The Lost

by Stuart Conover

Through the caves and tunnels the black pyramid lay.

In its center, the steps into the abyss took us to another world, another realm. Finally emerging into a room that stretched for an eternity, we paid tribute in the dark. We told the story of our lives. Leaving our memories carved into the wall, lost to us forever. Each tale lulling the sleeping Gods to keep to their slumber. They who must never awaken.

They fed upon our love, our fears, our loss, our terror. All gone now. We are the lost. Forgotten saviors with no name and no past.

◊ ◊ ◊

Stuart Conover
Stuart Conover is a father, husband, rescue dog owner, horror author, blogger, journalist, horror enthusiast, comic book geek, science fiction junkie, and IT professional. With all of that to cram in on a daily basis it is highly debatable that he ever is able to sleep and rumors have him attached to an IV drip of caffeine to get through most days. A resident of the suburbs of Chicago most of Stuart’s fiction takes place in the Midwest. From downtown to the suburbs to the cornfields—the area is ripe for urban horror of all facets.

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The Artist’s Model

by Kent Swarts

Paulos Vuillard stood behind his easel as if hiding from the world and only peered around the corner to view me, be it ever so briefly. He has painted me four times, twice nude always standing. Paulos never lets me see a work. “No one can view my unfinished art.” Both introverted and secretive, Paulos rarely leaves his home except to shop for groceries and drink at the bar where I work.

When I started working at the bar, I was told that he drank here only on Tuesday nights and had for the past several years. Why only on Tuesday? A patron said it was the quietest night and then saluted me with his stein. This demure, youthful man intrigued me. I asked my boss to routinely schedule me for Tuesday nights.

Mr. Vuillard stands about five ten, is slightly built and has hair to his shoulders that he keeps beautifully groomed. Otherwise, his clothes are shabby and often are spotted or smeared with paint of various colors. Vuillard looks to be near thirty, but when I commented to a patron, she said he was in his mid-twenties thus making him two years older than I. I was told he was quite gifted and well known.

The first few Tuesdays I worked, Mr. Vuillard stared at me. His eyes would follow me as I flitted around the room taking drink orders and serving. At first, it bothered me, but after two weeks, I grew accustomed to his stare.

One Tuesday night near closing, he asked if I were busy next week during the day. I must have appeared astonished because he looked worried and then frightened. Without delay, I said I was available and asked why he was curious. He said he wanted me to model for a painting or two he had ‘conceptualized’. I agreed, and that is how we came to be a couple if even for only the briefest time.

I arrived at his house at 10:00 each morning, and he would place me in the pose he wanted. After each session, he thanked me and paid me a tidy sum. I would ask to see the painting, but he said no, they were not finished.

Midway through the following month, he asked if I would model once again to which I said yes. This time, he asked me to pose nude. I, being from a puritanical family, blushed and told him I had to think on it. He apologized for offending me and looked hurt. I immediately said yes. For the next two weeks, I posed nude three days a week while he peered from behind his easel. When he told me I was done, I asked to see the two works; and he said the same thing as before.

I became testy. I told him I had spent quite some time standing like a statue neither smiling nor frowning. He said, “My dear, I promise you will see them the day they are finished, but not a moment sooner. I have to complete the background. You are quite complex. What will the setting be? I put the paintings aside until we discover.”

I nodded not fully comprehending.

“My dear, come, and together we just might find each proper setting.”

We began dating. He packed lunch baskets, and we’d walk through the park or downtown and have lunch on the courthouse steps or by the river where the old railroad bridge crossed. He was sweet, kind and laughed. He asked me to dinner one Tuesday night and took me to a French cafe I suggested earlier. I ate very little, how could I? He told me he loved me and reached for my hand. I gasped and stretched my hand to his. Joined in this way, I felt devotion.

He smiled so warmly, when he dropped me at my door. I kissed him goodnight on the cheek because he pulled away too shy to be kissed on the mouth. Over the next few weeks, he took me to dinner, the theater to watch a ballet and the opening of an art exhibit showcasing Archer Courier.

We held hands; he promised to love me always. But he never kissed me passionately. I had not told him I loved him. I wanted to be entirely sure before I did.

One day when I arrived after he asked me over, I started to strip thinking he’d enjoy seeing me naked for a painting. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed.

“I’m—”

“You mustn’t. My wife will no longer understand.”

I reeled in horror. “Wife?”

“She returned from France yesterday. I wanted you to look at two paintings of my garden.”

“You told me you love me; you’d cherish me forever.”

“I do and I will. I love you with all my heart.”

“I really don’t understand.”

“It is quite simple. I love my wife, and I love you. I can only be married . . .”

I was no longer listening. The canvasses that held my image were no longer stacked face toward the wall. In their place stood a table with a vase of flowers. “You’re painting a table with a vase?” I screamed.

“Yes. My wife creates the scenes I paint.”

Astonished, I gazed with hatred into his eyes. “You didn’t finish those paintings of me because your wife wasn’t here to pick the damn background?”

“I showed her the paintings,” he pleaded. “She said they were not my best work, so I will start over with a subject she picks.”

I turned leaving. What a fool I had been. He was incapable of making decisions. He always asked what I wanted to do, and we did most of those things. At dinner, he ate whatever I ate. I thought these things were idiosyncrasies of this wonderfully talented artist. Now I find he is unable to make any decision even about whom he loves.

He either loves everyone or is incapable of true love.

◊ ◊ ◊

Kent Swarts
Kent Swarts is a retired aerospace engineer and an active astronomer. He publishes the club’s newsletter. He is a published author of short stories in three anthologies and online. He lives in Waco, Texas with his wife.

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Raw

by Steve Wechselblatt
Grimsby’s eyes follow the building, which stretches up sixty stories or more. Made of some shiny space-age steel and platinum alloy, the structure arches heavenward with an oddly-angled roof that looks like a beret. As he enters, Grimsby’s footsteps sound hollow on the pink marble floor. Recently shined, it makes for treacherous walking, especially in wingtips with new leather soles, so he shuffles with tiny, duck-like steps toward the round glass elevator bank on the other side of the atrium. He remembers what Dunhill said.

“You can either take the elevator from the lobby, or you can disappear up what looks like a big white cocoon into a tight spiral staircase. The entrance is on the fifth floor near the elevator bank. Be careful when you arrive. Burning candles in glass lanterns flank the floor along the entranceway. Make sure you watch your step. Otherwise you won’t notice them until it’s too late and kick one over.”

Although he had been warned, Grimsby stumbles into a lantern, distracted by the young hostess who was nude except for a pair of black slippers with silver tassels. She has a beautiful, rounded ass, and every man coming up the stairs, and some of the women, are busy checking her out.

“Don’t worry, it happens all the time,” she says, not all that reassuringly. She leads Grimsby past the billiards table upholstered in felt the color of grape jelly and into the bar, where Dunhill and Wentworth wait, a bottle of Laphraog standing between them like a golden sentinel.  Dunhill is fit, tan as a berry; but Wentworth’s round white stomach, partly obscured by thick brown hair, spills down to his upper thighs. Neither of them wears a stitch of clothing, but both seem comfortable in their skin, the way old men often do and young men can envy, but not emulate. Grimsby notices the men and women all tend to be at least middle-aged. A conspiratorial hush, a murmuring just beneath the conscious listening of the guests, pervades the room. Only the discrete movements of nubile waitresses and silent busboys attest to the lengths the restaurant will go to pleasure its patrons.

“Dunhill gestures toward a small room to their right. “The lockers are over there. Take off your clothes. We’ll wait here,” he says, caressing the bottle with his thumb.

* * *

Grimsby had been surprised and elated when Dunhill and Wentworth had sponsored his admission to their exclusive private club, Raw. He’d never expected to be let in, and he wondered if this were an indication that he might become the firm’s youngest partner. He knew he was a first-rate actuary, but he had neither the experience nor the polish of his seniors. He had only been out of the country once, and then only to Calais.

Grimsby’s hands shake as he removes his clothes—now he knows why the club was named Raw! He looks around, noticing there are three small, connected dining rooms. His has a dark green marble fireplace big enough to roast a goat, although no meat is served. Above the wainscoting of burl and below the wedding-cake crown moldings, original fixtures ordered up by some long-dead architect, hang framed photographs in black and white, one above another, gallery style. They show celebrities from the 1950s, ’60s and ’70s, dozens and dozens of them. When Grimsby asks about them, a server brings him an explanatory booklet printed on heavy paper stock. Dunhill and Wentworth look on, amused.

Their waiter seems eager to talk about the menu. Seafood is listed under Seafood and salads under Salads. Grimsby nods. The three men order. They receive a small round loaf of bread, cut in quarters, steaming. “India Pale Ale-rye sourdough with buttermilk and butter.” The crust shatters on impact; the crumb has a prickle of tartness. In five minutes, the loaf is gone and Grimsby feels utterly bereft.

When the seafood-under-Seafood arrives, he understands the bread was a preview of what’s in store. There’s citrus-marinated shaved fennel, so bright that it tingles, over the chilled lobster salad served in its shell. A sweet king crab leg with cucumber-pickle curls and dashi jelly rides high on chipped ice spread out over a silver pedestal. Cubes of raw scallop and hamachi are spread over a chunky pesto.

“Holy shit,” Grimsby says. This chef can really cook. Who is he, anyway?”

Wentworth dabbles sauce from his dimpled double chin. “Arnaud Ambrosio. Amazing, isn’t it? And everything is made without frying or roasting. It’s all done through soaking, sprouting, blending and dehydrating. Take this buttery cashew cheese, for instance,” he says, holding out a spoonful for Grimsby to taste, “It’s made with sage, balsamic syrup and pink peppercorn. Nothing short of culinary alchemy.”

Grimsby tastes. His eyes widened, taste buds frenzied joyfully. “My God!” he manages.

Dunhill bursts out laughing. “I think Grimsby’s in love.” He calls out to the waiter. “Can Arnaud come to the table?”

The waiter nods, “I will ask.” A nimbus of soft black hairs surrounds his pale pink nipples. It’s the only hair visible on his body, aside from the long hair on his head that curls down toward his neck.

A few minutes later Arnaud comes out. He has long blonde hair, fair skin and large brown eyes, which look even larger since he wears extremely thick glasses. It is as though he belongs neither to the world of the sighted nor the blind, and has been given the extraordinary gift of perfect taste buds to compensate.

Grimsby gestures, his mouth and heart unable to convey the full measure of his gratitude. Arnaud smiles as if he’s seen this before from many men and women and knows just what to say.

“I am a chef. This is what I do. Not for you. Not even for all my patrons. I create fantasy dishes solely for my own pleasure. Your feelings do not matter one iota. As long as you pay your bill, or my friends Dunhill or Wentworth pay for you, I am content that you enjoy these perfect, exquisite moments I have made.”

Grimsby watches Arnaud’s thin lips move among the clatter of plates being lifted and taken away. He thinks for a moment that things could have ended differently, but realizes they cannot.

Dunhill’s closed lips tighten into a smirk. “You know why you’re here, don’t you?”

Grimsby clears his throat. He picks up his glass and sips water slowly, searching for the right answer.  “A test?”

Wentworth nods.

But Dunhill shoots back at him. “What kind of test?”

Grimsby suddenly feels sick to his stomach. He thinks of his grandfather, who rebuilt his pub in the East End after the blitz with his own hands. His father, who died at Dunkirk to preserve this land. For the middle-aged sybarites who sat across from him? “To see if I was worthy of being a partner, I suppose. And I acted like a child.”

Dunhill looks at him with something approaching approval. “You’re right… But at least you didn’t chicken out. You’re sitting here with your pecker hanging out just like the rest of us.
Wentworth continues. “We invited Liz, you know. Somehow, she’d heard about the place and begged off. Reluctant to show her goodies. I get it. But it’s not as if we care one way or the other. We could buy and sell women better-looking than Liz. We wanted to see if she had balls, so to speak. And you?  You showed up. She didn’t. That’s it. Game, set, and match, Grimsby. Bye-bye Liz.”

“You mean…” Grimsby pauses.

“Up or out,” Dunhill says.  “She wanted the partnership. All she had to do was change some thoughts and release some beliefs.”

Grimsby’s mouth opens but Dunhill talks over him. “I know what you’re thinking. It sounds simple enough. But it’s not always easy. And the changes you most resist are exactly the areas you need to change the most.”

Grimsby likes Liz. He knows he should defend her. But he doesn’t know what to say. It’s harder for women, he thinks, but maybe this is the way the universe is supposed to work.

◊ ◊ ◊

Steve Wechselblatt
Steve Wechselblatt retired from a moderately satisfying career in strategic communications and moved to the creative mountain community of Asheville, North Carolina. He started writing fiction about three years ago. At the moment, he’s taking a breather from his first novel by writing outrageous short stories for upper middlebrow readers.

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An Old-Fashioned Romance

by Jill Hand

Eleanor entered the lunchroom and stepped onto the metal grid, activating LunchLady.  There was a faint whirr of gears and an electronic hum as a broad smile spread across LunchLady’s motherly face, causing twin dimples to appear in her rosy cheeks.  “Hey, hon!  Howya doin’?  What didja bring to eat today?  Something good, I hope!”

LunchLady’s chummy way of talking had been programmed in an effort to imitate the archaic speech of the early twenty-first century.  People were nostalgic about that long-ago era, which they imagined (quite incorrectly, but isn’t that always the way with nostalgia?) to have been much nicer than their own.  It was lunchtime at CorpCorp, LLC on the planet Earth in the year 2112.

Eleanor removed the lid from her bento box and held up her lunch for inspection.  With a whirr of gears, LunchLady bent down to assess it.  Like the lunch ladies of old, she wore a hairnet and a cotton-print bib apron.  The ladle she held in one hand was there just for show, since she didn’t actually serve lunch: she monitored the employees’ lunches to make sure they contained the proper nutrition.

Straightening up with a whirr, she said, “Gosh, that looks yummy!”

It didn’t look even remotely appetizing.  Eleanor’s lunch consisted of a limp piece of steamed whitefish on a bed of spinach, with a beige-colored soy biscuit for dessert.  It was the sort of thing people were supposed to eat for lunch in 2112, unless they wanted a visit from a Health Officer.

LunchLady’s eyes flashed bright green as she ran an analysis on the contents of the bento box.  Then she intoned, in a staccato monotone, “Calories totaling 167. Four grams of fat.  Three grams of carbs.  Result: satisfactory.  Recommendation for optimum physical fitness: one-half mile brisk walk or fifteen minutes on the stationary bicycle, whichever the employee prefers.”

Analysis completed, her eyes resumed their former benign appearance.   She told Eleanor, “Enjoy your lunch, hon, and have a nice afternoon.”

Eleanor sat down at an empty table by the glass wall overlooking a courtyard paved in black gravel.  It contained a pond bordered in smooth rocks in which koi swam, and some white cement benches.  The lunchroom’s décor was devoid of excess ornamentation, furnished with tables and chairs in bright primary colors.  Its walls of unpainted brick displayed artwork of swirling, amorphous shapes that might have been cells growing in Petri dishes, or perhaps some kind of seed pods.  CorpCorp was proud of its stylish lunchroom and courtyard.  It considered the design to be cutting edge when in fact, except for the clothes everyone wore and the fact that no one was smoking, it could have been lifted straight out of the nineteen-fifties.

A man approached the table where Eleanor sat, carrying a bento box in which there was a heap of steamed greens, a soy biscuit and a hard-boiled egg.  He indicated the empty chair across from her.  “Mind if I sit here?”

Eleanor said she didn’t mind.

“I’m Trey Andrews.  I work in accounting.  You work in product development, right?”

Eleanor said that was right.  “I’m Eleanor,” she told him.  “Eleanor Mitchell.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said.  “You want to see a picture of my virtual girlfriend?”

That was the standard opening conversational gambit upon meeting someone new: you showed them a picture of your virtual girlfriend or boyfriend, or your virtual kids or pets.  If you really wanted to impress somebody you might show them a picture of your virtual vacation home.

He took out his comm screen and thumbed it on to reveal a stunningly beautiful woman wearing a figure-hugging red satin gown.  The virtual girlfriend made the supermodels of the twenty-first century look like sacks of potatoes.  She smiled brilliantly and spun around, waggling her butt provocatively.  Then she looked over her shoulder, winked and blew a kiss.

“Wow!” Eleanor said.  “She’s very pretty.”

“I know, right?” said Trey proudly. “Want to see my virtual kids?”

The virtual kids – a boy and a girl – were produced and duly admired.

“I’m a lucky guy to have such a beautiful virtual family,” Trey said, putting away the comm screen.  “How about you?  Do you have a virtual boyfriend or girlfriend?”

Eleanor poked at her whitefish with an ecoplast fork before replying.  “I used to have a virtual boyfriend but it got kind of boring.  It didn’t feel…”

She tried to think of the right word to describe how she felt about Ash, her former virtual boyfriend.  He said all the right things, how he adored her and how good she made him feel, but there was something missing.  When he sent her flowers on her birthday (virtual flowers) or presented her with a love poem for Valentine’s Day, it just made her feel sort of blah.

As if he’d read her mind, Trey said, “I know what you mean.  It didn’t feel real.”
She looked at him in surprise.  Was he blushing?  He was!

“Um, listen, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.  I haven’t been stalking you or anything, because that’s very inappropriate behavior …” He looked around solemnly at the banks of cameras that recorded everything that went on in the lunchroom before continuing.  “I simply mean to say that I’ve noticed you around the building and you seem like a nice person so thought maybe we could see a show together, or have dinner sometime.”

Now Eleanor was blushing.  “I’d like that,” she said.

“It’s called a date,” Trey said, proud to know the archaic term for the kind of evening he was proposing.  “We’d do something fun together, talk and get to know each other, and then I’d escort you home.”

Eleanor recalled seeing that sort of thing happen in old vids.  “And then I’d tell you that I had a wonderful time, and you’d say you did too, and you hope we can see each other again soon.”

“Exactly,” Trey replied.  “I would be gallant and dashing, just like in the olden times.”  He had a thought.  “Maybe I’d kiss you, but only if you wanted me to, and just once, gently and respectfully.  And then I’d doff my hat…is that the word for when you go like this?”  He made a hat-tipping gesture in the air next to his forehead.

Eleanor said she thought it sounded right.  “Anyway, I’d doff my hat and say good night,” Trey told her, looking pleased by the romantic picture he’d created.

The food in their bento boxes grew cold, but they were too busy smiling shyly at each other to notice.

◊ ◊ ◊

Jill Hand

Jill Hand is the author of The Blue Horse, a science fiction/fantasy novella from Kellan Publishing based on a true story.  It contains no zombies, moody teenage vampires, or young people forced to fight to the death in a post apocalyptic future. It does, however, contain humor and some lively historical facts.

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The Clincher

by M. C. Tuggle

“I almost wish those damn aliens had picked another ad agency.”

We sat on the balcony of Jack Council’s condo on the 33rd floor of the McCall Tower, enjoying the crisp October air and what Jack called his “buzzard’s eye view” of Charlotte. The glass office buildings below sparkled like jewels in the light of the setting sun.

Jack’s doctor had warned me this might happen. I tried to think of something to say.

Jack growled. “Hell, my firm’s got the whole world on fire with the aliens’ PR campaign, and I’m stuck here.”

I covered my mouth. But not fast enough.

Jack shot me a dirty look. “What’s so damn funny?”

“C’mon, Jack. The rest of the world thinks this alien stuff is for real. But you?”

“I don’t buy their whole story, but so what? It’s a damn good campaign.”

“Think so?”

“People in every country can’t wait for them to get here. That YouTube series about how Earth people are smarter and more accepting of strangers than the inhabitants of Tau Ceti—goddamn, that’s brilliant. Damn fine work.”

I started to tell him, but caught myself. His doctor had told me the hyper-aggressive culture of the advertising business had triggered Jack’s breakdown. She’d also warned that being so close and yet so far from the “alien mania” gripping the world had inflamed his anxiety.

So I kept quiet and gazed past the city at distant blue hills.

An old memory changed my mind, and I sat up straight. It was Jack who had mentored me when the other partners snubbed what they called a diversity hire. I decided he’d want to know.

“Jack, I scripted those videos.”

He twisted in his chair and stared at me. His hand probed the table beside him. He found his glass and raised it to his mouth. Jack took a long, slow swallow. When he finished, he set it down with a loud clink against the marble and shut his eyes.

I felt my chest tighten. My God. What have I done?

Jack opened his eyes and wiped them with his open palm. “Goddamn, I should’ve known. General Suarez even mentioned those videos when he told Congress why he trusted the aliens.” He tilted his bottle of Glenkinchie my way, and I nodded. He sloshed some into a glass and said, “Thank you. At least I’ve got a dog in this fight.”

A wave of relief swept over me. I took a deep breath and reached for my scotch. “Like you always said, Jack: You clinch your target market by aiming for the head and hitting the heart.”

Jack held out his glass and I tapped it with mine. He said, “That’s my champ.”

“Thanks.” The Glenkinchie went down warm and silky, and hinted of cinnamon. I studied the golden reflection of the Charlotte skyline in my glass a moment, then looked up at Jack. “So. You really believe aliens are scoping us out?”

“Damn right. Remember when they sent that warning about the telemetry glitch that could’ve crippled the space station?”

“Sure. The president even thanked the aliens on TV. But I think NASA was in on that.”

“Why would NASA lie?”

“To build support for the space program.”

“Nah. That was for real.”

I studied Jack and said, “So what part of the story don’t you believe?”

Jack leaned forward. “Their intentions.” He settled back in his chair and said, “Before my—problems—I read their first emails to us.” Jack cocked his head at me. “What do you think?”

“I think my job is to tell the story my clients want told. Anyone could be sending us those emails and wire transfer payments. I bet Apple’s behind this, building the biggest stealth campaign ever for some amped-up product.”

Jack shook his head. “I could feel it in the tone of their writing. It’s aliens all right. And this is all one big-ass trap.”

Trap? I bit my tongue. While preparing me for the visit, Jack’s doctor had reminded me how anxiety disorder made even the smartest people fearful and suspicious. She was right.

I heard sharp tapping on glass behind me and turned toward the sliding door. Emma, Jack’s live-in care giver, stood on the other side waving at me. I waved back that everything was okay.

“Jack, if you think this ad campaign is a trap, why do you want to be part of it?”

Jack’s sagging face crinkled into a half-smile. “Hell, it’s inevitable, ain’t it? Sooner or later something out there’s going to get us. Killer asteroid, black hole, space wolves. And I sure as hell ain’t got much time left. So why not be part of the show? I say let’s go out with the last, greatest ad campaign in history.”

I laughed, despite myself. I leaned back in my seat. He sounded like the old Jack Council.

The sliding glass door rumbled open behind me, but I didn’t bother turning. It was probably time for Jack’s meds.

Emma breezed past us and leaned against the balcony, one hand shading her eyes.

“Whatcha looking for, Emma?”

Emma turned and beamed at Jack. “They’re here. It’s on CNN. I tried to get you. Their ships have been spotted in Europe and America.”

I jumped to my feet and scanned the skies.

Emma pointed and said, “There they are!”

I looked up in time to see a dark cluster high overhead drop at amazing speed. It broke up into hundreds of grey objects that spread across the sky and zipped off in different directions. One headed directly toward us.

It was true. My heart pounded. Jack’s scotch amplified the thrill that shot through me.

The ship slowed to a soundless descent. It was going to land in the street below.

A scene I’d visualized and described in countless PR pieces and had imagined to be impossible now unfolded before me. I felt a cold shudder run down my back.

As it coasted by our balcony, I stared at a craft I could never have imagined. Instead of the sleek, elegant space vessel I’d envisioned, the dark grey ship looked like a Civil War ironclad. It even had what looked like a conical turret with black streaks that could have been scorch marks. Crystal-clear windows wrapped around the front of the ship, and as it crept past us, I could see the occupants. They had to be seven feet tall, with long, wiry arms, and hairy snouts, like possums.

It looked like they smiled as they passed us.

We watched the ship until it reached the street, now overflowing with people. Three hatches on the ship flew open, and white beams danced over the crowd.

Emma and I exchanged joyous smiles. Then, despite the distance, I heard a roar from the street, like ocean surf. The crowd appeared to flow into the ship like liquid being blotted up.

I blinked in disbelief. Emma gasped, and when I turned, saw that Jack had joined us. He peered down over the railing and said, “Here we go.”

◊ ◊ ◊

M. C. Tuggle

M. C. Tuggle is a writer in Charlotte, North Carolina. His fantasy, sci-fi, and literary stories have been featured in Space Squid, Kzine, Bewildering Stories, Mystic Signals, Fabula Argentea, and Fiction 365. The Novel Fox released his novella “Aztec Midnight” in December, 2014. Mike’s writing blog is mctuggle.com.

 

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A Likely Story

by Jean Blasiar

“Miss Hastings, do you know why you are being dismissed?”

“I believe so. I was slow.”

“Not just slow, Miss Hastings, you deliberately bogged down the cashier line in some sort of protest. I heard it was about the layoffs.”

“No, sir.”

“You have five minutes to tell your side of the story, Miss Hastings.”

“Yes, sir. Well… I was waiting on a customer who wanted twelve of the cashmere sweaters with the tiny pearl buttons and who insisted that I button every sweater before she would take them. The buttons are very small and the buttonholes are even smaller. I was afraid that she would notice how impossible it was to re-button the sweaters and we would lose the sale for
$2,400 plus tax.”

“Wait.  How much?”

“$2,400. Plus tax. They’re $200 each, in twelve different colors. The customer wanted one of each. They were on hangars, unbuttoned. Anyway, there were several people in line behind this customer and I was trying my best to re-button the sweaters when Mister Hodges, my manager, came over to assist me. Unfortunately, Mister Hodges has very large hands—how well, I know—and he was unable to hook the little hole over the tiny pearl button also. When I bent down under the counter to get some more tissue paper for the sweaters, Mister Hodges bent down to help me—not that I needed help with the tissue paper—and that’s when he cupped his hand around my breast and—I guess you could say—tweaked it. He whispered that if I lost this sale, he’d deal with me in the back room…again.”

“Miss Hastings…” Mister Herbert said, turning quite scarlet.

“It wasn’t so much the tweak that made me scream, “Get out of here!” as it was the big spider in the box of tissue paper under the cashier’s desk. I was afraid that the customer thought I was talking to her because she stormed out of line calling Mister Hodges and the store some vile names. I believe she witnessed the tweak. She left the department screaming how I was an innocent “slave”… I believe that was the word she used, “slave”. Anyway, I was an innocent slave to a lecherous molester and she saw the whole thing. She even volunteered to be a witness if my sexual harassment suit against the store went to trial.”

Mister Herbert was now gasping for breath, grabbing for his water glass and pitcher.

“I guess it’s a good thing that Mister Hodges left early, right after the woman who screamed at him, “I saw that!” hit him with her purse. Oh, and the other three women in the line were returning sweaters with the tiny pearl buttons. Before I could finish writing up the last refund, I was told that you wanted to see me.”

Miss Hastings smiled at Miser Hodges as she waited for him to speak.

◊ ◊ ◊

Jean Blasiar
Jean Blasiar is a published author with 12 books for middle grades, playwright (one of her plays was optioned by 20th Century Fox for a pilot), and theatrical producer.  Please visit her website, www.jeanblasiar.com, for a complete listing of her books, plays and productions.

 

 

 

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