Issue Eleven, Volume Four

From the Desk of the an Editor;

Hello and welcome to this late edition of Larks Fiction Magazine! In this issue we bring you two stories of love and loss--fear and trembling--teenage angst... Or just plain people finding their way through life.

We hope you enjoy this issue and make sure to come back next week for more great fiction from independent authors as well as updates on Fox House--our new world headquarters.

All the best,

Jessica Rowse

LFM Edior

What Really Happened

By EM Reapy

We stood in front of the well. I looked in. The water lapped. Was it as far down as the village said it was? A mile at least. It couldn’t be. He dunked the bucket and brought it back. Neither of us drank. The pail hovered. Water splished.

The village was a flicker of activity way down the steep hill. Market day. Farmers trading. Fruit and veg stalls. Fishmongers with their cold eyed catch on ice. Hippies with knitted ponchos and friendship bracelets. Baked breads, cupcakes. Pizza. Gypsy fortune tellers and a carousel spinning, playing carnival music.  

He was rubbing the nape of his neck. He wouldn’t keep eye contact. There was a hole at the knees of his black denim jeans I bought him for his twenty second. That was four years ago. His hips were still so slim. Little wrinkles forming around his eyes were the only way you’d know he was older.

‘Is it true?’ I had to ask. I didn’t want to hear but I had to ask. The choke in me was suffocating. There were whispers. I knew it was true. A woman knows.  

He coughed. Wiped his face. Pinched his eyes. He was silent. I asked again.

‘Jill, I- She- Look, it meant nothing.’

The choke finally released.

Electricity sparked in the space underneath. Fizzed around. Spit furiously.  A thunderstorm rose inside me. I felt the gales pick up. Make me dizzy. Blow me around. A roar erupted from my belly out my mouth. Lightning flashed in my brain. I was burning.

‘How could you? I trusted you.’ I struck him. Punched him. Scratched him. Bit him. Kicked him. He let me.

Blood in his mouth. Scuffs from my runners on his face. His shirt grass stained. Swells expanding on his skin. Blue and green outlines of bruises that would purple in the coming days. I roared again and picked him up.

‘I’m sorry, Jill.’

‘I loved you so much. Why?’  

We sat on the well. We said nothing for hours. He went for my hand. I seized it away from him. Every so often I’d sob. Low. Deep. He wanted to hold me but I couldn’t have his touch on me. No more.

‘We should go,’ he said and shuddered. Offered me his hoodie. I took it and zipped it up to the neck.  

Dusk was stealing blue from the sky. Replacing it with dark. I couldn’t see Jack anymore. Where he was walking. I called out. I heard the thud. He moaned. I followed the hurt noise.  

‘What happened?’ I asked him.

‘My head. I tripped. I’m after splitting open my head.’

I couldn’t see. I touched it and felt the hot sticky gush on my fingers.  ‘Shit, Jack. You’re losing it quick and fast. Shit. Shit. Shit.’

I tried to lift him. He was a dead weight. He was mumbling words.

‘Jack, I need to go and get help. Okay. I’ll be back soon. I promise. Hold on.’

‘Jill,’ he said. ‘It meant nothing. It was you. It was always you. Only you.’

I kissed his cheek and ran down the hill towards the village.  I tumbled. 

The End

About the Author;

EM Reapy has an MA in Creative Writing, from Queen's University Belfast. She edits wordlegs.com. Her short fiction has featured in international publications. She's working on a film script and collection of short stories.

Red Ears

 Photo Credit: Jessica Rowse, 2012

 Standing in a Doorway
By Daniel J. Pool


He clutched the handle, turned it, and started to go in. She stopped him before he even made it in the door; letting herself weep into his shirt. He stood there for just a moment, hesitating, wondering what to do.

He wanted to be happy, but did not know what she wanted.

She wanted to be strong, but did not know how.

“Don’t be scared. We can do this,” he said.

“But what will my parents say?” she replied.

A breeze swept the fumes of mowed grass and chlorine through the front door and around the couple. Something with wings hummed over the flower bed. The clouds slowed to a crawl. For that minute, the world stopped for two huddled in the entrance.

“Hey, it’s going to be ok,” he told her, wiping a tear off her cheek.

She replied with a nod and a choke as more tears burned rings around her eyes.

“I know.”

“I have to go back to work. Text me after you go to the doctor.” Squeezing her he kissed her forehead and said, “And tell your dad I’m not leaving town, not even if he threatens me. I’m here for you. “

Silence. The tears slowed, then stopped.

“I’ll see you after work?”

“Yes dear. “ Turning to walk away, he stopped, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Without every stepping inside, they took their first steps. Edging forward into life, the couple decided theirs.

On a rainy day in November they became a couple. In the back of a sedan in February they became lovers. And on a sunny day in October they became parents.

 The End

 

Originally published by Daily Love, 03/25/12

About the Author;
Daniel J. Pool is an IT consultant, writer, and part-time funny man from the Southern Mid-West. His works has appeared in Weird Year, Indigo Rising, and the Fringe Magazines respectfully. In his spare time he edits Larks Fiction Magazine.

Thank you for joining us and make sure to come back next week!

Issue Ten, Volume Four

From the Desk of the Editor;

Hello and welcome to a very exciting issue of Larks Fiction Magazine--the science fiction extravaganza issue! In this edition, we explore the intricacies of modern pulp writers.

In news, my wife and I survived a twenty-hour car ride to Colorado to visit family for the weekend. This means no news on our new office.

Make sure to check out Geek the News for a story about fellow Oklahoma small indie press Literati.

Thank you and good reading,

Daniel J. Pool

LFM Editor

Foul Invaders

By Gary Clifton 

            Murzak swung her patrol unit to the curb.  Much had changed in the last thirty years, including upgraded police vehicles - now anti-gravity rigs operated by electromagnetic force field.  The brass said it saved on road repair and equipment costs, like they rarely knew anything about anything.

            The two citizens were not actually in a fight...more of a cussing and threat contest. 

The presence of her uniform and a code one ass-chewing broke up the fracas.  She had simply placed a hand on her Mark V laser-taser and the argument instantly disappeared.  In the old days, police had actually carried much more lethal hand weapons.  Murzak hoped she would never have to seriously hurt anyone with her service weapon.

            The debris-strewn streets of the city showed signs of the financial and industrial decay common around the entire planet those days.  A couple of inopportune and very expensive wars by the government, who should have known to use the money for medical research and to help the poor, had caused great decline in the big population centers and the land in general.  Crime was rampant, mostly a result of hunger and fear.

            Murzak had earlier heard radio chatter of unidentified aircraft circling the city.  When she re-entered her unit, the dispatcher sent her directly to Sector J to back up officers now in visual contact with those aircraft.  "Have you fools called in the military?" she asked, but received no reply by radio.  Her superiors would speak to her about rough language on the transmission system, but she didn't really care.

            Society was already in danger of collapse and now a foreign enemy was invading.  She slid the cruiser among a glut of others and joined several officers who'd taken temporary shelter behind a granite wall.  Murzak could feel the danger on the air like a weighted glove. 

            In the distance, two sleek, silver-metallic aircraft whizzed to and fro, apparently assessing the situation.  The aircraft were alien, of a type and construction she'd never seen nor imagined.  The street had been alive with sightings of "flying saucers" for years.  Now, they were real.

            "We aren't gonna shoot down space men with these little tasers," she said to patrolman Bolev, a long time associate and friend. 

            "Murzak," he peered over the wall, "you know the bleeding hearts who've filtered to the top of government.  We need to blow these freaks out the sky.  But the honchos say we wait and determine their intentions."

            "Easy to say when you're not out here actually looking down their gun barrels," Murzak said uneasily.  "And those appendages bristling on the wings sure look to be weapons."    

            "I ain't sure those anti-carbon magnetic IV units the army is usin' these days will actually bring one of them babies down," a grizzled sergeant said.  "Maybe they'll land and not shoot.  Man, rather a prisoner than vaporized."

            Murzak, embarrassed at his show of cowardice, bit her tongue and remained silent.

            In minutes both aircraft slithered in closer and landed in a roar, dust flying.  A sliding hatch opened on one craft.  The other machine remained locked down, probably as fire-cover.  "For Heaven's sake, don't anybody take a shot at these guys," the sergeant's voice quivered.   "They may be from Jupiter or Heaven knows where.  Everyone stand down until the army shows up."

            Three monsters with shiny silver skins climbed gingerly down a ladder and turned to face the small crowd of very frightened police officers.  One carried a megaphone-device.  He removed his head, then Murzak realized it was a helmet and that all three were wearing some form of space-suit.

            The alien was horribly ugly - two small, oblong eyes with an ugly protruding nose.  The helmet-less one opened his mouth but couldn't talk.  He could only make horrible, strident, animal-gibberish sounds which made no sense.

            "One ugly dude," the Sergeant said.

            Murzak studied the second aircraft closely.  The massed weapons were all trained,  so it seemed, directly upon her.  "In the name of The Almighty, hold your fire," she shouted to the crouched cops. 

            The grotesque alien raised the megaphone device  and continued making horrible, foreign sounds.  Suddenly Muzak realized the machine was intended to translate off-world tongue into something regular citizens could understand.  After several failed attempts, the megaphone spat out  a variety of strange, distorted words, like screaming in whispers. 

            Suddenly, the alien reached a tone she could understand:  "Citizens of Planet Gronk, we are emissaries from Planet Cyritius of the Eighth Galaxy and we come in peace.  We will not fire our weapons unless fired upon."

            Relieved, Murzak felt like a million Sorussas...a of a lot of money.  She'd heard since childhood space invaders hailed from the war-like planet Earth, not a passive tribe like the Cyrithians.  God of Gronk was good.

 The End

About the Author;

Gary Clifton, forty years a cop, has over thirty short fiction pieces published or pending with online sites.  He has an M.S. from Abilene Christian University and is now out to pasture on a dusty north Texas ranch.

 Cloud Kingdoms

By Katelin Pool

08/20/2019--Star Heart by Andy Lex Bain was removed at the request of the author for an upcoming publication. We wish Andy best of luck. Read about them below.

 Andy Lex Bain is a 29-year-old writer who resides in Tasmania. He enjoys writing, reading, bushwalking and aspires to be a full-time published author.  His writing career began basically whilst watching classic fantasy movies such as The NeverEnding Story and Labyrinth, and playing old roleplaying games like HeroQuest. He was then inspired to create his own fictional world and write stories to take place within it.

Thank you for reading and join us next week for works of existentialism, love, and lost.

Issue Nine, Volume Four

   

From the desk of the editor,

Welcome to another exciting issue of Larks Fiction Magazine! We are dedicated to displaying the very best in independent art.

Thank you for joining us,

Daniel J. Pool

LFM Editor

Ring Down

by L. Upton Illig

Act I

    Walter: “Can you hear me now?”

    Mike: “Yeah, yeah, stop yelling. But I still don’t get it. Why’s he want to sell a satellite killer to those thugs? Savannakhosa is just a pile of rocks!”

    Walter: “I don’t know, it wasn’t clear. He wants to trade it for something. Upstream, downstream, midstream—I couldn’t make sense of it. I’m not even sure Falling Star is an anti-satellite weapon. That’s what it sounded like. I think it’s dangerous!”

    Mike: “Well, he can’t get away with a stunt like that by himself. Somebody’s gotta be helping him!”

    Walter: “Of course he’s got partners, but I don’t know their numbers.”

    Mike: “Swell. Well, we gotta do something. First, you’ll need to—”

    Walter: “What are you talking about?”

    Mike: “What do you mean?”

    Walter: “We can’t interfere. Have you forgotten the Code?”

    Mike: “The Code! What about the truth?”

    Walter: The truth! Who knows what the truth is? Anyway, it’s too late. The trade is going to go down after the election, and that’s only two months away.”

    Mike: “And that makes it okay? Listen to yourself! Do you like hanging with that weasel, listening to his lies?”

    Walter: “Don’t be ridiculous. And listen to yourself! Just because you ride with a taxi driver doesn’t mean you have to talk like one!”

    Mike: “Oh, yeah, like it could be worse. Like I could start talking like a politician!”

    (Pause, and dialing it down)

    Walter: “I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I’m drained. There’s been so much activity this week.”

    Mike: “Forget it. Riding around Baltimore at three in the morning—it ain’t no picnic, but at least it’s for real. You don’t never get that. What makes those guys so twisted? Word on the street is, that whenever the guy gets nervous, his eye begins to go all queer on him. Does he seem batty to you? Is he a crook and a nut job? What’s wrong with him? What’s wrong with all of them? Why can’t they just tell the simple truth?”

    Walter: “That would be a question for Maslow, my friend. Is it the ego, or the greed? Who can tell? Still, I know that you hear some pretty grim cases yourself.”

    Mike: “Oh, yeah, grim all right! I’ve been around The Block more than once, if you catch my meaning. And the sorry cases I hear—I’m telling you, people here are living on the edge of nowhere. Nowhere, Wally!”

    Walter: “But didn’t I hear something—wasn’t the government supposed to build some sort of urban renewal project, to help them—”

    Mike: “Sure! After they help themselves! Look—ain’t there nothing you can do?”

    Walter: “I haven’t got any evidence. And there’s no time.”

    Mike: “Okay. But listen—if you do ever get something—something that could make a difference—see, I got this friend, his name’s Oscar. You don’t know him—he’s with some gent at The Daily News. I can give you his number.”

    Walter: “I can’t violate the Code!”

    Mike: “But if you don’t do nothing, and you stop folks from knowing the truth, what’s so moral about that?”

    (Silence, and a sigh)

    Walter: “I’ve always wondered, Mike…what’s it like, down on The Block? Do you know people there?”

    Mike: “Listen, Wally, I don’t think you want to get mixed up with them folks. They got hard lives. It would shock you pretty bad if you saw how some folks was living.”

    Walter: “No, no, it’s not for me personally. It’s just that…maybe I can do something. Did you ever hear of Churchill and the ‘bodyguard of lies?’”

    Mike: “Hold on, I’m beginning to lose you.”

    Walter: “Those people on The Block. Could you give me some of their numbers, Mike? Right now?”

    Mike: “Sure, if that’s what you want. I see all kinds. I got plenty. But, be careful, will you?”

    Walter: “I will. And Mike—what did you say Oscar’s number was?”

Act II

    “September 3, 2024—According to police officers, a man was arrested on E. Baltimore Street on Tuesday night following—”     No.     “At approximately 8 p.m., a man described as a suspect in the latest Southeast District crime wave—”      Nope.      “The murder-arson that has rocked the neighborhood of—”      No way.      Wilson rolled back his chair. How many times have I written this story? But after thirteen years, he knew. The gray computer sitting on his desk stared at him. Eleven-thirty p.m. He stretched his arms and yawned, amused at how the sound echoed over the rows of empty cubicles. He read over the last words. Not exactly Donne or Herrick. What would his old English professors think of him now?      At least he had a job. And a reputation for giving his readers facts instead of melodrama. No one could take that away from him. It was just that after all the years of muggings and shootings and robberies…      Get over it, Wilson. Write the lede, plug in the details, file it and go home. At least you’re not writing the society page. He grinned as he pictured the Sunday Styles editor, a balding man fending off frantic brides. He slid his chair back to the desk. Okay, wind it up!      “On Tuesday night a man believed to be the prime suspect in—”      From underneath the papers by his computer the notes of the 1812 Overture rumbled. He sighed. Thank goodness it wasn’t his wife, scolding him for missing the kids’ bedtime. They would still be at Grandmom’s, and not due back until Friday. But whoever it was, he needed to answer it before the cannons exploded again. A two-alarm headache wouldn’t help now. He pushed the papers away, barely missing his cup with cold coffee in it, and grabbed his cell phone. A text message was waiting.      Outside The Daily News building, lights in the high-rises across the city street dimmed. Inside, the air grew stale as the cooling system boomed and, with a final gasp, shut down.       He re-read the last line. “Email 2 follow.” He leaned back, and glanced sideways at the mail icon on his desktop. “New Messages (1).”  Okay. I’ll bite. He sat up, clicked the mouse, and began reading a file that materialized in front of him.     A little after midnight the managing editor of The Daily News, Rory McKenzie, fumbled on the nightstand for the ringing telephone. I shouldn’t have stayed up for that O’s game. I’ll never get back to sleep now. A three-year-old best seller fell off the table, and the clock radio slid against the wall. Why don’t those bums play more day games? He found the receiver and grunted what he hoped were intelligible words.     He listened for a long time. Finally he told Wilson, “Okay. Take all the time you need. I’ll get someone else to cover your beat. But I’m coming in.”     He hung up and sat on the bed, staring out the window. A slight breeze blew the curtain back and forth, as humid air, tinged with the smell of rain, stole over the sill and into the room.

Act III

    He jogged down the stairs, each Berluti hitting the next step a little harder. The election was next week, and the media hounds were predicting a landslide. The irony was enough to make one laugh—or weep.

    And yet—and yet—the polls had had him at 59 percent approval last week. But this week he was only at 57! Could there have been a mistake?

His eye—he felt his right eye twitch. The uncontrollable one! The tell!        Had he done something wrong? Said something amiss? Or was it his hat? Too retro for this? Was it too straight—that part in his hair? Should he cover his bald spot—did he dare?

    He should never have left his job as the host of Celebrity Now.  If he had only known the truth…but it was too late. Once, he had been able to hide behind teleprompters and props. Now he stood on center stage, alone. Everybody was watching him—the watchers—their watches ticking—ticking to the tolling of the polls, polls, polls…

    But the oil wasn’t going to run out on his guard. He might have inherited a mess but he’d outsmart everyone yet. So what if the Sava hoodlums got nukes? Falling Star was trivial compared to the coming train wreck this country was going to face. But there was no doubt: the oil discovery in Savannakhosa would produce enough fuel to push the energy crisis well into the next decade. It was a most reasonable trade—nukes for them, oil for him—who wouldn’t pardon such a forgivable sin?

    The voters were a most compliant flock.

    And when the lights finally went out, he’d be gone. Game, set, and match.     He was surprised, therefore, when he turned at the bottom of the stairs to see the Chief of Staff enter the hall. “Ed, what brings you here this early? Don’t tell me we got another boost in the polls last night!” He flashed the thumbs-up sign, sliding into the engaging screen persona he played so well.     “You need to read this, sir.” Ed held a newspaper in front of him.      “The Daily News? Are you kidding? I don’t even read my daily briefs, let alone that trash! Trust me, I don’t have time for this. I’m on my way to a donor breakfast and for what those jokers paid, I can’t make them wait. Leave it in my office—I’ll look at it later.”     Ed blocked his path. “You need to see it now, sir.”     Frowning at the impertinence—Ed had become a little too familiar during the last few months—he took the paper. The letters on the front page peered up at him, but they seemed distant, morphing into unfamiliar shapes. “What?” He shook the paper, like a dog with a toy, until the words emerged sharp and clear and the headline screamed “President Accused in Baltimore Crime, Gambling Ring” and below that “Information from cell phone records for the past three weeks, and verified by independent reporting by The Daily News, confirms

that—”     He leaned against the staircase. “These are—lies!”     “Of course, Mr. President.”     “No, you don’t understand—it’s all a lie!” His voice began to rise. “Get me the Attorney General. No, wait, I’ll get him myself!” He pulled out his cell phone and pressed the number he knew so well. No response. His hand dropped to his side. The phone continued to ring.      He looked up at Ed. The Chief of Staff was standing three feet away, but he seemed to be in a different universe. “You get it, don’t you, Ed? You see? I’ve been set up!” He hurled the cell phone against the staircase and bolted from the hall, shouting for his press secretary.      The Chief was alone. Sunlight had begun to enter the window through the blinds, and the dark, lined faces of Washington and Lincoln frowned down at him from the walls. Ed sighed, and reached for his own cell phone, hard and smooth, deep inside his pocket. He had some calls of his own to make.     Walter lay at the foot of the stairs, broken from the blow, life draining from his circuits. His screen was shattered. He would never contact anyone again: not Mike, not Oscar, nor any of his new friends on East Baltimore Street. But it was all right. It had been quite an adventure, had it not? And as for the truth—well, my friend, the truth is not always simple.

The End

Thank you for reading. Make sure to check out our other fine issues and come back next week for another edition of Larks Fiction Magazine! 

EDIT 01/15/2014: removed Jason Lea's 'The Ballad of Martin Salthausen' upon request by author.

Issue Eight, Volume Four

From the Desk of the Editor;
Hello and welcome to Issue Eight of Larks Fiction Magazine! In this edition we are pleased to offer poetry by Charles Bernard, photography by Eleanor Leonne Bennett, and fiction from  Debra Iles! These works examine the human condition at a high level.

In news we have met with the bank finally and are hopeful that we will be able to make the final move to the new office by October! So by then we should be able to respond to wayward emails.

And for updates on the project make sure to check out the Fox House Tumblr: http://www.tumblr.com/blog/thefoxhouse

Thank you and enjoy!

Yours,
Daniel J. Pool
LFM Editor
Poems by Charles Bernard

Mother
Teach me how you endure life
The pains and misfortunes
With a knowing smile on your lips
Even in the darkest moments
You stood steady supporting me

Share me your deep secrets
The understanding of it all
Even when life’s hope is bleak
Wisdom to outwit life’s cunnings
Even in failure you’re my champ

O mother caress my ears
With sweet words from your lips
Unite our hearts with words
Your love is a spell cast at my birth
Enchanted all lifelong by this myth

My mother is a goddess
For me she stands strong  
Nature’s forces moves her not
I am her most prized treasure
She is my priceless jewel


 I am a Freeman

My mind is not shackled
Not by impossibilities
I am determined
To utilize my abilities

Our government cares not
Not for our plight
Alone our demons
We fight to our doom

Freemen are silent
Bearing pain in silence
Our hope is vain
We know no sunlight

How can I escape?
Where is the northern star
Only within do I believe
Even that yet is vain

Check out Charles on Twitter @chalzz619

 Untitled 33

by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

About the Artist;

Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 16 year old internationally award winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic,The World Photography Organisation, Nature's Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland trust and Postal Heritage. Her photography has  been published in the Telegraph , The Guardian, BBC News Website and on the cover of books and magazines in the United states and Canada.

Her art is globally exhibited , having shown work in London, Paris, Indonesia, Los Angeles,Florida, Washington, Scotland,Wales, Ireland,Canada,Spain,Germany, Japan, Australia and The Environmental Photographer of the year Exhibition (2011) amongst many other locations.

She was also the only person from the UK to have her work displayed in the National Geographic and Airbus run See The Bigger Picture global exhibition tour with the United Nations International Year Of Biodiversity 2010.

 

Entitled

By Debra Iles

Note to the file May 2002.

     They’re trying to get rid of me again.

     They think they are being very subtle with their talk of long service, comfort and rest.  I let them think so, and pretend not to follow their drift.  I have no intention of leaving.  I have earned this place.  It is my home and I will stay here.  Is there some young buck clamoring for my two rooms?  I doubt it.  Are my culinary demands too rich for the dining hall?  I eat what the students are served and ask no more.  Why is it anyone’s concern how long it takes me to cross the courtyard?  I resent their judging eyes, watching for evidence of deterioration.

     As if someone else could ever do this work.  They don’t realize what it takes; all the steps involved.  Every morning I review the shelves, make sure all the books are in place and the spines are aligned, one inch back from the shelf edge.  I change the open page of the morocco gilt second edition O.E.D. to highlight a word for the students to find - I place the tassel string at a casual angle to draw their attention.  Last week it was saturnalia; the week before Endymion.  They are weak in the classics.  Of course I must entertain myself as well.

    Every day of the week, including Sunday, there is a different section of shelves to dust.  I start at the northeast corner on Monday and work my way around.   I have found that leaving a marker at the corner of the second shelf where I leave off helps me stay on track.  A British pence works well for this – it has no monetary value and little historical interest.   I wrestle the dodgy sliding ladder and use the ostrich duster to go along the tops of each book, in and out on each one so that dust does not gather along the indented junction of the pages and the spine.  Then of course each chair must be in its proper place and angle.  The corners of the Turkmen rugs all monitored, to avoid tripping hazards.  The globe moved down the length of the table and rotated so that the morning sun through the window hits Cambridge at 9:00 am as it should.   Then I use the Sports section of yesterday’s New York Times to polish the glass on the covered bookcases – especially the one that encloses my compartment.  My vigilance sustains the sanctity of the library and thereby nourishes the students.

     Of course I realize that some of these tasks are not even noticed.  What of it?  The fact that the brass cornice over Engels Gate is not noticed by the “madding crowd” does not diminish its luster.  And watching the gleam of the morning sun as it moves across the room, day by day and season by season, striking the walnut paneling at a different point each day – and then again at those same points the following year – that gives me the strength to climb the ladder to the top shelf with the duster hanging from my wrist, to keep climbing until I am fourteen feet above the floor, focused only on the books and coolness of the brass ladder fitting against my left palm.   And then as I move down, shelf by shelf, my right foot seeking purchase on the next rung, both hands grasping the stringers to support the extra weight on my cranky left knee.

     House masters come and go, these two will pass on.

Note to the File May 1990

     I am spent and exhausted, but exhilarated too, having just concluded the spring semester pianoforte concert.   The beautiful tone of this instrument, which has been a friend to me for so long, never fails to transport.   This was the fiftieth concert I have mounted, fall and spring each year with only a few interruptions. Tomorrow I will return to my composition with renewed fire.

Note to the File  April 1981

     This has been a rather unsettling week.  One of the students – I’ll call him William – has come seeking advice.  Of course I knew him from the dining hall and because he is a studious young man who keeps regular hours reading philosophy texts in the leather chair near the west window.  One could not fail to notice his brown curls, the way his worn sweater floats over his slender frame, and the delicacy of his adam’s apple when he swallows.  On Tuesday, he came into the library at around one o’clock, when there is rarely anyone else present.

     The simplicity and lack of guile of his approach left me initially speechless.  Let me see if I can transcribe it precisely.  “Can I ask you a question?  What if a person likes women, but you know, is attracted to men too.  Do you think it’s possible to overcome it?”

     Dread loomed over me.  I have been scrupulous in my interactions with the students, but immediately my mind was racing with possible connections, innuendo, paths across town that might have revealed something of my own activities – even though they were rather a long time ago.  Then I reminded myself of the short half-life of a student’s attention span, pulled myself together, and refocused on him.  I stammered that I was not sure why he supposed I would know anything about such a matter, but that of course I wished to be helpful in any small way I could.  He just sat there, adagio, and repeated his question.  “You seem so wise; I value your perspective.  Do you think it’s possible to live straight?”  I muttered a few platitudes, everyone is different, to thine own self be true.  I tried to think of texts that he might find helpful.

     He talked on for a bit, clearly in some pain over his difficult question, but still amiable – andante.  There was no real anguish in his voice.  Young people speak of these things so freely.  I hmm’d and aah’d and nodded at appropriate pauses.  The crux of the issue emerged:   his desire to be in the world, not separate from it.  Not behind a scrim or in the closet.  It was obvious that he thought this would resonate with me.  “Of course,” he said, “you came up in a different time, with different choices.  But how different really?  I don’t want to be outside of things.  I don’t want to be like…”   The unspoken “you” hung briefly in the air between us, then crash landed in my prostrate.

     I nodded, unable to speak with that frozen “you” clenching my gut.  Is this how I look to the students?  Unspeakable.

Note to the File, June 1971

     This weekend there was a big reunion party for my class, which I observed quietly in the library.  I find it’s best to avoid the loud jockeying drunken banter of fat men in matching ties.  I have created an oasis from that sort of turmoil, for myself and the students, and it has served us well.  Better not to hear the hale fellow jokes about monkishness, and not to have to produce the simulated smiles of the good sport.  Better to stay here, with my brandy, and work on the concerto.   When things are quiet again, I will venture out to my usual haunts, where the company suits me better.

Note to the File October 1946

     The librarian is not coming back.  The House Master has offered me the opportunity to stay on for a bit longer along with a small cash stipend, which I think it best to accept since I am not yet settled in my plans.  It has been made clear to me that I must keep what is referred to as a “professional” distance from the students – many of whom were my comrades just a few short months ago.  The conduct that might be appropriate among friends is apparently of some risk when one party is a member of the college establishment.  I cannot help feeling chastised, yet again.  This may be just the chance I need to focus on my composition work – a concerto is beginning to take shape in my mind’s eye.

Note to the File June 1946

     It is my great good fortune to have landed a temporary post caring for the library and historical instruments here.  I am grateful to have a few extra months on campus to gather my prospects and chart my future course.  Even more fortuitous – I am provided with lodging in two snug rooms behind the reading room.  In my four undergraduate years, I never even noticed that the glass-fronted bookcase on the south wall was on hinges, concealing an apartment behind it.   And now, here I am, arranging my books and effects in just this very space.

     How lucky I am to have dodged certain failure on the question of returning to Akron, where my passion for music so bewildered my father.  He is not a man who enjoys being bewildered, and thus has made it plain that when I return, I will need to make a greater effort to “fit in” with the men at the plant and, even more important, at the club.  Little does he know that four years among well-turned-out young men with money, charm, and literary aspirations has made the prospect of “fitting in” in Akron nothing short of appalling.

     So, here I will remain for the moment.  While the Head Tutor and Librarian convalesces from an extreme case of gout, I will care for the books and keep the instruments tuned.  I have promised myself (and my mother) that I will dedicate every spare moment and all my higher faculties to discovering where I should direct myself:  a career in law, business, or perhaps international trade.  My adventure awaits.

Afterward, Note from Judith Martindale, House Master, November 2002

     Charles died at Chilton House, a local hospice facility, after 56 years of residential service to the university.  He brought dignity and honor to the house.  I came upon his journals while clearing out his apartment and pulled these few entries which speak to our history as an institution, to the changing times, and to the singularity of every human life.

     The journals, in total, filled 75 composition books and will be stored in the house archive.

The End

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