Prompt: Not My Type | Word Count: 1200 Words Exactly | Genre: SciFi Romance
Due Date: 12/4/19
Warning: Some swear words
Star Light, Star Bright by Peggy Rockey
“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight; I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.” She holds her breath, unifying mind and heart as she fixes her eyes upon the twinkling star. She speaks the words into the fading light: “I wish to find true love at first sight.”
An image of the girl freezes on the screen. The star she has wished upon is actually a satellite. Her wish has been captured, recorded, and cataloged.
“Did you get that, Thomas? You’re up on rotation. Consider this your next assignment.”
But Thomas is already smitten with the impish, wistful girl displayed on his monitor, her expression shining with hope and loneliness. She looks to be in her early twenties, maybe two or three years younger than Thomas himself. He can almost feel the soft spring in her thick, luxurious curls; can feel himself drawn to her expressive eyes, hypnotized by the golden flecks within. By the freckles across her pert little nose, just begging to be peppered with soft kisses. He would trail them down to her full lips and…
“Thomas!” Commander Drake calls sharply to the young agent, bringing his thoughts back to his post and reluctantly away from his fantasy.
"Yes sir," Thomas replies, pushing his glasses more firmly into place, pulling his shoulders back and sitting up straight in a posture of strength and command. "I'm on it, sir."
~_~
The doors close with a whoosh, the train pulling away just as I arrive at the platform. I’m breathing heavily from my mad dash across the station to reach the last train of the night before it departed.
I can feel the wind of its passage as it gathers speed down the tracks and disappears into the tunnel, tail lights winking at me in mockery as it goes.
“Damn it.” I run my hand through my hair, pulling on it slightly in agitation, trying not to panic as I find myself alone at midnight, with no other way to get home.
I see with some apprehension that I am not alone on the platform after all. There’s a guy standing a few paces away, looking at me with an expression of expectation and familiarity. As if he expects me to recognize and greet him like a long lost lover.
My breath catches and my heart skips a beat as I realize, belatedly, that I do recognize him.
"Thomas?" I haven’t seen him since high school, four years ago.
"You remember me? I was hoping you would."
As if I would ever forget the boy I’d met when I was a shy, seven year old introvert who liked only to read and play with stuffed animals. He'd been ten, out walking that wretched mutt of his who chased my kitten up a tree. He’d sprained his wrist in attempted rescue, and I’d fallen instantly in love with his bashful, stuttering heroics. Even though he forever after remained oblivious to my charm, until eventually my childhood crush faded away, along with my baby fat and my tendency to blush.
"What are you doing here?" I smooth and tuck my wayward curls behind my ears, while my eyes lock on to his too-wide grin that looks ready to burst into full-on laughter.
"I'm here to grant your wish," he replies, with an air of mystery and importance.
My heart lurches, remembering the childish wish I’d made at twilight. "What wish is that?"
“True love,” he answers softly. Sincerely. His right hand unconsciously lifts to rest over his heart.
“What?!? With you?” I scoff, hoping to hide the fact that my heart has begun beating erratically at his declaration. My face warms and I can feel the flush creep over my cheeks. “You’re not even my type!”
“Oh, that’s right!” Says the boy who’d ignored me all through childhood. “I remember your high school preference for blond haired, broad shouldered jerks, er, jocks. How’d that work out for you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Not so well, I’m thinking,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “And why’re you wishing for love, anyway? Do you think you need someone to take care of you? The girl I remember was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”
“What are you talking about? You don't know anything about me. You ignored me all through our school years, as if you didn’t even know I existed.”
“That’s because you made it perfectly clear I wasn’t your type. You didn’t seem interested in skinny, four-eyed geeks and I wasn’t about to find out otherwise. Jeez, Miranda, you could have asked for anything. Self-sufficiency, unlimited wealth. World peace for Christ sake! Why didn’t you wish for what you really need: a job and a place to live, now that your roommate is getting married and asked you to move out?”
“Oh my god!” I gasp, “How do you know these things? Have you been checking up on me?”
He pulls a smartphone from his pocket. “You wished upon my star. I made it my business to know.”
“What does that mean?” I’m confused, and somewhat nervous as he holds up the screen for me to see.
“Star light, star bright…” It’s my voice. My face I see displayed in a video on his phone, making that silly wish at twilight.
“Holy shit! How…” I choke back the words, incredulous and unbelieving.
“I told you,” Thomas says, his too-wide smile growing ever wider. “You wished upon my star.”
~_~
Commander Drake observes his newest agent settling into her workstation. Miranda is star-struck as all newbies are, overwhelmed with the technology and the resources available at her fingertips. She'll go through a six month training period, during which she’ll work alongside seasoned agents, like Thomas, learning the rules and the tricks to fulfill the wishes captured by the wish star.
“Welcome back, Thomas,” the Commander greets his young protégé warmly, “I trust your honeymoon was as spectacular as your wedding?”
“Yes sir!” Thomas replies, his face flushing bright red in memory of erotic and private moments. “Mauritius was wonderful, full of unexpected delights and small surprises. Miranda and I enjoyed our time immensely.”
“Good deal. I’m glad to hear it. Miranda seems to be settling into her new position. Are there any questions she has that I might answer for her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. She still doesn’t understand why some wishes are granted while others are ignored. I’ve shown her all the satellites and the orbit each one takes, how they’re programmed to pick up wishes made at the precise time when the satellite might be seen as the first “star” in the night sky. It’s such a short window of time”
Commander Drake nods, “You explained that the wish has to be spoken loud enough to be recorded, and clear enough to be cataloged?”
“I did. And that the wish has to be technically or physically possible. But, she still wants to know why it’s only those wishes at twilight that are granted?
“It’s just the way it is, Thomas. ‘Star Light, Star Bright; First Star I see tonight.’ I didn’t write the rules, I just follow them!”
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Echoes of Memories
Prompt: All We Need | Word Count: 500 Words Exactly | Genre: Fiction
Warning: None
Due: November 6, 2019
Cold seeps under the space below the door, through the double-paned windows and into the house. It seeps into my bones. Settles in my heart and takes root.
The house is empty. No furniture graces the rooms. No artwork on the walls. No throw rugs on the hardwood floors or fire in the hearth. Nothing to call this house a home. All trace of our life together is gone. Packed up and taken away by the two grown daughters of my now deceased love.
God, how I loved Bobby. We were lovers for more than twenty years and though we never married, we lived together as man and wife for the last thirteen.
It was difficult in the beginning, when the girls were resentful teenagers, angry and rebellious and hurtful, as teenaged girls can be. But over the years they had grown up and matured. They had married and had children of their own. Children who called me Nana, even though I wasn’t able to have children of my own. I thought I had become an integral part of this family. Together, we had all we needed.
At least, that’s what I thought, up until I learned that he'd never bothered to add me to his will. When he died the house and all its belongings had gone to his daughters. He had left me nothing. And the girls, whom I thought had come to love me, had wasted no time in selling the house and everything inside.
They hadn't even given me an opportunity to buy it from them, nor any of our shared possessions. Instead, they’d encouraged me to go away to grieve. Take all the time you need, Maggie, they’d said, all solicitude and compassion. And while I was gone they’d come in and stolen away my life.
It’s sad, but fortunate that I always suspected this day would come. I kept the house I’d had when we first met, currently rented, but soon to be vacant and available to me again. Bobby may not have provided directly for me, but he did teach me how to invest wisely, and my savings have grown exponentially over the years. Last year I even bought an art studio near my old place, and moved my supplies and most of my favorite possessions there. I’ve even begun teaching and renting space to other artists, and I have a circle of friends that meet regularly.
Bobby's house now echoes with twenty years of memories, but I will take those memories with me. The life I had here is gone; the love I shared with this family now scattered in Bobby's ashes around the trees of his property. The only thing left for me here is the cold that has seeped into my bones and into my heart.
But as I step outside and close the door behind me, the day is warm and the sun is shining. I am three years shy of sixty, and there is a whole world awaiting me.
Warning: None
Due: November 6, 2019
Cold seeps under the space below the door, through the double-paned windows and into the house. It seeps into my bones. Settles in my heart and takes root.
The house is empty. No furniture graces the rooms. No artwork on the walls. No throw rugs on the hardwood floors or fire in the hearth. Nothing to call this house a home. All trace of our life together is gone. Packed up and taken away by the two grown daughters of my now deceased love.
God, how I loved Bobby. We were lovers for more than twenty years and though we never married, we lived together as man and wife for the last thirteen.
It was difficult in the beginning, when the girls were resentful teenagers, angry and rebellious and hurtful, as teenaged girls can be. But over the years they had grown up and matured. They had married and had children of their own. Children who called me Nana, even though I wasn’t able to have children of my own. I thought I had become an integral part of this family. Together, we had all we needed.
At least, that’s what I thought, up until I learned that he'd never bothered to add me to his will. When he died the house and all its belongings had gone to his daughters. He had left me nothing. And the girls, whom I thought had come to love me, had wasted no time in selling the house and everything inside.
They hadn't even given me an opportunity to buy it from them, nor any of our shared possessions. Instead, they’d encouraged me to go away to grieve. Take all the time you need, Maggie, they’d said, all solicitude and compassion. And while I was gone they’d come in and stolen away my life.
It’s sad, but fortunate that I always suspected this day would come. I kept the house I’d had when we first met, currently rented, but soon to be vacant and available to me again. Bobby may not have provided directly for me, but he did teach me how to invest wisely, and my savings have grown exponentially over the years. Last year I even bought an art studio near my old place, and moved my supplies and most of my favorite possessions there. I’ve even begun teaching and renting space to other artists, and I have a circle of friends that meet regularly.
Bobby's house now echoes with twenty years of memories, but I will take those memories with me. The life I had here is gone; the love I shared with this family now scattered in Bobby's ashes around the trees of his property. The only thing left for me here is the cold that has seeped into my bones and into my heart.
But as I step outside and close the door behind me, the day is warm and the sun is shining. I am three years shy of sixty, and there is a whole world awaiting me.
Two Wizards in a Bar
Prompt: The Signature | Word Count: 1000 Words Exactly | Genre: Comedic Fantasy
Warning: None
Due: October 9, 2019
Two Wizards in a Bar by Peggy Rockey
“Must we have this conversation again, Jarvin? Can we not just admit that we both miscalculated and stop trying to assign blame for our predicament?”
“Absolutely not! I’ll not let you off so easily. You will recall, Niall, it was not I who cast the containment spell, but...”
“Yes, Yes! I fully admit my mishap. But. If you hadn’t deflected my spell it would have contained our enemy, rather than ourselves. Why must we go over this every time we awaken? Could we not rather discourse on methods to win free of this ensnarement? Would that not be a more productive use of our time?”
“Very well. As long as you acknowledge it was your spell that trapped us here in the first place.”
“Argh! You are the most pig headed wizard I have ever had the misfortune of acquainting myself with. How I have endured the last millennia with you in such close quarters is quite beyond me.”
“There is rather a deplorable lack of distance separating us, I accede. Very well. What spells did you have in mind that we haven’t already tried that could free us from our entrapment? We’ve already tried spells of enlargement and spells of shrinkage; spells of disintegration and of redirection, all with no effect.”
“The sending spell did little to help either, sending us only to opposite sides of the tree. Banishment and teleportation spells had similar effect. It seems we are well and truly trapped.”
“We could try a plane shift, and attempt to transport ourselves elsewhere.”
“That works only with physical contact, with the linking of hands. Impossible in our current incorporeal state.”
“We could try a binding spell.”
“Do you not recall that butcher we attracted with our first binding?”
“He was not a butcher; he was a woodsman.”
“Woodsman, butcher. Whatever. He chopped our tree down.”
“Well, yes. But it should have succeeded in releasing us. How was I to know it would simply reduce the space in which we are trapped?”
“Quite right. And lying there on that forest floor for all those decades, I fully expected natural decay to have eroded away our prison.”
“It may well have done, had we not tried the binding spell again, and bound that carpenter to us.”
“The table he constructed is exquisite, though, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It is indeed, although I believe one would call this a bar, rather than a table. Perhaps he intended it to go to a public house.”
“It’s far too small for a pub. I can’t imagine more than three or four people leaning upon it. Shhh! Jarvin. What noise do I hear?”
A knock sounded from across the dimly lit room. Heavy footsteps passed nearby, the creaking of a door and the jangling of bells, followed by daintily clicking heals.
“Ah, Miss Dupree! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“I’ve come to ask about your matching bar and mirror. I’ve admired them through your window for quite some time. Are they made of the same wood? The color and sheen is exquisite, the burl quite unique.”
“Indeed. Can you imagine the agitation that must’ve gone on inside this tree to have produced such burl? It truly is amazing furniture. You’ve a fine eye, Miss Dupree."
“Please. Call me Carol Lynne. I’d like to buy these for my home. What’s the asking price?”
“Hmm, I don’t exactly recall. I have them on consignment, you see. If you’ll excuse me for one moment, I’ll just go and have a look.”
Booted footsteps receded across the room.
The woman approached the bar, laying a cool hand upon it’s surface.
Niall began the binding spell without hesitation. “Carolin Dupree, we call you by name. In the calling we bind ourselves to thee.”
Jarvin continued. “With this binding, we empower you to raise your hand in summons.”
Niall said, “Do it now, Carolin Dupree. Raise your hand and summon us to thee.”
Nothing happened. The woman neither twitched nor responded in any way.
“Drat! We must not have her true name, Jarvin. Did we not hear it correctly?”
“I’m sure she said Carolin.”
The other man returned, a book in one hand, pen in the other. The wizards listened with interest as the man and woman negotiated the price of the furniture; he reiterating its fine qualities, she pointing out non-existent flaws in the design.
Eventually they agreed on a price, to be collected upon delivery to her home. The man set his notebook upon the bar and scratched out a receipt, querying the woman for the address. He turned the paper towards the woman, handing her the pen.
“If you will just sign here…”
Both wizards held their breath, poised with anticipation as she signed her name in large, cursive letters.
Carol Lynne Dupree
With high hopes, and a patience born of long ages, the wizards watched the woman depart.
After a short interval involving a rather jarring transportation, the be-spelled furniture now stood within a spacious room in Carol Lynne’s home. The bar in one corner, free standing mirror in the opposite.
Jarvin began the binding as soon as the woman was alone in the room. “Carol Lynne Dupree, we call you by name. In this calling we bind ourselves to thee.”
She twitched visibly.
Niall said. “With this binding, we empower you to raise your hand in summons.”
Her hand rose involuntarily, green eyes widening, pupils constricting and dilating wildly.
“Do it now, Carol Lynne Dupree,” Jarvin completed the spell. “Summon us now that we may stand and gaze upon thee.”
A whirlwind swept the wizards up in a crazy, chaotic dance and they chortled in gleeful anticipation. When the spinning stopped, they were indeed free of the bar, standing and gazing upon the woman as the binding commanded. She frowned at her reflection in the mirror, seeing right through them as if they weren’t there at all.
“Jarvin, you idiot!” Niall despaired. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
Warning: None
Due: October 9, 2019
Two Wizards in a Bar by Peggy Rockey
“Must we have this conversation again, Jarvin? Can we not just admit that we both miscalculated and stop trying to assign blame for our predicament?”
“Absolutely not! I’ll not let you off so easily. You will recall, Niall, it was not I who cast the containment spell, but...”
“Yes, Yes! I fully admit my mishap. But. If you hadn’t deflected my spell it would have contained our enemy, rather than ourselves. Why must we go over this every time we awaken? Could we not rather discourse on methods to win free of this ensnarement? Would that not be a more productive use of our time?”
“Very well. As long as you acknowledge it was your spell that trapped us here in the first place.”
“Argh! You are the most pig headed wizard I have ever had the misfortune of acquainting myself with. How I have endured the last millennia with you in such close quarters is quite beyond me.”
“There is rather a deplorable lack of distance separating us, I accede. Very well. What spells did you have in mind that we haven’t already tried that could free us from our entrapment? We’ve already tried spells of enlargement and spells of shrinkage; spells of disintegration and of redirection, all with no effect.”
“The sending spell did little to help either, sending us only to opposite sides of the tree. Banishment and teleportation spells had similar effect. It seems we are well and truly trapped.”
“We could try a plane shift, and attempt to transport ourselves elsewhere.”
“That works only with physical contact, with the linking of hands. Impossible in our current incorporeal state.”
“We could try a binding spell.”
“Do you not recall that butcher we attracted with our first binding?”
“He was not a butcher; he was a woodsman.”
“Woodsman, butcher. Whatever. He chopped our tree down.”
“Well, yes. But it should have succeeded in releasing us. How was I to know it would simply reduce the space in which we are trapped?”
“Quite right. And lying there on that forest floor for all those decades, I fully expected natural decay to have eroded away our prison.”
“It may well have done, had we not tried the binding spell again, and bound that carpenter to us.”
“The table he constructed is exquisite, though, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It is indeed, although I believe one would call this a bar, rather than a table. Perhaps he intended it to go to a public house.”
“It’s far too small for a pub. I can’t imagine more than three or four people leaning upon it. Shhh! Jarvin. What noise do I hear?”
A knock sounded from across the dimly lit room. Heavy footsteps passed nearby, the creaking of a door and the jangling of bells, followed by daintily clicking heals.
“Ah, Miss Dupree! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“I’ve come to ask about your matching bar and mirror. I’ve admired them through your window for quite some time. Are they made of the same wood? The color and sheen is exquisite, the burl quite unique.”
“Indeed. Can you imagine the agitation that must’ve gone on inside this tree to have produced such burl? It truly is amazing furniture. You’ve a fine eye, Miss Dupree."
“Please. Call me Carol Lynne. I’d like to buy these for my home. What’s the asking price?”
“Hmm, I don’t exactly recall. I have them on consignment, you see. If you’ll excuse me for one moment, I’ll just go and have a look.”
Booted footsteps receded across the room.
The woman approached the bar, laying a cool hand upon it’s surface.
Niall began the binding spell without hesitation. “Carolin Dupree, we call you by name. In the calling we bind ourselves to thee.”
Jarvin continued. “With this binding, we empower you to raise your hand in summons.”
Niall said, “Do it now, Carolin Dupree. Raise your hand and summon us to thee.”
Nothing happened. The woman neither twitched nor responded in any way.
“Drat! We must not have her true name, Jarvin. Did we not hear it correctly?”
“I’m sure she said Carolin.”
The other man returned, a book in one hand, pen in the other. The wizards listened with interest as the man and woman negotiated the price of the furniture; he reiterating its fine qualities, she pointing out non-existent flaws in the design.
Eventually they agreed on a price, to be collected upon delivery to her home. The man set his notebook upon the bar and scratched out a receipt, querying the woman for the address. He turned the paper towards the woman, handing her the pen.
“If you will just sign here…”
Both wizards held their breath, poised with anticipation as she signed her name in large, cursive letters.
Carol Lynne Dupree
With high hopes, and a patience born of long ages, the wizards watched the woman depart.
After a short interval involving a rather jarring transportation, the be-spelled furniture now stood within a spacious room in Carol Lynne’s home. The bar in one corner, free standing mirror in the opposite.
Jarvin began the binding as soon as the woman was alone in the room. “Carol Lynne Dupree, we call you by name. In this calling we bind ourselves to thee.”
She twitched visibly.
Niall said. “With this binding, we empower you to raise your hand in summons.”
Her hand rose involuntarily, green eyes widening, pupils constricting and dilating wildly.
“Do it now, Carol Lynne Dupree,” Jarvin completed the spell. “Summon us now that we may stand and gaze upon thee.”
A whirlwind swept the wizards up in a crazy, chaotic dance and they chortled in gleeful anticipation. When the spinning stopped, they were indeed free of the bar, standing and gazing upon the woman as the binding commanded. She frowned at her reflection in the mirror, seeing right through them as if they weren’t there at all.
“Jarvin, you idiot!” Niall despaired. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
The Hero
Prompt: For the Glory | Word Count: 1250 Words Exactly | Genre: Fiction
Warning: None
Due: September 11, 2019
The Hero by Peggy Rockey
Dugal lay propped on blue silken sheets, his pale face in stark contrast with dark, curly hair. There was something soft and kind about the man in repose that was rarely seen when awake. His lips were formed in a crooked smile, but Patrick found it difficult to define the expression on his face: part mystery, part expectation, part fear.
“What’s wrong with Daddy,” asked the little boy who came to stand beside Patrick. He kept pulling at the bow tie around his neck, obviously uncomfortable in the little black suit and shiny black shoes. “Why doesn’t he wake up?” Donal’s face was as pale as his father’s, his expression just as mixed.
Patrick cursed the boy’s grandparents under his breath. Four year old lads should not be subjected to open casket viewings. It messed with their minds, as he well knew. He took the boy’s hand in his own calloused one; squeezed it firmly, affectionately. “Daddy’s gone off to be with your mother, lad. He’ll not be waking again.”
He refused to tell the boy his dad was in heaven. Not much chance of that, Patrick thought; not with the lifestyle he'd led. It could just as easily been he in that casket. He'd been the one supposed to deliver the drugs to the gang leader, not Dugal; but his cousin had insisted, said it was better for Patrick to stay home with his newborn babe, help out his wife and all that.
Only two weeks before, Dugal had come to the hospital while Patrick’s son was being born, and Patrick had asked what it was like being a father.
“Ah, it’s fantastic,” his cousin had gushed. “The lad follows me around everywhere, listens to everything I say and looks at me as if I can do no wrong. Your lad will think you’re a hero!”
It made him angry, remembering. What kind of hero OD’d on drugs? Dugal had been no hero. Neither was Patrick. He was nothing but a criminal; had been for ten years or more. Dugal had been in it for the drugs, while Patrick had just wanted to make easy money. And he had, too. He’d made a ton of money. Told himself he did it for his family, but seeing his cousin laid out in the casket before him make Patrick realize that if he continued on this path he'd be dead himself, or in jail, before his own son was four years old.
Donal’s small hand fidgeted in Patrick’s, and he was struck with the notion that little Donnie didn't want money. He wanted the same things Patrick hadn’t had when he was a young lad growing up. He just wanted to go to the park with his dad, or the beach, or even to the grocery store. He needed love and security and the knowledge that his dad was going to be there for him. To know his dad was someone he could count on. Donal was never going to have that now.
It was a life changing moment for Patrick.
He remembered when his Uncle Joe had been diagnosed with Emphysema after a lifetime of smoking. He’d been like a father to Patrick when his own parents had died, killed while driving drunk from a party. Patrick had offered to quit smoking if Uncle Joe would too. The older man had tried and failed to quit, but Patrick never smoked again. The desire to smoke had simply shut off, like a faucet. Like cupid’s arrow to his heart, his love for his uncle became that much greater than his love for cigarettes. It had had such a positive impact on Uncle Joe that he too quit smoking and lived another ten years when he might’ve died in less than three had he continued without change.
Donnie had begun to cry. Patrick picked him up, holding him close to his chest, smoothing his dark hair. He carried him over to the boy’s grandparents, who sat with Patrick’s wife and son. Love for this family struck him hard, like that familiar arrow to his heart, and he knew his life had to change.
Donnie squirmed, wiping at the tears streaking his face. He asked to go to the bathroom, and while he waited for the boy, Patrick overheard another cousin talking to some friends about an Ironman competition he was going to compete at in Barcelona next month.
Ian was an intense, wiry man whom Patrick had always admired, though they hadn’t been close as kids and had little connection as adults. As he listened to the other man talk about the upcoming event, Patrick instinctively knew he needed to surround himself with people like Ian if he was going to change. People with real, meaningful goals who weren’t simply wasting their lives in pursuit of quick riches and instant highs, like he and Dugal had done for so long.
***
Patrick made a point of becoming friends with Ian over the next few months. He went to Barcelona to watch his cousin participate in the Ironman triathlon, thrilled by the excitement and adrenalin of the event. Seeing Ian cross that finish line was the most fantastic and inspirational thing he’d ever witnessed. He didn’t know how to swim, and he didn’t own a bike, but Patrick made the decision, right then and there, to sign up for the next Ironman competition. He knew his life needed to change and he had found the way to do it.
He told himself he was doing it for his family. But really, he did it for himself.
It wasn’t easy. His old “friends” made it difficult to leave his old life behind, offering him quick riches and odd jobs. He told refused them, over and over again, but they kept coming back and started threatening him and his family. He ended up moving out to the suburbs, changing his phone number and getting a job as a photojournalist for a local newspaper. It didn’t pay well, initially, but it gave him a sense of legitimacy.
Learning to swim was harder than he thought it would be. Often his wife, Hannah, would bring Donal and their son to the pool while he trained. Shamus loved to splash and blow bubbles and Donnie floated and played while Patrick swam. He hired a coach, and eventually became comfortable in the water. He pushed himself hard, learning to tread and to float on his back, to open his eyes under water and to swim with long, powerful strokes.
He used some of his illicitly gained savings to buy a bike, and found an Ironman training plan online. He balanced his time between family, work, and training, feeling more energized and encouraged than he ever had in his life. He became high on exercise, on the dopamine that surged through his body, fueled by hours of swimming, biking and running. Amped by the positive changes he was experiencing in his life.
His family came with him to Holland for the competition. Even little Donnie and his grandparents went along to see Patrick compete. It felt amazing, standing on that canal surrounded by so many people, all trying to prove something to themselves and to each other. Patrick inhaled the cool, crisp air; filled with a deep sense of achievement. The race hadn’t even started yet, but he felt like he had already won.
He had won his life back and in his own eyes he had become a hero.
Warning: None
Due: September 11, 2019
The Hero by Peggy Rockey
Dugal lay propped on blue silken sheets, his pale face in stark contrast with dark, curly hair. There was something soft and kind about the man in repose that was rarely seen when awake. His lips were formed in a crooked smile, but Patrick found it difficult to define the expression on his face: part mystery, part expectation, part fear.
“What’s wrong with Daddy,” asked the little boy who came to stand beside Patrick. He kept pulling at the bow tie around his neck, obviously uncomfortable in the little black suit and shiny black shoes. “Why doesn’t he wake up?” Donal’s face was as pale as his father’s, his expression just as mixed.
Patrick cursed the boy’s grandparents under his breath. Four year old lads should not be subjected to open casket viewings. It messed with their minds, as he well knew. He took the boy’s hand in his own calloused one; squeezed it firmly, affectionately. “Daddy’s gone off to be with your mother, lad. He’ll not be waking again.”
He refused to tell the boy his dad was in heaven. Not much chance of that, Patrick thought; not with the lifestyle he'd led. It could just as easily been he in that casket. He'd been the one supposed to deliver the drugs to the gang leader, not Dugal; but his cousin had insisted, said it was better for Patrick to stay home with his newborn babe, help out his wife and all that.
Only two weeks before, Dugal had come to the hospital while Patrick’s son was being born, and Patrick had asked what it was like being a father.
“Ah, it’s fantastic,” his cousin had gushed. “The lad follows me around everywhere, listens to everything I say and looks at me as if I can do no wrong. Your lad will think you’re a hero!”
It made him angry, remembering. What kind of hero OD’d on drugs? Dugal had been no hero. Neither was Patrick. He was nothing but a criminal; had been for ten years or more. Dugal had been in it for the drugs, while Patrick had just wanted to make easy money. And he had, too. He’d made a ton of money. Told himself he did it for his family, but seeing his cousin laid out in the casket before him make Patrick realize that if he continued on this path he'd be dead himself, or in jail, before his own son was four years old.
Donal’s small hand fidgeted in Patrick’s, and he was struck with the notion that little Donnie didn't want money. He wanted the same things Patrick hadn’t had when he was a young lad growing up. He just wanted to go to the park with his dad, or the beach, or even to the grocery store. He needed love and security and the knowledge that his dad was going to be there for him. To know his dad was someone he could count on. Donal was never going to have that now.
It was a life changing moment for Patrick.
He remembered when his Uncle Joe had been diagnosed with Emphysema after a lifetime of smoking. He’d been like a father to Patrick when his own parents had died, killed while driving drunk from a party. Patrick had offered to quit smoking if Uncle Joe would too. The older man had tried and failed to quit, but Patrick never smoked again. The desire to smoke had simply shut off, like a faucet. Like cupid’s arrow to his heart, his love for his uncle became that much greater than his love for cigarettes. It had had such a positive impact on Uncle Joe that he too quit smoking and lived another ten years when he might’ve died in less than three had he continued without change.
Donnie had begun to cry. Patrick picked him up, holding him close to his chest, smoothing his dark hair. He carried him over to the boy’s grandparents, who sat with Patrick’s wife and son. Love for this family struck him hard, like that familiar arrow to his heart, and he knew his life had to change.
Donnie squirmed, wiping at the tears streaking his face. He asked to go to the bathroom, and while he waited for the boy, Patrick overheard another cousin talking to some friends about an Ironman competition he was going to compete at in Barcelona next month.
Ian was an intense, wiry man whom Patrick had always admired, though they hadn’t been close as kids and had little connection as adults. As he listened to the other man talk about the upcoming event, Patrick instinctively knew he needed to surround himself with people like Ian if he was going to change. People with real, meaningful goals who weren’t simply wasting their lives in pursuit of quick riches and instant highs, like he and Dugal had done for so long.
***
Patrick made a point of becoming friends with Ian over the next few months. He went to Barcelona to watch his cousin participate in the Ironman triathlon, thrilled by the excitement and adrenalin of the event. Seeing Ian cross that finish line was the most fantastic and inspirational thing he’d ever witnessed. He didn’t know how to swim, and he didn’t own a bike, but Patrick made the decision, right then and there, to sign up for the next Ironman competition. He knew his life needed to change and he had found the way to do it.
He told himself he was doing it for his family. But really, he did it for himself.
It wasn’t easy. His old “friends” made it difficult to leave his old life behind, offering him quick riches and odd jobs. He told refused them, over and over again, but they kept coming back and started threatening him and his family. He ended up moving out to the suburbs, changing his phone number and getting a job as a photojournalist for a local newspaper. It didn’t pay well, initially, but it gave him a sense of legitimacy.
Learning to swim was harder than he thought it would be. Often his wife, Hannah, would bring Donal and their son to the pool while he trained. Shamus loved to splash and blow bubbles and Donnie floated and played while Patrick swam. He hired a coach, and eventually became comfortable in the water. He pushed himself hard, learning to tread and to float on his back, to open his eyes under water and to swim with long, powerful strokes.
He used some of his illicitly gained savings to buy a bike, and found an Ironman training plan online. He balanced his time between family, work, and training, feeling more energized and encouraged than he ever had in his life. He became high on exercise, on the dopamine that surged through his body, fueled by hours of swimming, biking and running. Amped by the positive changes he was experiencing in his life.
His family came with him to Holland for the competition. Even little Donnie and his grandparents went along to see Patrick compete. It felt amazing, standing on that canal surrounded by so many people, all trying to prove something to themselves and to each other. Patrick inhaled the cool, crisp air; filled with a deep sense of achievement. The race hadn’t even started yet, but he felt like he had already won.
He had won his life back and in his own eyes he had become a hero.
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