Around the World in 80 Pages

Around the World in 80 Pages: Ten Short Stories by Sharon E. Cathcart

  Copyright 2011 Sharon E. Cathcart

  Books by internationally published author Sharon E. Cathcart provide discerning readers of essays, fiction and nonfiction with a powerful, truthful literary experience.

  Contents

  Heart of Stone

  No Eyes But Mine Shall See

  Oh, Joy; Oh, Rapture

  Betrayed by a Kiss

  Counting Blessings Along the Horseshoe Canyon

  A Cutting Observation

  Ghost of a Chance

  Gaul is Divided

  The Scribe of Rashid

  Lonely Man in a New Town

  About the Author

  Heart of Stone

  Originally published in Sui Generis, 2010

  It is their job to watch.

  From high above, in many cities, stone-gray eyes gaze out on the horizon. From the rooftops, they survey their domain.

  They watch, and sometimes they protect. Theophilus thought that was the most important part of the job: to protect.

  He had, in fact, protected the building where he lived since the day it opened. He had watched residents come and go, even pass away. He was a part of the landscape to them, always watching from a corner of the roof.

  He was posed much like Rodin’s famous “Thinker,” his chin on the back of his hand. His wings spanned out from a back carved to show rippling muscle. Some might have thought Theophilus was a stone angel, but those wings were smooth and bat-like.

  Theophilus was a gargoyle.

  One of those whom he watched was a young woman. She was the one who had called him Theophilus; before that, he had no name.

  She came up to the roof one summer morning to read her book and drink her Jamba Juice. She had already brought a lawn chair, some cushions and a small table, carving out a tiny space for herself. She arranged her furniture near Theophilus, taking her time to find the best light by which to read. She put her juice and book on the table and came over to the wall, gazing out over the horizon.

  Placing a gentle hand on one of his carved wings, she gave Theophilus his name and said she would always feel safe with him there.

  Eventually, he learned her name. She answered her cell phone by saying “Hello, this is Anna.”

  Anna had reddish brown hair that reminded Theophilus of warm bricks and blue eyes that made him think of clear summer skies. He came to know her step on the stairs and wished he could smile to show how glad he was for her presence.

  “Hello, Theophilus,” she always greeted him as she settled in with her book and juice. “It’s another beautiful day in the city.”

  If it was rainy or too windy, Anna did not come to the roof. She stayed indoors, while Theophilus watched.

  Anna sometimes read aloud; she was an actor by hobby and she liked to practice. Theophilus learned a great deal by listening to Anna; he wished that he could speak, so he could thank her.

  Theophilus grew concerned when Anna did not appear for a few days. When she came back to her little rooftop space, Anna’s eyes were red and her cheeks tearstained. She paced back and forth for a while, then sat on her chair. She wrapped her arms around her body and rocked, finally permitting miserable sobs to escape. At last she leaned forward, covering her face with her hands.

  “I’m such a fool,” she muttered.

  Theophilus had never thought of Anna as foolish. Some of the people whom he saw on the streets or who had lived in the building, certainly, but not Anna. She was not like the others; he wished he could tell her that.

  She stood up from her chair and walked over to the ledge. She put one hand on Theophilus’ knee and looked over.

  “I can’t take it anymore,” she sighed.

  She thought about how easy it would be to lean further over the edge: to leap off. About how the pain would finally stop. About how no one would care or even notice if one more would-be actor who had faced one too many rejections just never showed up at another audition. Her office colleagues -- she could not call them friends -- would only care insofar as they would have to cover her desk until a temp could be called in.

  She could just keep leaning ...

  Theophilus had to do something. Perhaps, this once, he could make himself heard.

  A warm, deep voice echoed in her head: “Please, Anna, don’t do it.”

  “Great,” she sighed aloud. “Now I’m a loser who has auditory hallucinations.”

  “You’re not a loser, Anna.” A gentle, masculine voice ... a comforting voice. And yet there was no one on the roof but Anna.

  She backed away from the ledge, her eyes wide with fright. She sat down on her chair and pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger as though massaging away a migraine.

  “This is not happening to me,” she moaned.

  She stood up, shoulders slumped, and went back to her apartment. She did not notice that Theophilus’ eyes were no longer a stony grey but now glowed green.

  Anna stopped at her apartment only long enough to collect her jacket and handbag. She caught the number 6 cross-town bus from the stop in front of the building. Theophilus watched her board the conveyance, wishing he could extend his circle of protection beyond the building to anywhere that Anna might go.

  For her part, Anna wanted nothing more than to forget the humiliation of the day -- the casting director telling her, before she even finished her monologue, that she was “all wrong for the part” and to go home. She leaned her forehead against the bus window and watched the scenery go by until she reached the stop she wanted.

  Bowers Park.

  Anna’s fondest memories from girlhood seemed to focus on Bowers Park, with its duck pond, tree-lined paths and picnic grounds. She made her way to a favorite spot, a little playground just off the path. No one was there, so she sat on one of the rubber-seated swings. She had loved the swing set as a child, sometimes imagining that she was flying through the sky to a magical land where there were friends, plentiful food and warm clothes.

  In short, a place that was not her childhood home. Her parents still lived in the same little frame house around the corner, but she could not go there without having bad memories flood up or new ones made.

  Little wonder that she had chosen to travel and study as far from home as she could ... before coming to rest just across town. The irony of her situation had not escaped Anna. Certainly there were warm clothes and plentiful food, but the closest thing she had to a friend was Theophilus.

  Anna was determined not to cry, but an errant tear escaped and trailed down her cheek. She swiped it away with the back of her hand. She had thought to escape momentarily, but her problems came with her.

  “I’m such an idiot,” she sighed aloud. At the same time, she pushed her feet into the dirt and started to swing. Just for a minute, she told herself.

  But the soaring feeling felt so very good; she was transported, just as she had hoped she would be, for a few brief minutes. She smiled in spite of herself as she stood up from the swing set and collected her purse. She caught a return bus and went back to her apartment.

  Honestly, it was too quiet inside. Anna turned the radio to a classical music station and went about making her solitary supper. She imagined having a guest across the little gate leg table from her, perhaps even a gentleman caller. She would lay the table with care and they would have a nice meal. Maybe they would take a bottle of wine out to the living room to watch a movie.

  She shook her head.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Anna. No one is interested in you that way.” She cleared up her supper things and went to bed with her book.

 
Far above, Theophilus looked out over the city. He had seen Anna return, of course, and wondered whether she would come up to the roof. It was a temperate evening; she would not be too cold.

  He closed his eyes ...

  Wait, he thought. I don’t do that. And yet, it was true; lids slid up and down over his green eyes. Impossible.

  Impossible or not, he closed his eyes and slept, dreaming of Anna’s warm hand on his wing and on his knee.

  Anna went to work the next day, as usual. She completed her tasks with the same quiet efficiency she displayed from day to day. She ate her solitary lunch. She returned home. This was her routine, and one of which she had thoroughly tired. She went to the rooftop where she had created her bower, this time with pad and pen in hand to make new plans. Something had to change.

  Theophilus noted Anna’s demeanor when she sat down. No longer sad, no longer thinking of flinging herself from the roof: determined. She was writing things and striking through them almost as quickly. Eventually, she clicked her pen shut and sat it on the table next to the paper. She stood up and walked over to the wall, putting her hand on Theophilus’ wing.

  “I wish you could talk to me, Theophilus,” she sighed, and leaned her cheek against the stone.

  “I can.” Again, the gentle male voice echoed in her head.

  She stood upright, pushing her red hair behind her ears and shaking her head a little.

  She came around to look at the gargoyle from the side, and noted that his eyes were now green. How could that be? It was, in fact, impossible. She knew that. And yet ...

  Echoes of every fairy tale Anna had ever read ran through her memory and, before she could think twice about her actions, she stepped up to kiss Theophilus gently on his stony mouth.

  She stepped back and squeezed her eyes shut tight, thinking that she was foolish and yet wondering what would happen next.

  “Anna.”

  This time the voice was not inside her head but directly in front of her.

  She opened her eyes.

  “Theophilus?”

  He was beautiful. His eyes were the green of firelight seen through emeralds. His mouth was soft and almost feminine, yet his face was masculine and angelically handsome. He was arrestingly well-built, and very much naked -- just as he had been sculpted so many years before.

  “This is impossible.” She shook her head, even as Theophilus stepped off of the pedestal to stand next to her. His arms wrapped around her and he kissed her forehead; he wrapped his leathery wings around her protectively.

  “My Anna,” he whispered, stroking her hair.

  Anna wrapped her arms around Theophilus’ waist and laid her head against his chest. Where she expected to hear a heartbeat, there was nothing.

  “This is not going to last, is it?” she whispered.

  Theophilus shook his head. “I don’t see how it can. I am not even sure how you made this happen.”

  “You are my only friend, Theophilus.” She looked up into eyes. “I am sure that I am dreaming now, and that I will wake up in the morning and nothing will be different. No matter how much I want it to be different. No matter how much I want my life to have a purpose again.”

  “Oh, my Anna.”

  Her name was a gentle sigh on his beautiful lips. She reached up to kiss him again, with more passion than she had ever kissed before.

  “My Theophilus.”

  She felt so safe and secure in his arms. She wished that the dream would never end. That she could be held in his arms forever. A single tear drifted down her cheek and touched grey stone.

  On the corner of the roof of a downtown apartment building, there is a particularly dramatic granite sculpture. A handsome man with bat-like wings stands, looking out over the city. In his arms is a young woman, her head leaning against his heart. Residents of the building say that their gargoyle is the most beautiful one in town, and that the sculptor had captured the radiance of a couple in love.

  Anna and Theophilus watch.

  No Eyes But Mine Shall See

  Originally published in Bestseller Bound Anthology Vol. 1, 2011

  Gilbert Rochambeau first appears in my debut novel, In The Eye of The Beholder. He also plays an important role in the upcoming sequel, In The Eye of The Storm.

  Gilbert’s cravat hung loose, his shirt collar open. He dried the pen, closed the inkwell and sighed. His handsome face was tired and drawn in the lamp’s glow. Outside, the rain fell on dark London streets; it was late. He ran his fingers through cropped curls the color of old Roman coins and willed the tears to remain in his dark brown eyes as he reread the letter he would never send. He absently rubbed his leg with the other hand; the damp English weather made the old injury ache.

  “Dear Claire” ...

  So innocuous. How could such a simple salutation say so much and so little at once?

  He read on, the words flowing in his native French.

  ~~

  I watched your carriage drive away today, standing at the window until it was out of sight. There were so many things that I wanted to say to you, but you were gone.

  I wanted to say those things when you stood in front of me, saying your farewells. You looked so beautiful in your blue cloak, its silver fox-furred hood lighting your eyes. Did I ever tell you how much your eyes reminded me of the Camargois sky?

  No, I don’t believe I ever did.

  Your glorious chestnut-colored hair was styled in an elaborate coil of braids: very fashionable. Yet my fingers recall its weight as I held those locks to brush them.

  And my lips recall the kiss I stole that night. Did you feel what I did?

  I wanted to speak so many times when I escorted you around London or Paris. Restaurants, museums, shops; we went so many places together. I wanted to be much more than your majordomo, but you never knew.

  You encouraged my drawing, but you never saw the dozens of sketches I made of you. Some were from memory, from the days in Paris. You riding your fine horse; I know how you have missed that black mare. Many of them were made while you lay ill; I feared for you, as did all the household.

  I wanted to whisper to you then, but I said nothing. Instead, I brought a black velvet toy mare and gave her to you. Your quiet smile was thanks enough.

  I understand so much better now how a sadness of the heart sickens the body. The doctor called your illness hysteria, said you were mad. How wrong he was. You have ever been sane, even in the darkest times. Perhaps I could have done more to ease your burdens; I will never know. But I did what I could.

  I wanted to speak when you befriended Joseph Merrick, and when you railed at Doctor Treves, my benefactor thanks to you, for the way he treated Joseph in death.

  I thought about speaking up when the English ladies decided not to receive you anymore. You tried so hard to make things right. I wished, many times, that we could all go back to France. Now you are going, and I am staying here.

  I wanted to say something the night you made sure, for the first time in years, that I was dressed and barbered properly. Your eyes were the first to look upon me as a woman looks upon a man whom she admires.

  I wanted to tell you whenever I watched your kindness to the people of the Opera Garnier. You never failed to smile and say a kind word, even though I knew your misery.

  Oh yes, I knew your misery. I watched your cousin Francois ... my brother-in-law ... take everything you had. He did the same to my sister; she died giving birth to his child. He lived in my home, but made it clear I was there at his sufferance. I became a servant in the home that should have been mine: your cousin’s valet. After all, how could a man with a twisted leg manage the affairs of a cattle ranch?

  I watched Francois beggar and ruin you, and I could say nothing. He sold your home, just as he did mine. Damn those laws that say a man must control a woman’s property. Those same laws gave my sister’s inheritance to Francois; he squandered it all.

 
The closest I ever came to speaking my mind was the night I learned you were married, when Erik pressed his wedding ring into my hand and sent me to the little cottage where you awaited your newlywed husband’s return. Francois even tried to take him from you.

  That night, I said that I was your man. You presumed that I meant only to help you. The truth was, I meant that and more. I wanted to be a bold chevalier: a protector. Yet, you barely knew me; I was your cousin’s valet, after all. It would have been unseemly to say more than I did on that night.

  As it was, our lives were never the same.

  Claire, I said nothing because I am a coward.

  How could I say “I am in love with you,” even as you were preparing to return to France with your dying husband? Erik was as good a friend to me as he could be, and you chose him.

  How could I say “I have loved you from afar,” without looking like a madman?

  How could I consider casting myself at your feet and begging you to stay in London? And yet, that very thought crossed my mind as I watched your coach disappear.

  How like you, in your compassion, to ensure that I would not be destitute in this strange land, since circumstances prevent me from going back to France with you.

  There were times when you thought me so brave, Claire, but I am not. Only a craven would fail to speak these simple truths.

  So, now I have done so, in a letter that no eyes but mine shall see. Perhaps one day, when I am in my dotage, I will tell my grandchildren about it. Perhaps, by then, I will be brave enough. I will live without you because I must, but your face will always live in my heart.

  I am, your humble servant,

  Gilbert Rochambeau

  ~~

  Gilbert blotted the ink and folded the paper carefully. He swiped a hand across his eyes, wiping away tears of regret, and tucked the letter into a desk drawer. He thought of glancing through the sketchbook there, but had felt his share of melancholy for the night.

  Using the blue-knobbed walking stick, a gift from Claire at Christmas, he rose to his feet. He tried to keep his halting footsteps quiet as he made his way to the bedroom where his wife slept, peacefully unaware.

  Oh, Joy; Oh, Rapture

  This story was born of a challenge from one of my colleagues in the writing world: what if the so-called “End Days” were actually a good thing? The only rule was that our stories all had to start one minute after the Rapture was predicted to occur.