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Stoker

A Note from the Editors:

Each year we receive dozens of entries for the Hal Grutzmacher Writers’ Exposé, and our judges are required to select but a few for prizes and for honorable mention. Each year there are entries that do not make it into the Special Literary Issue, but many are still of such a quality that they deserve publication. For this issue we have two such pieces of fiction, each presenting a different vision of passing on to another life.

– Henry Timm and Peter Sloma

 

 

 

The air in the inn was heavy with the odor of stale drink. A thick layer of smoke clung to the ceiling like brown algae. Dense yellow light from ancient gas lanterns streaked the room which was jammed with anxious customers murmuring in the murk. An unseen air conditioner droned as it struggled against the intense heat outside. Reluctant to begin their lonely journey, the ghosts of long departed souls crowded the room as an innkeeper, obese and sweating, ponderously served his sluggish clientele who crowded the bar anxious for the relief afforded by a cool drink.

A large round table in the corner was strewn with half-empty glasses and pitchers of thin brown brew. The worn and splintered wood of the table was charred in several places from long forgotten flames. A handful of nervous patrons seated at the table listened intently as each one ventured an opinion as to the possible characteristics of a utopian environment. Round and round, back and forth through the soggy air each one described serene and sunny beaches, romantic environments shared with beautiful and adoring partners, endless wealth, priceless belongings, and a world of peace, plenty and happiness.

One man at the table remained silent, attentive to the words and slowly nodding with understanding as each described their personal vision. This quiet man had an appearance that made it difficult to guess his age. His shaggy hair was turning gray, but despite his heavy beard and weathered skin, his face seemed youthful and his eyes twinkled. He was dressed in simple, well worn, durable clothing and sturdy leather boots which were entwined about the legs of his chair. Occasionally he lifted his glass to his lips, but the level in his glass did not seem to change. He seemed to be comfortable in this environment.

With a crash, a rumpled young man quickly burst into the room. He was dressed in what must have been an expensive well tailored business suit. His white shirt was open at the collar and a silk tie was loose about his neck. He slammed the door behind him and noticed there was no knob on the inside. He ran his fingers through his wet matted hair, and hurriedly approached the innkeeper. “Where can I find Stoker?” he asked. The innkeeper nodded toward the rough round table. The young man pushed through the crowd, approached the table, and sat in the remaining empty chair. He studied the quiet man for a moment as a woman rambled about her idea of the perfect lover. Impatiently the young man interrupted and spoke to the quiet man. “Are you Stoker?”

The quiet man nodded in response.

“So what’s the story here?” The young man asked. “Why do they call you ‘Stoker’?”

The quiet man absentmindedly rubbed the two small bumps just above his shaggy brows and looked thoughtfully at each one around the table. He untangled his feet, pushed his nearly full glass away and leaned back in his chair. Another man reached for a pitcher and filled the young man’s glass and then his own. They all waited. The young man took a long drink and quickly spat on the floor coughing and choking as his eyes reddened and filled with tears. “Bet you thought that was beer, didn’t ya young fella?” his neighbor asked as he slapped the young man on his back. “No alcohol here; danger of fire.”

The quiet man intertwined his knurled fingers callused with decades of hard work, and then in a kind but firm voice, began to speak.

“My friends, welcome to your future. You have all traveled roads of your own choosing. Now you are here; fresh from Utopia. I know you have all had interesting lives. Please forgive me, Madame, but your appetite has led to your downfall.” The woman’s face had a soft pink glow, but she had a neat round hole in her forehead where her jealous lover had shot her.

“Welcome at last, young man, to our table. I understand that you have accumulated considerable wealth for someone so young. That car of yours must have cost a pretty penny. How fast were you going before your plunge into the lake?” The young man moved restlessly in his chair and picked a small piece of limp seaweed from his damp sleeve and dropped it on the sticky floor. The quiet man nodded toward an older gentleman who was wearing a swimming suit and had a towel around his neck. A large piece of flesh was missing from his torso and a bloody stump was all that was left of his right arm.

“With all due respect, sir, can you tell me how many sea creatures were destroyed by the pollutants from your factory?” The bather ignored the question and gingerly fingered the shiny rib bones exposed on his left side.

A tall man in an orange jumpsuit with a shaved head and deep black burn marks at his wrists, ankles and neck was next to be addressed. “And you, my good fellow, did you enjoy your respite in prison? Were you able to happily pursue your sordid interests there?” A threatening stare was his answer.

Placing a hand on the shoulder of the man next to him, the quiet man noticed his shredded clothes and the deep bloody claw marks across his face and body. “My friend, were you successful in driving off the forest animals who stole from your garden; the very creatures whose home you invaded with your mansion? Is it any wonder why you were invited to be at this table?”

The room had become still. The diaphanous presence hovered above while all the patrons were turned toward the table listening to the soft words of the quiet man who looked around at the faces. “You each had the beautiful world around you which you never took time to see. Respect, patience, and kindness were the only currencies you ever needed.”

The quiet man slowly rose to his feet, his aching body audibly creaking. The crowd parted as he moved toward a massive wooded door wore by time and discolored by the fires of anguish. He took a heavy key from his pocket. The key made a dull clank as it entered the lock and a painful grinding noise as it turned. The door opened a crack and let in a beam of hot blazing light. The quite man turned his head slightly and spoke over his left shoulder.

“Please follow me one at time. You can find me where the fire is most intense.”

He opened the door wide and the room was flooded with piercing white light and a blast of intense fire. As he passed through the door, flames danced merrily about him. Those yet to be called cleared a narrow path as the table patrons arose and trudged obediently behind him, their heavy burden of guilt bearing down as they went through the open door and into the blazing tempest.