer windows on the opposite roof slope. In a corner there is a small table lit by a single, large candle, the only light in the place. Two small, pig-like creatures sit side by side at the table, reading a book. They look up at you. They wear bib overalls and knitted sweaters with wide stripes. One has blue stripes on a light green background, the other red stripes on light green.

The woman gestures to a small bed in the corner, as if they'd been expecting you. The bed is thick and bloated with plaid blankets. “You can rest here until morning,” she nods, “It's not safe to be out. They shouldn't have brought you here this late.”

You step over to the bed, finally feeling tired for the first time in days. You stand before the bed, considering it, then you look back to the others. The woman is cleaning up in the small kitchen in the opposite corner. The pig beings have their heads down, reading. One of the pigs looks up and over to you, watching you for a moment, then waves at you. You wave lazily back to it. The little pig thing looks back down to its book. You turn to look down at the bed, then you step closer to it.


- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months. He will have a new story collection out in March or April, "as I floated in the jar"

The Iron Balloon
By Tony Rauch


A kid is in the park with a metal hoop and stick, practicing rolling the hoop around when she senses something in the air. There is a hint of sulfur about. This sensation grows to a malodorous tar smell. The stinky aroma lingers. She turns to see what could manufacture this stinging odor. But there is no oil or tar wagon around. No roofs are being patched. The wind is blowing westerly, away from the rendering plant and molasses extraction factory that are near the harbor, down by the docks.

She can hear a slight clicking, a faint chugging in the air. But it isn’t a noise as much as a feeling, a vibration, a slight hum. She senses something in the sky. She turns and searches, looking though the colorful fall trees, scanning the horizon, then spots it behind herself - a ball of dense black smoke. It drifts in the wind, swaying back and forth. It hangs above the tree line, but slowly drops. It moves up and down in the breeze, then continues lower, behind the yellow, chartreuse, orange, gold, and vermillion fall trees, a tail of black soot swirling in the wind behind it. Why it must be some kind of new fangled mechanical flying device, the likes of which she’s never seen before.

It’s a smoking ball of . . . well, of something. The smoke swirls around the great ball as if wafting out from inside of it. Perhaps this exhalation is from an internal engine of some kind, such as in a steamship. The kid can’t really tell. In thinking of it, it just looks like a round, smoking balloon, a balloon on fire perhaps. Whatever it is, it sure is curious. The large ball disappears behind a large rooming house and line of colorful trees.

The great smoky ball appears again, from behind the Cobbler’s Hall, around the building’s steeple spire, rising over treetops and low roofs, across the street, over the trees to the edge of the park - lumbering about, whipping its long tail of black smoke to twist in the sky. The dang thing is huge. It hops over the tree line and descends, gliding into the park. But it is not a smooth, elegant descent. No, not in the least. The thing comes wobbling down at a rapid pace. It takes the kid’s breath away. She gasps, for it looks as though it will crash and break apart. She covers her mouth. Her body tightens. She loses all feeling. Her metal hoop rolls away from her and flops into the grass.

The great smoky ball pulls up. It slows and sets itself down on the grass about a hundred feet from the kid. She’s stunned. For it is a great iron balloon, about fifty feet in diameter, the size of a small house. It looks as if constructed of an open iron grid – small internal framing with a wire mesh covering the entire thing. The top part looks to be of solid sheet metal. The whole thing is black with smoking soot. There is a small basket suspended from below. The basket looks to be wicker, and the bottom of it looks to be curved, like the bottom of a boat – but covered in silver sheet metal, probably to keep out water in case it lands on water. The basket hits the ground first and slides on the grass, the curving metal parting the grass and sand out of the way as the great iron balloon slowly sets down, flopping the basket onto its side.

The kid stands and watches, fascinated. She is transfixed, frozen. Finally, she starts to jog, then finds herself running - running and running to it.

Smoke emanates from inside the center of the iron framing, billowing up through the metal grid and wire mesh. The wind catches the thick gritty churning swirl and blows it around like a great tail. The kid runs and runs, across the undulating grass, leaves crinkling under her feet. She stumbles out of breath to the great metal ball.

“Well, that didn’t work,” a young woman crawls from the basket which now lies on its side in the grass. She rises to her feet and brushes herself off. She looks herself over, then looks at the balloon. She is wearing a long leather smock and riding goggles. A long knitted scarf flutters in the wind from her neck. She has on a leather skull cap and light blue work overalls. “Maybe I should try wood next time. . . . Maybe I could treat the wood with something that’ll make it burn longer . . . and cleaner. . . . I don’t know if coal’s the answer here,” she turns to me, “Coal’s pretty light. But it’s messy. . . What do you think?” She removes one of her leather gloves and scratches her face.

“Me?” the girl asks, surprised.

“Yeah. You,” the young woman chuckles. “You see anyone else standing here?”

“Ah, no. Not really,” the girl answers.

“Not really,” the young woman sighs, repeating the girl, but looking over the large, dark metal ball.

People begin to gather at the edge of the park. The dark smoke is dissipating in the wind now.

“They probably think we’re standing around a fire,” the young woman looks around.

The crowd mills about, pointing to them, the iron balloon smoldering, curling smoke wafting out to thin in the breeze.

“Maybe some kind of oil or gas would be better,” the young woman stares at the iron balloon, “As a fuel,” then looks to the girl standing at her side, “What do you think?”

“You were flying in the air,” the girl exclaims with a gasp, “You were riding on the wind in that thing,” she points, shaking her head in disbelief. “In that heavy giant thing,” she pants, out of breath from running.

“Yeah, I couldn’t get the fabric ones to work,” the young woman bends to look the structured sphere over, “Kept igniting. The dang fabric. I couldn’t get the fire coating to take,” she shakes her head, “So I had to go with a light gauge metal. . . . Got ‘er off the ground though, so . . . well, that’s a start anyway, isn’t it now?”

“Yeah. Yeah,” the kid nods, still in disbelief at it all, “I seen drawings of flying balloons in a book once, but never thought I’d see anything like this in person.”

“Can’t steer too well in the fabric ones either,” the young woman huffs, “Too dependent on the wind. An iron one is like a ship, more stable. You don’t need to steer by the wind so much. Not with the internal propellers digging into the air, pushing you along. With any luck, I think I can get this one to keep chugging along, like a train. If I can just find a lightweight fuel,” she bends and leans to examine the insides of the metal ball.

“Ah, yeah. You were goin’ real good there for a while,” the girl nods, “I seen ya. . . But just gettin’ ‘er up into the air, that’s gotta be the hardest part. That’s an accomplishment right there.”

“The heat catches the top of the metal there, . .” the young woman reaches down to point. She crouches, then crawls to the stove in the basket, working a lever to send fire up through the stove pipe. “. . . and raises it off the ground when you work the baffles over there. An internal balloon fills with heat to get you up. Then the propellers can do their thing, keeping you afloat. You don’t need no wind at all. . .” she crawls back and stands, watching the fire shoot out of the stovepipe. Slowly the balloon rises off the grass. The woman reaches and grabs one of the propellers and jerks it down with all her weight to start it, “I just need to find a fuel that will create a lot of heat, and still be light enough to carry for long trips, . .” she turns to the girl. The two propellers sputter and cough to a slow start as the entire thing slowly tilts to right itself. Bicycle chains churn from the stove to turn the propellers. “. . Oh well. Guess you just gotta keep trying,” she sighs and walks to the basket. “Help me with this thing,” she turns to bend to right the basket, trying to tip it back into place. “Come on,” she grunts.

The girl rushes over and pushes the basket. The entire thing slowly flips over as the balloon quietly rises. Chains that hold the basket under the balloon slowly clank. Metal slowly creeks and groans. The small propellers sputter. The stove hisses.

“The stove makes it bottom heavy,” the young woman climbs into the basket, swinging her legs over the top. “Eventually I’ll install a door so I can ferry passengers across the harbor. Maybe even to surrounding towns.”

The girl peers over the large basket. It has surprisingly tall sides. The inside is maybe the size of a couch, with room enough for maybe four people. Sure enough there is a small stove in it with a pipe running way up to a large aluminum plate at the top of the metal balloon. A long bike chain loops up to a set of gears. The gears split two more bike chains that turn two propellers, one on either side about ten feet apart just below the framing of the great ball.

The young woman reaches down and lifts a heavy jug. She pours a solution into a funnel at the top of the stove. “The ‘Go’ juice,” she nods as the stove howls to life, sending a blue flame out the top of the pipe, into the metal balloon that slowly sloshes upward under the basket, metal slowly groaning, chains creaking. “Climb in. . . Hurry. . . Before the authorities arrive. They’ve been out looking for me all month.”

The girl looks around, then sees a group of constables running across the street, pointing and entering a corner of the park. The girl looks back over to the young woman who is busy working a set of levers and looking up as some vertical metal plates move back and forth above, squeaking inside the metal balloon. The girl looks back to the corner of the park, watching some authorities running like mad, then back to the young woman who is now tossing some coal into the stove from a large bucket. The basket slowly rises. The girl holds onto the top, leaning her weight forward as the basket slowly lifts. She feels herself being pulled up, her feet leaving the grass. Suddenly she feels lighter as she is tugged upward, off the ground.

“Stop. . . Stop,” the young girl hears a faint call, “Stop right there. . . Stop what you’re doing. . . Come back here this instant. . . That’s far too dangerous. . .”

The young girl is dangling, her body swaying in the wind, clinging to the edge of the basket, the top of which is wrapped with a leather coping to form a smooth finish. She feels herself giving way as if gravity is weighing her down. She struggles, swaying back and forth, swimming her body upward, her shoulders rotating, fists tightening, trying to pull herself into the basket. But the engine chugs, the propellers sputter, jerking the basket. The girl loses her grip and is jerked downward, one hand snapping free, that arm dropping, her body swinging to the side, away from the basket so she can see below now. She watches the street pass under her, then the sidewalk, then a roof, just a few feet below. Her feet scrape against the roof. She wonders if she should just let go to rest on the roof, or if she should keep struggling. She sees people running across the street, holding their hands up, some holding out their arms as if to tell her to let go. Several are yelling in panic, their hands on the sides of their heads.

The girl reaches her free arm, but can’t grip anything. Her weight is forcing her arm wrapped around the top of the basket lower and lower. She feels her arm loosening, the edge of the basket sliding across her arm. Her feet drag up the side of the slope of the slate roof, and then nothing, as if they passed the peak and are now on the other side, slowly rising. She looks down. Sure enough there is a back yard, the carriage house below, the alley, a line of trees, another back yard, another sloped roof, a front yard, a line of trees, a street. Her arm is giving way. She jerks lower and lower. The spire on top of the Cobbler’s Hall turret passes at her side. It’s as if she could reach out and grab it, hold on. There is someone in one of the windows. Their eyes meet, but they slide right by one another. The woman inside runs to the window, slapping the glass in wonder.

The young woman in the basket reaches over the side and grabs the girl’s shoulders, tugging the girl up. The girl swings to reach the top of the basket, grabbing the leather on top and pulling herself over, then swinging her legs and body around, landing to tumble inside. She looks up.

The young woman looks down and giggles, “That was a close one. You alright?”

“Ah, yeah,” the girls looks around, then lifts herself off the wood floor. She stands and peers over the edge of the tall basket. The top of the basket is at her neck, so she can just see over the top. She waves to the woman in the window of the tall brick turret. The woman waves back, a serious look of concern growing across her face as she sinks away.

The girl looks out at it all. She can see much of the city, the streets snaking like gray veins, like a spider web, like a broken glass pattern, into the hazy gray distance. The sloped roofs are all grey, red, or green - inside tight lines of puffy yellow and orange trees. “Where we goin’?” she looks to the young woman.

The young woman shrugs and smiles out at it all as they float and chug to the harbor, “Where would you like to go?”

The girl looks back over the side to see the line of sparkling blue water beginning to form on the gray horizon. The long freight houses slowly grow into view, then the masts of the tall ships, some just beginning to raise their sails, getting set to voyage to foreign lands.


- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

Maybe The Butterflies Know
By Tony Rauch


I step out of an old tree house. I stand on a rickety little deck and look around in wonder. Where am I? How did I get here? The tree house is tilting in a broken lean on a thick branch way up in the air. The structure’s wood is weathered gray and rotting. The railing is twisted and falling apart. What am I doing here? I’m not mad or scared or confused or anything, I’m just curious. Heck, it’s a nice, warm, calm, sunny summer morning - why not be way high up in a tree house out in the middle of a field of blowing, tall grass.

The wood fascinates me. I reach to touch it, then rub it. It has many old nail holes. Looks like wood from another time, re-used here up in this tree - ancient wood planks, probably rescued from sinking old barns, hidden barns covered by underbrush and tall leaning trees. Distant barns from other ages, secret eras, hidden hours, years long forgotten, times whose use has long since faded - times given up for us to share here. Wood from secret days, saved and reassembled here - to protect those times, so they can live on, so they can see more times to come, so they can build more times, times for us to share together.

I step from the rickety little deck and up onto a branch. I inspect my new surroundings, up and down and all around. Thick branches crisscross overhead and underneath. Misty gray and white strands of clouds pass above and below to reveal that I’m on a branch leaning over a long stretch of brilliantly gleaming chartreuse marshlands. Glints of the bright sun flicker in the dark water through the tall grass. It seems I’m up in a tall, thin tree in a wetland. A bright blue stream winds through the grass below. The stream is freckled with smooth, gray stones. Other tall trees dot the landscape around me, sprinkled like regrets that’ve never been resolved. The trunks rise in thin winding stocks with plumes of branches and clumps of leaves puffing here and there on their way into the sky. The trees grow like billowing sighs of relief. Some of the smaller ones are swaying in the breeze down below.

Suddenly a little butterfly appears in the distance. It meanders closer, drifting on the wind. As it flutters through the cloudy haze, it doesn’t turn out to be a small butterfly at all. It lazily floats over to me, revealing itself as a giant butterfly with gloriously translucent wings that glow florid colors in the sunlight. I wave my arms to signal it, to greet it.

It twitters up to me unevenly, slowly flapping its large, stained-glass wings. I smile. I want to reach out and pat its back, for it is a huge, delicate thing bobbing before me. Its body is the size of a large couch, each kaleidoscope wing slowly waving - each delicate wing like a colorful sail, each the size of a child’s bedroom. I crawl further out onto the limb, beaming at its beauty, marveling at its wonder. I stretch and reach. One of its fuzzy legs extends to wrap around me and gather me in, pulling me over and depositing me gently onto its back. I am in mid-air, bobbing on the back of a giant butterfly - ten feet long with sail-like wings flapping.

I smile bigger, clinging tightly as we drift away, slowly floating down to the bright green grass and gleaming clean water. We dive through the long flowing grass and swing around the tall tree trunks that rise all around. I hold on tight as we wave and undulate in the wind, floating between the winding stalks of trees.

I start to notice more old tree houses. They are up in the branches, behind plumes of deep green leaves. They are little shanties obscured within deep shadows, exactly like the one I found myself in - dilapidated, leaning, barely clinging to their limbs. Decks and catwalks crisscross the branches with twine webbing as railings. These are faded memories of shacks - old wood struggling to be huts. Many are simply gutted shells and outlines, some with just a few gray boards left here and there as empty frames, clinging, forgotten. Some trees don’t have any houses at all, others have only one, hidden away behind shadows and years of leaves. Still other trees have several little old houses - two and three, then four and five, clinging to the trunks at the intersection of limbs, an entire ancient village, now falling apart, empty and forgotten. Suddenly I think I notice a figure in one of the windows. A shadow, a person. A faint shadow within a faint shadow. And then another.

Wind rushes through my hair as we rise and drop, riding on breaths of wind. The clear breeze cleanses my face, my arms, my eyes, as we circle around back to the shadow in the window. A person slowly, reluctantly appears out from an old tree house. And then another from the next tree over. They step out slowly, with confused expressions. They look around. “Hey,” I wave as we bob in the air before them. “Hello!” I call, but they do not answer. “Come on,” I wave them over. Suddenly another giant butterfly floats up beside me from below. I wave them over and gradually each of them inches closer to the edges of the dilapidated decks.

“Where . . Where are we?” one of them calls out to me.

“I don’t know.” I shout back, “Come on, maybe the butterflies know,” I wave them closer and eventually they each crawl out onto a limb and then carefully climb aboard the other butterfly. “It seems I just appeared here,” I call over to them and smirk. “I just appeared in one of the tree houses as if from out of nowhere. And I have no idea where I could be or what I’m supposed to do here.”

We turn and drift off, dipping under branches and between the puffs of leaves. Sunlight glints off their wings to illuminate the leaves in dazzling rainbow colors. We enter a dark tunnel of leaves, with only several spots of sun and light appearing here and there, as we fly though a forest of thick, tall timber. We pop out the other side and into a brilliant blue sky with cottony strands of clouds.

Up ahead, on the hazy horizon, I think I see little dots forming in the gray, distance. Little dots glide on the wind like great colorful sailing ships in the air. They are far off butterflies, an entire legion of them, a dense flock. “Grab hold!” I call, “Let the butterfly carry you away!”

The butterflies spin us around and we head for the horizon, over a rolling green landscape, thousands of tall, spindly trees come into view over a grassy ridge, beyond a rolling field of long, waving, green grass.

“Where are we going?!!” one of the others shouts over to me.

“Who cares?!“ I shrug. Then, after thinking about this for a moment, I call back over, “Maybe the butterflies know!” As we dive and rush through the wind.


- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

Springtime In The City
By Tony Rauch


I awake to find my plants growing all over my apartment - vines and leaves cover the walls, they creep across the ceiling and down around the corners to the floor. I have been really tired, but I didn’t realize I slept that long. It’s as if I have been asleep for weeks, maybe even months.

The leaves of the plants are big and ripe, the stems and vines thick, solid and green. I shake my head and make my way down the hall to the living room. The hallway and living room are encased in leaves and vines too - the walls and ceilings covered from my overflowing plants. The ceiling and floor and windows are also covered with grass and moss and weeds. Long grass sticks up through the floor boards. Vines poke through cracks and holes in the plaster of the walls and ceiling. My entire couch is a planter - leaves and vines and grass sprouting from it to curl onto the floor in long, thick waves. A bird hovers in the corner and a small butterfly flutters past my legs, meandering a crooked flight. A cloud of strange flies is buzzing near the floor.

The sun is rising, but the room is dark and spotted with odd shadows from the sun filtering its way in through all the leaves. Shafts of grainy light penetrate in all directions, a dusty haze in an eerie yellow glow due to the growth covering the windows.

I exhale in disbelief. I shake my head and step out of my vine-covered door. The hall is a jungle too - also carpeted in a tangle of grass and moss with small plants growing from cracks in the floor, walls and ceiling. I step carefully to the outside door, open it and step out. The entire neighborhood is covered. I walk out to the street, my head darting in awe. The entire block is overgrown. Green is all around, mother nature at full throttle. Vines, trees, bushes, plants, shrubs, leaves, flowers, long grass and weeds have grown to cover the block in a thick blanket of green, berming houses and cars in rolling mounds - covering them completely as if living deep in a dense forest.

A cat the size of a car peeks around the corner of a house a few doors down. Startled, I jump back. I freeze for a long moment, then dash back to the safety of my doorway to peep out in fear. Luckily the cat didn’t notice me. I scan the block, clutching the door jamb, but no one is around, the flowing leaves and vines growing over my neighbor’s windows and doors, the cat purring menacingly . . .


- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

The Shadow People

By Tony Rauch


I was asleep as a stone, snug tight in the middle of a comfortable night when a faint rustling jostled me awake. Slowly I ascended from the heavy depths of my warm sleep to be greeted by a strange, distant scratching. Was it a slight twitter? Perhaps a dripping? Maybe a lingering hush? Gradually, it stretched to form a long, slow, deep, moan.

At first it seemed so far away, perhaps a steamer churning down the narrow, winding alleys, or workers lost out in the fields or off in the thick forest, or up amongst the dark hills. But eventually, as I spiraled from the murky depths of slumber, various layers of fog clearing in my mind, it felt like that unusual noise was all around me. As I listened closer, it seemed as if it might’ve been a strong gust of wind blowing outside, covering the house. And then the whistling whine returned as if a deep sigh caught in the walls.

As I opened my eyes to look around, suddenly it sounded distant again, as if retracting down a tunnel or well - like the muffled groan of a voice. But it was also immediate and focused to a point, as if specifically signaling directly to me. This I didn’t care for at all. A late night caller was wholly unacceptable behavior. As I became more aware, slowly dropping off the fuzzy veil of sleep to reveal the clarity of a shining black mirror of night, a night so clear and clean it was as if all the old nights had been washed away, leaving only a new, clean, crisp indigo lake of time. As I became more and more aware, growing more and more awake, climbing from the distant depths of sleep, I just figured it was someone at the window. Some visitor scratching, tapping, breathing, moaning to wake me and get my attention. A gentlemen caller, perhaps. So I rolled over, drawing up the piles of blankets, folding them back so I could sit up and gain a good view of the window. I figured the caller would at least be carrying a candle or small lantern, lighting a soft golden glow in the depths of night. Perhaps it was Nimphius, or maybe even Gunderson, those merry pranksters.

But there was no gentleman caller at the window. No warm shadow. No spark of soft glow. And that’s when I saw it. After concentrating intently on the strange wheezing breath, I noticed a large shadow in the corner of my room appearing as a great, distorted face on the ceiling. This was where the wheezing sounds were escaping from.

The window was dotted with droplets from a great rain that had passed through while I fell deeper into that shadowy land of sleep. The storm had slipped overhead, blowing hard and heaving down tons of water, power washing everything clear and clean, rinsing all the old nights away. Perhaps this strange apparition up in the corner of my ceiling was only a wet spot from the rain? Maybe this was a water droplet stain from a leak in the roof? But then that murky, golden stain began shifting. It was just a fluttering on the surface of the stain, just a rippling at first. But then the shadowy spot began sloshing and shifting to form a distinct shape. It looked like a face of some type - stretched and distorted in that watery shadow of the dark corner of my room late at night - but a face just the same.

As my eyes adjusted to waking, to the velvety indigo night, to the dim, grainy light of the room, I could tell it was indeed a being or entity folding and undulating and oozing itself in the pool of watery shadow. The shape was about two feet wide and three feet long. It was a wondrous liquidy something, just rippling in a stain of water from the storm.

And you know, the really strange thing was that I felt relieved - refreshed and revived - as if I were the only one who had ever been witness to such a peculiar curiosity, folding in on itself like a slight jellyfish just caught on that thin layer of ceiling paint. It felt as if I were the only one in all the world who had ever witnessed such an event, something so fresh and new. I was in awe with a deep, dropping, astonishing, breathless hope. It was as if this wondrous beast lived on the surface of the shadow of water stain. Anyway, I’m lying there looking at him, thinking that I must just be dreaming or something. And suddenly that twittering wisp of breath returned as if a whisper on a windy breeze: “We are the shadow people, . . .” that breathy wind gathered to announce in a long, low groan of a thin exhale.

Now even though I must admit to being curious, transfixed even by the unexpected events, I was still rather taken aback by the intentional lack of manners. I mean, first off, the thing came unannounced at all hours of the night, and then it had the gumption to not even address me with a proper introduction. So I said, “Hey, look Mr. Sass-pants, I don’t care who or what you are. Who do you think you are to be barging in here at all hours of the night? And without so much as an invitation whatsoever?”

“. . . the shadow people,” the thin veil of whisper struggled to continue.

“Yeah, well good for you. Whadda ya expect me ta do about it?” I grumbled. “I’ll tell you, what with this poor display of manners, suddenly I am definitely not in the mood for all of this. Not at this hour anyway. No way, no how.”

“We are the shadow people,” the breathy exhale announced again, his great googily eyes rolling around, trying to adjust to the dim light in here. “We have come a long way, riding on the storm. We come bearing gifts to share.”

It had indeed rained that night - an odd, green and yellow storm which must have forced some rain water under the slate tiles of the roof from its mighty winds. The moisture must’ve dripped down to form the puddle on the ceiling, eventually becoming that golden stain the size of a pillow case.

As my eyes adjusted further to the dim light, I could just make out the outline of its mighty chin, large ears, and wrinkled nose on its broad, round face as it sloshed around, getting comfortable, trying to take shape or inflate himself or something. He looked like something out of a fairy tale - as if from under a bridge in a deep, dark forest. The thin wafer of paint bubbled and fluttered as if he were struggling to push through the ceiling to get to me.

Now I was very suspicious of this. First, the unannounced visit. Second, the improper introduction. And now this thing’s questionable offering of gifts, as if that’s supposed to make up for the intrusion. I mean, good golly, you don’t just barge in and wake just anybody up in the center of the night. I mean, that’s the best part of the night, the part with the deepest, most comfortable sleep. Anyway, I’m lying there waiting for that thing to say something clever, maybe apologize or something. I watched it sort of wheeze and struggle, watched it pulsate and throb as if slowly trying to breathe, the surface of the ceiling fluttering, rippling. Well, wouldn’t you know, it didn’t say anything for a while, so I just rolled over and listened for it to gather the strength to breathe. As I listened, I heard a water droplet slowly form and eventually drop to the wood floor. This happened a few times before the gentle rhythm of it all lulled me back into a nice, comfortable sleep.

When I got up the next morning, I was worried the shadow creature would return and wake me again that night. The curious puddle was still there, still a murky golden swirl, but there was no otherworldly face stretching inside of it. The slow dripping was still going on, each tiny drop going down to the floor with a soft “pew-p” sound. And looking down at that clear little puddle the size of a dinner plate, that’s when I noticed - I saw my reflection in it, but I could also pick up a dim kind of other face, as if just faintly that shadow figure was slowly dripping down from the ceiling - as if somehow leaking in here from outside, from the wind, from the storm, from the atmosphere, from out of the stratosphere, from as if out of the outer reaches of the wind and shadows and time and whatever else could be found swirling on out there.

I could just barely make out the faint outline of its features in the clear little puddle, as if some of him were in the puddle, some of him were still stuck in the stain up in the ceiling, and most of him were trying to push through from the roof or from outside, or from out of nowhere or something. Anyway, after some other much needed household chores, I got around to mopping up the puddle and repainting the watermark on the ceiling.

I believe I had made my feelings very clear on this last night, I just don’t care to be waken in the middle of the night. I mean, I don’t care who or what you are, if you ask me that was a very poor display of manners and common sense on their part. If they’re going to be treating me that way, well then who knows what they’re capable of? I mean, what am I going to have to do here? Maybe I should lock up the good china or something. I mean, that shadow thing should’ve known better than to come calling at all hours and wake me like that.


- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

A giant happened along while out wandering
By Tony Rauch


Things were not going well. Seemed like nothing was working out. I needed to get away, needed to clear my head. So I took a walk in the wilderness. I don’t know why I felt that need, I just did, figuring a few days or weeks away would do me some good, freshen my prospective, recharge my batteries. So I set out for a spell, and now I’m walking back home and feeling incredibly weary. Nothing seemed to work out in the wilderness either.

I can barely walk any longer. I drag my suitcase behind me on the path. Eventually I see, way off in the distance, another man walking alone too. I watch him as we are both traveling in the same direction. He seems as tall as the trees, but due to the distance I can’t tell just how tall he is. He is in the open and there is no frame of reference to compare him to just yet, nothing around to enable me to accurately gauge his height. Gradually, I notice he is walking at an angle to me, so I know our paths will soon cross. And sure enough, eventually we meet. He is very very tall. Taller than I ever thought he’d be – as tall as the trees. He looks to top out at forty feet high, but I can’t really tell. He stops where our two paths cross. He looks down both directions of the path that I’m on, one way, then the other. I call out and wave up to him, “Hey there, curious stranger,” I shout. He looks down to me. Then he smiles. He watches me in curiosity and notices that I’m very tired. He reaches and scoops me up with both hands. He lifts me to his chest and holds me close to him in the crook of his elbow, as if I were a baby.

“You look very tired,” he says kindly as he studies me.

“Oh man, I’ve been walking forever, trying to get back home. I’m worn out. I don’t think I can do this anymore,” I gasp, “I barely remember why I’m even way out here.”

“I’ll carry you for a while,” the mysterious giant nods.

“Oh, thank you,” I exhale and close my eyes, “I’m very grateful.”

We continue through the wilderness and encounter many hardships – long stretches of thickets, coyotes and wolves nipping at us, horrible wind and rainstorms, terrible sandstorms that send tiny grains of sand ripping through us. It’s no fun being in the wilderness and fighting the unknowable elements, but the very tall person puts his head down and trudges us along, holding me protectively in his arms the entire way.

Eventually the giant looks down at me. “What’s wrong?” he asks, “You still look weary. Very very weary.”

“I feel very weary,” I sigh. “Just so so very very tired and frustrated and worn out and worried. On the outside and on the inside. You wouldn’t believe it,” I exhale deeply and shake my head. “I’m just so so very very tired from it all, from walking and carrying this suitcase, from searching for a life out in the wilderness. So I’m on a journey, trying to find my way back home,” I close my eyes again, “I want to cry, but there’s nothing left inside me to cry out. And I feel lost. So very lost. I feel I have lost my way.”

“How so?” The giant’s voice is a gentle low, thick rumble.

“I don’t know,” I sigh, “I just do. Seems like nothing has been working out.”

“That is a long journey. To try an’ find your way. Sometimes it takes a long time. The path can get winding. And things can change on you. The path can split off. The woods can get so thick that you lose the road. There can be weather and attacks and all sorts of diversions and interruptions and uncertainties that cause you to lose your way, lose sight of what’s important.”

“Yes. It can be a long way, can’t it?” My eyes are closed. He jostles me along, holding me close to his mighty chest.

“It can be,” the giant agrees.

“You seem to know the path well,” I mention.

“Well, I don’t know that I know the actual path, or the way, I just know of being on the path. I know of losing your way.”

“I was out past the wilderness. I tried to make some bread, but that didn’t work out. I tried to plant some grain, but that didn’t work either. I tried to start a fire, but couldn’t get anything going. I tried to meet a mate. I tried to build a house, tried to make a home for myself. I tried so many things. I kept trying and trying, but nothing seemed to ever work out. . . . I got so very very tired of trying and trying,” I sigh.

“I bet all that trying made you stronger though.”

“I don’t know. Seems like it only made me frustrated, discouraged. It only seemed to wear me down, make me weaker, causing me to experience the futility in it all. I just wanted to be good at something, but I didn’t seem to ever accomplish anything. I didn’t seem to ever get good at anything. It’s been a long journey, but I don’t ever seem to get anywhere, don’t seem to get ahead, make any progress, get anything done. I mean, why not just give up after a while? But I didn’t want to be a quitter. I didn’t want to be a failure, but then I became one. I wanted to be a big shot. I tried so hard to be a big shot. Maybe I just tried too hard. And now it feels like I’m doomed to just keep trying, forever starting over and over again.”

“Why did you want to be a big shot?”

“Because,” I sigh, “People like big shots,” I shrug, “Society, . . businesses, . . girls, . . lots of people. I wanted to be valued. I wanted to be a success, be looked up to.”

“Well, I bet you learned a lot. Besides, failures are the ones who never try. If you try your hardest, then you’re never a failure because you’re always learning some new thing that could maybe help you in the future. Or maybe help someone else.”

“Thanks for helping me, big giant,” I close my eyes.

“Helping with what?” the giant asks.

“Well, with carrying me all this way. With listening to my troubles. I don’t like to rely on the intercession of others so much all the time. I shouldn’t burden others or bog people down. I really should be doing things myself, to get stronger. Although that gets tough and lonely at times.”

“I suppose it does,” the giant agrees. Then he draws up a breath. “Don’t worry about all this. This is nothing. It’s been my pleasure. Besides, I should really be thanking you for keeping me company all this way. It’s no fun to walk alone sometimes.”

“Often there isn’t anyone to help out, to help carry some of the load. . . . What were you doing all the way out here?” I ask.

“I guess I was out trying to find some peace. . . . I’m on my way back, too. . . But it was nice to have some time alone away from everything for a while,” mused the giant.

“I was also out trying to do something. But I kept having to start over and over and over again with everything. I just got so tired of starting over all the time. I just felt like giving up. Nothing was working out. Nothing. I didn’t know what to do. It all got so discouraging and frustrating. It got to be no fun. No fun at all. It got to be too hard. And no one was there to help me with any of it. No one. I couldn’t do it all by myself. This is embarrassing to say, but I guess it all just got to be too much for me.”

The giant holds me closer. We continue over a rolling expanse of jumbled rocks, boulders and downed trees. We traverse long stretches of mud and swamp. We climb a series of steep mounds and forge a mighty river by holding onto logs and swimming and kicking our way over to the other side. It gets very very hot, then very very cold, then rainy, then windy, then snowy, then hot again. We encounter a legion of little slippery green cyclopes. We fight them off with branches and continue on. We go through several long dark forests, then through some rolling grassy fields. The giant fights off a great big snake with a large stone. We encounter some terrible storms. We walk and walk, all the while the giant is holding me. Finally he sets me down at a crossing in the road.

“I should be going that way,” the giant nods in one direction, towering above me, his shadow casting a long, dark mass. “I need to go back to where I’m from. I don’t think you can come along. Besides, you need to find your way home, find your own path.”

“I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know what to do,” I sigh, as if talking to myself. I stare off into the distance, to see what’s out there for me, but all that’s there is more wilderness, more emptiness. I shake my head and look down.

“You just do it. You just continue,” the giant shrugs thoughtfully, “You just keep going. You just don’t stop. Just keep moving, keep meeting people and being nice to them. Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to do – be nice and supportive. That should be enough, shouldn’t it? I mean, so many people need to get their energy directed in a positive direction. Seems a lot of people focus a lot of negative energy inward instead of projecting positive energy outward.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I breathe out a deep long breath, “I don’t rightly know just yet.”

“I should be going,” the giant announces from way up in the air. “My home is this way,” he gestures. “Looks like your land is over there. Off that way,” he nods.

“You’re lucky,” I say, looking down the path, “You’re a giant. You’re solid. You can see a great distance. You can see a lot of things coming up ahead.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” he says. “But you’re lucky too. You’re a giant on the inside. You have great, deep feelings. You have depth of character. You didn’t just sit there, you went out and did something, tried things, learned things.”

“Yeah. Maybe. I guess. . . .” Finally, I gaze up to him. “Thanks for the lift, big guy,” I sigh in relief and shake my head, “Thanks for the helping hand, I really appreciate it. You really saved me, man,” I exhale and wave with a quick, tight gesture.

The giant smiles, “Aw, don’t worry ‘bout none a that. That was nuthin’. Really. . . Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

I turn and set out on my way up the sandy path. I walk and walk. The trees drop off until they are very far away, becoming mere sage lines on the gray horizon bordering golden fields of grass. I step through a narrow stream. I walk through a brief, low clump of trees, almost like a mini forest. I cross a field of rolling grass. Later on I come across an even narrower stream, then a clump of low bushes, a stretch of sand, then a stretch of short grass. More and more as I continue things seem to be getting smaller and smaller. I step over a pile of rocks. I step over a slight gully. I walk around a small ravine. I step over a long ribbon of bushes, almost like small trees. Finally I meet another path crossing the one I’m on. It crosses at an odd angle. This is a new path, not one that was out here the last time I was here when I first set out on my journey into the wilderness.

I stop for a moment and look down each way. I consider what’s down one or the other direction - wondering where either direction would take me. Suddenly there is a little voice from down below. I look down and there is a little man standing in my shadow. I reach down and pick him up so I can hear him better. I hold him in the crook of my arm like a baby and look down on him. He is about eight inches long and clutching a worn suitcase. I study him, looking him up and down. “Where are you going?” I finally ask.

He stares up at me, finally breaking his silence, whispering sadly, “I don’t know. . . . I’m so tired. . . And . . . I think . . . I think I lost my way.” He looks weary, as if he’s been walking alone for far too long. Then I notice that in his arm he is holding an even smaller person.


- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of short stories published – “I’m right here” (spout press), “Laredo” (Eraserhead Press), “Eyeballs growing all over me . . . again” (Eraserhead Press). He has additional titles forthcoming in the next few months.

Ah, to remember
(ah, to relive it all over again)
By Tony Rauch


. . . It’s dark and dank all around, but I know I’m outside. I feel a hint of cool, fresh wind stirring about. There is a comfortable familiarity in the air, a sense of scale and proportion that fits me like a glove. In the darkness I step to a faint rushing noise, then a dark gray light. Soon I’m walking toward a louder rushing - why I’m in the culvert under the highway. I start jogging, and after a few steps I appear from the opening that empties into a slight ditch at the far end of the shopping mall’s parking lot.

I stand in a little ravine surrounded by thin, scraggly trees. Cars and trucks flang past in the distance behind me. Their lights zip by in strips of flashes to reveal a few old tires in the little ditch. There is an old refrigerator lying on its side with its door removed, and an old couch lying upside down in a puddle of mud.

I turn around and around, looking all over. I recognize this place as a frequent after school hide-out of ours from several years ago. I step up the slight embankment and walk onto the mall’s parking lot. Through the darkness things come into view - dark gray outlines, vague objects. It must be the middle of the night. . . . some figures appear out of the darkness ahead. They turn and call to me. They recognize me. I wonder who they are. . . . I wonder what year it is this time. . . .


- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).

Bad Day
By Tony Rauch


It’s been a bad day. Nothing has gone right at all. It even takes forever to get back home. I stand on my front stoop and exhale. Finally. Finally I’m home. It’s finally over.

I open the door, step inside and sigh. Instantly I notice the old sewing machine in the corner of the living room looming before me, casting lacy, ominous, skeletal, wrought iron shadows over everything. It is huge - three times what it has always been - three times what it was when I left in the morning. It imposes itself contemptuously, towering like a great spider, a specter, a warning - heaving large, web-like shadows, draping long dark jagged lines across the house.

“What . . . What happened?” I stutter, exasperated.

“Oh, that,” my husband Larry walks out of the kitchen. “Yeah, that’s been going on all day,” he shrugs.

(It’s been gloomy and sprinkling all day - not a big deal since we need the rain and I’ve been so hectically busy at work anyway - but now it’s really coming down, just pouring waterfalls, sheets of water slamming down. You can’t see three inches out the window. It’s as if we’re living under some strange, ominous, glowing green water).

Larry sets a plate on the table and looks up at the window, out to where I’m looking. I haven’t moved an inch since I stepped inside, for I’m frozen still by the looming sewing machine. “Yep,” Larry rubs his palms together and turns. “Looks like it might rain.” He walks back to the kitchen, only to return with another plate a second later.

“Oh, the sewing machine. You noticed?“ my daughter, Camille, calls from her room down the hall. “Yeah, that’s nothing - you should see my hair brush.”

“Or the toilet,” Larry sets a plate on the table next to the others, then turns, raises his arms, and waves his hands from side to side as he steps back into the kitchen, shaking his head. “Oh, golly, check out the toilet. . . Check out the toilet.”

I look down the hall, to the bathroom, only to find a giant shoe blocking the way.


- - -
Tony Rauch has three books of funky/jazzy/arty short stories out, "I'm right here," from Spout Press, and "Laredo," and “Eyeballs growing all over me . . again” from Eraserhead Press (some dark and gothic, some kinda sci-fi, some absurdist, some experimental, some fairytale, some fantasy-ish, some dream-like and surreal, some whimsical, some social satire).