krinvan

On Top of the World

Kevin adjusted the greasy wrench in his hand and leaned back from the Ferris wheel’s steel frame. The setting sun bled pink and gold into the horizon near Springfield, Missouri, their latest stop on the circuit. He’d been sweating since noon, his muscles sore from bolting the enormous machine together with his coworker, Rick. The Ferris wheel was their kingdom. Dangerous, heavy, and finicky, it required absolute attention. It could thrill hundreds of strangers in a single day, but a missed bolt or an untested wire could wreak havoc. Just a few years earlier, a similar model in New Orleans had come dangerously close to spinning out of control.

Across from him, Rick grinned through a cigarette and slapped the wheel’s support beam. He was a grizzled man in his fifties, affectionately called “old-timer” because of his decades on the road.

“Solid,” he said. “Ready for some new revolutions.”

“Rock solid,” said Kevin, giving a thumbs up sign.

Kevin liked the weight of his responsibility, making sure that people could climb into the gondolas and rise into the sky, trusting their lives to both the steel and his operation. Most nights, when the crowds finally went home and the carnival lights dimmed, he had a little ritual. Rick would let him ride alone to the very top, then lock the wheel in place for a few moments. Kevin would sit back, legs stretched out, a glowing city or moonlit countryside stretching into the distance.

I’m on top of the world, he would say to himself.

He hadn’t always felt that way.

Kevin was thirty years old, though most people thought he was younger because he still had the boyish good looks and easy slouch of someone barely out of his teens. He’d dropped out of junior college after a year and a half, bored by textbooks and fluorescently lit classrooms. His parents had sighed, shaken their heads, and said things like, “You’ll regret this someday.” Maybe they’d regret it, thought Kevin. He never did.

Instead, he left home and drifted. He worked as a stock boy, a roofer, a dishwasher, and a mechanic’s assistant, but nothing stuck until he signed on with the carnival. He did so on a whim, tagging along with a guy named John, a fellow mechanic at a garage. John quit after only a month, but Kevin stayed. That was three years ago.

The pay wasn’t great, but it was steady. What mattered most to Kevin was the sense of community shared among the workers. The carnival was a misfit’s refuge for drifters, ex-cons, recovering addicts, and folks with broken pasts. People the world often shunned, yet in the daily routine of their comradery, they were family. They worked, they partied, they bickered, and they kept moving. Kevin liked the rhythm of it.

To save money, Kevin didn’t rent a room in one of the trailers offered by the company. Instead, he pitched his tent behind them, using the communal shower and eating cheap food from the cook wagon. It wasn’t glamorous, a Spartan existence, but it gave him a sense of freedom.

Perhaps for the first in his entire life, he felt like he really belonged.

Marcy caught Kevin’s eye the first summer he worked the wheel. She ran various game booths on the midway—ring toss one week, balloon darts the next—her voice scratchy from years of calling out to customers: “Step right up and try your luck! Win a prize! Don’t go home empty-handed! She was a couple years older than him but carried herself with the confidence of someone who had no regrets about her choices.

She had bleached blonde hair with darker roots showing, a nose ring, and tattoos creeping out from under her tank tops. Her skin had that sun-leathered look common among carnies who live under open skies. Kevin thought she looked exotic, beautiful in a way that felt raw and untamed. Most of all, he loved the way she laughed, a free and guttural sound that cut through the din of the carnival. Sometimes, when the Ferris wheel was near the game booths, he could hear her, and it made his attraction stronger.

He’d always been awkward around women. He’d had one serious relationship in high school with a girl who was equally introverted, but their lack of passion caused the relationship to fizzle. After that, he did some random dating, but nothing lasted. He could fix an engine, bolt a Ferris wheel, or patch a tent flap, but his tongue usually tripped when he tried addressing the opposite sex. With Marcy, though, he forced himself to try. A joke here, a question there, slowly building a connection between them.

One night after closing, they were sitting on overturned buckets behind the dart booth, sharing smokes. The carnival grounds were quiet except for the distant whir of generators.

“So, why’d you join up?” Kevin asked.

Marcy shrugged, blowing smoke toward the stars. “At this point, it feels like I didn’t join. I just never left. I ran away from Iowa when I was seventeen, hitched with a carnival, and here I am after fifteen years.”

He knew there was more to her story, something she had run from, but he felt awkward about asking. Instead, he said, “Well, you definitely seem to like it,” feeling lame for stating the obvious.

Her lips curled into something halfway between a smile and a sneer. “It’s better than starving. And better for sure than going back.”

Kevin nodded. “Yeah. Better than going back.”

Something passed between them—an understanding that neither of them had much else but this.

Kevin found excuses for being near Marcy. He’d swing by her booth before the gates opened, helping her line up prizes or restock darts. Sometimes she’d trade him free throws for fixing a loose hinge.

“Careful,” she teased once. “You hang around too much and people will think you’re sweet on me.”

He flushed, mumbling something about just being helpful, but Marcy poked his arm and laughed in that way he loved.

They started eating together at the cook wagon, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the worn benches. They’d walk the grounds after closing, Kevin pointing out constellations overhead while Marcy rolled her eyes.

“You sound like some kind of philosopher,” she said.

“Maybe,” he replied, grinning. “A philosopher who can also bolt a Ferris wheel.”

Late one night, leaning against the wheel’s frame, Marcy suddenly poured out the story of her nuclear family. The abuse she’d suffered at the hands of two different stepfathers and her mother’s complicity. She claimed she had never told anyone else about it, and as he listened, the bond between them deepened. In turn, he shared the story of his own upbringing, how he never felt adequate compared to his older brother—the golden boy to his parents—living in his sibling’s shadow until he felt invisible.

She listened intently, then suddenly surprised him with a quick kiss, her breath smelling of cigarettes. Kevin froze, his heart racing, but when she laughed at his expression, he found himself laughing too. From then on, they were lovers, periodically spending the night together in his tent.

But Kevin always sensed that she carried a quiet readiness to leave, no matter how close she seemed.

As months went by, Kevin’s feelings for Marcy grew much deeper than infatuation. He thought about her constantly, even fantasizing about a future in which they would get married and share a trailer.

That dream crystallized when Johnny, the carnival electrician, married Lisa from the funnel cake stand. Kevin and Marcy attended the wedding ceremony behind the trailers, with a makeshift string of lights and a preacher for hire from the local town. As Johnny and Lisa finished their vows and everyone cheered, Kevin watched Marcy clapping joyfully, and he thought, why not us?

The idea wouldn’t let him go.

When the carnival rolled into Albuquerque for the state fair, Kevin skipped breakfast and hitched a ride into town. He found a pawn shop off Central Avenue, its neon sign flickering even during the day. Inside, one of the glass cases glittered with rings, some with real gemstones, others just costume jewelry. Kevin’s palms sweated as he chose a silver band with a large, bright stone.

“Good choice,” said the middle-aged man behind the case. “That’s a zircon and most people would never know it’s not a diamond. Who’s the lucky woman?”

Kevin blinked, his courage waning for a second. He was so far out of his comfort zone that he barely knew himself. “Her name’s Marcy. We’ll see if she feels lucky.”

“Well, I wish you the best possible outcome, young man.”

They dickered over the price, and after purchasing it, Kevin felt like he was now on auto pilot with his plan. No turning back. That night, after set up, he found Marcy behind the dart booth. The sweat and dirt on her brow only made her more beautiful to him.

His throat tightened as he pulled the ring from his pocket. “Marcy,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “Will you marry me?”

She looked at the ring curiously, then at him, giving no answer. Then she took it, slipped it into her pocket, and abruptly walked away.

Kevin stood there, thinking you fool, maybe you ruined everything.

Marcy seemed to avoid him the next day, and Kevin’s fear that he had lost her settled into his gut. That night, after a long day of keeping the Ferris wheel running, he was ready for his ritual. Rick gave him the nod, and Kevin climbed into an empty gondola. But just as the wheel creaked to life, he heard footsteps behind him.

“Hold up!” a voice called.

He turned. Marcy stood there, her hair messy from the wind. She’d applied makeup that had smudged around her eyes. Without a word, she climbed in beside him.

Rick grinned and started the wheel. Slowly they rose, the carnival shrinking below and Albuquerque stretching out around them, glowing like a field of stars across the high desert toward the Sandia Mountains.

At the top, the wheel stopped, the gondola swaying in the warm night breeze. Kevin’s throat was dry. He wanted to speak, to apologize for messing everything up, for being the kind of guy who didn’t know what to do around women, but Marcy just took his hand.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Kevin blinked. “Yes?”

She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

For a moment, Kevin thought his heart might burst. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight while everything else fell away. They kissed, slow and sure, and when they pulled back, they sat in silence, watching the city lights.

Kevin thought: This is it. This is what it really feels like to be on top of the world.

September 7, 2025September 7, 2025 by krinvan Tags: carnivals, ferris-wheels, fiction, love-story, overcoming-the-past, romance, short-story, traveling, unexpected-joy Leave a comment

The Scratcher

Part One – 2021

The towers of downtown Los Angeles glimmered in the distance, their glass and steel reflecting the California sun. But the light seemed faded on Skid Row, as if exhausted by what it revealed. It clung to the cracked pavement in the alleyways, to tents and tarps, to the restless shuffle of those who had nowhere else to go.

Larry Hollis sat cross-legged on the sidewalk outside a liquor store, his back against a wall caked with graffiti. He wore a faded red flannel shirt and jeans stiff with dirt. His tennis shoes were split at the seams, the soles about to separate. A large Styrofoam cup rested before him, its lip bent from days of use, an invitation to alms from the passersby.

He took a deep breath and looked up and down the sidewalk. This new reality of his life had lasted far longer than he’d imagined, the days blurring together, dulled by the need to survive. The shame he once harbored had morphed to a leaden resignation.

A woman in a pencil skirt hurried past, dropping two quarters without breaking stride. A man in a Dodgers cap left a crumpled bill but avoided eye contact, as if kindness might delay him. That was how it went, each transaction as brief and impersonal as the slip of change through fingers.

Larry had been here most of the afternoon, watching the rhythm of the city. He thought of his past less often now: the classroom where he taught history, the rows of students eager or bored, his hope of scheduling a sabbatical to write a book. And then, what he called “the great miasma,” a descent into major depression that hit him like a tsunami. The doctors tried hospitalization, medication, talk therapy, even shock treatment, but it only tempered the worst symptoms, shifting the fog to a lighter shade of gray. His life unraveled until it was difficult to get out of bed. Eventually, he lost his job and his marriage. Friends stopped calling, and after his eviction they disappeared altogether. Too young for tenure or social security, and with the last of his savings drained by divorce, he had no source of income. He first stayed in a shelter, then drifted onto the streets.

It was near dusk when he noticed a man in a gray suit, his gait uneven, his briefcase dangling precariously from his hand. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were glassy. He stopped in front of Larry, swaying slightly, and let out a small laugh.

“Man,” he said, his voice heavy with drink, “I thought I was unlucky.”

Larry looked up, unsure whether the man was mocking him. The stranger reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wad of lottery scratchers, fanning them in his hand like a small deck of cards. He thumbed through them like a magician, plucked one, and dropped it into Larry’s cup with theatrical flair.

“Good luck, brother,” he muttered before weaving away into the stream of pedestrians.

Larry stared into the cup where the ticket sat atop coins and a few bills. A scratcher? He knew the astronomical odds with the lottery. 5 dollars to buy a sandwich would have been far more useful. He shrugged and left it where it was.

Just before sunset, he retreated through an alley to the abandoned warehouse where he’d been sleeping near other denizens of the street. In a corner was a discarded mattress, the space he had staked out as his own. He laid down his backpack, then sat on the mattress and emptied his cup: some coins, a few bills, and the ticket.

He almost tossed it aside but instead took a quarter from the pile and scraped the silver dust from the numbers on the front. He rubbed his eyes, checked the fine print, and read it again.

The message was unmistakable: Grand Prize Winner – $10,000,000.

His heart thudded and his breath quickened. Everything around him was the same—the distant sounds of sirens and traffic, the hollow space of the warehouse, the smell of concrete and unwashed bodies.

And yet, everything had changed.

Part Two — 2025

My name is Elaine Morris, and I’m a reporter for the Los Angeles Times. I’ve covered wildfires, elections, celebrity trials, and city hall scandals. But the scoop that I’ve longed for is the story of Larry Hollis.

The basic arc of his story was familiar to most Angelenos. A man who was once a teacher, undone by depression and cast adrift onto the streets. A chance encounter with a stranger, a lottery scratcher worth ten million dollars. And then, instead of vanishing into his newfound wealth, how Larry used his fortune to lease the warehouse where he’d once slept. With the help of the city council and other donors, he transformed it into a service center for those experiencing homelessness, offering beds, showers, meals, medical clinics, and job training.

But the man himself remained a mystery. He never granted interviews, never appeared at ribbon cuttings, never allowed himself to be a poster child. “A ghost in a flannel shirt,” people called him.

Until now, because he had agreed to see me.

Even though I’d seen pictures, the service center surprised me from the moment I walked in. Nothing about it spoke of its role as a rescue mission. Sunlight streamed through tall windows into the expansive lobby that was painted pale blue. A mural covered the far wall, depicting Los Angeles at sunrise, its skyline glowing, the colors vibrant with hope.

The young woman at the front desk checked my credentials, raising an eyebrow.

“So you’re the one who won the reporter’s lottery,” she said with a grin. “Larry’s somewhere on campus.”

I frowned. “Do you know exactly where?”

She shook her head. “He’s around. Just ask people.”

I did, first in the cafeteria where residents served steaming trays of rice, chicken, and vegetables. I asked a man clearing tables if he’d seen Larry.

“He’s somewhere on campus,” the man replied with a smile.

I searched a large activity room where people chatted around tables. Again the same shrugs and comments of “he’s here somewhere.” I began to feel like I was chasing a phantom.

Finally, I found him in the atrium at the heart of the center. It was a vast cathedral where sun poured through skylights onto dozens of people resting on mats. Some slept, cocooned in blankets. Others sat reading or staring upward as if searching for answers in the clouds visible through the glass.

And there was Larry Hollis.

He sat cross-legged on the floor with a group of others, dressed in a red flannel shirt and jeans. His beard was gray, his face lined, and he could easily have been one of the people around him.

When I approached, he looked up and nodded.

“You must be Elaine,” he said. His voice was soft and gravelly. “You found me.”

He didn’t stand as he reached out his hand to shake mine, so I sat beside him, my notebook and hand recorder ready. “Thank you for agreeing to the interview. Is this where you want to talk?”

Before I could ask another question, Larry gestured to the man sitting on his right, thin and nervous, clutching a plastic bag full of items.

“This is Marcus,” Larry said. “Lost his job, evicted from his apartment. His story is my story.”

“Pleased to meet you, Marcus,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. He took mine nervously, then looked away. I turned back to Larry. “I wonder if…”

Larry interrupted again and motioned to a woman sitting on his left. She had a blanket draped around her shoulders, her dark face etched with premature wrinkles. “Meet Teresa, Elaine. She raised two kids while fighting to stay clean, but a relapse drove her to the street. Her story is my story.”

“Pleased to meet you Teresa,” I said, shaking her hand.

Larry suddenly stood. “Follow me.”

We walked around the atrium as he introduced me to a dozen other people. He knew all their names. A veteran with a limp. A teenage runaway estranged from her family. An older woman who had worked menial jobs her whole life, just one paycheck away from the street. A young man covered in tattoos who was missing most of his teeth. Each time, Larry said the same thing: Their story is my story.

I was frustrated. I had worked hard to prepare dozens of questions about his life as a teacher, about the night he scratched the ticket, about his decision to reject luxury and lease the warehouse. But each time I tried to steer the conversation, Larry redirected it to the people around him. It was as though he was dissolving into them, refusing the separateness the world had tried to give him.

I grew increasingly irritated. I needed a headline and a story that would justify months of chasing him, especially to my editor. But as I listened, my irritation gave way to unease. Larry’s refrain—their story is my story—was more than a metaphor. It was an indictment.

You see, I grew up in Los Angeles, my childhood secure and comfortable. I went to college and eventually became a reporter. But there was a day—more than a decade ago—when my father lost his job at the aerospace company where he’d worked for many years. I remember the tension at our dinner table, the forced way my mother repeated, “we’ll be fine,” as if saying it enough times would make it true.

We did stay afloat. My father found new work at the tail end of his unemployment benefits. We never lost our home, but for months I lived with fear that everything would come undone.

I had buried that memory, and as I made the rounds with Larry, hearing the back stories of so many people from different walks of life, it resurfaced, raw and insistent. The line between me and them was thinner than I wanted to admit.

Finally, Larry guided me to a small alcove on the side of the atrium. It had a table and two unoccupied chairs. He was silent, just motioning for me to sit.

“Why didn’t you leave?” I asked at last, my voice quieter than I intended. “You could have bought a mansion and disappeared into comfort.”

Larry’s smile was faint, almost weary. “Because this was already my home. And for me, home isn’t about walls or money. It’s about people. It’s about community.”

He leaned back, folding his hands, and for a moment I saw the teacher he once was, the man who unpacked history for his students. “Money gave me a golden opportunity. The chance to make a place where others could feel less broken. I consider that a privileged way to live whatever years I’m given.”

His words hit harder than I expected. Wasn’t that what journalism was supposed to do? To give people a place where their stories mattered? Yet too often I had reduced them to soundbites and lines in a column, staying at arm’s length, clinical and a bit uncaring.

Larry had done what I had not: he had erased the distance.

I finally got a chance to ask my host of questions, which Larry answered patiently. When we had finished our conversation, he gave me a warm farewell and I walked back through the atrium toward the exit. Sunlight shifted through the skylights, dust motes glittering like stars. Around me, the atrium pulsed with murmured conversations.

I thought about the article I would write, the profile readers had been demanding for years, and I realized the story didn’t belong just to Larry Hollis. It was the story of Marcus. It was the story of Teresa. It was narrative of all of them. And in every introduction, in every life he pointed to, Larry had already given me the headline.

Their story is our story.

August 30, 2025 by krinvan Tags: fiction, homelessness, journalist, los-angeles, los-angeles-times, lottery, short-story, writing 3 Comments

Alice and the Dagger

London, 1853

The morning fog was cold and sour, stinking of low tide. It curled in damp skeins over the Thames, swallowing the far bank so completely that the world seemed to end just past the water’s edge. Sixteen-year-old Alice Larkin knew the smell by heart: rotting wood, fish scales, and the faint sweet stench of something dead in the mud.

The tide had gone out before dawn, baring the river’s underbelly. Black mud flats stretched into the fog, shiny and treacherous, dotted with shards of pottery, broken bottles, and the occasional rib of a long-lost boat.

Alice was ankle-deep in the muck, her skirt bunched high and tied at her waist. Her fingers were cracked from the cold, but she worked the mud with a stick, prying free whatever the Thames would surrender. She found some frayed rope, a pewter spoon, and an iron spike that left orange rust streaks on her palm.

Every scrap was worth a small bit. Rope could be sold to a rag-and-bone man. The spoon would perhaps fetch a shilling from Bill Scully. And all of it meant another day her family might keep from going hungry.

She had been mudlarking since she was eight, just one of hundreds of souls, many of them children, who combed the banks each day, gambling their lives against the river’s moods. Sometimes the water rose quick and fast, cutting you off. Sometimes it hid a sinkhole beneath its surface, and you were gone before anyone could shout your name.

Alice ignored the cold, the ache in her back, and the gnawing in her belly. She had learned at an early age that whining to others or an indifferent god had no effect. It was all about survival, and only the strong would make it.

A glint caught her eye, a pale object lodged near a large stone. She crouched and scraped away with her stick until her fingers closed around something substantial. The mud was reluctant to give it up, but she tugged until it came free with a sucking sound.

It was a dagger. The blade, though blackened, was still intact, tapered to a sharp point. The handle was carved from either bone or horn, with marks that looked like an ancient script carved deep into its surface.

Alice’s breath fogged in front of her as she examined it closely. She had found knives before, but nothing like this. It was heavy and solid, the sort of artifact that had weight not only in her hand but in the world that had first produced it.

Then, as her fingers wrapped tighter around the hilt, she felt a preternatural shift in the fog. It thickened into smoke, acrid and stinging, filling her nose and mouth. The river suddenly appeared at high tide, and through it came a shape: a long, low ship, its hull dark, its prow carved into the head of some beast with teeth bared. A single square sail bellied in the wind, driving it forward.

It moved down the Thames towards the sea, water slapping at its flanks. Behind it, she could see buildings burning in the distance. The men who stood on the deck were tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in dark tunics, armed with swords as they surveyed the passing shore. One of them trained his eyes on Alice, a look of recognition lighting up his face. She gasped and stumbled backward, breaking whatever spell had seized her. The vision faded, and the damp grey fog of London returned.

Her hand was shaking, and her heart was racing. The dagger was warm now, almost hot, and it seemed to pulse in her grip, as though it were breathing with her. Was it cursed? She wondered if she should throw it back in the water, but her curiosity about its value was stronger than her fear. She wrapped it quickly in a torn scrap of cloth from her sack and shoved it deep inside.

___

That night, their one-room lodging in Shad Thames smelled of boiled cabbage, damp wool, and the odor of the sewer running through the street. Alice’s three half-siblings were crammed together on wooden pallets, the youngest sniffling in the corner. The space was suffocating to her, but as the eldest child, she felt compelled to stay and contribute. Her older brother had fled their poverty a year earlier, and they hadn’t seen him since. Alice was tempted to do the same, but where would she go? How would she support herself? Too many young women turned to prostitution to survive on the streets, and she rejected that darkness.

Her stepfather father wasn’t home yet, likely still at the docks, begging for work that wasn’t there. Their mother, her skin stretched tight over her cheekbones, sat near a crude hearth, mending a shirt by firelight.

“What did you bring, Alice?” she asked without looking up, her tone showing her low expectations.

Alice emptied her day’s finds onto the table: the rope, the spoon, a colored bottle, and a few scraps of copper wire. She didn’t reveal the dagger. She was still unnerved about what had happened when she held it, but she was determined to investigate its worth more fully. It was one of those discoveries that mudlarks dreamed of, potentially life changing. For now, it was her secret.

Her mother’s eyes tiredly scanned the few scraps. “It’ll do,” she said, though they both knew it wouldn’t.

Alice went to her corner of the room, hiding her bag with the dagger under some straw. Her plan for the next day was formulating in her mind when she suddenly heard the rattle of carriage wheels from the street outside. She went and peered through the shutters, where a pair of gas streetlamps lit a lacquered black carriage rolling toward the affluent West End, the spokes of its wheels flashing gold in the light. Inside, swaddled in fur and velvet, sat a woman with a man in a dark suit at her side. Cocooned inside their Victorian-era privilege, they looked at the city the way one looked at a painting: detached and safe. The woman’s eyes slid across Alice as if she wasn’t even there.

Alice’s lips curled. She knew their type: rich enough to never see the mud, to never smell the river up close, to never watch a baby cough itself to death because medicine cost more than a month’s rent. Cocooned inside their Victorian-era privilege, they looked at the city the way one looked at a painting: detached and safe.

Alice recalled a day when she and a fellow mudlark named Nancy had skipped their scavenging and walked two miles to the West End. Though their cheap clothing made them stand out from the rest of the crowd, they explored freely. They strolled around Leicester Square and Picadilly Circus, then on to Covent Garden with its many stalls where vendors sold fine handcrafted goods. They stopped at a stand to get cups of tea, splurging with a few shillings, then sat at a nearby table. For a few moments, it felt like they were light years from the slums of Shad Thames. They fantasized with each other about attending school and belonging to more affluent families.

Then a middle-aged woman dressed in a colorful brocaded dress came near their table. She paused and looked down her nose.

“Shouldn’t the two of you return to the place you crawled out of?” she said disdainfully.

Alice felt fury surge from her gut.

“Go to hell, you miserable bitch!” she exclaimed, beginning to rise from her seat until Nancy put a hand on her shoulder to restrain her.

The woman’s head snapped back as if she’d been struck. She turned to the keeper of the tea stall. “Sir, quickly call the Bobbies and have them remove these urchins!”

The proprietor turned and whistled over his shoulder, and in the distance Alice and Nancy could see a police officer turn his head towards them. They needed no further prompting, but got up quickly and disappeared into the crowd.

Alice remembered the look on that woman’s face when she’d been insulted, the way her head snapped back, and it still brought her a sense of pleasure. She saw again the smug face of the woman in the carriage that had just passed. Then she thought of the ship in her vision as she had held the dagger—its fierce, hungry shape—and it left her with a strange pull in her chest.

___

The next morning, she went to see Bill Scully. He was an institution along the river, having been a mudlark longer than Alice had been alive. His hovel by the river was stacked with jars of nails, broken clay pipes, beads, and buckles. He bought and traded with scavengers of all ages, a man who was shrewd but fair. He invited her in, and Alice waited until his door was shut before she unwrapped the dagger.

Bill’s one good eye went wide. “Christ Almighty,” he muttered. He ran a finger over the letters etched in the handle. “These carvings are runes. Where’d you find this?”

“Down past the bridge,” she said. “Near low tide.”

He leaned closer. “This is Viking work, girl. I’ve only ever seen drawings. A thousand years ago, they came up this river before London was the London we know. They burned and pillaged and took booty and slaves back with them.”

Alice traced the runes with her thumb. “What do these mean?”

“I have no idea. Could be a name. Could be a curse. I know this is valuable to the right people, but these things also carry their own luck, and often it’s not good. Be careful. Be very careful.”

Even as Bill spoke, Alice’s mind wandered to the vision of those raiders, their ship sliding through the water, the firelight on their faces, the city trembling around them. And despite Bill’s caution, she wondered what it would feel like to be feared rather than judged or ignored.

___

The next day, Alice returned to the shore at high tide, when the river swelled nearly to the top of the embankment, its water brown and restless. Mist curled from it in slow, wraith-like shapes.

She had planned what she would do, resigned to whatever would happen regardless of Bill’s warning. She unwrapped the dagger, this time holding it in both hands, and the vision came almost instantly.

London lay before her but, as Bill had said, not the London she knew. The skyline was low, the bridges narrow and crowded. Smoke smeared the sky and flames leapt from thatched rooftops. Church bells rang, and the air was thick with frantic shouts.

Once again, a Viking longship surged downriver, its sail streaked with soot. Its crew were wild-haired and barrel-chested, their eyes bright with victory. As they neared the spot where Alice was standing on the wall, a voice rang out, deep and warm with relief.

“Astrid! We thought we had lost you!”

Somehow, she knew the language, even though she had never heard it before. Looking down at herself, she saw that she was dressed not in a ragged skirt but a leather tunic and fur leggings, a shield strapped to her back. The dagger now hung from her belt. Her arms were stronger, her stance solid, her breath steady.

The man who had yelled to her had a beard plaited in gold rings. He leaned over the gunwale as the ship slowed and veered towards her. “Come, shield-maiden! The sea is calling us home! We have more than enough spoils from this raid!”

It was a risk, but without hesitation, Alice leapt into the water, swimming towards the vessel. Rough hands seized her wrists, pulling her over the side until she landed on the deck.

The ship swung out into the middle of the river. Behind them, medieval London burned, its firelight dancing in the smoke. The men lifted their voices, shouting “Til Valhalla! Til Valhalla!” Alice—now Astrid—stood on the stern. She drew the dagger, lifted it high, and laughed, a fierce sound full of an exultation she had never known before. “Til Valhalla!” she screamed with the others.

As the longship carried her and the others toward the North Sea, the city that would one day scorn her receded in the distance. For an instant, Astrid felt a tinge of wistfulness, but then relief and vindication lifted her spirits.

The dagger in her hand felt natural, and she gripped it with full acceptance of her new life.

August 22, 2025September 6, 2025 by krinvan Tags: adventure, class-warfare, fantasy, fiction, medieval-london, raids, short-story, vikings, writing 3 Comments

The Certificate of Merit

December 29, 1890, South Dakota

Snow lay thick over the plains. At the edge of Wounded Knee Creek, the air crackled with a cold that bit through wool and leather. Private Edward Dutton adjusted his overcoat, stamping his feet to keep warm. The rising sun offered little comfort, its light sharpening the outlines of the Lakota camp below. He could hear their distant voices, punctuated by barking dogs and the neighing of horses.

The 7th Cavalry had encircled the camp under orders to disarm the Miniconjou Sioux, but the regiment’s formation felt more like a noose than a peacekeeping gesture. To fortify their plan, they had positioned four Hotchkiss guns on the ridge, cannons able to fire 68 rounds a minute. Dutton, eighteen years old and only a few months into his enlistment, felt dread twisting in his gut. He had realized he would see armed action, but he hadn’t expected it like this. Tension thrummed in the air.

The Lakota, numbering about 350, knew that the US Army, spurred by settlers in nearby towns, were fearful of their participation in the Ghost Dance, a ceremony sweeping through tribes of the plains, promising an apocalyptic end to the white invaders. Now, with the cavalry perched above them, anxiety rippled through their ranks.

The order came to move down from the ridge. Dutton heard Colonel Forsyth, using an interpreter, order the surrender of weapons. The cavalry began confiscating rifles and knives, placing them in a pile, but a Lakota medicine man named Yellow Bird started to harangue the native warriors in a loud voice.

“Do not be afraid of them,” he shouted in their language. “Be brave and resist! The Ghost Shirts you are wearing will stop their bullets!”

Then came a single shot. No one knew who fired it, but chaos erupted, gunfire bursting like thunderclaps and screams piercing the air as soldiers fired indiscriminately into the tribespeople. Edward raised his Springfield rifle almost unconsciously, the instinct of his training fueled by fear, and it bucked against his shoulder with each discharge.

Most of the Lakota fled in panic—men, women, and children—but some tried to fight back by grabbing rifles from the pile. The Hotchkiss guns roared from the ridge, spewing death in iron bursts. Explosions ripped through the tipis, flinging bodies into the snow.

Edward watched as a young boy ran past him, his cheeks flushed with terror. The soldier beside him, Sergeant James Ward, pulled his trigger. The boy crumpled face-first into the snow as Edward’s breath caught in his throat. Then he saw a woman clutching a baby scurry from behind a tipi. Ward discharged his rifle. The woman dropped and the infant rolled from her arms, mewling in the bloodied snow.

Edward lowered his weapon. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. His mind screamed for this madness to stop.

“Keep firing, son!” ordered Ward, and Dutton did, zombie-like, contributing to the bloodbath, each bullet chipping away at his humanity.

By mid-morning, the field was a massacre. Nearly three hundred Lakota lay dead. Their bodies froze where they had fallen, limbs twisted, faces caught in final moments of agony. Soldiers walked among the corpses, collecting weapons, overturning bodies. One trooper laughed as he pulled a necklace from a dead woman’s neck. Another prodded the body of a warrior with his bayonet, checking for movement. The young brave lay still, wrapped in his buckskin Ghost Shirt with its fringed collar. Edward stood in the middle of it all, his rifle limp at his side, his eyes hollow.

In the weeks that followed, Edward received the Certificate of Merit for “gallantry in action.” His citation praised his “steadfastness and courage under fire.” He accepted it with a blank face, unable to meet the eyes of the officer handing him the parchment. He wondered to himself, had no one else doubted their actions that day?

He kept that certificate rolled tight and locked in a cabinet, until years later when his new wife insisted that he hang it in his study.

He spoke rarely of that fateful morning, but the nightmares stayed with him for decades, persistent images of red snow, the cries of women and children, and the echoes of gunfire.

Edward became a clerk, then a station manager for the railways in Denver. He lived a quiet life, raising his family. He drank very little, but when he did, he drank alone, and every year on December 29th he would take the day off, retreating into his study and not emerging until the next morning.

Denver, Colorado, 1928

Dad’s house always smelled of pipe smoke and oiled wood. He was mostly a quiet man, but I knew some of his history, including his time with the 7^th Cavalry. Occasionally, I sat with him in his study where his Certificate of Merit hung on the wall, framed in mahogany, its edges curled with age. Because he spoke so rarely of that event, I filled in the gaps as a child, imagining a glorious battlefield, my dad a hero among men.

To his credit, he never encouraged those fantasies. When my mother died, he became even more withdrawn.

Now, in the spring of 1928, he was dying from throat cancer—a slow, rasping decay. I was with him in his study, where he sat in a chair by the window, thinner than I’d ever seen him, a blanket over his knees. His eyes, however, were still sharp, filled with something I couldn’t name.

“Will,” he said, “I need you to take me to South Dakota.”

I raised an eyebrow. “To see someone?”

He shook his head. “No. To do something I should’ve done a long time ago.”

When he told me the destination—the site of Wounded Knee—I didn’t pry any further. If this was his dying wish, I felt privileged to grant it, especially since my other siblings had moved far away from the family home.

We left two days later in my Ford Eifel, the engine humming steadily as we drove across the plains. He didn’t talk much on the first day of our trip, just stared out the window at the endless horizon. But the land seemed to be drawing something out of him, something buried deep. He spoke a little on the second day, telling me of his enlistment in the Army at age 18, how the promise of adventure and romance in the West had seemed infinitely more enticing than living in hardscrabble poverty on the family farm in Kansas. Then he went silent again.

As we crossed into South Dakota, his posture stiffened, and his breathing grew shallower. The reservation settlements were quiet and somber. Children played in the dust, and elders watched us with unreadable expressions. Since it had been so many years, Dad asked directions to Wounded Knee, where a monument had been erected in 1903. No one spoke much, but they pointed the way.

The monument stood alone on a slight hill, a granite obelisk reaching toward the sky. Dad stepped out of the car slowly, leaning on my arm as we walked toward it. Wind whispered through the grass, as if the land was alive with memory. Dad stood before the monument, shoulders hunched, hat in hand. I stayed a few paces behind him, but I could still read the inscription on the marker.

This monument is erected by
surviving relatives and other
Ogallala. and Cheyenne River Sioux
Indians in memory of the
Chief Big Foot Massacre
December 29, 1890
Col. Forsyth in command
U.S. troops
Big Foot was a great chief of the
Sioux Indians. He often said, I will
stand in peace till my last day
comes. He did many good and brave
deeds for the white man and the
red man. Many innocent women and
children who knew no wrong
died here.

Dad stayed there a long time, the grass moving in small waves around his feet. Then, from his coat pocket, he pulled out the Certificate of Merit. I didn’t realize he had it with him. The edges were browned, the ink faded. He held it up, staring at it as if it were a stranger’s face.

“They gave this to me for killing people who couldn’t fight back,” he whispered. “I’ve kept it for thirty-seven years and it has never stopped haunting me. “

His hands trembled slightly. He took out the fancy inlaid lighter he used to stoke his pipe, flicked it once, and held it to the paper. The flame caught, then danced along the edge until the certificate curled and blackened, flakes drifting to the earth.

When it was nearly consumed, he let the ashes fall from his hand at the base of the monument. Then he knelt and touched the earth with his palms. He whispered something I couldn’t hear, but it streamed out of him with a vitality that belied his illness.

He remained like that for many moments, then stood to his full height.

“Please take me home, Will,” was all he said.

We didn’t speak much on the drive back. but I could see that something in him had eased. His hands trembled less, and in a small motel near Cheyenne, he slept without coughing.

Two weeks later, he was gone.

We buried him with a stone cross and little fanfare, just our small family, a few friends, and the wind at his gravesite. I thought about the Certificate of Merit, how it too had found its final resting place in the soil of a land soaked in blood and finally, perhaps, forgiveness.

Epilogue

In the years since, I returned to that hill and its mournful monument. I stood where Dad stood, the sky stretching wide over the plains. I listened, and I swear I could hear his whispers once again.

Some days, sitting in my own study, I wonder what kind of man I would have been in his place. I knew that 20 soldiers had received Medals of Honor for their action at Wounded Knee. Would I have been one to gloss over the massacre? Or would I have tried to resolve my grief as Dad did, burning a certificate that others would say was sacred?

Now and then, when I close my eyes, I imagine Lakota women and children running terrified through the snow, and I see Dad again as he knelt on that hallowed ground. It’s not his guilt I carry—it’s something older, something quieter. A kind of witness. A kind of vow to remember, to return, to always listen.

The pain he carried never fully left him, but he gave me something that day, and it was more lasting than history books or war medals. He gave me the truth. And the truth, I think, is what finally gave him partial peace.

When I teach my children about him, I tell them not just of Edward Dutton, but of the Lakota. I teach them not what was written in the official reports, but what was felt by those who suffered so much. Just as the monument still stands, weathered but firm, so does the vow of so many to never forget what happened there.

It’s a vow I now share, and I believe this is the real merit—the courage not just to fight, but to face the truth when it comes calling.

August 13, 2025August 13, 2025 by krinvan Tags: history, lakota-tribe, massacre, native-american, resolution, shame, short-story, wounded-knee Leave a comment

Billy and the Long Road West

Between 1854 and 1929, “orphan trains” transported 200,000 children from crowded Eastern cities to foster homes in the rural Midwest that were short on farming labor.

The train pulled into Oakridge, Indiana, its whistle shrieking. Twelve-year-old Billy McCrae pressed his face to the soot-streaked window, wondering if this would be his final stop. He clutched his satchel containing the only things he had left from his life in New York: a frayed photograph of his mother and a tin whistle his father gave him before deserting him. That last abandonment had drained the spunk from Billy. It was why he hadn’t resisted the aid workers. Any future was better than what he had.

Now he was one of dozens of children packed into this orphan train. They came from tenement alleys and city gutters, plucked by well-meaning reformers and shipped west to find “good Christian homes.” The theory sounded noble, but Billy had heard a few stories of those adopted by folks who saw them as free labor, not family. He hoped he could avoid that fate.

The station was nothing more than a wooden platform next to a dirt road. Dust hung in the summer air. A couple dozen townspeople stood waiting, their faces carved by sun and hard labor. The representative from the Children’s Aid Society herded the children off the train and had them stand in line for inspection. Billy watched as a tall, scruffy man in overalls approached him. At his side was a woman in a high-necked dress who looked like she hadn’t smiled in twenty years. They introduced themselves as the Culvers.

“Strong arms on this one,” Mr. Culver said, gripping Billy’s shoulder like a butcher examining a side of beef. “He’ll do.”

Billy said nothing. He knew better.

___

The Culver farm was three miles outside town, a ramshackle house surrounded by fields and a red barn that listed slightly to one side. Billy was quickly assimilated. His chores began before dawn and ended after sunset. He fed pigs, mucked stalls, and hauled water. He weeded rows of corn and beans, scrubbed floors, and chopped wood until his hands blistered and bled.

“You work, you eat,” Mrs. Culver had said the first night, sliding a plate of dry cornbread and boiled beans across the table. “You complain, you don’t.”

There were no schoolbooks and no kind words. Only work and silence, broken by the occasional barked order or smack of a belt. Billy slept on an old mattress in the hayloft with a worn blanket and mice for company. He tried not to cry, but when he did, he muffled it with the crook of his elbow so no one could hear.

This was the outcome he had dreaded. Those awful stories he’d heard were now his reality, and soon he began to think about running away. But where would he go? He knew nothing about his part of the country, and the land stretched on forever.

On Sundays, the Culvers took him to church. His mother had taught him that Christianity was meant to instill charity. Not in the Culvers. Their attendance wasn’t out of faith but for the sake of their reputation. When it came to Billy, the townsfolk saw a quiet, well-behaved boy and nodded their approval. No one asked questions. No one noticed the bruises under his sleeves or the strap marks on his back. No one sensed the disdain he harbored towards the Culvers and their hypocrisy.

Billy tried to find scraps of comfort where he could. In the face of a neighboring girl who smiled at him during church. In the farm dog that nuzzled his hand. In the orange streaks of sunset behind the barn. In the brief moments of stillness before sleep.

___

Time passed. Seasons shifted. Billy grew taller and stronger, his hands calloused, his shoulders broadened. But inside, he still felt small and alone. The nights were the hardest. When the wind whistled through the slats of the barn, he would pull out the photograph of his mother, now creased and faded. He remembered her final days before she succumbed to yellow fever. His father, unwilling to cope, withdrew into alcohol, spending so much time away that Billy learned to fend for himself. Sometimes he took out the tin whistle, but he never dared to play it. Sound carried on the northern plains.

One night, a storm rolled across the fields, shaking the barn to its bones. Billy huddled in the hayloft, listening to the thunder and trying to remember what his mother’s voice sounded like. The next morning, after the rain cleared, he saw that one of the fences had fallen. Mr. Culver sent him out with nails, a hammer, and no breakfast.

While repairing the slats, Billy overheard Mr. Culver talking with a neighbor.

“That boy’s worth three hired hands,” the man said.

“And I ain’t paid him a dime,” Culver said with a laugh. “By all rights, he oughta be thanking me.”

That night, lying in the hay, Billy made his decision. He was done thanking people for his chains.

___

He waited a week, watching and listening. He learned when the Culvers slept and when the trains passed through Oakridge. He hid bread crusts and an old canteen. Then, on a humid August night under a half-moon, he crept from the barn like a shadow. He carried nothing but his satchel and a heart full of steely determination.

He moved through the cornfields, ears tuned to every cricket and rustle. Then he followed the dirt road into town, keeping to the tree line. When he got to the depot, it was silent, but soon a freight train approached, its cars rumbling.

He ran with all his strength, reaching the last car as it began to lurch forward. He jumped and caught the ladder, his feet dangling for a terrifying moment before he scrambled up and pulled himself inside.

He collapsed on the floor of the empty boxcar, chest heaving, eyes stinging from the wind and relief. He didn’t know where the train was going. He didn’t care. It wasn’t Oakridge. It wasn’t the Culvers.

It was away.

___

One train, then others. They carried Billy across wide rivers, dusty towns, and golden hills. He learned to hide when the crew came by, to forage from crates and beg at stops when he dared. He met other hobos—men with lined faces and stories in their eyes. Some offered him food. Others tried to take what little he had. He learned quickly to stay alert, to move on, to trust sparingly.

One day in Nebraska, he jumped off a train to avoid a railyard inspector and spent the night under a bridge. There, he met a boy about his age named Leo, also an orphan, who had run from a textile mill in St. Louis. He was thin with dark hair, his eyes filled with a weariness beyond his age. They shared stolen apples and tales of the road.

“You think it gets better?” Leo asked.

Billy shrugged. “It has to.”

“Well,” said Leo, “you have more hope than I do.”

They traveled together for a while, helping each other dodge authorities and sharing small victories—a warm meal here, a safe camp there. But one morning, in a chaotic jump onto a moving train, they were separated. Billy waited at the next town, but Leo never arrived. That was the last he saw of him.

In the railyards of Denver, Billy met an old man named Tom who shared a can of beans and a quiet fire.

“You runnin’ from somethin’ or to somethin’, boy?” Tom asked.

Billy looked into the flames, stung by the reality of his life. “Both, I guess.”

Tom nodded like he understood, then handed Billy a pocketknife with a smooth wooden handle. “You’ll need this more than I do.”

Billy carried it from then on. He continued to follow the tracks westward, toward the promise of ocean air. Toward California.

___

In the Sierra Nevada foothills, Billy found work with a crew clearing trees for the railroads. The foreman didn’t ask questions, just handed him an axe and pointed. The work was hard, but the pay was real. He stayed for months, saving every coin he could, eating like a wolf and sleeping under the stars.

He grew stronger, appearing much older than his age. He learned more about reading and writing from a retired teacher who wandered into camp and exchanged lessons for stories from the men. He claimed he was writing a book. Billy seized the opportunity, soaking up every word, every page.

One night by firelight, he wrote a simple letter to his mother, imagining that somehow she could read it. But he knew it was really for him; he just needed to say the words.

“Dear Mama, I’m okay. It’s been a long time and New York seems so far away. But I still have your picture and I remember your voice. I’ve changed a lot. I’ve seen so much of this country and I’m not afraid anymore. I hope I make you proud. Love, Billy.”

Eventually, he reached Los Angeles, then hitched rides north along the coast. The Pacific Ocean fascinated him, stretching out so wild and blue and endless. He stood on a cliff near Monterey, wind in his hair, and felt something shift inside him. Not peace, not yet. But something close.

He got a job unloading ships at the docks, then as a stable hand outside of Salinas. Determined not to be like the Culvers, he gave a part of his wages to a local church that assisted runaway children, hoping to offer other boys a fighting chance.

He still had the tin whistle. One foggy morning, standing on a beach near Salinas, he played it for the gulls and waves. No melody, just notes that were raw, imperfect, and free.

He was no longer a name on a train ledger. He was no longer the boy from Oakridge. He was Billy McCrae. A survivor who still had dreams for his future. The long road west had brought him to himself. And he wasn’t done yet.

Epilogue

Billy took a job at a sprawling horse ranch outside of Watsonville run by a widow named Miss Adelaide. The property had been in her family for generations. She had sharp eyes and a no-nonsense business style, but she was fair, and she didn’t pry into his past. She taught him to ride, to care for horses, to mend saddles and read the weather by the clouds. She treated him as if he truly mattered. Over time, she became like his lost mother, sharing her wisdom and love. He felt undeserving of her attention, but he allowed it to heal places deep inside him. Under the influence of her warmth, he grew into a young man.

Miss Adelaide had a grandson named Jasper who visited regularly. He was curious and full of wild ideas, and he and Billy became fast friends. They would often sit on a nearby bluff and talk about opening a ranch of their own one day.

“We could do it,” said Jasper. “I know we could.”

Billy would smile tolerantly. “It’s a nice dream.”

In the evenings, after chores were done, Billy relaxed on the bunkhouse porch, sipping cold lemonade, listening to the thrum of cicadas. The nightmares that had plagued him for so long were almost gone, like the scars on his back that had faded into his sun-darkened skin.

In the autumn, Miss Adelaide handed Billy a large envelope.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Your usual wages and something else,” she said. “You’ve earned more than pay, Billy. You’ve earned a future.”

Inside was a deed to a plot of land inland, not far from Miss Adelaide’s ranch. Billy stared at it, blinking in disbelief.

“Stay here as long as you wish, Billy. But meanwhile get started on your dream. Maybe Jasper will join you. Grow something that’s yours.”

Billy nodded, overwhelmed with emotion. He did something he had never done before, reaching over to hug Miss Adelaide. She didn’t resist but simply patted him on the back.

He’d come so far. And there was still a long way to go.

August 8, 2025September 7, 2025 by krinvan Tags: adventure, california, determination, fiction, hobos, orphans, short-story, survival, train-rides, writing 2 Comments

A Tale of Two Orphanages

It’s always this way. Call it the vagaries of chance or the randomness of an indifferent universe. Ten soldiers are in a convoy struck by mortar rounds; only two survive. A fire rips through a mountain village; dozens of homes burst into flame while others remain unscathed. A plane makes a crash landing in a cornfield, killing most passengers; a handful walk away from the wreckage. The Guadalupe River in Texas floods a girl’s summer camp, killing dozens; just a week earlier, similar campers had the time of their lives.

Please don’t say it was your god’s will that some lived while others perished. That’s a cruel heaping of insult on injury, and it paints a ghastly picture of your capricious deity.

No. It’s always this way. And so it was with two orphanages in Galveston, Texas on September 8, 1900.

But first, some context.

In 1900, Galveston was at the zenith of its heyday, a bustling port with a population of 38,000, known as the “Wall Street of the Southwest” for its concentration of banks, businesses, and wealthy entrepreneurs. It boasted being the third richest city in the United States in proportion to population. All major railroads connected there, and it exported 60% of the state’s cotton crop, rivaling New Orleans. Its grand Victorian mansions and beachfront attractions earned it the nickname the “Queen City of the Gulf.”

Galveston also had more than its share of orphans, being the last stop for so-called “orphan trains.” Operating between 1854 and 1929, this social experiment transported 200,000 children from crowded Eastern cities to foster homes in the rural Midwest that were short on farming labor. The co-founders of the movement claimed the children were abandoned, abused, or homeless. They were mostly the offspring of immigrants living in urban slums. The movement garnered widespread criticism for its ineffective screening of caretakers and its insufficient follow-ups on placements. In some cases, the children were no better off than slaves after adoption.

By the time these trains rolled into Galveston, the children on board were those found less desirable. They ended up in one of two places: St. Mary’s Orphanage Asylum or the Galveston Orphan’s home. There they shared quarters with orphans whose parents had succumbed to a yellow fever epidemic.

Then came the fateful day of September 8, when a hurricane dubbed the Great Storm of 1900 made landfall on Galveston Island. With sustained winds up to 145 miles per hour and a storm surge reaching 12 feet, it decimated the city. Exact death tolls vary, but some estimates say up to 12,000 perished. Another 10,000 were homeless. The storm is still the greatest natural disaster in terms of its death toll to ever strike the United States. Massive funeral pyres burned everywhere in the aftermath, and barges carried stacks of the dead into the Gulf of Mexico for burial at sea.

St. Mary’s Orphan Asylum housed 93 children aged 2-23, cared for by 10 sisters of the Charity of the Incarnate Word. As the storm began to rage, the nuns, in a desperate attempt to save their young charges, relocated them from the boys’ dormitory to the newer girls’ dorm. From there, they watched the boys’ section collapse under the wind and tide. They offered prayers and sang hymns to comfort the terrified group, but by nightfall, the winds raged at 150 mph. The nuns tied a piece of clothesline around each of their waists and then around the wrists of some of the children, binding their fates together. The mighty storm finally lifted the girls’ dorm off its foundations. The bottom fell out and the roof crashed down. Only three boys survived by clinging to a nearby tree. They were later rescued at sea by some fisherman in a small boat.

Galveston Orphans’ Home had only been in its new structure for five years when the storm hit. Though the central part of the building collapsed, the rest remained stable. Staff and children, as well other residents, took refuge in the stronger sections and all of them survived the cataclysm.

On the anniversary of the storm in 1994, Galveston dedicated a marker at 69th Street and Seawall Boulevard, honoring the former site of St. Mary’s. The hymn Queen of the Waves, which had been sung by the sisters to calm the children, was part of the ceremony.

The Galveston Orphan’s Home was rebuilt with help from generous donors. Today it houses the Bryan Museum, which I recently visited. In its basement are artifacts found at the home after the storm. Among them is a small slipper once worn by a young child.

Two orphanages, two vastly different outcomes. When this happens in life, what can we do?

We can remember.

July 31, 2025July 31, 2025 by krinvan Tags: galveston, great-storm-of-1900, history, natural-disasters, orphan-trains, orphans, texas 1 Comment

El Padrino

We must learn to regard people less in the light of what they do or omit to do, and more in the light of what they suffer. – Dietrich Bonhoeffer

December 2010, near the Mexican/American border

It was early morning, the cold winter air tinged with smoke from trash fires. Our crew of volunteers was inspecting construction sites in a colonia on the outskirts of Reynosa, Mexico. The neighborhood was mostly shacks cobbled together from old wood, tin, and cardboard. No running water or electricity. Many of its residents were migrants from Chiapas, lured to jobs in maquiladoras along the border. They weren’t squatters. They had purchased their tiny lots with a mortgage and now were laboring with us to build 500 square-foot, cement block structures with two bedrooms and a living space that included a kitchen. Latrines remained outside. These modest homes would usually shelter large families.

I was looking forward to a day of laboring alongside new homeowners, a fellowship of shared purpose, but first I was called elsewhere. News had rippled through the dirt streets that a pastor was present, and I’d received an invitation from a family to bless their newborn child.

I was willing, even though I knew my words would be a clumsy mixture of English and Spanish. A member of the community guided me to the family’s shelter, a one-room shack for two adults and three children. Its walls were scrap plywood, its roof rusted tin over a floor of barren earth. Outside was a cooking fire and a pit latrine.

An old bench seat from a bus sat near the entrance, listing slightly, its surface torn to reveal the springs beneath. The parents, Oscar and Claudia Salazar, thanked me for coming and asked me to sit. Then they brought their tiny daughter to me, only three weeks old.

“Que preciosa,” I said. “Come se llama ella?”

“Perla,” was the answer.

I cradled the infant in my arms, bundled in a blanket. She was quiet, her dark eyes staring up at me, and though I knew she would never remember that moment, it was sacramental for me.

I made the sign of the cross on her forehead and prayed for our Creator’s guiding hand to be upon her and her family, giving them strength, safety, and abundance for this new life they sought to establish.

Then I hold her against my chest for a moment, encircled by her family and smiling neighbors. I could hear dogs barking in the distance.

July 2025, San Antonio, Texas

It was mid-morning. I was sitting in my office when my phone buzzed. I didn’t recognize the number.

“This is Alex,” I answered.

“Alex, it’s Peter Banks. It’s been a while, amigo.”

Peter’s nonprofit had organized the housing projects in Reynosa, partnering with Habitat Para la Humanidad. I knew that the rise of violence with the Gulf Cartel had forced him to shift his focus to immigration advocacy in the U.S. Meanwhile, I’d left my life as a cleric a decade earlier. When people asked me why, I told them it wasn’t due to a crisis of faith. It was an expansion of faith that could no longer be contained by organized religion. I now worked for a nonprofit that oversaw grants for people living with disabilities.

“What’s it been?” I said. “Eight or nine years?”

“That sounds about right.”

“Good to hear from you, Peter. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Do you remember the Salazar family?”

The memory of that day returned, as well as its aftermath. The Salazars had sent a picture to me a year later. They were standing in front of their cement block home, Perla supported by her mother’s hand. The photo was in an envelope scrawled with the words “Al Padrino de Perla.” Godfather? I thought. I was a bit embarrassed that my momentary gesture could be held in such high esteem. I felt unworthy.

“How could I forget?”

“Well, you won’t believe this, but they’re here in the city. They found a way to enter illegally and they’ve sought refuge and help from our center.”

“All five of them?”

“No, just Perla and her parents. Her older brothers struck out on their own. One lives in Matamoros, the other in Monterrey.”

Immediately, the danger of their situation was clear. Our city, like so many in the US, had ICE agents raiding businesses, homes, and public parks, arresting people without legal papers and transporting them to detention centers.

“I’m confused,” I said. “The last time I heard from them, they had a built a small home. Why did they leave?”

“I think it would be better if you heard from them firsthand. Could you come to our offices by the back door this afternoon? There’s some urgency here.”

We set a time for 4:00 p.m.

***

The room Peter chose for our meeting was tucked in the back of his headquarters, one of three homes his operation used on our city’s impoverished South Side. The window blinds were drawn tight. Claudia and Oscar Salazar sat on a couch with Perla beside them. The parents rose and greeted me with warm hugs, as if we were long lost relatives. Perla remained seated, watching me with a distant expression. She was now 15, but she looked older, an attractive young woman with a touch of hardness about her. I nodded at her and smiled, but she simply held my eyes with a flat stare.

“Let’s get started,” said Peter, turning to Oscar. “Por favor, cuéntale a Alex la historia de por qué estás aquí.”

“Claro,” said Oscar, fixing his eyes on mine and beginning his explanation in rapid Spanish.

I caught most of it and Peter translated the rest. It was painful to hear. Claudia and Oscar had secured jobs at the LG Electronics factory in Reynosa, assembling TVs for international distribution. They staggered their shifts so that one of them could always be home to watch over the three children. When the boys moved out, Perla began to associate with peers that had a negative influence on her. She hooked up with a boyfriend who had ties to Los Metros, a faction of the Gulf Cartel that controls northern cities in the Mexican state of Tamaulipas. He became possessive, then physically abusive, and when she tried to pull away, he threatened her and her family. Oscar and Claudia hoped it would simmer down over time, but it grew worse. Twice during the night, their home was struck with rocks, and guns were fired over their roof.

“Dios mío,” I said. “Did you go to the police?

Clauda and Oscar smiled tolerantly, and Perla made a scoffing noise, speaking up for the first time.

“The police are corrupt. If we went to them for help, it would only have made things worse.”

I was surprised by her English fluency, arching my eyebrows.

“The Salazars paid for an ESL tutor at Perla’s request,” Peter explained. “On both sides of the border, being bilingual opens a lot of doors.”

I nodded and looked at her. “I admire that. Can you tell me what happened next?”

She continued in English that was a bit stilted but understandable. She said their family had a cousin in Houston who had emigrated many years ago. He secured his citizenship and now ran a string of small businesses in the Second Ward, a strong Latino enclave. The Salazars pleaded for his help. Even though human smuggling was mostly controlled by the cartel, he knew a man who drove an independent produce truck between Reynosa and McAllen, Texas. He had designed a hidden chamber in the flatbed, and with so many pallets of produce stacked on top, he had never had border agents discover it. For a steep price, he could get them across.

“I have never been so scared,” said Perla. “Not even when Los Metros attacked our home. We were lying flat on our backs. It was so dark. I could hear traffic and the inspectors speaking to the driver. I thought they would find us. I thought they would arrest us and take us to a Centro de Detención.”

I could still hear the fear in her voice. My heart went out to them, confirming a truth that is central to my life. No matter how different someone’s experience is from ours, when we enter into their stories, we have a chance to practice love and hospitality.

“We have a couple drivers who transport people from the border to San Antonio,” said Peter, “but no one available to get them to Houston. Is there any chance you could help, Alex?”

I looked at the expectant faces of the Salazars. Even Perla’s expression was now softer.

“Of course,” I said. “They can come home with me now and we’ll leave early in the morning. I’ll take a personal day.”

“Gloria a Dios,” said Claudia, tears streaming down her cheeks.

***

I had made a snap decision without consulting my wife, Yasmin, but her reaction didn’t surprise me. A second generation Mexican American, she managed a gallery at a local arts complex that specialized in exhibits of Latinx artists. Politically, she was further left than I am. At her insistence, we’d just attended a protest against the ICE raids that were rampant since the new administration took office. The experience moved me deeply. We chanted and sang with a crowd of thousands, and Yasmin described the vibe of the crowd as el Espiritu Santo del pueblo.

Yasmin greeted the Salazars with open arms and helped them get settled, using our guest bedroom and a pull-out sofa bed in the living room. Our two daughters were away at college, so we had ample room. Then the five of us shared a simple dinner. Fluent in Spanish, Yasmin engaged the Salazars, drawing out more of their story. What struck me was the bravery of these parents who had left everything behind at great risk to protect their only daughter.

I told the Salazars that we would leave before dawn, then we all went to our rooms to get rested for the trip.

***

At 2:10 a.m., I heard loud knocking on our front door. Expecting the worst, I got up and went to the entrance. It was wise to have home security in our neighborhood, and because I’m a bit of a techie, I had installed a larger than normal screen near the door. It showed a view all the way to the street. Perla stirred from the nearby sofa bed, but I gestured with my hand for her to stay back.

Three ICE agents were standing in the glow of our porch light, one slightly in front of the others. They were dressed in black with bullet proof vests. Pistols, radios, and handcuffs hung from their utility belts. Emblazoned on their chests in white block letters were the words ICE POLICE. They wore dark masks.

“I know you can see us,” said the man in front. “We have reason to believe that you are sheltering illegal immigrants. Open the door.”

My anxiety was replaced by a growing anger, especially at their anonymity.

“Do you have a warrant?” I asked.

“No,” said the leader, “but it would be wise for you to cooperate.”

“I’m not letting you in my house without a warrant.”

The leader turned and whispered something to his comrades that I couldn’t decipher. Then he turned back to me.

“I must insist that you open the door.”

“You can insist all you want, but without a warrant I will not let you in my home.”

He snorted in frustration, letting his hand drop to his gun. It only pissed me off further.

“And while you’re standing there,” I said, “why don’t you take off your mask? What’s the matter? Afraid to let me see your face?”

He stood frozen for a moment, then reached up and removed it. He was young, Latino, with a beard and dark eyes.

“There. Satisfied?”

I looked into his eyes and the same truth I had applied to the Salazars filled my mind. Who was this young man who had once suckled at his mother’s breast? What was his story? What were his hopes, his dreams, the challenges he faced?

“Well, fellow American,” I said, “we may be on opposite sides of this door, but we aren’t enemies. We share the same country and the same constitutional rights. Without a warrant, I won’t let you past my threshold.”

He just shook his head. “This isn’t over, sir. Not by a long shot.” Then he turned and the three of them walked out to the street and vanished.

I let out a deep breath, realizing only then how much adrenaline was coursing through me. Yasmin and the Salazars had gathered in the hallway, listening to the discussion.

Yasmin came up behind me and placed her hand on my shoulder. “My husband,” she said, “thank you for that. I have an idea for what to do next.”

***

A few hours later, we implemented Yasmin’s plan. Since she and I both drive SUVs, she suggested that she leave our garage into the rear alleyway before dawn, using my vehicle with its darker window tinting. If we were under surveillance, perhaps she could act as a decoy. A short time later, I could leave in her car with the Salazars. It was still risky, but it was the best shot we had.

Yasmin left at 5:00 a.m. A half hour later, I loaded the Salazars into Yasmin’s car. It has three back seats, so I instructed them to lie down, one to a seat, until we were clear of the city.

I pulled out and made my way to Interstate 10 for our three-hour drive to Houston. I was only nervous now, no anger, and I obsessively checked the rearview mirrors to see if we were being followed. It wasn’t until we got past Seguin that I began to relax, telling the Salazars they could sit up in their seats.

Perla was right behind me, staring at me through the rearview mirror. I looked into her eyes, remembering that distant day when I held her on a broken bus bench, the smell of smoke surrounding us.

“Gracias, padrino,” she said.

“Es mi privilegio.”

And we smiled at each other as we hurtled towards the next chapter of her life.

July 26, 2025July 26, 2025 by krinvan Tags: border, fiction, ice, immigration, justice, mexico, short-story, smuggling, writing 1 Comment

Victor Benavides and the Power of Words

Welcome back to our series of interviews with authors in the Story Sanctum family. As I said in the first installment—a conversation with Soter Lucio—it’s a privilege to connect with these writers and learn the backstories to their artistry. This is especially true since they come from vastly different countries and experiences.

This time, meet Victor Benavides, a Texas-based author whose debut short story Carrier the Fisherman appeared on our site on July 1, 2025. It’s a piece dedicated to his grandfather that evokes vivid scenes of war, a brawl in New Orleans, and life along the southern coast of Texas. At the center of it all is Carrier, a larger-than-life presence with an unexpected fate. Take a few moments to read it!

KVT: First, Victor, thank you for taking the time to share with us. I see that you grew up in the Lower Rio Grande Valley (RGV). As a fellow Texan, I’ve spent a lot of time on both sides of the American/Mexican border. Does your family have historic roots in that area?

VB: My father moved here in 1943 when he was fourteen years old. I remember him sharing a story about his first day here—how his brother gave him a pair of canvas shoes that he cherished. He began his career as a radio personality and DJ in the Valley, and later became a writer, producer, director, and actor in several hit films shot locally, such as Treinta Segundos Para Morir and La Banda del Carro Rojo. My mother was born at Mercy Hospital in Brownsville, Texas, and grew up in Port Isabel. She met my father in 1979.

KVT: Your father sounds like a creative character. Do you remember any specific advice he gave you?

VB (chuckling): My dad gave me advice about everything and anything. When it came to writing, he said to write about something that I find truly inspiring. If I get excited with my own words and feel a sense of wonderment and connection, then I have something worthwhile to share with the world. He also told me that whenever I write fiction, add a bit of truth because it will then become greater. Lastly, he told me to write while in the moment. If I feel inspired in the moment and write something down, even if it’s incomplete, I know that one day I will revisit that piece of writing and finish it when inspiration strikes again.

KVT: Your bio also says that after earning a master’s degree in business administration from the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley, you are now working on a master’s in English. What prompted this shift?

VB: I’m an English teacher here in the RGV, and I decided to pursue a master’s in English Studies to strengthen my skills and broaden my knowledge of the field. I felt that deepening my understanding of rhetoric, literacy, and composition would make me a more effective and impactful teacher for my students.

KVT: I love this quote from you: “I have always been fascinated with the power of words and how they can stir emotions and help a reader transcend into different literary worlds.” Do you have some favorite authors who influenced you?

VB: Authors who have influenced me deeply include Américo Paredes, María Amparo Ruiz de Burton, John Berger, Rudolfo Anaya, Margarita Longoria, Sandra Cisneros, and many others. I’m also drawn to science fiction and admire writers like George Orwell, Ray Bradbury, and others for their ability to expand the imagination and reflect on society.

KVT: Can you share any anecdotes from your teaching when you saw students whose emotions were stirred by the power of words?

VB: There’s a famous story I read to my students called The Appointment in Samarra. It’s about a wealthy merchant who sends his servant to get provisions in the bustling marketplace of Baghdad. The servant returns full of fear. When the merchant asks him why, he says that he saw Death in the image of a cloaked woman and she seemed to make a threatening gesture. The servant asks to borrow the merchant’s horse, then gallops to the faraway city of Samarra to hide and escape from her. Later, the merchant goes down to the marketplace and sees the same cloaked figure “Why did you make a threatening gesture towards my servant?” he asks her. “That was not a threatening gesture,” she says. “I was simply startled to see him in Baghdad, because I have an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.” After reading this, I get a lot of wide-eyed epiphany-induced looks from my students. They realize that the story elicits an emotional response from them because they can identify with the servant’s feelings. No young student really takes into account their own mortality. At that age, they feel invincible. However, the story helps them realize that death is inevitable and that time is a precious resource. Although it’s a bleak story, it helps students appreciate the power of words.

KVT: What are some of your plans for using your writing and your new degree?

VB: I’ve always seen education as a lifelong journey; we’re constantly learning and growing. With my writing, I hope to create literary works that forge emotional connections with readers. I also want to offer more diverse “mirrors” in my work—stories and characters that allow readers from all backgrounds to see themselves reflected and to connect personally with what they read.

KVT: Well, I look forward to reading your work in the future, and I thank you for taking the time to speak with us.

VB: You’re very welcome!

You can find Victor Benavides on Facebook here.

July 19, 2025 by krinvan Tags: authors, books, fathers-and-sons, fiction, mexican-american-border, power-of-words, short-story, writing 3 Comments

Meet Soter Lucio: Grandmother, Ironer, Horror Fiction Writer

Stories are a communal currency of humanity. – Tahir Shah

As Fiction Editor at Story Sanctum Publishing, I have the privilege of reading submissions from around the world. We have featured stories by writers from India, Indonesia, Scotland, Taiwan, and England among others. Through my email correspondence with them, as well as deep dives into their work online, I have broadened my appreciation for Story Sanctum’s diverse family of authors.

Recently, I interviewed Soter Lucio from the Island nation of Trinidad and Tobago. We published her short story The Contract on June 1 of this year. Soter’s background, her chosen genre, and her path to discovering her gift fascinate me.

KVT: Soter, tell me something about your family, past and present.

SL: I have always lived in Trinidad, and my family and ancestors have aways been gardeners. We plant and sell in the market on Fridays and Saturdays. We plant chive, thyme, parsley, and short crops like sweet peppers, tomatoes, cabbage, and ochres. I have four children and six grandchildren, all of whom live on Trinidad.

KVT: The main character of The Contract is a woman who washes clothes along the river. I understand that laundering is a part of your past as well.

SL: I worked as a maid until my girls completed Form 5 so that I could be home in the morning before they left for school and home in the afternoons when they returned. Then I started ironing because we needed more money for university and ironing paid better. That was in 1997. I put advertisements in the newspapers and got enough clients to fill my days. So I ironed from 6.30 am to 8.30 pm, Monday through Saturday, and Sunday between 7 am and 1 pm. I did this from 1997 to 2023. I still iron, but not as much anymore.

KVT: How did you first get interested in writing?

SL: Someone read an essay I’d written in primary school and said, “You know, you could be a writer.” I didn’t say anything because I didn’t know one could even be a writer. Then I read an advertisement in our newspaper about an aptitude test from The Writing School of London. It was a challenge to compose a story based on a photo they supplied. I did. I sent it, passed it, and took their correspondence course. I followed that up with their diploma in writing in 1983. By then I had four children, so writing had to take a backseat until my youngest got her degree in Pharmacy. Then she bought me a laptop and said “Mother go write!”

KVT: Why have you chosen the horror genre?

SL: I think horror chose me. We are from a superstitious community, immersed in a way of life that I now understand to be horror. I grew up with no electricity or indoor plumbing. I washed and bathed by the river, and I toted water from a spring for all our household duties. Stories about soucouyant, lougaroo, La Diablesse, Papa Bois, and douen were part of our daily fare. Soucouyant are females who suck the blood of women and roll on men in their sleep. Lougaroo shape shift into animals, carrying chains and running about the country scaring people. La Diablesse is a woman who made a deal with the Devil in exchange for eternal beauty. She lures young boys to follow her until they are lost, then she beats them with her razor-sharp hair until they die. Papa Bois protects the animals in the forest. Douen are the babies who die before getting baptized. Stories and characters like these are the root of my horror orientation.

KVT: Wow, those are some scary images to introduce to children. Do you remember an incident from your youth where one of the superstitions seemed to take on a life of its own?

SL: As a child I was told that only devils are in the city. Then, at eleven years old, I passed the Common Entrance Exam for an Intermediate Girl school in Port-of-Spain. I moved there and was scared every day. I was sure my parents hated me because they sent me among the “devils.” I spent my days looking for horns and tails. Where were they hiding them? I never found the answer. I was also told that only devils go to the cinema. When I was about 21 years old, some friends invited me to see a movie. When I got home that night, I actually tried washing away the sin. That shows you how long those superstitions lasted.

KVT: When did you publish your first story? What are some of your writing credits since then?

SL: My first story was published in 2015 by Dark Chapter Press. Then I had others that appeared in Sirens Call Publications, Weird Mask, Wicked Shadow Press, Story Sanctum, and Migla Press.

KVT: If you look back on your work, what is your favorite piece you’ve written?

SL: My favorite is The Last Request of Gladimus McCarran for the simple reason that it was imagined, written, and submitted within a few hours after a long day of ironing. For me that was quite an accomplishment. It was published by the now defunct Sirens Call. A reprint of that story along with others can be found at Metastellar.

KVT: What upcoming projects do you have in the works?

SL: At present, I’m writing a 30,000-word horror novella for Dark Holme Publishing and a short story for Wicked Shadow Press. I’m also attempting a full-length novel that will be based on my life but is not autobiographical.

KVT: Well, I certainly think your fascinating life is worthy of a book. Thanks so much for taking the time to spend with us.

SL: You’re very welcome!

In addition to the links above, you can find Soter on Facebook here.

July 5, 2025July 5, 2025 by krinvan Tags: books, demons, fiction, horror, short-stories, superstitions, trinidad-and-tobago, writing 1 Comment

What Goes Around…

(Dedicated to Tony Morris)
As a man sow, shall he reap. – Bob Marley

You’ve heard the warning. Don’t try this at home. Here’s another one for the list. Detoxing from alcohol.

I already knew that, having endured it enough times to prove every theory of alcoholic insanity. But here I was again, 2:00 a.m., alone in bed. My longtime girlfriend, LeAnne, had deserted months earlier, weary of my lurching trip along the bottom. “Don’t call me,” was her parting salvo, “until you get your act together.”

My act was definitely not together. Sweating, nauseous, dehydrated, I tossed and turned, blood pressure hammering my skull. And I was hallucinating, which was a first. Some ancient script kept scrolling across my bedroom ceiling, like words on a teleprompter. I’m fluent in three languages, and I’ve studied their linguistic histories, but I couldn’t decipher a syllable. Even stranger, I kept hearing lyrics from a Tool song, as if a brain worm had crawled out of my ear canal and was taunting me from the darkness: Why can’t we drink forever? I just want to start this over.

Around four, I got up for water, hungover like a melted corpse in a Dali painting. I tried to orient myself to the date.

Shit, I thought, it’s Thursday morning. I’m going to miss my deadline.

That deadline was my weekly submission for the newspaper where I worked, one of the great holdouts of print media, a standard in our metropolis for 170 years. People read it during the Civil War, the Oklahoma Land Rush, the dawn of the Industrial Revolution, the two great wars designed to end all wars. They read it through McCarthyism, the Bay of Pigs, the assassination of M.L.K., Jr., the rise of the Internet, the toppling of the World Trade Centers. They were still reading it in print and on their devices.

My only remaining pride was to be part of that grand tradition. A few years earlier, my investigative piece on the dreadful conditions in for-profit prisons had been a finalist for the Pulitzer. I was riding the last fumes of that fame, my disease a riptide pulling me into oblivion.

I stood at the window of my fourth-floor apartment, my reflection as dark and featureless as I felt. A panoramic view of the city spread to the horizon—shimmering lights, bright towers, rivers of red and white traffic. I reached into the top drawer of the dresser, my hand coiling around the grip of a Glock 19. I didn’t buy it for home defense. I’d never been to a gun range. It was there for one reason only—to offer a way out if things got too grim.

I lifted it to my head and pressed it above my right ear. As I closed my eyes and tried to suppress my anguish, the only thought I had was, Call Tony.

Tony deserved to know that I’d miss my obligation. He was more than my editor. He had been a friend during my descent, encouraging me to get treatment, never threatening to cut me off. My cellphone was on the dresser, so I picked it up and dialed his number. After five rings came a groggy response.

“John…what the hell? Do you know what time it is?”

“I’m sorry,” I croaked, my voice dry and hoarse. “I won’t be able to get you my article. I’m sorry, Tony.”

Silence on the other end.

“Are you okay, John? Do I need to come get you and finally take you for some help?”

“I’m just so tired,” I whispered. “I’ve lost LeAnne. I’ve lost my pride. And now I can’t even meet my deadline. I’m going to make it all go away.”

He knew instantly what I meant. “Please don’t do that, John. I still believe in you. I believe in your talent. I believe your words have made a difference to so many people. They are still making a difference. Your gift will remain and you can start over again.”

“I’m tired of starting over. Just so fucking tired. Tired unto death.”

Again, a few seconds of silence. My finger tightened ever so slightly on the trigger.

“John, I’m pleading with you. Get up off your knees and try again, this time in a new way. Let me pick you up and take you somewhere for treatment.”

I stood there, frozen, staring out at the city, my hand cocked to my head, as tears began to roll down my cheeks.

Two years later

In the break room that day, a colleague asked me, “What’s the greatest lesson you’ve learned in sobriety?” I don’t think he was really interested, just being polite. Non-alcoholics are muggles when it comes to understanding the disease. It was hard to choose an answer, but I used an adage from my Twelve Step meetings. Accepting life on life’s terms. A humble acknowledgement that there’s so much we can’t control. Or, to put it another way, there’s so much we should never even try to control. Control is an addiction all its own. My colleague nodded, then said, “Well, I admire you, John.”

I leaned back in my desk chair and thought of how that answer stemmed from multiple hard lessons. Since that fateful morning when Tony drove me to rehab, I’d gotten ample opportunities to practice letting go. I had called LeAnne, but she had no desire to reunite, having found someone who she said, “was more stable.” Then there was the newspaper continuing its transition to an online presence, hiring freelancers and paying them a pittance. My salary was downsized. Tony and I met for coffee once a week, and he tried to explain it as my friend, but I didn’t blame him. It was the new reality, and he was even questioning the security of his own position.

To make ends meet, I’d taken a job as an adjunct professor at a local junior college, teaching courses online. It was mildly enjoyable but never fulfilling. I longed for those years when I was hot on the trail of an investigative project, tracking it down and bringing it into focus. That was my passion, my highest calling, and I was afraid my newfound acceptance would turn into toxic regret.

Then, at one of our weekly confabs, Tony surprised me.

“I have some news, John. I got a call from a midsize paper in the Midwest. Instead of surrendering, they want to try and resurrect their presence. They offered me a job as Editor-in-Chief, hoping I can turn things around.”

Since Tony was my only real friend, my first thought was Here we go again, another thing to accept. But I pushed that aside. “Are you going to take it?”

In his mid-50s, 20 years my senior, Tony still dressed like a hipster. Graphic T-shirts from rock concerts, a leather jacket, pressed chinos, thick-framed glasses of various colors, and one of the many fedoras he collected. He took off his hat, running his hand through his goatee, then over his bald head. I’d seen him do it a thousand times.

“Yeah. I already signed a contract. I would have told you sooner, but the negotiations were touch and go.”

He took a sip of coffee. “It was hard to convince Joanne, but both of us have fantasized about living in a smaller city with less congestion. Plus, my job here isn’t stable.”

I nodded, trying to hide my disappointment. “I’m happy for you. You deserve only the best. Both you and Joanne.”

“Thanks, but there’s more. The paper gave me the latitude to bring in new talent. I’d like to offer you a job as my top journalist.”

Looking back on that moment, there was a shift in me. I’d heard countless people describe their beliefs that some higher power, some God or force, was accomplishing in their lives what they could not do for themselves. It was that instant when I made a baby step towards believing. It was like a puzzle piece snapping into place. I had no prospects, only my wistfulness about the past, and I, too, had grown tired of the impersonal vibes of the city.

“Let me think about it, Tony,” I said, but I knew in my heart that I was ready.

Summer, two years later

I shut down my computer, pleased with my latest installment in a series on fentanyl trafficking in the Midwest. It featured three families whose lives had been tragically damaged by the substance and were speaking out to make a difference. It wasn’t easy reading, but it was timely and prophetic. The narrative arcs were strong. I was feeling my old mojo.

I looked out the window of my office. The building that housed the newspaper was on the edge of town, bordered by a sweeping expanse of corn fields, the cash crop of the Midwest. Accustomed to urban landscapes, I was surprised by how much I had grown to love the vastness and tranquility of my new home. Sometimes I’d get in my car and drive to the middle of nowhere, clearing my head. Or sit at a roadside picnic table and practice letting my past and present converge into a sense of serenity.

My thoughts turned to Tony. He had overseen great progress at the paper, but I was worried about him. Joanne’s reluctance to move had blossomed into discontent. She said she missed the cultural opportunities of the big city and complained that their new neighbors were parochial. Finally, she left Tony with an ultimatum that if he didn’t join her within a year, their marriage was over. That deadline had come and gone.

Simultaneously, Tony developed back problems—aggravated by stress and too many hours at a desk. He underwent surgery to fuse three lower vertebrae, and the pain meds they gave him during recovery got their talons into him. He had lost some of his sharpness. I saw it. So did others. It was the proverbial elephant in the newsroom. When I expressed my concern, he thanked me, shifting his gaze to the side, then told me everything would be okay, yet I knew firsthand how addicts minimize their usage.

The irony struck me—my own addiction and denial, his support as a friend, even the fact that I was investigating opioid trafficking. I wanted to help him, and I felt poised to make a difference in his life, but people only change when they’re ready.

On this day, he had phoned in sick. It had happened other times recently, and the staff was getting more suspicious. I waited until late afternoon, then called him. No answer. I waited until nightfall and tried again. Still no answer. Highly unusual.

I decided to drive to his house for a welfare check. He lived on the edge of town near a creek bed bordered by tall trees and a hiking trail. The stream was damned in various spots to create ponds where people could sit and absorb the scenery.

I parked next to his car in the driveway and got out. The streetlights were on, already attracting swarms of bugs. It was a warm summer night and I could smell the creek bottom, damp and mossy. When I got to the front door, it was slightly ajar, stoking my worries. I pushed it open.

“Tony,” I called out. “Are you here? It’s John. I’m just checking on you.”

No answer. I entered and made a quick search of the modest home, noting the decorations that showed Joanne’s sense of style. He wasn’t there. I thought about calling the police; maybe there’d been foul play. But I also knew that Tony liked to hike along the creek to a favorite spot near one of the ponds. I would check there before calling the authorities.

The paved trail along the water had light poles spaced at intervals, but it was still gloomy. Frogs and crickets had begun their evening symphony, accompanied by the gurgling of the creek. I quickened my stride and, sure enough, as I approached the first pond I could see Tony’s unmistakable form, his bald head reflecting light from a pole just above him. He was seated on a bench, and when I slid next to him, he looked at me.

I’ll never forget his eyes. They mirrored my own that night I had pressed the gun against my temple. It was the gaze of a man trapped in his personal purgatory, conceding the doom of a repetitious behavior that would grind him throughout eternity.

He tried hard to focus. “John? What are you doing here?” His voice was soft and raspy.

“I’m here to help you, Tony. I know the pills have taken you down. I know that Joanne leaving is still depressing you.”

He turned away, his breathing labored. The plaintive call of a lonesome owl drifted out of the darkness.

Too much,” he whispered. “Just too much.”

“I know,” I said, “But I want to remind you of some words you said to me a couple years ago. I believe in you, Tony. I believe in your talents. I believe in how you care for other people. Hell, I wouldn’t be sitting her next to you unless you had stayed by me.”

He began to shake, a tremor running through his body. Then he slumped forward, placing his arms on his legs. One of them slipped and I was afraid he would topple over, so I supported him under his armpit.

“Come with me, my friend. Let’s get you the help you need.”

He rubbed his right hand over his head and sighed. “Okay, John. Okay.”

A year later

The hotel’s grand ballroom, with its opulent chandeliers and art deco design, was a splendid choice for our region’s journalistic awards banquet. The tables sported newsprint tablecloths, and large TVs on the walls displayed the year’s best photos and art.

Our staff had carpooled to the capital, an annual trek that we all enjoyed. Seated at our table, my colleagues were drinking wine or cocktails from the open bar as I nursed a ginger ale. Tony sat next to me, sipping a Diet Coke. As I looked around at their faces, I thought of how far afield our life’s paths can take us. We end up in divergent realities we never expected, but when we make them our own, they enrich us immensely.

Just moments before, I had received an award for my series on fentanyl. A far cry from contending for the Pulitzer, but somehow more valuable to me given all that had happened in the past few years. As the evening neared its climax, they were about to announce the ultimate award—Journalist of the Year.

The MC, Editor-in-Chief of the state’s largest newspaper, went to the microphone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, “thank you for being here. Let me congratulate all those who have received awards this evening. We are a talented group. Together, we’re keeping journalistic excellence alive in a rapidly changing world of sound bites and short attention spans.”

She lifted her glass. “A toast to our continued success in the coming year.”

There was a raucous chorus of “Here! Here!” that died down in anticipation of her announcement.

“And now,” she continued, “we come to tonight’s most prestigious award. I would ask for the envelope, but there isn’t one.”

The crowd tittered.

“With no further ado, let me recognize our journalist of the year, Tony Harris, for your editorial prowess, your sharp wit, and your business acumen.”

The room exploded with applause, and people began to shout, “Speech! Speech!”

Tony looked genuinely surprised. He got up and made his way steadily to the podium, evidence that his physical therapy was making a difference. He took the mic from the MC, then ran his hand through his goatee and over his head before scanning the room in a moment of silence. Everyone quieted down.

“For those of us who have ink in our blood,” he said, “this night is a celebration of that passion that will not let us go. And I can’t thank you enough for this honor.”

He looked down for a moment, clearly emotional.

“I want to share a truth that I’ve learned firsthand. Karma can be a bitch, but it can also be the force that saves our lives. I won’t get into the details of how deeply I understand this, but I just want to say one other thing.”

He’d taken his coke with him to the front.

“I have a personal toast to my friend for many years, John Newcombe.”

He lifted his glass.

“John, what goes around comes around. You know what I mean, brother, and I’m eternally grateful for our relationship.”

Tears welled in my eyes. I lifted my tumbler and toasted not only to Tony, but to every suffering soul, every individual trapped in purgatory, every person teetering on the edge of a decision that was as final as the closing of a coffin lid. And for every last one of them, I poured out a silent prayer of hope and healing.

“Here! Here!” shouted the crowd around me.

July 1, 2025 by krinvan Tags: fiction, friendship, hope, journalism, karma, short-story, suicide, writing 2 Comments