​He was there every evening when I passed by, his fishing pole in the water, never saying a word. I tried to talk to him a couple of times, but he only grunted in response, so I stopped trying.
One day, my curiosity got the better of me, and I sat on a nearby park bench and started reading a book. It was nearly dark when he packed up. I hadn’t planned on following him, but I couldn’t resist. I kept him in sight as he headed for the seedy side of town. The old brick tenement building he entered was older than dirt.
​ I reached the lobby in time to see him park the bike in a corner and head upstairs.
I followed him, the stench of old trash and other smells making me gag. He opened a door at the end of the hall and went inside. Summoning my courage, I rapped on his door. The door cracked open.
“Go Away.
I pushed the door just a little to keep him from closing it on me. “Sir.”
“What do you want?” The door opened a little more.
“I don’t know.” I stumbled for words. “I was worried about you. You’re always at the same spot every day fishing but never seem to catch anything.”
The old man sighed and opened the door. “Come in. You’re not leaving until I talk to you.”
The small apartment was sparsely furnished and well worn. I noticed an antique sideboard covered with photos and medals.
“My family, when I had one. Coffee?”
“Yes.”
I sat on the worn sofa while he made coffee.
He handed me coffee and then held out a wrinkled hand. “Lewis Cranford” I shook it and introduced myself.
I glanced at fishing poles leaning in the corner.
“Yeah, that.” He sipped his coffee. “Truth of the matter, I’m not fishing—I’m waiting.”
“Waiting?” He shifted in his chair.
“She was supposed to come, but she never did.”
“Who never came?”
Lewis leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes as if to remember. I suspect he remembered all too well.
“My daughter was supposed to meet me there. We were going to fish, but she never showed, “ he sighed.
“Tell me about it.” I leaned forward on the couch.
“It was years ago. We were supposed to meet and go fishing before she left for college. She never came.” Suddenly he seemed even older.
“Did she tell you why?”
“No, I never heard from her again. She just disappeared, and I never saw her again.”
“Why still go every day?”
Lewis wandered to the sideboard and picked up a photo. “This, this was her.: The picture was of a young woman about twenty at and from her clothes, taken a long time ago.
“Pretty.” I handed the frame to him.
” Pretty smart too— got a scholarship .”
“Why do you keep going back after all these years?”
He leaned against the sideboard, sadness on his face. “Because it's the only thing that I have left to live for. If I don’t go, I may not get up in the morning.”
I smiled. “I tell you what. I think it’s time I took up fishing. “
Reply1m

​The Ferris wheel creaked and groaned as it spun, defying gravity. As a kid in the southwest, I had a love/hate thing with Ferris wheels. But something was alluring about seeing the world perched atop a rickety wheel held up by bars of steel and willed to turn on demand.
Pushing memories aside, I headed for the ticket booth. A kid barely old enough to shave looked at me like I was crazy and handed me my stub in return for what I thought was too much money.
The line to board the contraception consisted mainly of parents and small kids. My contact said he would be wearing a blue windbreaker and a Bills ballcap accompanied by his small kids. He was right about the Bills cap, as there are few Bills fans in this city. I spotted him, waiting in line, and slipped in line behind him. I sat in the seat behind him and his kids, two small boys who were excited to have a day with Dad.
As the wheel groaned and came to life, the baskets swung as they gained altitude. I had been watching the wheel most of the morning and timed out about how long each turn took and how many turns it took, so I knew exactly how long I had. Leaning forwards, I shouted over wheels creaking, screaming kids, and the howling wind.
“Robert.”
He turned and looked at move over his shoulder sideways. “Don’t turn around.” He sat straight in the wooden carriage seat. ‘You came.”
“I said I would. You have it?”
“Yeah.” In between keeping his two kids sitting still in their seats, he managed to fish a long envelope from inside his jacket. He held it at almost shoulder level. I glanced around, then reached and snatched it from his hand and slipped it into my jacket.
“I’ll contact you again later. You enjoy the rest of your day with your kids.”
By now, the wheel was on its final spin, and the kids were getting bored and antsy. They weren’t the only ones who wanted off this god-awful machine. When It finely settled down, I waited until Robert and his kids were out of sight, and I headed for the nearest coffee shop, ordered an espresso, and sat down in a dark corner. I opened the envelope.
The old black and white photos revealed alien ships shot down in Roswell, New Mexico, over fifty years ago.
I already knew that.
Robert, one of our best operatives, wouldn’t tell me who had the photos, but he promised they would no longer be an issue. Without corroboration, the photos were useless. The government would claim someone faked the photos.
I put them back in the envelope and smiled. As I finished my drink, I booked a flight to New Mexico. My grandfather will be excited to see some old family pictures.

​The soft tick-tock of the antique pocket watch, even when nestled in his vest pocket, haunts me today. The last time I’d heard the ticking was an eon ago. At least it seemed that long, but it was more like a century ago when the watch was new.

Hearing it now, ticking softly in his pocket, brought back memories. I knew the old man couldn’t hear it. However, with my acute hearing, I could hear the blood pulsating through his veins, so the sound of the ticking watch was loud to me.

I considered waking the old man up, but instead, I gently slid my fingers into the vest pocket containing the watch. Once it was in my hands, I examined it. The fancy scrollwork on the case had held up well, considering the handling it had over the last hundred years.

 Feeling the slight vibration of the mainspring rotating inside the watch, I closed my eyes, and I was back in France with him for a moment, but of course, he didn’t know I was there. 

It was time I returned him to his rightful time and place. His impact on history diminished if gone too long, creating changes we couldn’t afford to happen. As I was about to wake him up, I sensed a presence in my mind. 

“Please, can’t you just let him be?” 

Turning around, I found her standing in the doorway. I knew what she wanted.

Approaching her, I held out the pocket watch. She looked at it. “It’s dying” As she spoke, I felt the mainspring start to slow down, and the ticking became less regular.

I nodded. “So is he. He needs to be where he can live.” Neither of us had said a word, but the thoughts bounced back and forth between us.

His time was fast running out. If I didn’t get him where he belonged, he would cease to exist.

“Can I go too?”

“You know the answer to that. You shouldn’t have brought him here. I have to return him as a young man to his proper time to do the work he must do during the war. If you’re there, even if only as a figment of his imagination, he’ll never completely throw himself into his work.” 

She nodded and handed me the watch. I wound it and placed it back in his pocket. This time I gently shook his shoulder.

“Leon, It’s time to go home again.”  He stood up and allowed me to guide him through the doorway where she had stood. 

On the other side, we were back in France. I glanced at the newspaper a kid selling them on the street shoved in my face. It was 1939, and Leon was where he needed to be. As he walked into his bakery, I slipped back through the doorway and reappeared in my time. It wouldn’t be long before I would have to rescue another wayward time traveler.

Leon was a character from a Monthly Story Called Leon's Bread

​Mr. Pritchard lived at 614 and ¾ Wellington Lane.

Everyone knew old Mr. Prichard, he was the old guy who lived in the flat in the alley behind Wellington Lane, just off Penny Lane. But no one ever wrote about Wellington Lane, so most folks don’t know it's there.

Old man Pritchard as the kids called him behind his back was an odd sort. He never said much, but always seemed to know who everyone was. No one remembers talking to him or telling him who they were, but he knew them by sight and used their names.

 In the summer, he sat outside by his door in a rickety lawn chair drinking tea. The temperature could be boiling hot, he’d have his tea on the little table next to his chair, a cigar in one hand, smoke whiffling up around his beat-up Panama hat. I ventured over to say hi one day. He looked at me. “Tea?”

“Sure, why not?”  I sat next to him and sipped Earl Gray Tea from a china cup older than me. 

 He didn't say anything for a spell, then quietly spoke.

“Roberts, you know I saw you leaving last night.”  He let it hang there.

“Yeah so? I was going out to meet a friend.”

“Her name is Elizabeth.” he finished. I almost dropped my teacup.

“Ah, how’d you know..?” 

“That, my friend, is my secret. What you need to know is I also know about the ten million you stole from the bank where you work.”

 That time I did spill my tea.

“UH, What are you talking about, How do you know I work at a bank?”

“There’s not much around here I don’t know. For example, Lori, your wife thinks you still owe money on the house. You paid it off last month with money from the bank. And the kids who call me Old Man Pritchard are in for a rude awaking when I tell the cops about the drugs they're dealing to the kids on the other blocks.”

 I knew some of those kids were up to no good but never put it together.

 I sat my cup down on his little table before I broke it.

 “Sir, how do you know all this stuff?”

 “If I told you that, I wouldn’t be a secret. Rest assured I don’t care about your dalliance with Elizabeth, or the money the bank will find missing soon. What I do care about is relocating to a warm sunny place to spend my twilight years.”

“So? What do you want?” I wasn’t sure what I was asking.

‘You are going to find me a villa on the south of France, and I’m disappearing with about a million of your ten million, and you’ll never see me again.

A week later Old man Pritchard mysteriously disappeared. At the same time, an anonymous call to the police resulted in the drug-selling gang being rounded up by the drug squad, clearing the street of a lot of brats. 

As for me, the bank received another anonymous call, and an unpopular coworker was arrested for embezzling the money. I continued to live at 615 Wellington Lane with Lois, and Elizabeth moved into 614 and ¾ Wellington Lane. Life was good.

​Murray’s bike leaned against a tree along the path, helmet hanging on the handlebars. I knew he’d come to the woods earlier this morning to meet his girlfriend, but he should have been back by now. I knew about the old cabin they used for such meetings. Of course, I knew about the cabin. I’d used it for just such meetings myself back in the day. Back in my day, the cabin was in much better shape. I thought back to my years as a teen in the small town. 

People had used that old, abandoned hunting cabin for drugs, sex, and rock and roll for generations. No one knew who built it or when it was abandoned, but it was in just the right place. Far enough from prying adults’ eyes but close enough to get back to town in a hurry or get help. We’d been lucky all those years. No one ever had to call for help, as far as I know. I wondered if the authorities even knew about it. Then I reminded myself that the current sheriff, my father, and the town council had grown up in the area. So yeah, they knew about it but had probably forgotten about it decades ago.

 It would stay that way if I could help it. Even with the sun shining through the bare branches, it was still too cool to be out here this evening. I wished I’d had my coat as I plowed through the undergrowth. The limb was leaning against the sidewall, the signal we’d used for ages to tell if the cabin was busy.

 Several deep breaths later, I knocked on the door, and Murray opened it slightly. 

 White as a sheet, he whispered, “Cal?”  as he stepped back into the room, letting me in.

 “Murray, what happened?” 

I hurried to where she lay on the makeshift bed. Touching her forehead, I recoiled, her skin was cold, and she wasn’t breathing. I stood, turning to face Murray.

“Murray, she’s dead. What the hell happened?”

 “I don’t know... We were… you know.. and all of a sudden, she cried out and fell into my arms. I tied to help her… but.. she just….” He sat on the bed next to her and touched her hand lightly.

 “Don’t. Don’t touch her anymore. Murray, you high?”

He sat up straight. “NO! We never touched that stuff. You know that.” I knew he’d had problems with weed a few years back.

 “Okay. That’s good. She didn’t do anything?”

“No.”

“You know I have to call Dad.”

“Yeah.” He slumped back on the bed next to Angie’s lifeless body. As I went outside to call my dad, I told myself, “at least she has her clothes on.”

It didn’t take long for my dad to arrive. He didn’t comment on the cabin and was all business, taking our statements. Later that night, I was at the station waiting for him to finish interviewing Murray about Angie’s death when I noticed a thick file on his desk marked “Cabin In the Woods.”   

I started thumbing through the file, my heart racing. It was full of reports regarding unexplained deaths in the cabin. A girl died just like what happened with Murray and Angie in each one. 

The cabin in the woods held more secrets than I thought.

​Another rainy day in the big city, and I’ve had enough gloom. It was high time I left this big city. But I knew I couldn’t go without seeing her again.

I braved the storm and headed to the city’s east side, where the highflyers and fancy folks lived. Her father was a highflyer of the highest order. A captain of industry and leader among leaders, at least that is what most people thought of him. 

I knew better. He thought no one was going to be good enough for his little girl. Maybe, he was right, as most of the kids she brought home before were spoiled little brats that never had to work for anything. 

I was his chauffeur’s kid and had helped my dad with the family’s cars since I could walk. I knew those cars inside out, almost as well as my father. When I became old enough to obtain a chauffeur’s license, I started driving for the family. 

 I grew up with Emma Sands and drove her on many dates. To Emma, I was just one of those always just the driver until one night when one of her dates stood her up. Jokingly, I volunteered to go in his place. She said yes. After that, we became more than a family member and employee and started seeing her when her father was out of town. We both knew he would never permit her to see a lowly chauffer’s son.

Eventually, her father found out, as we were not as careful as we should have been. Her father was furious, and my father decided to resign in disgrace. I talked him out of it—I resigned.

Time to tell Emma I decided to leave. I knocked on the front door.

 Emma greeted me, and I knew the second I saw her that I couldn’t leave. We kissed just as her father walked in.

 “Dad.” Emma turned toward her father, somewhat embarrassed as I stepped back from her, still holding her hand.

“Emma, I told you to stay away from him.” He pointed at me, his hands shaking with rage.

“Sir!” I took a deep breath and stood face to face with him. 

“I’ve known you for decades. I grew up here on the estate, drove every car you have, and even fixed many of them. As far as I know, I’ve never done anything to bring you shame or displeasure—until now, it seems. Emma and I grew up together. You watched us. She has always done what you asked her to do., all the fancy schools, and parties where you thought it was proper and she would meet the right guy. The guy you approved of for her. But...,” I hesitated a second, catching my breath and thinking for a second. “She’s well past the age you can tell what to do. She’s made up her mind, and she’s leaving with me.” 

We stood together holding hands, Emma not leaving my side. 

Brighton Sands, captain of Industry, then said something I wasn’t expecting. “Yes, she is. She can go, and you’re more than welcome here anytime.” 

He stuck out his hand. I reached for it, unsure what was happening.

He grinned. “You passed the test. You stood up to me and told me to go to hell. You’ll do just fine.”

​After the events of last night, I needed coffee—lots of coffee. It couldn’t have been, but it was. He was alive and well. Looking back, well might be a relative term for someone dead for over forty years.

 I was a founding member of the board of trustees that ran his estate and had free run of the estate. I know all the back halls and places even the tour guides didn’t know. When things were hopping here, I snuck girls in through the secret passages back in the day. I found him in part of the house where he could come and go without being seen.

Sitting down the fifth cup of coffee, I turned on my chair and leaned back. How, you may ask did I know it was him and not some impostor?

 It’s simple. I knew him back in Tupelo. Yeah, I’m that old. I’m one of the only ones left from back in the early days. It was him. He knew me and called me by my name, and we swapped stories about the old days.

What, you ask? Why didn’t I take a picture? I sipped on my coffee and thought for a minute.

There was a simple answer. Hell, the fact is, I didn’t think of it, and now I’m glad I didn’t. The world doesn’t need another picture of him—especially this version of him. He’s forever young and handsome in the world’s eyes, not old and bent, and barely able to walk. All he wants is to be alone.

Yeah, Elvis is alive. Let’s let him rest in peace.

​The attic room sat empty except for the newspaper—today’s newspaper. Picking up the dust-laden newspaper, he found that he had read it right. It was indeed today’s date. 

Not only was it today’s newspaper, but it was also the evening edition. A paper that wouldn’t come out until several hours from now. An experienced news reporter, he knew the rigors involved in putting out two papers daily. The final deadline for the afternoon paper was two hours away.

He was acting on a tip that a vital witness was ready to talk to the press and tell their side of the story. His instructions were to meet them in the arctic room of the rooming house on the wrong side of town. But no one was there, only layers of dust upon layers of dust—nothing except the newspaper.

 Shutting the door behind him, Sam Small headed for the front desk. The clerk who had been sleeping when he came in was still dead to the world. Sam leaned against the counter and hit the small bell sitting near the sign-in book. It chimed twice. No movement.

Ignoring the old man sleeping, he turned the sign-in book around so he could read it. He scanned the names, and one name jumped out at him. Shit! Glancing at his watch, he realized he still had time to get there. 

Traffic heading into Dealey Plaza was tied up, but as a lifelong resident of Dallas, he knew an alternate route into the area. He parked off the Plaza, used an offside entrance to the book depository, and ran up the stairs. 

 He could feel his heart racing and his pulse quicken as he hit the seventh-floor landing. His breathing became labored as he panted heavily, pausing at the top of the landing to catch his breath. Leaning against the doorframe, he checked his watch. 12: 27.

The roar of the crowd outside told him he was early but was he in time? It seemed like forever as he found his way through the maze of boxes and other warehouse stuff scattered on the floor. Finally, he made it to the northeast corner of the Texas School Book Depository. In the shadows of the boxes was a figure kneeling and looking out the open window.

“NOOOO!” Sam shouted, and Lee Harvey Oswald turned and fired at him. 

As Sam Small’s world turned black, the President’s motorcade went through Dealey Plaza to the roar of the crowds.