A short story collection by
Josh Langston
Published by
Emily's Touch
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Gods!
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Choosing for Paul
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Night Warrior's Last Stand
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Mail-Order Mage
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Comfort Food
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Excerpt from
A Little Primitive
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All fiction
Copyright 2011 by Josh Langston
Cover art
Copyright 2011 by Tatiana Popova/Shutterstock.com
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
mys?fit [mys-fit]
mys?fit?[mys-fit]?noun, verb?1. to fit badly due to mysterious causes. 2. something that fits badly at odd times, as a garment that is suddenly too large or too small. 3. a person who, for mysterious reasons, is not suited for or is unable to adjust to the circumstances of his or her particular situation: a mysfit in one's job.
This definition is, of course, entirely fabricated. But it's not without merit. See if you don't agree by the time you finish these six tales. Potentially explicative quotations are included for your consideration. Some may even make sense....
Enjoy!
--Josh Langston
~*~
"Respect the child. Wait and see the new
product of Nature." -- Ralph Waldo Emerson
Emily knew the tall one with the good smell would leave her again. The tall one touched her mouth against Emily's, squeezed her, then went away.
As always, another tall one moved her through the small ones and left her by herself, but by then Emily had done everything she could to seal herself in. Sounds no longer tore at her ears. Colors no longer blinded her, and the unrelenting motion of the small ones around her no longer mattered. Even smells were blotted out as one after another she closed the places where the bad came through.
She couldn't shut everything down without hurting herself, so she let a little of it in. Sometimes what she saw, or heard, or felt, wasn't completely bad--sometimes it didn't hurt. Usually she could wait until the tall one with the good smell returned, but today was different. Today she felt a new hurt. A small one beside her did it, and made noise, too.
Emily closed her eyes, but the sound and pain came through anyway. The noise grew louder, and she felt one last bump before the small one dropped an object in front of her and went away.
Emily looked down at it--a small black crawl thing, alive, but wrong. She could only bear listening briefly to its pain. Irresistibly drawn to it, she cradled the nearly weightless creature, and let her mind explore its suffering.
Her touchers burned with energy as she pressed lightly on a damaged limb and probed for the hurt place. When she found it, a churning mass of tattered neon burst into her mind. And then another. And still more. She focused on each of the swirling shapes in turn. As she concentrated, they moved less and less. Eventually the motion subsided and the shapes collapsed into a knotted mass which she began to sort: pushing, pulling, smoothing, sometimes molding. She restored order, easing bruised tissues in response to their torment, applying mental pressure first here, then there, then here again, until the small thing's hurt disappeared.
When she had resolved its pain, Emily lowered her hands and opened them. The creature stayed with her for a moment and then went away. Emily felt warm inside. The places where the bad came through were easier to ignore when she could soothe the pain of others. Though weary from the effort, she marked the moment, singing quietly: making the sounds for safe and soft and good. She made the sounds over and over because it felt right.
The tall one who had moved her earlier reappeared at her side. In response, Emily began to shut herself down again. She stopped making her sounds and concentrated on closing out everything else. It worked. The tall one went away.
~*~
The daycare worker stood beside a cinder block wall covered with children's artwork. She smiled as Madeline arrived to pick up Emily. "You won't believe what your little girl did today!"
Madeline instantly went on guard. "What?"
The teacher beamed. "She was holding something and rocking back and forth. I couldn't see what it was, but she seemed okay so I didn't try to take it from her. When she finally opened her hands, a cricket hopped out. Can you imagine?"
Madeline tried to act surprised. "I should think you'd be concerned about the children in your care playing with insects."
The teacher nodded. "I suppose it sounds horrible if you think of it that way, but there's more. After she let it go, she began to make noises. I'm convinced she was trying to tell us something. Aren't you thrilled? It's progress!"
Madeline stuffed Emily into a pink, hooded parka and zipped her inside. "I used to have thoughts like that, too." Brushing against a chain of paper links framing a bulletin board populated with cut-out snowmen, Madeline blinked back a tear. Unlike the other five- and six-year olds in the class, Emily would never have any artwork of her own to display or bring home.
The teacher frowned. "Have you taken her to a specialist?"
"Too many. Some say she's retarded. Some say she's autistic. Some say..." Madeline shrugged. "I finally realized it doesn't matter what any of them say. none of them really knows." She didn't add that once they learned of Emily's strange talent, they ceased to care about her disabilities.
The teacher pursed her lips and shook her head. "She's such a beautiful child. It just doesn't seem--"
"Fair?" Madeline sighed. "I'm resigned to her future."
"I'm sorry. I know it must be difficult for you."
Madeline smiled. The woman had come too close to detecting Emily's gift, and once she knew, it wouldn't be long before word got out that the little healer had been found. Madeline couldn't risk that. It was time to find another place to live. Again.
~*~
No one repaired street lights in her part of town, so the walk to the apartment was cold and dark. The drizzle hadn't let up all day. Madeline clasped Emily to her side, exhausted in advance by thoughts of the impending move. The song served as a warning. Emily had used her unique talents and, as usual, sent her signal.
Madeline recalled the first time--the day Richard found a baby bird with a broken wing, and showed it to Emily. When she reached for it, they were so excited they allowed her to hold the tiny creature even though it was injured. Madeline still tingled at the memory.
Emily kept the bird next to her chest and rocked gently back and forth. Madeline feared it might be dead but Emily wouldn't let go. Then the child began to hum, something she'd never done before. To Madeline, the droning monotone was a symphony.
They watched in awe as she released the tiny feathered ball. It hopped forward cautiously, then stretched its wings. Emily "sang" even louder. In her excitement, Madeline completely overlooked the fact Emily had somehow healed the creature. But Richard noticed.
He scooped up the bird and examined it, ignoring the animal's frantic chirps and feeble efforts to escape. Satisfied, he released it, then pulled a penknife from his pocket. After making a shallow cut in his arm, he sat down and pulled Emily into his lap. Once she was settled, he held his arm in front of her.
Emily stared into the distance.
Richard pressed her hand to the cut and held it there. Soon, she touched it with her other hand, closed her eyes and rocked, just as she had with the bird. Richard smiled.
When she stopped rocking, he sat her on the stoop where she began to hum once again. Laugh
ing, he gazed at the pink spot where the cut had been, then reached for Madeline and danced her around their tiny front yard crying, "We're gonna be rich!"
Madeline tried to shake off the memory as she guided Emily up the stairs to their cold flat. The wind always seemed to pick up at dusk. She fumbled with her keys as Emily stared at her bulbous reflection in the doorknob. Madeline continued to think about Richard as they went inside and shut the door against the winter wind. The chill in her heart remained.
Later, with Emily asleep, Madeline curled up in a faded afghan on the musty-smelling sofa that came with the furnished apartment, and watched the news. They often displayed photos of missing children, and she didn't want to be caught unaware.
The lead story concerned a far-away war. Bosnia? Iraq? Someplace in Africa? There always seemed to be one somewhere, though she'd always been too busy to pay attention to who was doing the fighting, or why.
The murder trial of accused killer, Doak Holmes, captured half the local headlines and a municipal utility scandal grabbed the rest. She smiled at the irony of two stories on human waste.
With commercials droning in the background, Madeline thought about Emily, and how the system had failed her. Once anyone learned of her mysterious abilities, they seemed to lose interest in her as a child with problems of her own.
Even Richard tried to capitalize on Emily's talent, bringing home friends and acquaintances who suffered from a variety of ailments. Their problems ranged from moderate to severe, and Emily ministered to each as long as she was able. Fatigue often caused her to fall asleep between patients.
On a good day, she could handle one serious illness or a handful of minor ones. Though she never had to treat a patient twice, she could never treat them all. Richard had tapped the mother lode of suffering, and it seemed that for every patient Emily helped, two more appeared. A line of them formed in front of the house before dawn and remained until Madeline put Emily to bed and Richard pronounced the Little Healer done for the day.
After a few months of it, Madeline had had enough. "It's got to stop. We have no idea what we're allowing Emily to come in contact with. How do we know she won't catch something?"
"I'd never allow her to touch someone who's contagious," he said. "You think I'm stupid?"
Madeline chose not to answer. "You tell people Emily can fix anything. You take money from them and expect her to make good on your promises. But what if she can't do it? What if somebody dies because they came to her instead of a doctor?"
"That's a choice they make for themselves. We don't force them. Besides, she's handled everything that's come along. Sure people pay money for her help, and they're damned glad to do it!"
"What about Emily? What's she supposed to get out of it?"
Richard stared at her. "She does her thing, and people are happy. What more do you want?"
"I want her to fix herself!"
"Well, I don't."
Madeline took a deep breath. "No. It's got to stop. Emily is officially out of the healing business."
"Just like that? You're crazy!"
"Look at her. She's exhausted! She's lost weight. For all I know, she could have some terrible disease."
"That's crap. She's retarded. She doesn't know what's going on. Does a cow think about the milk it gives?"
"Is that really how you think of her? Don't you care about how she feels, or if she might ever be happy?"
Richard's laughter had cut like a chainsaw. The next day Madeline took Emily and all the cash she could find, and left.
~*~
After years of scraping to get by, Madeline finished school and began doing medical transcriptions. The work was demanding, but she could choose her own hours and work from home. Emily's care would never again be in anyone else's hands.
Not content with mere freedom from a 9-to-5 job, Madeline continued to put in long hours and eventually saved enough to afford the down payment on a house in Parson's Grove, a little town three hours south of her native Atlanta. They celebrated Emily's fourteenth birthday in their new home. Madeline took her grocery shopping at the only store in town.
She heard the old shopkeeper wheeze as he followed them through the cramped store. She knew he wasn't worried about her honesty. The old guy was just lonely.
He smiled at Emily as he rang up the sale. "She's such a pretty thing." His dentures clicked as he spoke. "But she never smiles, never says a word. Is she sick or something?"
"No," Madeline said. "She's autistic. She doesn't speak."
"How 'bout that." He fit her groceries in a cardboard box as if he were assembling a puzzle. "My grandson is, too. He paints. Went to some big art school in Savannah."
Madeline kept her voice level. "She has a severe learning disorder. She doesn't relate to people well, or even speak."
The old man paused, a blank expression on his face. "She's retarded?"
"No! I mean, I don't think so."
His features reflected a moment of embarrassment before he turned to assess the slender girl. "She looks, you know...."
Madeline tossed the last few items into the box. "Normal? Yeah, I suppose." She signed a check and handed it to him as a police car sped past the building, its siren screaming.
Emily went rigid, her mouth, eyes, and fists clamped shut.
"Oh, great," Madeline said as she stepped beside the girl and hugged her until she relaxed. "What that's all about?"
The old man patted a police scanner on the counter beside him. "Big ruckus out on I-16. It sounded like they had every trooper in the county out there. You didn't hear about it?"
She shook her head.
"Well, you'd best keep your doors locked until they get this mess straightened out. You got a gun?"
"What on Earth for?"
"Prison van overturned on the way to Reidsville--you know, where they keep the 'lectric chair? That Holmes fella they had up in Atlanta got away--the one that lost his last appeal?" The old man shook his head. "Just when he was gonna get what he deserved."
"When did it happen?"
"This morning. It's old news now, but every patrol car that comes through here has a siren goin' full blast." He smiled conspiratorially. "I'm ready if he comes here." He reached under the counter and retrieved an ancient sawed-off shotgun and a box of shells. The weapon had been splashed with green paint that matched the color of the store walls. The barrels bore as much rust as paint. "I've had this for years and never needed it. The missus used to fuss at me for keepin' it around."
Madeline backed away. "Can't say as I blame her."
He looked wistful. "I sure miss her. Say, you got family? I mean, aside from the girl?"
"No," Madeline said as she loaded the groceries in her van, yet the old man's question bothered her all the way home. Her mother died when Madeline was little. She had no brothers or sisters. As an adult, she'd never gotten along well with her father since he usually sided with Richard in arguments about Emily. She'd held onto that fact as a reason not to call.
She had sent him a card from time to time, but hadn't had the courage to phone him. If Richard ever caught up with her... She wouldn't allow herself to think about that. It was time to call, past time. Had she waited too long? Maybe, but why should she still be afraid? She was in charge of her life now.
Though it had been years since she'd dialed it, she still remembered the number and prayed it hadn't changed. But then she heard a familiar voice, and it triggered an unexpected flood of relief.
"Daddy?"
"Maddie? Maddie, honey, is that you?"
She'd always hated the nickname, but now it didn't sound so bad. Quite the opposite, in fact. "Yes, Daddy, it's me."
"Where are you? How are you? Thank God you called! I've missed you so much."
"I'm sorry it's been so long. I was afraid. Promise me you won't tell Richard I called. If--"
"He's dead, Maddie."
Everything around her turned to ice. "What?"
"It happened a few weeks after y
ou left. Car wreck. He was drunk, the fool. I didn't know how to reach you!"
Madeline had to concentrate on holding the phone as her body went limp. She allowed herself to fold into a chair.
"Maddie? You still there?"
"Yeah. I'm just--" Richard? Dead? "I had no idea."
"So you can come home now, right?"
"I--"
"How's Emily?"
Her stomach tightened automatically, and she struggled to avoid sounding defensive. "She's fine. Bigger. You wouldn't recognize her. We've got a new life. How 'bout you, Dad?"
He coughed. "I'm... okay. So, when do you think you might be headed home?"
"I don't know. I hadn't exactly planned on it."
"I can't help but wonder, does Emily still... You know, can she--"
"That's all behind us now." The knot in her stomach grew tighter. "I wish you hadn't even asked."
"I didn't mean anything by it," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "Richard told me why you left, so I understand how you feel, but Maddie, I--"
"Don't you understand? Emily's not a machine, and I won't let anyone treat her that way. She may not ever get much out of life, but what little chance she has she'll get from me."
"I'm not arguing, Maddie! Honest. I just miss you--both of you. Please come home. If not to stay, then just for a visit, a day or two. Less than that even, I--"
"Okay! Okay. We'll come." She rubbed her temples. What did he expect from her? Richard, dead? If only she had known.
"Maddie?"
She struggled with the concept. What if she had known? Would it have mattered? "Yes?"
"When are you coming?"
She squeezed her eyes shut. How could this be happening so fast? "I don't know. Tomorrow. Tonight, maybe." She strained to hear him clearly. Was he crying?
"Thank you," was all he said.
~*~
Though bothered by conflicting emotions about visiting her father, Madeline prepared for the trip anyway. By dusk she had everything loaded, including Emily. As she maneuvered the van down the long wooded drive, an armed man stepped out of the woods in front of her. She jammed on the brakes, scattering gravel, and stopped a dozen feet away. He didn't flinch.
She stared, her eyes riveted to the feral slash of his mouth. Red clay and sweat stained his orange prison jumpsuit. She imagined an odor strong enough to pierce her windows.