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    Loose Marbles
    Loose Marbles
    Loose Marbles
    Ebook153 pages2 hours

    Loose Marbles

    By Ann Stratton

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    About this ebook

    A collection of stories describing some strange encounters: a boy on the cusp of manhood, a girl goes to the prom under less than fashionable circumstances, a young man gets exactly what’s coming to him, a mercenary commander who’s not what he seems to be, a man lost in the citrus trees, a ghost struggles to maintain some semblance of normality, three people struggle over a museum artifact, a mysterious note leads a man all over town in futile pursuit, an apartment full of strangers, and a rat leads his man to sanctuary.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAnn Stratton
    Release dateSep 15, 2016
    ISBN9781370273126
    Loose Marbles
    Author

    Ann Stratton

    Ann Stratton started writing at age thirteen with the usual results. After a long stint in fan fiction, honing her skills, she hopes she has gotten better since then. She lives in Southeastern Arizona, trying to juggle all her varied interests. 

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      Book preview

      Loose Marbles - Ann Stratton

      Loose Marbles

      The Smashwords Edition

      Ann Stratton

      A Blind Woman Production publication

      Copyright 2016 Ann Stratton

      Smashwords License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. It may not be resold or given away. If you would like to share this ebook, please purchase an additional copy for each person with whom you want to share it. If you're reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

      * * *

      Disclaimer

      This is a work of fiction, a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance or similarity to any actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

      * * *

      Credits

      Editing, formatting, and cover photo and design by Ann Stratton

      * * *

      Table of Contents

      Waiting for God

      Charlene Goes to the Dance!

      In the Blink of an Eye

      Behind the Armored Vest

      Finding Gomez

      A Burning Rainbow Man

      The Raven Box

      A Note From Santiago

      Schrodinger

      Simon Says

      * * *

      Waiting for God

      Cahdi stands where no one can see him, in the deep grasslands, where the saw edged grass stands taller than he. He holds the tools and weapons he will wield when he returns to his family a man. He will stand here until the god comes and gives him his name. It is a rite every male must go through upon puberty, to take his place among the men of the grasslands.

      Cahdi waits with anticipation, excitement, and dread. He wonders what the god will look like. Everyone describes something different. Pola, who stood here just last month, described a chariot of glory and light that blinded him until the god put His hands on his shoulders.

      Domen said the god was a mouse, one of the little striped jumpers that collected seeds in the tall grass roots. Everyone laughed at him until Grandfather Yarro hit them all over the head with his stick and told them they had dishonored the god with their disrespect.

      The god is in all things, he said. We all see the god as He wills it, not as we wish. The little jumping mouse is the same as the burning chariot and just as true. To ridicule Domen is to dishonor the god.

      And now it is Cahdi’s turn to stand in the grasslands, waiting for the god to arrive. He wonders how the god will show Himself. Will He appear in glory, as Pola described, or will He creep in, as small and humble as Domen said? To see the god as an ordinary thing implied that the seeker would never amount to anything great. That’s not entirely true of course; some of the tribe’s greatest men saw the god in ordinary things. Still, true or false, the perception remains. Cahdi surveys the sky, wondering if the hawk soaring overhead is the god, watching him.

      The day is long and the sun is hot. Cahdi tries to conserve his water, but he drinks the last of it not long after noon. He wonders if he dare go to refill his canteen. What if the god comes while he is gone? There would be no one here to receive the name. A boy in another band had been ill when the time came and he never got his name, remaining in his mother’s tent an eternal child, a figure of pity and ridicule. Cahdi does not want to end up like him and so he swallows his thirst and resumes his vigil.

      The sun lies heavy on his head and shoulders, making his eyes glaze and visualize things that aren’t there. The tall grass rustles in a breeze he can’t feel, the noise of its passage like whispers just out of hearing. When he first got here, the green grass smell rose from the stems he had stepped on, but the sun’s unforgiving heat has baked that away, leaving only dried grass and dirt. Small animals and insects rustle and chirp about their daily rounds. An intricately patterned snake flows past, pausing to stare up at him with a bright wary eye. It is forbidden to kill anything, even snakes, while waiting for the god; the animal you killed might be the god Himself this very day. Cahdi watches it, hoping it is the god, but it only flickers its tongue at him and continues on its way.

      A man is supposed to stand to wait for the god, but his feet grow sore and his legs tired. He moves around, trying different positions to relieve the pressure, but nothing helps. At last he has to sit down, watching the grass and sky around him with close attention, dreading the god’s arrival. Would he notice? The lack of water is making him sluggish and it’s hard to think.

      Quickly he stands up again. His feet and legs and back protest; it was not long enough. But he must stand to greet the god when He comes. He does not want to embarrass or offend the god by not being ready for His arrival. But his feet and legs betray him again and he has to sit, there in the green shade of the tall grass. The sun warms his head and shoulders and his eyelids droop.

      The sound of footsteps and the smell of horse rouse him from his shameful nap. He springs upright, grabbing for his tools and weapons to show the god he is ready for his responsibilities. The horse shies away in fright and its rider soothes it with soft words and patting.

      Tools, weapons, and future responsibilities forgotten, Cahdi stares, open mouthed. This is no ordinary horse and rider before him: it is the Cloudmaker himself.

      Tall and lean and inhuman, dressed like an ordinary riding man in heeled boots, leather pants that fit closely about the calves and loosely about the thighs and hips, long sleeved cloth shirt, wide brimmed hat over silver hair sensibly braided, skin tanned dark, eyes the color of a storm. Astride a horse the color of the moon, the Cloudmaker is a fantastic, beautiful figure out of legend, one of the immortals called on by the god to tend His world.

      He is not the god. Did the god send him? Hastily Cahdi recovers himself, collects his tools and weapons and bows his head in respect. Cloudmaker, he says politely.

      Grasslander, the Cloudmaker says in return. His voice is rather light and strangely accented. Cahdi is almost disappointed that the Cloudmaker would speak in the voice of a youth. He should speak with the voice of thunder, and wind, and rain, and flash flood.

      Cahdi shakes himself, ashamed. This is the Cloudmaker, charged by the god to tend the moon and the rain. He is as he was created by the god, just like Cahdi himself is. Cahdi has no right to judge the god’s work, when he himself is so flawed.

      What have you seen? the Cloudmaker asks.

      Maybe the Cloudmaker has been sent to test him, to show the god that he is properly ready to receive his name. Sir, he replies, keeping his head down in respect, I have seen a hawk and a snake and all the small things of the grass.

      You have a good eye. The Cloudmaker shifts his weight; the saddle creaks and the horse sidesteps to rebalance, hooves clumping. Cahdi dares to look up. The Cloudmaker is looking out over the grasslands. From his height advantage, he would be able to see all the way to the eastern mountains on the far horizon. Cahdi has never been there, to the city based in the foothills, but he hopes to see it someday. The Cloudmaker turns back to catch Cahdi staring. Hastily Cahdi drops his gaze, but not before he sees the near smile go across the immortal’s face. Have you seen or heard any other animals, like men?

      Cahdi considers his day, long, hot, and lonely. He reviews everything that he has seen and heard and shakes his head no. No, sir. I have not.

      The Cloudmaker leans back, hands folded comfortably on his saddle horn. The horse shuffles. He leans forward again and looks at Cahdi directly. Suddenly Cahdi is only an ant, crawling along the roots of the tall grass. You’re here to find your name, aren’t you?

      Suddenly Cahdi is as tall as the Cloudmaker, mounted on his moon horse. He holds his tools and weapons so they can be easily seen, demonstrating his readiness to assume his adult responsibilities. So the god has sent the Cloudmaker to test him. Yes, sir, I am.

      Once again a smile almost flickers across the Cloudmaker’s face. And have you any word?

      Shame floods Cahdi’s face with heat and cold again. Not yet, sir. But the sun is still high.

      So it is. The Cloudmaker swings his leg over and dismounts, dropping the reins. The horse backs away, leaving the Cloudmaker to stand alone. Surprisingly, he is not that much taller than Cahdi and much more slender. He smells of horse and the free wind and not at all like a man. What is the child name your parents gave you, grasslander?

      Cahdi remains upright. Cahdi, sir.

      Under the brim of the wide hat, the Cloudmaker’s pale eyes reflect the sky, more blue than grey. They see all his flaws and mistakes. Cahdi is a good name. It means hope for the future. What kind of future do you hope for, Cahdi?

      Cahdi bows his head. The Cloudmaker is testing him. He determines not to fail. I ask, sir, that I am given a name to be proud of, a strong name that gains respect from everyone who hears it. I ask for a name that my grandsons will be proud to inherit and tell stories of around the fires to their grandchildren.

      This time the smile stays on the Cloudmaker’s face, wry and maybe a little sad. Suddenly Cahdi is ashamed of his boasting. A name is what we make of it. Rarely do we choose it for ourselves, and others will give us names for good or ill that we must live with. And never do we choose the names we will be remembered by. Your child name is a good name. Have you lived up to it, Cahdi?

      Sir, I’ve done my best to be a good son to my parents and a good member of my band. I’ve learned everything my father had to teach me and all the grandfathers and elders. I have visited my cousins in other bands and learned their ways. I have traveled with my father and uncles to the farming tribes’ trading fair and saw how they lived and everything they and their people have. My world is the grasslands and I know it, but I know the farming tribes have their own world that is as true as my own. I saw that the grasslanders and the farmers need each other for the things they don’t have and I saw that we need each other.

      The Cloudmaker’s smile becomes proud. You are very wise, Cahdi. There aren’t many who would admit that. Well done. Have you learned to use your tools and weapons too?

      If he stood any straighter, Cahdi’s spine would crack. He raises up his burdens so they can be more easily seen. "Yes, sir, I have. Grandfather Yarro says I am one of the best

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