A Strange Day in July

Since Squid Stories has resurfaced, most of what I've done is polish up old material. Thanks to an extensive, yet efficient editorial process (Thanks, Jess), they are quickly ready for posting. Then I stumbled across the Mysteries of Harris Burdick buried in the depths of my poor laptop. The author and illustrator, Chris Van Allsburg, originally intended the Mysteries for children, which is probably why they speak to me so strongly. So yesterday I began to delve into the Mysteries.

            The bright sun filtered through the sheer curtains, dappling the entire bed in a stippled pattern. A light breeze kept the curtains dancing causing the light to pulse through the room. A faint crash downstairs broke the hush. Archie’s eyes snapped open. I’ve overslept! he thought.

            After a brief struggle with the sheets, Archie was up and moving, a miniature whirlwind. He absorbed a pair of pants and socks as he tore a path to the door, where he snagged the shirt that was hanging from the doorknob. Less than ten seconds elapsed from when his eyes opened to his departure from his room.

            The stairs passed in a blur. His first stop was the kitchen for supplies. The old knapsack was propped up next to the counter where he had dropped it last night. He opened the scuffed top flap and started scooping in cookies and crackers.

            “Make sure you’re back before dark,” Archie glanced at his mom. Her attention was still focused on the newspaper in front of her face. Mom Radar was a well-established fact in the Burdick family, but it still caught Archie off guard at times.

            “Can I have some trail mix?” he asked, hopeful.

            “Yes, you can.” Archie stood waiting. Then he remembered.

            “May I have some trail mix?” Without looking up, his mother set her coffee cup on the table and pointed to the cupboard under the sink. Eagerly, Archie opened the cupboard and saw a small bag of trail mix next to a bottle of dishwashing soap.

In an effort to make the trail mix last more than three hours, Archie’s mother had divided up the stash into smaller bags and hidden them around the house. Both Archie and his father were under constant surveillance when they were in the house, otherwise they would start snooping, hunting for another bag. Mom Radar and Sister Alarm had caught them scavenging several times already that summer.

            Provisions properly prepared, Archie hefted the knapsack and crossed into the hallway. “Before dark, Archie,” followed him as he approached the door. As he knelt to lace his shoes he heard the stampede.

            “Aaaarrrchiiiiiee! Wait for meeee!” only a few notches below full Sister Alarm, Abby came crashing down the stairs. Only one year separated the siblings, but Archie sometimes felt like he was a hundred years older. Somehow though, during summers at the cabin, it was okay to have her along. He allowed her to be his sidekick, but had to be careful. If he snapped at her for anything, she would quickly become an albatross around his neck. It was good to have company though, so he waited.

            “Did you get some trail mix?” she asked, breathlessly as she buckled her shoes.

            “Yup. You ready?” Abby reached up and pulled her headband from the pegboard next to the door. The keys to the boatshed were gone; their father was surely out fishing already. She pulled the headband over her head, positioned it to make sure her hair stayed away from her face then nodded.

            The pair burst out the door. July was in full bloom. The sun fell upon the jade fir trees, sparkled off the sapphire lake, imbuing everything it touched with the magic of summer.

            Archie reached the boathouse first, stopping just long enough to pick up his sword, he continued past the open, empty building and sped down the dock. Abby was only a few steps behind, also armed.

            “Blackbeard takes no prisoners!” Sword held high above his head, Archie turned back to face his sister. She was positioned with her feet squarely planted on the dock, fists on her hips, sword poking from her right hand.

            “Neither does Admiral Hook!” she retorted, giving herself a promotion. Without another word, at least none that would be recognized as such by anyone older than eight, the battle commenced. Thrusts and parries were exchanged with an impressive rapidity. Their namesakes would have been proud of the miniature pirates.

The blades swiped through the air until Abby’s sword broke with a dull crack. A piece of the stick went clattering into the lake. There was a flash of triumph in Archie’s eyes. He stood back, graciously giving the defeated foe room to grieve. “Ye must walk the plank, Lassie Hook,” he intoned seriously.

            Abby looked up at her brother, clutching the stump of her sword. Defiance radiated out from her every pore. It was not her disposition to be compliant. “Nuh-uh, I get another sword. Those are the rules.” She stamped her foot for good measure.

            Rolling his eyes, Archie gave in, “Fine, we can find you another one at the fort.” He knew it was too early in the day to not let his sister slide by on some things, although it certainly not a rule that you got a new sword if yours broke. It was clearly her fault for selecting a poor weapon.

            Without any further discussion, they both took off running. On the way to the fort they tracked dinosaurs, discussed the pros and cons of laces versus Velcro, and found a snakeskin twelve feet long. Once at the fort, they found a new sword for Abby, but united to keep a watch for outlaws in the woods. They defended the fort from ogres and giants, throwing acorn grenades and pinecone bombs.

            A short break to feast on trail mix and crackers, followed by a cookie dessert was uninterrupted by the herds of spiders surrounding the fort. A brief food coma nap was ended by the screech of an eagle, or perhaps a hungry griffin chick, or was it called a cub? They launched an investigation. Their efforts were checked short by a massive liger that the mother had left behind to guard her chicks, or cubs. The slavering monster chased them all the way down to the lake.

            Once at the shore, they convened the defense council. They had lost the liger a little ways back and they had time to call for help. All present agreed that the best course of action was to summon the kraken. The decision made, action was immediately taken. If only all committees could be so effective. Admittedly, none are better motivated.

            Quickly, both of them scooped up rocks and commenced the summoning process. It is a delicate procedure, often undertaken in ignorance, which explains the occurrence of many mysterious and tragic accidents. Thus, it was with grave dignity that the duo began skipping rocks.

            It soon became apparent that Archie was the better skipper, doubtless a result of his experience piloting his own pirate ship. Invariably, every stone that Abby chucked into the lake struck water with a plunk and sunk. She tried an offhand toss, which made a different kind of plunk sound when it struck a tree behind her. The council reconvened, tasks were reassigned.

            Abby combed the beach for the best skipping rocks and brought them back to Blackbeard. She would supervise a couple throws and then resume the hunt, expanding her search radius. Archie kept up a steady effort, never producing more than five or six skips. It wasn’t sufficient to summon the kraken, but it was just enough to keep the intimidated liger at bay. It was buying them time.

            “These are the best of the best of the best,” Abby declared. She held her hands out, palms together, open to the sky. Resting there were four stones. Two were black shards of shale, one was the shape of a flat egg, a strange mint-green color. The last one was the holy grail of skipping stones. It was perfectly circular, had a thickness that gave it heft, but not too much weight. The taupe rock fit nicely in his hand when he plucked it from his sister’s hands.

            “This is the one,” he said in awe. “Kiss it.” He held it out to Abby, who gave it a peck. For good measure he blew on it. He had seen a man do the same thing with dice in a movie once, presumably to blow off the cooties of the woman who had kissed them first. Archie saw no reason to take chances.

            With the liger roaring from the tree line, Archie drew his arm back and let loose in a beautiful sidearm throw. The stone skipped once…twice…three times…four…five…six—and then it took a sharp right turn and disappeared. Archie’s shoulders slumped. Uncertain, Abby turned to her brother.

            “Was that enough?” Archie shook his head. Now there were only three chances left. Dejected, he threw the two pieces of shale. They were both too thin and flaky. One flew a hundred feet in the air after the first skip. Impressive, but unhelpful. The second broke into three pieces on the second impact. Without a single scrap of hope remaining, Archie tossed the third stone.

“That was the third rock I picked up today. I was saving it,” Abby said meekly. It skipped five times.

“I wish I could have it back,” Archie said ruefully. “I think I could do it if I only had another chance.” Disconsolate, he started walking along the waterline, wondering what the inside of a liger would look like. Eyes downcast, he feared what it would smell like. Then he saw it.

That green color was unmistakable, as was the eggy shape. The rock that he had just thrown was sitting on the beach in front of him. He picked it up. Walking behind him, Abby only got a glimpse of it once it was in his hands.

“You didn’t throw it?” she asked, puzzled.

“No, I did.”

“Then why are you holding it?”

“I just picked it up.”

“You got it back! Just like you wanted!” Abby clapped her hands excitedly.

“I didn’t want this one back, I meant the first one. The grey one. Brown. The rocky colored one.”

“Oh, well, you should have been more specific. Mom always says so. Say what you mean.” Archie glared at her. Then he cast his gaze out to the lake. It had been a pretty normal day so far, but now something was different. The afternoon sun glinted off tiny waves. A gentle breeze moved the trees ever so slightly. The sound of liger saliva dripping into the sand crept ever closer. But there was also something strange.

Archie drew a deep breath and faced the lake square on. He threw with all his might, but the third stone came skipping back. Its roundtrip completed, the rock landed in front of his feet, innocently waiting to be thrown again. Archie looked at Abby. Abby looked at Archie. Abby smiled first.

“Was that enough skips?” A grin started to grow on Archie’s face, too.

“Oh, most definit—” The jaws of the liger clamped down, engulfing both of the Burdick children. They were rudely swallowed and landed with twin splashes in the depths of the beast.

Before they had a chance to explore, however, an enormous splat sounded above their heads. They looked up and saw light shining through ropes of liger juice. The head with the giant mouth that had gulped them up was gone. The heavy liger body crashed onto the beach, lifeless. Archie and Abby crawled to the sand in time to see the kraken. Millions of purple tentacles waved in the air above the lake, the biggest one, at least as big around as the tree their fort was built in, was wrapped tightly around the liger’s head which was frozen in a silent snarl. With fascination they watched the head that had eaten them get lowered into the waiting beak of the kraken.

“The circle of life,” Archie said sagely. Abby nodded in agreement. They took off for home, stopping only to retrieve their swords from the fort, and once more to help the man in black save his flowery princess.

During dinner they listened to their father tell of the sixty-foot, eight-ton fish that he had caught that afternoon. He would have brought it home, he said, but the small rowboat had quickly begun to take on water, and he wasn’t sure he could make all the way home before sinking to depths.

Their mother showed off the completed newspaper crossword puzzle. One of the hardest in human history, she said. Then Archie and Abby regaled their parents with their adventures of the day.

Once the table cleared and the dishes clean by virtue of a family effort to defeat the garbage disposal creature, they practiced walking on stilts and shooting marbles with one eye shut.  Finally, tired from another full day, everyone shambled to bed.

Basking in the moonlight that was pouring through his open window, Archie saw that the mint-green egg rock lying on his pillow.

Be Afraid of the Dark

I've been sitting on this one for a while. Halloween seems like an appropriate time to let it loose.

Harry had not been scared of the dark since he was a little kid, but being alone and watching a marathon of scary movies goes a long way in whipping the imagination into a ferocious maelstrom of horror. The walk from the TV room to his bedroom was long and lightless because Harry was trying to convince himself that he was unafraid.

He did fine until he kicked Deckard’s water bowl. Convinced he had heard a poltergeist laugh at his misstep, he completed the journey to his bedroom at warp speed. A flip of the light switch as soon as it was in reach and he whirled around to make sure nothing with fangs was behind him. Next he peered into his room to make sure no zombies were quietly waiting to rend the flesh from his bones.

Satisfied that his room was secure, Harry proceeded to use it as his home base, much as he had done as a child. Everywhere in the room was established as safe, and the bed was the safest place of all. Harry could remember some nights when he was young, skipping the teeth brushing ritual so that he wouldn’t have to go back down the dark hallway to the bathroom. He considered it; he was old enough now, he could certainly retain his composure long enough to get to the bathroom light without having to run.

As he walked, on eggshells it seemed, Harry came up with a vexatious thought: although each empty doorway he passed in the hallway presented a multitude of terrors for his imagination to torture him with, the dark doorway leading into the bathroom was somehow safe? He paused. Immediately, his mind placed a vampire in the shower and the prospect of turning on the bathroom light became an overwhelming task.

Harry took a deep breath, reminded himself that he was thirty years old, much too old to jump at shadows in his own home, and resumed his walk. He came to the doorway and without entering the room turned the light on.

Poking only his nose and eyeballs over the threshold, Harry saw that there was no vampire in the shower. Goblins were not climbing out of the toilet bowl. Harry brushed his teeth quickly, however, anxious to get to the absolute safety of his bed. He eyed the drain in the sink, half-worried that something might come poking out and reach for him.

After a rinse and a spit, Harry killed the light and abandoned his maturity. Six large bounds put him back in the safety zone. After a quick look back over his shoulder, he calmly turned on his bedside light before turning off the overhead one.

He decided to read a bit of his book to take his mind off the possibility of an axe-wielding demon clown coming through his door. Or a window. He picked up his book: Stephen King. Nevermind.

Harry sat up in bed with the light on, unable to relax. In the silence, Harry thought he could hear the house breathing. He got up and turned on some music, 1812 Overture. Not exactly relaxing bedtime music, but it did the job of dispelling the total silence that had been creeping Harry out.

In fact, listening to the familiar masterpiece was soothing enough to allow Harry to recline fully and actually breath normally. He even managed to doze off.

A groan of the floorboards yanked Harry right back into consciousness. His heart was racing before he was even aware of the reason. Another creak brought his brain up to speed with his other organs. His entire body felt tense.

What Harry heard next confirmed his worst fears. A smacking sound, like a mouth savoring a flavor about to come, dripping saliva to the floor in anticipation, reached Harry’s bedroom, just loud enough to cut through the music. The mouth sounded as though it were three feet wide. The image in Harry’s mind was replete with dagger-like teeth jutting out of the orifice.

Suddenly, another part of Harry’s brain made a connection. He had heard that sound before, often—everyday even. His imagination was so worked up that it had turned the common sound of Deckard lapping at his water bowl into the sounds of a ravenous creature from Hell.

A shiver of relief crawled down Harry’s spine. Only then did he realize that he had begun to sweat. The rational side of his mind reminded him that dogs were good for comfort. Man’s best friend and all that. He got out of bed.

Several sleep-staggered steps carried Harry down the corridor to the doorway facing the kitchen, where the dog was still sating his thirst. Harry turned on the hall light that he had ignored during his teeth-brushing mission and opened his mouth to call out to Deckard. As he looked at his dog, however, Harry found his voice had taken the liberty of making an early escape.

The lamp from the hallway indirectly lit part of the kitchen. The sickly yellow light revealed not Deckard, faithful, loving pooch, but a man. On all fours, naked, it was drinking from the dog’s water bowl.

Harry froze, not because he knew the smallest sound would condemn him to a horrific death, but because fear had robbed him of the ability to move. The man was pale, the color of ash, devoid of hair, and streaked with blood.

In the shadows beyond the nightmare, Harry saw Deckard. The macabre sight almost forced Harry’s dinner out of his body via the same route it had entered. Chunks of the dog were missing; two legs were several feet away from the rest of the body. The remains were marooned in a small sea of crimson blood.

Harry realized the lapping had stopped. In that instant, his voice returned, but served only to betray him. A faint croak leaked from his throat. Harry’s eyes felt like stones in their sockets as he looked at the lurid figure.

No part of the ghoulish creature moved except for its head, which turned as though miniature people were turning a crank to power it. The jerky movement terminated in a slight jerk and Harry got his only look at the face that killed him.

The eyes were as dark as obsidian, yet seemed to be burning. The only other feature that set the face apart from any that one might see in a morgue was the mouth. The teeth were not hidden behind pale lips because there were no lips. The bloody maw looked as raw as the wounds in Deckard’s torso. Clearly the lips had gotten in the way and become part of a vicious feast. Blood and water dripped down the chin before meeting the floor.

Blood splayed through the air as Harry’s face, right arm, and a slab of his inner left thigh joined Deckard on the floor. The rest of his body never touched the ground. Hanging from the jaws of the ghastly fiend, it was destined to become a snack for its brethren as they continued their journey across the land.

Under Control

Anyone who has ever been to an airport has experienced this.

            “This is a common sense safety announcement…” Jonathan rolled his eyes. People were dumb, but airport safety announcements were dumber. “…Please keep your luggage under control…” As if it would just walk away if you did not hold it down. “…Do not leave your luggage unattended or with a stranger at anytime. If you see suspicious luggage, please report it to airport security…” Shouldn’t they have already apprehended anything suspicious at the security checkpoint? Wasn’t that their job—their only job?

            Jonathan sighed and turned his attention back to his crossword. Alluringly plump, six letters. What a horrible clue. F and T were in the middle, but that did not help Jonathan much. Islamic genies, also six letters. This one Jonathan knew! It was on the tip of his tongue. He concentrated.

Nearby, a baby began bawling. The weatherman on the television overhead was predicting mild thunderstorms. Aerosmith blasted from the headphones of the teenager sitting next to him. Jonathan realized that he was no longer trying to remember what Islamic genies were called. Instead his mind was blank, simply absorbing everything around him.

A flight for Japan was called: Tokyo, flight number 5591. The teenager rose. Jonathan did not know how the kid had heard the announcement over his music.

A second baby broke into a wail. Jonathan had noticed that no matter where one sat in an airport, or on an airplane for that matter, one was guaranteed to be within earshot of at least half a dozen children aged three or younger.

Suddenly a shadow fell upon Jonathan. “Excuse me,” a voice like chocolate said. Jonathan looked up to see a man that matched. Skin as dark as crude oil, as smooth as melted dark chocolate, the man was striking in his impeccably sharp suit.

Jonathan had long been jealous of such men. They could wear nearly anything and the color of their skin allowed them to look suave and debonair. Someone of Jonathan’s pigmentation, dressed similarly, would be taken for a lothario.

“Sorry to be a bother, but I wonder if I might beg a favor.” The man’s voice was deep enough that it rumbled through Jonathan’s chest as well as his ears. In that moment, knowing nothing further about the man beyond the way he looked and spoke, Jonathan was filled with respect and the desire to please.

“No bother at all. I was just giving up on my puzzle.” Jonathan held up the crossword.

“Perhaps I could help you as well. Any clues in particular that have you stumped?”

“As a matter of fact, yes: Islamic genies…and alluringly plump. Both six letters. I know the word for Islamic genies, but I can’t quite come up with it.”

“Djinns, I believe.”

“Yes! That’s it!”

“Any letters for the other clue?

“Yes. F and T are the two center letters.”

“Out of six?”
            “That’s right.”

“Would you mind watching my bag for a moment? I need to visit the WC.”

“No problem. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

“Thank you so much. And I’ll think about that clue while I’m gone.” With a wink the man turned and made his way toward the nearest restroom.

Jonathan glanced down to make sure that the bag was close enough that no one would mistakenly think it was unattended. It was a normal carry-on bag: it stood upright with two wheels and an extendable handle. It almost looked brand new, but the nametag attached to the handle was wrinkled and worn. Somehow the smooth man had managed to keep his bag in supremely good condition. Jonathan smiled. The bag was clearly under control.

Often, when seated for a long time, Jonathan’s back developed aches and sometimes even shooting pains. One such pang jolted through him and a dull ache grew in the aftermath of the strike. He had learned years before that the only way to alleviate the pain was to get his feet up. Unfortunately, he carried a backpack when flying, which was not helpful when he needed a footrest. He eyed the solid, erect bag in front of him.

A moment’s hesitation, then Jonathan slipped his shoes off and propped his feet up on the kind man’s bag. Surely he would understand when Jonathan explained. The pain began to subside almost immediately. Someday, Jonathan would have to visit a doctor and find a more permanent solution.

Looking back at his crossword, Jonathan heaved a sigh. Still stumped. The bag shifted beneath his feet. Wheels must have slipped, he thought, and slouched a bit more in his seat to accommodate the new position.

Alluringly plumped, he mused. A woman waddled by who was certainly plump, but did not qualify as alluring, at least, not in Jonathan’s mind.

The bag slammed to the floor with a resounding clack. Jonathan was slouching so far that he nearly slipped off his seat completely with the loss of his foot support. A jab of pain went up his spine.

Somewhat embarrassed, Jonathan shot a look in the direction of the restroom. The owner of the bag was not in sight. Jonathan stood. The extendable handle had popped out. He bent down and grabbed the handle to right the bag.

As soon as Jonathan’s hand grasped the grip, it slid back into place. In the process, the tips of all of Jonathan’s fingers were pinched. A gasp of disbelief was all he could manage before the handle whipped back out to its extended position.

For a moment Jonathan was sure that he had only imagined that the bag had acted strangely. His fingers began to smart. Nope, it definitely had happened. His back was also sending unhappy messages to his brain as he was still bent over.

Jonathan straightened up, bringing the bag with him. They both stood still. Jonathan stared at the bag. Now that he focused more closely on the carry-on he noticed that it was not in as mint of condition as he had first thought. The little black wheels were worn and the deep blue fabric obscured several long scratches that traversed the sides from top to bottom. The inside of the well where the handle retracted to also showed usage.

Scrutinizing the bag as hard as he was it is not surprising that Jonathan noticed the movement the exact second it began. The bag was slowly but steadily scooting away from Jonathan’s seat. He put his free hand on top of the bag and pushed down to keep it stationary. It slowed and stopped.

Breathing a bit heavily, Jonathan stared at the luggage and wondered what was happening. His eyes widened even further when it resumed sliding across the floor. He pushed down as hard as he could. The bag was as hard as a marble pillar.

Bent over with one hand on the handle and the other pressing down on top of the bag, Jonathan looked like he was merely trying to get the handle down. Not that he was worried what he looked like. The crossword lay forgotten on the floor. Jonathan had a new puzzle to occupy his mind.

The bag seemed to be gradually moving faster as Jonathan applied more pressure with his hand. On a hunch he jumped onto the luggage in the seated position. The bag kicked into high gear.

Instead of halting the progress of the carry-on, Jonathan was racing across the airport floor, riding the bag like a segway. The handle, which he gripped firmly with both hands, split his legs, which were extended out in front.

He sped past the bathroom where the owner of the bag had disappeared only moments before, and then went blazing past the food court. He tried to bring his heels down to slow his momentum, but his socks merely slid along the floor quickly creating heat. He picked his feet back up.

He blew by a couple shops and then found himself hurtling down a deserted hallway. Jonathan quickly saw that the hallway ended where there was a door that read “Airport Employees Only.”

Traveling at what felt like 40 miles per hour a mere two feet off the ground, Jonathan had only a moment after reading that sign to experience a twinge of dread that despite not being an employee he was going through that door. Unfortunately, that door also looked locked.

Without slowing even a smidge, the bag hurled Jonathan into the door. In anticipation of the collision, he leaned back, which threw his feet up to the level of the push bar. Fantastic crashes resounded down the empty hallway as Jonathan’s sock-adorned feet broke the lock and lead the way into airport employee territory.

Tears were streaming down Jonathan’s cheeks. He was not sure if they were from pain or pure terror. He wanted desperately to let go, but his fingers were curled so tightly around the handle that he did not feel that he could persuade them to let go. Plus there was a part of his brain that quite convincingly painted a picture of him sliding across the floor on the seat of his pants for a long time.

Suddenly the floor ahead seemed to drop away. Before Jonathan had time to process what caused the phenomenon of the disappearing horizon, he was jouncing down a metal staircase. His teeth clattered and he bit harshly into his tongue, which been previously flapping around his open mouth.

The unpleasant experience of riding the stairs was mercifully over quickly. Before Jonathan could be thankful, the bag took its first turn. It did not slow down in the slightest. The result was a subjective increase in speed for Jonathan. The bag rolled up onto the left wheel and careened to the right. Jonathan’s stomach shoved its way up the left wall of his body and tried to give a high five to his left lung. He simultaneously felt like he was drowning and like he had to vomit.

The right wheel thumped back onto the floor and the luggage straightened. To his horror, Jonathan saw that there was another turn ahead. He quickly discovered that underneath the normal airport, where civilians walked everyday, was a maze of corridors lined with pipes where only employees were authorized to go, although they apparently did not take advantage of the privilege because Jonathan did not see another soul.

Jonathan also developed a jealousy of NASCAR drivers. When he first entered the labyrinth of hallways he was forunate enough to take two right turns in a row. The second turn had a much lesser effect on his organs than the first. Doubtless turning in the same direction continuously caused the digestive and respiratory systems of the drivers to be predisposed to being lodged off center and therefore rendered the experience less wrenching and nauseating. Unfortunately, after that initial repetition of turn directions Jonathan was not so lucky. Every turn seemed to be seeking a different destination. Once Jonathan even felt as though he had been turned upside down.

Just as he felt as though his intestines were going to attempt to escape from the confused madness of his insides, the bag squealed to a halt. Jonathan was immediately hit by an enormous wave of dizziness and was sure that he would fall to the floor.

He heard a ding. He struggled to focus his eyes. He could just make out the elevators doors as they slid open. The bag scooted into the car. The initial rise of elevation caused Jonathan’s stomach to seek refuge with his intestines, a different, but not a more desirable effect than had been exacted on him by the maze fiasco.

The elevator came to a halt and Jonathan heard anther ding behind him. Then the worst possible thing happened. The bag immediately jumped to speed, backwards. Jonathan exited the elevator car without the contents of his stomach, which resolutely decided they were better off on the floor of the elevator than inside him. Jonathan was momentarily disgusted to find he was jealous of a pile of vomit; his jealously soon expanded to include everyone around him who had the distinct privilege to not be riding a rolling carry-on.

Wide-eyed stares followed Jonathan as he blazed across the smooth floor. Several children burst into happy laughter as they caught sight of him. Jonathan had given up being surprised by the devious new ways the luggage created to torture him when he was startled by the bag’s sudden stop. Jonathan, however, maintained his momentum.

By some miracle the bag had found its way back to Jonathan’s seat. His rear end collided into its previous position when Jonathan had been slouching. His feet found themselves atop the carry-on once again. Anyone who hadn’t seen his fantastic ride to his seat did not give Jonathan a second glance so normal was his appearance.

“Zaftig,” someone said. Dazed, Jonathan turned his head to see the sharply dressed man sitting next to him holding his crossword puzzle. Jonathan’s voice had apparently been left behind during the ride, no doubt keeping his stomach contents company in the elevator. His mouth, however, jawed open and shut.

“It seems there was an extremely literate vandal in the particular stall that I attended. Zaftig was written on door.” Jonathan stopped moving his useless mouth and just left it hanging as he stared at the man. “A mighty fine clue, I say.”

The loudspeaker rang out in a female tone. It must have been a departure announcement because the man then said, “That’s my flight. Thank you for watching my bag. Have a good day.”

Jonathan was stunned. He watched the man walk away as if the strangest thing he had witnessed that day was the result of someone with a large vocabulary and a permanent ink marker. The sounds coming out of the overhead speak became words and Jonathan listened.

“This is a common sense safety announcement. We would like to ask you to please keep your luggage under control…”