A short story about time travel and death by David Tombale: Overtime

Overtime

Dallas, November 22 1963 James Mayer had just put Oswald against a corner to sleep off the effects of the drug while he opened his department issue pocket watch. The watch always reminded him of the pitted timepiece that used to sit on his grandparents’ mantelshelf in their house in Austria.  It was nearly 12.30 and Mayer peeked out the window and saw the presidential motorcade turn a corner on their way into Dealey Plaza.

Mayer took a deep breath before cradling Oswald’s rifle in his hands and sighting down the scope. He looked down at the man most of the world would idolize for generations and pulled the trigger. They didn’t start screaming at first though one or two heads began turning in confusion, then he fired the rifle again and again before pulling an old rag from his jacket pocket and wiping his prints off. He placed the gun in Oswald’s hands and considered that the lunatic should probably thank him. He never would have managed to hit the target with his poor skills.

Mayer was half a block from the scene of the shooting by the time they had Oswald in custody. He walked into a little bar on 42^nd and ignored the tense silence that practically screamed fear and panic. Everyone’s eyes were stuck to the tv which probably explained why the bartender didn’t hassle him about reaching behind the bar and grabbing a mug which he promptly filled with one of the beers on tap. Mayer dropped a ten dollar bill on the counter and found himself a booth in the back.

An alert came through on his mini tablet congratulating him on his recent success. A woman suddenly cried out as they showed Kennedy being pulled out of an ambulance, she turned to what might have been her husband or a boyfriend. He was a no nonsense looking guy with stubble on his jaw and shovel size hands but when he took the woman in his arms Mayer observed fat tears fall down his cheeks.

They weren’t the only ones who gave in to their emotions, soon the whole bar began a chorus of sobs and gasps and Mayer could imagine that the whole nation was already joining them in their grief. That grief would soon become a long period of mourning when the president finally died.

Another alert came through to his tablet as Mayer sipped his beer. They wanted him to go to Memphis, April 4^th 1968. Ahhh, the King assassination. Another amateur with bad hand eye coordination was waiting to be replaced with a competent shooter. Mayer considered putting in for overtime, he hadn’t seen the 23^rd century in two months and gallivanting from one time period to another hadn’t left him with a lot of time to check on his cat.

He grumbled a little under his breath before upending his mug and finishing off his beer. He stood up and moved towards the exit as invisible as a ghost, everyone still caught up by the events on the screen. The shooting of the president was being played on a loop as if somehow by doing that they could rewind everything and change what had happened. Mayer could understand the feeling, when his dad died he’d often dreamt of breaking regulations and maybe going back to the day of his car accident. It had been his mom who’d helped him realize that some things just happened and death wasn’t something you could avoid.

A short story about grief and revenge: Ghosts

Ghosts

The house hadn’t been maintained in a long time, its floors were covered with dust and the wood beneath had warped with time. Lyle had been happy in this house for three long years and had raised two little boys with his wife Lynda; even now looking at a framed picture of them he could still remember what that felt like. He’d made space by the house’s fireplace and left his gun right by his feet while he gazed around at the torn curtains and the couch hanging open like an empty mouth, its cushions missing and rusty springs poking through.

It had been so beautiful once. There’d been a table right by the entrance where they’d placed a bowl that was always filled with little mints for their guests and there’d been so many guests. Not for Lyle, no he was the more introverted of the two, no they always came for his fair haired Lynda who could put together a three course meal in seconds. Lyle had always been a terrible cook and his dear wife had often shoved him out of the kitchen because he was always getting underfoot.

It was here that he could still remember her like that, not in the hospital with those jagged scars on her wrists. She’d fallen apart so quickly after the boys…his beautiful wife had morphed into a shadow that floated about in a permanent daze that no therapy had ever managed to penetrate.

Lyle put their picture down and picked up the gun. Getting to his feet and ignoring the dust that clung to his khaki pants he approached the man he’d tied to a chair. Sweat had plastered the man’s greasy black hair to his head and his eyes had dark circles under them. He weakly raised his head and gave Lyle a look that promised retribution for the state he was in.

“Here we both are where it all started. I wonder when you broke into our house that night if you ever considered that things might turn out this way?” Lyle said.

He reached out and removed the strip of clothing he’d gagged the man with.

“You should have known I’d never let a punk like you put me in jail,” the man spat out.

“You’re a scumbag. Sooner or later someone was going to prosecute you for your crimes but you broke into my house and killed my..” Lyle choked on the words.

“I wasn’t going to let you put me in jail,” the man repeated.

“Well congratulations, you’re not in jail,” Lyle said raising the gun.

There was a loud bang that woke the neighbors on either side of that tragic house. The first to reach for their phone was Mrs. Carla Mitchell who’d had a lot of trouble sleeping lately ever since her husband passed away. Her white cat meowed in protest as she shifted it reaching for the phone she kept by the bedside before dialing 911.

Lyle hobbled back to the fireplace picking up the gold framed picture of his family. They’d taken it on their last vacation down to Florida to visit Lyle’s folks. They’d been on the beach and James had worn the green trunks he’d loved while Sean had been hugging his parents’ little terrier. There standing in the back in a green shirt with blue trunks was Lynda laughing and sticking her tongue out at the camera.

How quickly things had changed and now there was nothing left for Lyle. No wife or kids, just a house full of objects and ghosts that would forever weigh him down. Another loud bang startled Mrs. Mitchell causing her to draw the covers over her head as she pleaded with the 911 operator to send help quickly. 

A short story about a dragon in its last days by David Tombale: From father to son

From father to son

Jim Roden had told his son and his grandson the same bedtime story for over forty years. It was a story about a young dragon who’d given up his immortality so that he could stay with his mortal wife.

 

Jim stood outside his great grandson’s bedroom door as the boy’s father told him the story. Jim didn’t seem to notice the tears that fell from his eyes when Edward told his son how the dragon realized that even as a mortal he would still outlive all the people in his life. Jim silently closed the gap in the door. He hobbled down the stairs taking care to let his black cane bear his weight and at the bottom he headed as quickly as he could for the door desperate to get outside.

“Pop?”

Jim turned his head slowly. His fifty year old son stood by the kitchen drying his hands with a dish cloth. “You going out?”

Jim nodded his head.

 

“You want me to come with you?” his son asked.

The old man shook his head and opened the door. He knew his boy worried about him, they all did. After all it wasn’t every family that had to look after an old fossil like him.

He went to the park and sat on his usual bench by the lake and thought of Sally. She had been such a warm person. Even after all the kidney stones, arthritis and the horror of watching his hair fall out he couldn’t say he’d made the wrong decision. Life with her had been worth trading in a world of magic for their years together.

Still he missed the sky and tearing through the cold wetness of a cloud. Jim loved his family but with Sally gone the dragon and the man in him had begun to die. He stood up and placed his cane on the bench. He took off his grey cardigan, kicked off his shoes and unbuttoned his pants. He knew no one would catch him or stop him, that part of the park was too cold for most people.

Afterwards people said they heard a beast’s roar in the park and the staff found torn trees near the lake along with the naked corpse of a white haired old man. Jim Roden’s family mourned their great grandfather for long time but on certain days when his son came to lay flowers on his father’s grave he couldn’t help thinking about the pure joy that had seemed to reside in his father’s last smile.