Thaddeus

I was just talking to myself in the kitchen when I looked to my left and saw a pair of feet with a blue sock and a black sock on walk by. I didn't get to see the body. When I said hello, no one answered. I would have been surprised if someone did. I live alone. No wife, no kids, not even a goldfish. My flat is on the top floor of an eight floor brownstone; it’s a walkup. I’m fairly certain even the rats digging through trash cans in the alley below wouldn’t climb those flights without getting lightheaded from the lack of oxygen at that height.

I have to admit, I didn't think much more about the stocking feet and went on talking to myself. The topic was a greasy burger or a dry salad. I pulled the ground steak from the refrigerator when I saw the feet again out of the corner of my eye. I’d remembered my Mom telling me Grandpa was dotty because he was old and had “hardening of the arteries.” I put the meat back in the frig and grabbed the fixings for a salad.

Later that night, I’d fallen asleep watching a ball game. It was a boring game. I woke with a start when I heard footfalls in the kitchen. As they say, third time was the charm. It was time I investigated those feet. As I approached, I saw the blur of blue and black run under the table. I still hadn’t seen who was attached to them. They could have belonged to a neighborhood kid from another building. By this time,  I started talking to myself again. I was rationalizing with myself that with three dead bolt locks that often kept me out, a child couldn't have just snuck into the apartment without me knowing it. Although a child could open any child-proof cap the pharmaceutical industry came out with, I began to doubt myself.  I looked under the table and saw the feet. They were too big to be a child’s feet. It was possible they belonged to a teenager, but, I told myself, I would see a body attached to those feet.

I remember a time when my Saturday nights were spent at the corner tavern with a group of friends. Instead, I sat on the floor looking at a set of feet wearing a blue sock and a black sock. I leaned forward and squinted at those feet. Upon a closer look, I recognized those socks!

“See here,” I cried. “You’ve my socks! Come out this instant.”

To my surprise, a diminutive little man, with incredibly large feet, emerged from under the table. He pulled off the socks and handed them to me. I’d rattled off a string of questions to help me understand exactly who he was and what the devil he was doing under my table. He had quite a tale to tell.

His name was Thaddeus. He was a gnome. He was in the middle of doing his job when I had inadvertently carried him up eight flights of stairs to my kitchen by way of a laundry bag. He’d been dashing about the kitchen trying to find an escape route. The poor little fella. I gave him the socks and gave directions to the Laundromat I frequent.

Thaddeus, you see, is the little gnome who grabs your socks, giving you that odd sock every wash day.

When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor

Seventeen year old Tommy had just walked his best girl, Melinda, to her class and was headed for his own. Twenty minutes into the class, Principal Harding, choking back tears, announced the attack and sent everyone home. The next day, after President Roosevelt declared war on Japan, Tommy told Melinda he had enlisted. They were married in a quiet ceremony in front of a judge.

Three years later, Tommy was in a foxhole reading the latest letter from his wife and showing off the newest picture of Tommy, Jr. at the third birthday party he missed. It had taken three months from this letter to arrive. It took longer and longer for the mail to reach the front. He heard someone say it was December 16^th and they expected a lot of heavy fighting. And it was cold; so cold he was sure he’d lose a couple toes from frostbite. Tommy began a letter back to Melinda on the back of the one she sent telling her just that. It was then he heard the screaming whistle of a bullet overhead. The battle had begun.

As his platoon crept through the fog and heavy snow, he began seeing shadows. Were the shadows his comrades, the enemy, or just trees? Bullets flying everywhere; grenades going off yards away. The deeper into the forest he went, the less he heard of the battle. There were occasional swooshing sounds which passed his ears; followed but the sounds of bones cracking and someone screaming. 

The screaming he heard was his own. Through a fog he learned he was stateside in a hospital. He overheard a nurse giving report to the next shift the bullet was lodged in his lower back. He heard Melinda whisper he’d be fine.  She'd brought little TJ to his room daily.

Before he knew it, Tommy was home. Melinda went back to the plant and was hired as a secretary. The years seemed to fly by. He was there for TJ’s first say of school, first home run and the broken arm that came with it. Tommy was around for his son’s first crush, the date, and the broken heart. When TJ was married and had his own little Tommy, he stood at the nursery window, beaming with pride.

The years went by in a flash. TJ was no longer little. He had a family of his own; two sons and a daughter, who was the apple of her grandfather’s eye.

When Melinda was diagnosed with cancer Tommy stood at her side the whole time. It wasn’t long before she went quickly in her sleep.

Tommy stood in front of the graveside with his arm around his only son, doing his best to console him. Through his tears, TJ said goodbye to his mother and asked she give his love to his father. Tommy looked down at the gravestone. Engraved under his name was the date of death, 16 December 1944. When he looked up, he saw a welcoming bright light. In the center was his best girl, looking as young and radiant as she did the day they were married. It was time to let go move on.

Sand Castles

Growing up with the ocean only blocks away, Jon spent most of his childhood at the beach. Like most little boys, he loved to play in the sand and make castles. As he grew, so did the castles. There was never a shortage of sand brought in from the ocean by the tide. Jon had an artistic talent for sculpting, but not with clay. He sculpted sand castles. Each morning, he would set out to the beach, tools in hand, to sculpt a new castle. He’d place a bucket for donations because even a sand sculptor had to eat.

One morning, he saw a little girl on the beach playing with a doll that looked like a mermaid. He decided he would make his castle look like an underwater city this mermaid would live in. As he worked, people would walk by, admire his work and drop a coin or two in the bucket. Jon daydreamed about who would live in his castle. The little girl's mermaid, perhaps? Or a princess? Or maybe a famous figure in history? By dusk, the beach began to empty. The little girl was gone. As he did every night, he counted his change and bought his merger supper from one of the stands on the boardwalk. While Jon ate, he sat and watch the tide roll in and wash away his day’s work. On this particular evening, the ocean gave up more than sea glass and shells. A small bottle with a cork floated to the base of the castle. Jon picked up the bottle and saw a scrolled scrap of paper with writing on it. He removed and smoothed it out on his leg.

 It read, "My name is Amelia Earhart. I'm alive and being held in the City of Atlantis!" 

Hello?

 Even as a child, he had a love for the macabre. Rod Serling and Alfred Hitchcock were both inspirations. It was no surprise then when he decided he would become a screen writer. His motto was, “scare me, then scare me again.” In fact, he had the motto printed on the business cards he used to promote the latest weekly webcast he was writing for.

After a week of beach bumming, he’d came home to an angry cat and a stack of newspapers. He was the only one he knew who still read the news in ink form. Grabbing a beer and a stack of newsprint, he read about the latest crime wave sweeping the fair city. A serial killer was stalking high rise buildings on the city’s downtown area. It appeared the killer was stalking his victims and catching them off guard in office break rooms late in the evening. Of the six victims, the latest had come to long enough to give a detailed description of the killer’s M.O. The killer called out, “Hello?” as if he were lost. When the last victim left the break room to see if he could help, he found no one in the offices. When he went back to grab his cup of coffee, he was hit from behind. He never saw his assailant. The victim later died of his wound. There was no mention of any new victims.

Now that he was back, he thought of a few story lines for the webcast. It seemed everything had been done before. It was Saturday night, his date cancelled on him and the cat was still pissed she’d been left alone for a week, “Typical female,” he thought. With nothing on television and having lost the last of his video poker chips, he decided to go to the office to work out a few kinks in next week’s program. He had taken the story line from the recent headlines regarding the serial killer and he was having a problem making the killer believable.

He’d worked for an hour or so before going into the break room to make a cup of coffee. While he was filling the machine with water, he though he heard the rattle of outer office door knob. As he entered the reception area, he called out, “Hello? Hello?....Hello?”

When he woke up, there was blood on his hands, as if…