The Harvester

    My assistant Marco met me at our usual spot, the Starlight Diner on Hempstead Turnpike, to discuss any leads or assignments he found. My name is Giovanni “John” Gazzo and I am a private investigator here in Long Island.

    “Gazzo, d’ya hear?” Marco says. “They ruled that guy’s death in Uniondale as suicide.”

    “No kidding,” I say, “his skank wife was cheating on him. I would have off'd myself too, you seen the broad?”

    Marco coughs a laugh. “Probably the best he could get,” he says. “But, she wants you to investigate the crime scene again.”

     I peered from my coffee cup. “What for?” I ask.

    “She believes he was murdered,” Marco says. He passes me a folded piece of paper.

    “What’s the point?” I ask, pushing it back to him. “He off'd himself, case closed.”

    “Not taking the case then?” Marco asks. “Come on, it pays the bills, right?”

    I take back the paper and unfold it. It reads 3712 Lawrence Street. Uniondale.

    I wasn’t a fan of taking on closed cases, but this one needed my attention.

    “Yeah, I’ll talk to the widow.” I walk towards the exit. “Marco, you got my bill?” I ask. “Great, thanks,” I say before he can respond.

    As I close the door behind me, I hear Marco say, “Wait, what?”

   

    I went over to the residence; it was only 5 miles away from the diner. I saw the vehicle, a black 1967 Ford Galaxie 500, sitting in solidarity. The widow was already outside smoking a cigarette.

    “Ma’am,” I say as I wave to her.

    “Offic’sa,” she says.

    Everyone seems to think private eyes are associated with the police. I don’t even want to be remotely linked to those corrupt bastards. “I’m not an officer,” I say. “At least not anymore,” I muttered under my breath.

    “I’ve seen ya’ down these streets before,” she says through a drag.

    “Yeah well, you got loads of criminals down here,” I say as if it wasn’t obvious.

    “I don’t understand,” she says. “Why aren’t ya’ a cop, if ya’ deal with the same trash.”

    “Because now I do it on my own terms,” I say. I wanted to get this over with. “May I look at the vehicle?”

    She moved her eyes to the Ford. “The car is ova’ there, I left it, blood and all.” The widow took another drag.

    Something about how she answered was off. She seemed nonchalant maybe even cold. I walk over to the car and notice the missing window on the driver side door. I went around and opened the door. There was some blood splatter on the frame but not much. I looked up and noticed blast powder above, probably from a medium to large caliber round.

    I look up from the vehicle and yell to the widow, “What size was the bullet that killed your husband, ma’am?”

    “I dunno, like 38 somethin',” she says.

    “.38 caliber, maybe?” I say.

    She shrugs and says, “Ya, that sounds right, I guess.”

    “Where is your husband’s pistol?” I ask.

    “There is no pistol,” she says.

    “Strange, it seems like he was killed by a .38 Special,” I say while walking back towards the house. “That’s a standard issue police firearm.”

    “Ya’ saying the cops did it?” the widow asks.

    I avoided her question. “The reports says your husband killed himself because you were having an affair with another man,” I say.

    “Who knew the newspaper reported things like that?” the widow says.

    “Yeah well, word gets around,” I say.

    “What’s ya’ point?” she says through another drag.

    “Why do you care if he was murdered or not?” I say.

    “Dunno,” the widow says. She stubs her cigarette out on a one of the pillars of her porch and flicked the butt into the front yard. “What does matta?”

    “Because right now you’re looking like a suspect,” I really had nothing to base that on, but I have met smarter broads before.

    “Alright, alright,” the widow says, “the insurance company wouldn’t fork out any cash because my husband killed himself.”

    “So you are trying to prove it was a murder so they pay you his policy,” I say.

    “Bingo.” She touches her nose with her pointer finger.

    “Based on wha-” Before I could finish a car pulls into the driveway. A large man gets out.

    “Hey, ya’ banging this guy too?” The big guy nods in my direction.

    “No,” she says, “he's the investigata'.”

    The lumbering idiot stood there with is mouth open scratching his head.

    “Well, now that you are here sir, I can ask you both some questions,” I say. “May we go inside?”

    “Sure,” she says. As she steps in, I hold the door open for the boyfriend then I enter.

   My questions for them were arbitrary.

    

    The following week I met up with Marco as usual at the Starlight Diner. He had today’s newspaper in his hand. After taking a seat across from me, he throws the paper on the table nearly knocking over my coffee.

    “So the widow of that guy you investigated and her boyfriend turned up dead, frontline news,” Marco says.

    “Interesting,” I say as I take a sip of my coffee.

    “Double suicide, it seems,” he says. “They drank pois-”

    I stopped Marco. I unclip my holster, pull my handgun out and place it on the table. Marco jumps, but before he can react I say, “.38 Special standard police issue. It won’t leave behind any brass. They’re all right here.” I tapped on the cylinder.

    “Man,” Marco puts his hand on his forehead. “When are you gonna to stop?”

    “When I begin to see hope in humanity,” I say.

    “So, never then,” Marco says.

    “This is my duty as a Harvester.” I take another sip of my coffee, black like my soul.

    “A what?” Marco asks.

    “A Harvester,” I say as I put my hand on his shoulder. “You aren’t ready to know everything yet, son.”

The Removers

Author's note:

For a lot of you this story may seem familiar if you read Ray Bradbury’s Last Night of the World. This flash fiction piece is part of a continuum of pieces that I wrote to accompany that short story. The other part of this story can be found here on my blog. I hated the fact that Bradbury didn’t end his story, so I kindly wrote an ending for him. This flash fiction piece isn’t so much a sequel, but more so another “version” so to speak. I love pieces with alternate version and ideas. For those to who take the time to read my story, thank you, and for those who take the time to read my other blog story, double thank you. 

The Removers 

       His wife paces in the room clenching her fists. Her stoic exterior is crumbling as she beats her hands into the walls of the motel. 

       “Shhh, they will hear you,” her husband says. 

       “What difference does it make?” the wife says as she walks towards the table outside. “We’re all going to die anyways.” 

       The husband winces at her statement. Though he shares her sentiments, it pains him to witness his wife, the strong one in the relationship, falling apart. 

       “Look, we are safe right now,” he says. 

       “And the girls?” her voice breaks. She is almost inaudible, but the husband is able to hear the underlying venom. She lowers her head taking a seat at the table. 

       Their two daughters and most of the children from the school were the first to go. Someone informed the husband “children have less body mass,” so they were “easier to delete.” He dismisses the memories of the Removers deleting skyscrapers in seconds. Men, women, and children: the Removers acted pitiless to everyone. 

       “What’s done is done,” he says. He strolls to the kitchen, gets a glass of water, and joins his wife outside. He hands her the glass, she accepts it with a trembling hand. 

       She glares at him, “So that’s it, ‘What’s done is done?’” she says. “Our girls were my life, were they not yours?” 

       “I-” Is all the husband can say, nodding in affirmation. He takes a seat across from her. 

       “We have been running and hiding for almost ten years.” Her head slumps and she begins shaking. 

       The husband moves to console her, but stops short when she raises her hand to halt him. “Honey?” he says. 

       She calms herself and with more vigor says, “The agents of Elle won’t quit until everything is gone.” 

       “There is a resistance,” he says, “people fighting.” 

       A bitter look passes over the wife. “Have you seen them fight?” she asks. 

       A shadow passes over the husband’s face as he nods. The resistance, if it can be called that, turns to dust in every fight with the Removers. “I heard they killed a Remover once,” he says. 

       His wife let out a bark of a laugh. “And you believed them,” she says. 

       “They said he turned to a beam of light when he died,” the husband says, “so it must be true.” 

       His wife chuckles again. “Excellent,” she says, “so now the score is one kill for us and three billion for them.” She puts her head in her hands. 

       He was bothered by her sarcasm, but understood she was correct. It was only a matter of time, they will be next. Part of him wanted to quit and join their girls. He glances at his wife, these were already her feelings. He perished the notion acknowledging they had to keep moving. 

       “I am tired,” she says. 

       “We will take turns sleeping,” the husband says. 

       “That’s not what I mean,” his wife says. “I mean I am tired of running, and hiding.” The wife starts sobbing. “I miss the girls,” she says. 

       “But,” the husband loses his words. “I miss them too,” he says in the end grasping her hand. 

       Both their head perk up as they hear the familiar sounds of screams being cut off. 

       “They’re here,” he says. “Quick.” He yanks at her arm but she does not move. Her attitude infuriated him; they did not have time for games. “We have to go,” he says. 

       “No,” his wife says. “I am done.” She stands pushing from her chair. 

       “What?” the husband says. He couldn’t believe it, after staying alive for ten years their story is going to end in a cheap motel with the fabrics of reality disintegrating around them. He loosens grasp of her arm realizing the truth, then pulls her in giving her a hug and a long kiss. 

       In an instant, the front door glows as the atoms that form it accelerate and destabilize. 

       Three men in black suits and bowler hats stand outside the door. The lead man has an outstretched hand as the remaining particles, of what used to be the door, flurries around the trio. 

       The lead man removes his hat before crossing the threshold to their room. 

       “Confirm their identities,” the lead man says in a raspy voice. 

       The man to his right produces an old style notebook. “John and Jane Wilson,” he says. 

       John holds on tight, but Jane breaks free and rushes towards the men in suits. “It’s no use fighting,” she says with tears in her eyes. “Just do it.” 

       John falls to his knees. “No, wait,” he says unable to force his eyes shut. 

       Her bright blond hair is first to glow turning a luminescent white. For a moment he is reminded of his daughters and how their hair shone in the sun. Jane had enough time to turn and smile reaching for him before enveloping in a burst of light and dissipating. John wailed in agony and anger, but before he could rise everything turned a pure white. 

       Now both John and Jane are gone, just another piece of February 30, 1951. 

       The youngest of the three agents averts his eyes when John burst into a ball of light. His head remains down.

       “Son,” the lead man says taking note of his demeanor, “it is good you still have a measure of humanity, but I assure you this job doesn’t get any easier, understand?” 

       The younger agent looks up. “I understand,” he says. 

       “Our work is done, leave the rest to Elle,” the lead man says as he walks towards the door. 

       They travel as intergalactic dust, incorporeal in the swirling abyss. The disembodiments of those lost, now in the care of the universe, awaiting absolution. 

       A fragmented memory of speech passes through the collective, “Who's there?” they say. 

       “I am,” a voice reverberates, shaking the very stars.

The Crimson Memory

This is a piece of flash fiction from my Visual Thinking and Writing class at Full Sail University. It contains a heavy amount of research in Nordic Mythology. Here is list of all my research for the story,

Skalds- http://www.historyonth enet.com/vikings/viking-skalds-and-storytellers.html

Baldr- http://www.haxt on.org/Baldr.htm

Sól- http://norse-mythology.org /sol-mani/

Birka- http://whc.unesco.org /en/list/555

Amen- http://www.egyptian myths.net/amon.htm

       Midgard, Valhalla- http:// www.viking-mythology.com/theNineWorlds.php#midgard

The Crimson Memory

     The old man stared at the skyline. It burned a crimson familiarity. He clutches his forearms, remembering days he wishes were forgotten.

     "Afi, look.” The little girl points beyond the horizon at the rising sun. “Sól’s beginning to climb out of the water again.”

     The old man chuckles, “That’s not Sól, child.”

     A young girl and her grandfather strolled from their town of Birka to the Eastern Sea’s shoreline. The water lapped at their feet.

     The girl gave a quizzical look. “I don’t understand, the skalds told us, Sól rises every morning from the depths of the Eastern Sea and descends every evening into Lake Mälaren in the west.”

     “The skalds, mere dreamers,” he says. “The nonsense they sing is myth. Sól collided into the sea and never rose again.”

     “How do you know Sól collided into the sea?” his granddaughter asks.

     The old man lumbers to a dead tree lying in the sand. He struggles to take a seat, wincing when his knees bend. His forehead creases as his gaze focuses on the waves cresting the shoreline.

     “Afi?” the girl asks as she places her hand on his shoulder.

     Startled, he looks up at her and says, “Come sit, I will tell you a story.”

     “Alright,” the girl says. She sits facing her grandfather.

     He starts, “A long time ago, an explorer named Baldr sailed in the upper sky on a ship made of light.” The old man directs his index finger up. “His flying ship was designed like a disk which he called Sól.”

     The granddaughter’s regard tilts skyward, eyes widening in amazement but still silent.

     “Baldr was restless,” the grandfather says. “He visited all the known worlds and yearned to discover his own. One day he journeyed to a new location in the upper sky, and after months of dodging floating rocks and flying in emptiness, he found nothi-”

     “Wait,” the granddaughter interrupted. “How do rocks float in the sky?”

      The old man wrinkled his forehead. “With magic, little one,” he said.

     The girl’s face lit up. “Magic,” she says. “The skal-”

     “Magic is not what my story is about.” Grandfather’s irritation was hard to disguise, but his expression softened. “May I continue?” he asked.

     The granddaughter crossed her arms but nodded her head.

     “Defeated, Baldr chose to return home,” grandfather says, “for fear he would be lost forever in the upper sky. Just as he bowed to return home, a distant blue dot entered his field of view. As he drew closer, he praised the stars, he had discovered a new world. Baldr named it Tera, but today we call it Miðgarðr (Midgard).”

     “Miðgarðr.” The grandfather gestures to the ground.

     “Afi, I know that,” his granddaughter says. “The skalds teach us some useful things, right?”

     The old man places one hand on his wrinkled forehead. “I shall continue,” he says.

     “Baldr flew towards the large blue orb and descended into the lower sky.” The grandfather gestured his hand in a downward motion. “He was impressed when he landed. This world was similar to his own, although he observed his feet seemed heavier. This insignificant detail, however, paled in comparison to his crowning discovery,”

     “Why were his feet heavier?” the granddaughter asked.

     “I will get to that later,” he said, “be patient.”

     The girl began to fidget.

     The grandfather continues regardless. “Baldr became aware that others resided on Miðgarðr. After spending a considerable amount of time meeting the indigenous people, exploring, and gathering data, Baldr decided to return home. Though he enjoyed visiting this new world, his heart belonged to the upper sky.”

     The granddaughter began picking dirt from her fingernails.

     “Baldr started his ship. With effort, it lifted into the air, but he realized something was wrong,” grandfather says.

     The granddaughter’s eyes peered up.

     The grandfather smiles and persists, “The ship was heavier on this world. Fire magic sustains Sol’s flight, but not all the hearths in Valhalla could keep Baldr’s ship aloft. His ship was a bright burning disk arching across the lower sky. The people below watched in wonderment as Sól careened like a dull dagger tearing a rugged slit into the universe. Sól’s light was extinguished as its course concluded in the Eastern Sea.”

     Now attentive, the granddaughter places her hands over her mouth in astonishment.

     “Don’t worry child, Baldr survived,” the old man says. “Sól filled with water as Baldr fought to open the ship’s hatch. Once submerged, the hatch was able to be opened. Baldr swam to the surface and headed towards the shore. Curious people who witnessed his ship crash gathered nearby.

     “Once on land, gasping for air, Baldr threw his hands in the air and cried out, ‘Amen, my Father, please come to my aid.’” The grandfather’s head looks to the sky, the girl’s follows.

     “Baldr’s forearms began to glow a crimson color,” he says. “It was a signal to let his father know he was in trouble. The light pulsed like a heartbeat, but he was too distant from his home world. The crowd stood in awe at the light pouring from his arms, and from that day forth he was known as Baldr the Light Bringer.”

     “That’s an amazing story,” the granddaughter says, “but you’re wrong, Afi. The skalds told us that Baldr’s father was Odin, not Amen.”

     The grandfather shakes his head in disdain as his granddaughter runs back towards the shore. He begins to feel the heat in his arms and rolls the hem of his sleeve. His hands shake, not out of fragility, but from the crimson memory.

     “Come on Afi, I want to see the seals.” Her voice carries over distorted, almost inaudible above the crashing waves and the blood rushing in his ears.

     With his shirt sleeve rolled up, the old man stares wordless at the red glowing beacon on his forearm, still pulsing like a heartbeat from the day he cried out to his father.

     Having lived his life, the old man looked heavenward and says, “I’m ready to leave, Amen.”