The Man with Three Names
And other stories
A very, very short collection of poetry and prose by:
Oren Hammerquist
"The Man with Three Names"
"684 Feet"
"Butterfly"
"I'll Love you for a Thousand Years"
Copyright 2013 by Oren Hammerquist
Other works by this author:
Murphy's Second Death, Novel 2014
Short Stories
"Mining Chernobyl," Short Story, Steel Cities Anthology
"Abbie Oleander," Short Story, Romance Magazine Vol. 1 No. 6
"The Final Wish," Featured story, Romance Magazine Vol 1 No. 10
"A Soldier's Tears," Short Story, Soldier Story Anthology
Poetry
"Marble Heroes," Proud To Be: Writing by American warriors Vol. 2
“For Kyle and Dale,” Trillium Literary Journal, Winter 2014
“Days of Gold to Golden Years,” Trillium Literary Journal, Fall 2013
“Working for You,” Trillium Literary Journal, Summer 2013
These short stores are a promotional release for my upcoming short story collection, Love Transcends. The collection is cross-genre with that range from science fiction, to light romance, to literary fiction. Whether the story happens in the distant future or the altered present, the characters must fight to earn and understand their love. There is a mix between previously published pieces and previously unseen work. Love Transcends is the love that seeks true meaning.
Stories in the collection:
"Abbie Oleander"
"The Final Wish"
"The Effect of Causation"
"Hopeless Souls"
AND MUCH MORE!
Expected release: Winter 2015
The works here are meant to highlight my abilities as a writer—sort of like a weightlifter flexing in front of a camera. I chose the first story because it is in the same style as my collection, but not the same subject The second story—almost a micro-flash piece—illustrates my ability to use and combine imagery. The poem I used to finish this collection inspired one of the stories that will appear in Love Transcends. Use coupon code: JP82N when the book becomes available for preorder to get it for $.99. This offer will last until the day it is officially released.
As a thank you for reading this book, check the About the Author section for a special discount (also $.99) for my first novel Murphy's Second Death.
Table of Contents
The Man with Three Names
684 Feet
Butterfly
"I'll Love You for a Thousand Years"
About the Author
The Man with Three Names
I.
Hammond was suddenly shocked into reality behind the wheel of a moving car he had never seen before. He could not remember where he had come from, or where he was going. He had experienced "highway hypnosis" before on long drives, but he had never forgotten his destination or starting point before.
The poorly paved road stretched into utter darkness in front of him, and he could barely see farmland just outside the headlight beams. With every tree he passed, he hoped for a sudden insight of his location, but this did not happen. It seemed ridiculous to keep driving when he had no idea where he was going. For all he knew, he had passed his destination hours ago. The fuel gauge read below a quarter, but that could mean either that he had forgotten to fill it, or that he had used three quarters of the tank. He pulled his car to a stop on the closest thing he could find to a shoulder in the hope he could regain his senses.
Headlights appeared in the distance, and Hammond wondered if he should stop them to ask for help. What would he say? The first question the driver would ask is where he was going. If he said he didn't know, they would probably assume he was drunk, and leave him behind.
As the other car passed, the momentary flash from the headlights revealed the map light switch. Turning it on, Hammond saw first that his hands were covered in dirt. Looking down, he saw his clothes were similarly soiled. He was glad he had not stopped the car now since this would be much harder to explain. More unsettling was the fact that he could not explain it to himself. He glanced into the back seat and saw a used shovel.
As he tried to place the items, he heard a squeal of tires. He looked around, but there were no other vehicles. The squeal was followed by the crashing of a car, and then the constant sound of a horn. He watched as the world went white and vanished.
***
Hammond found himself sitting at a table with a cup of coffee in his hand. He seemed to be in a cafeteria, and there were people all around. They were laughing, talking, or reading as they ate.
"Hey, I asked if you agreed or not."
Hammond suddenly noticed the man sitting at the table with him. He did not remember ever having seen the man before. Hoping the disorientation would pass, he decided to fake it.
"Yeah," Hammond answered. "I guess you're right."
The other man raised an eyebrow. "You weren't even paying attention."
"Sure I was," Hammond answered.
"Uh huh. Okay, what did I say then?"
"You asked if I agreed with you," Hammond faked.
"I knew you weren't paying attention," the other man said. "I was talking about the President's speech last night on gun control, and asked if you agreed."
"I'm sorry," Hammond said. "I'm just not feeling quite like myself."
"Oh, I'm sorry," the still unnamed man said. "One of those migraines again?"
Hammond suddenly remembered that he had occasional problems with migraine headaches. It seemed like a good enough excuse. "Yeah, kind of a bad one."
The other man nodded knowingly. "Well maybe you should take a minute and close your eyes."
Hammond nodded, and rested his face in his hands. His life was slowly coming back to him. In his mind, he began listing facts as he remembered them, My name is Hammond Mathieson. I occasionally have migraine headaches that cause confusion. I am in a cafeteria at my place of work. I work for Logan's Paper Supply and Manufacturing. I am thirty years old, and single.
Hammond heard someone near him say, "Gabriel?"
Assuming they must be talking to someone else, he continued repeating facts in his head. My name is Hammond Mathieson....
The new speaker grabbed his shoulder and said again, "Gabriel."
Hammond saw that the man was looking directly at him. He glanced over at the man across the table that seemed to be giving him a concerned look.
"Hey, Tom. Gabe is having a migraine at the moment."
"Oh, thanks Paul," Tom said to the man Hammond now knew was named Paul. Tom looked at Hammond and said in a very concerned tone, "I'm sorry Gabriel. I know you aren't feeling quite well, but there are some men here to talk to you."
Next to "Tom" were two men in business suits. One of the men started talking, but Hammond could not hear him. He heard the sound of squealing tires as the man pulled his jacket back to reveal a police officer's badge on his belt. Hammond heard a crash, the steady sound of a car horn, and the world faded to white light.
***
Hammond woke to find himself standing next to a large, half-filled hole in a field. In his hand was the shovel full of dirt. He recognized the shovel from the back of the mysterious car, and he was dirty just as he had been when he had awoken in the strange car.
Was I digging a hole or filling a hole? he asked himself. On a moment's reflection, he realized that it did not make much difference in this situation. Why was he standing in a field, and where was that field? Even more important was why he would be either digging or filling any hole?
Sitting on th
e ground, he put his head in his hands and repeated aloud, "My name is Hammond Mathieson. I occasionally have migraines that cause confusion. It is nighttime, and I am in a field with a shovel in the middle of nowhere. I am thirty years old and married. I—"
Hammond stopped in surprise. As soon as he said the words, he knew they were right. How could he be married? He tried to convince himself that he was single—as he had been moments ago—but the image of a beautiful blonde woman came to his mind. He knew this was his wife, and that her name was Cailyn.
He continued, "I am thirty years old, and married to Cailyn Mathieson. I must be filling this hole or I would be standing inside it rather than outside. I was digging a hole because...."
Hammond could not remember why he had dug this hole to begin with. He looked around for clues. There was the pile of dirt, his filthy clothes, a shovel, and the unfamiliar car being used as a giant flashlight. This only added to his confusion. None of it made any sense, but he assumed there must be some good reason to fill this hole.
Standing and grabbing the shovel, he continued. "My name is Hammond Mathieson." He threw a shovel of dirt in the hole. "I occasionally have migraines." Another shovel of dirt. "They cause confusion." More dirt. "I am thirty years old and married to Cailyn Mathieson." Shovel. "My name is Hammond Mathieson." Shovel....
As the last load of dirt fell on the hole, Hammond heard the squealing of tires. He covered his ears, but he still heard the noise. He heard the crash, the horn, and his world faded to light.
***
Hammond was sitting at a desk, and the two men in suits were on the other side. After a moment of reflection, he knew this was his office, and his desk. He looked around, but saw no pictures on the desk. With a glance at the small bookshelf, he remembered what books should be there. After a cursory glance at the titles, he found he was right.
He looked at the stationery to his left, and his blood ran cold. Across the top was of the paper was the words, "From the desk of Gabriel Nelson." He shook his head, and suppressed the urge to scream. In his mind, he repeated, My name is Hammond Mathieson. I occasionally have migraines that cause confusion. I am sitting in my office with two policemen. I am thirty years old and single—
He looked up in shock. As soon as he said it, he was certain it was right. He tried to remember the face and name of the wife that had come to his mind so easily in the field, but he could not. Of course I cannot remember her, he thought. I have never been married.
The seated man asked, "Mr. Nelson, are you okay?"
"I'm sorry, Officer," Hammond replied. "I have a bit of a migraine."
"That's detective, not officer," the second man corrected him in a high, slightly unpleasant voice. He handed Hammond a bottle of aspirin form his jacket.
Hammond thanked him, and took two pills. When he had swallowed them, he said to the detective, "I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your names."
The detectives looked at each other meaningfully as he put the standing man put the aspirin back into his jacket. Hammond realized that he—or at least Gabriel Nelson—was supposed to know this already. The seated detective finally said, "I am Detective Aaron Isaacs."
The standing man said quickly, "Fitzgerald. Now answer the question please."
Hammond swore in his head. "I'm sorry, can you repeat the question?"
This time, Detective Isaacs frowned, and made a note in his book before speaking. "Where were you two nights ago from about 7 to 9 p.m.?"
Hammond tried to remember, but he could not remember anything before the cafeteria with Tom. Nothing except a strange dream with him standing in a field with a shovel, of course. He told himself it had to be a dream, or maybe it was a hallucination. For that matter, maybe that was real and this was all in head. He could remember nothing except driving a strange car, sitting in a cafeteria, and filling a hole.
Hammond remembered that Detective Isaacs was still waiting for an answer, and bluffed, "I was at home watching TV."
"With your wife?" Fitzgerald asked.
Hammond stammered, "N-no. No, I'm not married."
"What do you mean you're not married?" Detective Isaacs asked.
"Just that, I'm not married."
"Mr. Nelson, we both met your wife," Fitzgerald said.
"No, I've never been married," Hammond said with assurance.
Isaacs flipped a page in his notes and said, "Do you live at 1511 Maple Avenue?"
"Yes, sir." It sounded correct. They would know better than him would anyway.
"And the woman living with you is...?" Fitzgerald let the question hang.
Hammond had no idea how to answer, so he simply said, "A roommate."
Isaacs closed his notes and shot Fitzgerald an annoyed look before saying, "Mr. Nelson, you are aware that lying about your identity—which includes marital status—is considered a gross misdemeanor?"
"Yes, sir. Well, no but—"
"And are you further aware that it is punishable by up to 364 days in a county jail and a fine of up to $5,000?"
"Detective, I swear I'm not married," Hammond said.
Detective Isaacs stared Hammond down. For several minutes, no one talked. Finally, Isaacs said calmly, "Are you Mr. Gabriel Nelson?"
Hammond thought to himself, My name is Hammond Mathieson. I am thirty years old and single. Hammond looked back at the stationery with Gabriel Nelson's—apparently his—name printed across the top. He looked around the room and saw a college degree hanging on the wall. He read the name "Gabriel Nelson" on the bottom.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I am Gabriel Nelson."
Isaacs asked, "And you live at 1511 Maple Avenue?" When Hammond nodded, Isaacs continued, "Are you aware, Mr. Nelson, that marriages are a matter of public record?"
"Yes, Detective."
"And do you still deny that the woman you are living with is your wife?"
Hammond wrung his hands nervously. "My name is... My name is... Gabriel Nelson," he said aloud. "I occasionally have migraines that cause confusion. I am thirty years old and single."
Fitzgerald sprang forward and leaned across the desk. "Then you deny that you are married to the woman residing with you by the name of Cailyn Mathieson?"
Hammond's head reeled. He knew that name, but he could not remember why. He shook his head. "My name is—"
"Answer the question!" Fitzgerald yelled.
Hammond's voice sounded strained to his own ears when he asked, "Why would her name be different than mine if we are married?"
The detectives shook their heads. Fitzgerald took a pair of handcuffs out, and started talking. Hammond could hear nothing except the squeal of car tires, a loud crash of breaking metal, and a car horn.
***
Hammond found himself sitting in the car on the side of the dark country road. Remembering now where the map light was, he flipped the switch to see the inside of his car. The shovel was still there, and he was still wearing the soiled clothing.
In his rear-view mirror, Hammond saw the car that had passed earlier. It seemed to be slowing down, and then red and blue lights came on as the car made an abrupt turn. Hammond told himself it was just a concerned officer checking that he was not in any trouble, but somehow he did not believe it.
He remembered the officer pulling the handcuffs out, and tried to convince himself it was only an illusion. Even if that was somehow real, it was Gabriel Nelson's life. He repeated his mantra in an attempt to calm his nerves, "My name is Hammond Mathieson. I occasionally have migraines that cause confusion. I am thirty years old and married.... and married to Cailyn Mathieson. I have nothing to be afraid of."
Hammond repeated his mantra several times before the officer stepped out of the car. The flashlight was directly in his eyes, but Hammond could still see that the officer had his other hand on his pistol. No amount of reasoning could make him believe that it was simply standard procedure.
The officer stopped by the window and shone the light directly in Hammond's eyes. "Is everything okay,
sir?" The high, rapid voice was very familiar, but he discounted the impression. He didn't even know where he was; how could he recognize a voice?
Hammond tried to assume a light tone of voice. "I was about to ask you the same thing, Officer." The officer stood silently waiting for an answer. Finally, Hammond said in a serious tone of voice, "Yes, Officer, everything is fine."
"It is dangerous to stop alongside the road, sir," the high voice continued. The officer's light moved to look at Hammond's clothes, and then flashed to the shovel in the back. "Might I ask why you are covered in dirt, sir?"
Hammond stammered before managing an explanation. "I wasn't paying attention and I got stuck in some soft dir. I had to dig out."
"Hmm. Where did you get the shovel?" Hammond stared at him, and the officer explained with an irritation in his voice, "It is unusual for people to carry full size shovels in a sedan."
"Well, I bought it the other day and forgot about it. Lucky, me I guess."
"Okay," the officer said. "Why is your car so clean if you had to dig out?"
"I drove through a puddle," Hammond answered.
The officer grunted. He was obviously annoyed with the entire conversation. "Why are you stopped on the side of the road, sir?"
"Just tired," Hammond answered. "I pulled over to take a rest."
"Can I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance?" the officer asked.
A startlingly strong thought came to Hammond, Don't open the glove compartment. He had no idea why, but he could not deny such a strong impulse. In a way, it was the first thing he could remember every being sure of. He handed the officer his driver's license and waited quietly.
The officer read the license carefully, and then lowered the light as he bent over.
Hammond gasped. "Detective Fitzgerald!"
"Officer Fitzgerald," he corrected. "Do I know you?"
Hammond realized he had no decent answer to that question. He wasn't even sure that the place he had seen Fitzgerald was anything more than a dream. "No you just look like someone I know."
"Who is a detective, and also named Fitzgerald?" Officer Fitzgerald asked skeptically.