Zigzag, September 29, 2023

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This Show Case features five pieces submitted in response to our fifty-second Writing Prompt: Zigzag. You can see responses to each prompt in the drop down menu for the Show Case page. Try an item. They are all delicious. We hope they stimulate your mind, spirit, and urge to write. Maybe they will motivate you to submit a piece for our next prompt, which you can find on the Show Case home page.

And please share this Show Case with your family, friends, and other writers.

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[Featured Image photo credit: Ussama Azam, Unsplash]

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Zig-Zag Rolling Papers

by John Correll

I remember when everybody smoked. Restaurants filled with fumes. Planes and trains reeked — even the “No Smoking” sections failed to provide refuge. Ashtrays ruled every table and seat. Some were worth stealing. Others were cheap aluminum garbage. But the trays were great for tossing your spare change into, assuming you didn’t smoke. My mother puffed like an everlasting California wildfire fueled by Marlboro. Tar saturated the entire house. It resided in the clothes, carpets, curtains, sheets, and everything. Even the new cigarettes smelt like burnt ones. 

My youthful hobby involved hiding the smokes and waiting for my mother’s screams. When I reached six foot two and fifteen, I employed the celestial out-of-reach but barely visible hiding method. Then, after she exploded, I moseyed down the stairs. I reached up sloth-like, paused, and gave a teenage I-know-better-than-you lecture on smoking’s consequences to life and lungs. My mother failed to appreciate my advice and stoked on until she reached seventy-five. She only quit on the grounds of price. Yet at eighty-four, she developed chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) and finally admitted her mistake. 

Do I blame my mother’s smoking for my high blood pressure? Sometimes I do. But I’m not the innocent abstinent teetotaler you might take me for. I smoked a few. But there were certain remedial circumstances. They involved crazy parties in my twenties and thirties. Drunk around midnight, I had the choice: stagger, but more likely crawl home, collapse on the sofa, sometimes the floor, and wake up to the inevitable headache. Or, if I caught a smoker — taking a drag, I made the special smoker-buddy sign. You know what I mean, put out your hand and look like a lost puppy. It always worked. The addicts always had a light, too. They were such nice people. I’m not sure about vapers; their devices spread disease like a packed bus headed to the hospital. Anyways, the cigarettes tasted like shit, but damn better than crawling home in the dark. And f—k the headache, too.

I also tried cigars — in the army. They provided a cheap and effective bug repellent during field exercises. And they fired the pyrotechnics, el pronto. Take that, you f—king red team commie bastards.

But the taste always reminded me of revving up to the fireplace drive-thru and ordering last winter’s stale ash with mayo. Bla. Until Zig-Zag.

In Prague, way back in ninety-five, a new friend did a curious thing. He pulled out a pouch of something akin to poorly cut tea and said, “Smell this.”

“Umm, sweet,” I said. Then a packet of Zig-Zag rolling paper appeared — by magic. His nimble fingers sampled the sweet leaves and rolled a fresh fag. 

“Try,” he suggested.

And I did. Heaps better than any bubble-gum, peach-flavored, purple haze vape. This was the real stuff: true smoker’s smoke. Then my smoking buddy returned state-side, and I never smoked again.

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Suspects

by Perry Palin

“Is this just the way you found her?” Deputy Sheriff Bob Larsson turned away from the body and looked at Peter.

Peter looked up at Deputy Larsson. “Yes. That’s just where she was.”

“Okay. How do you feel? Do you want to sit down?”

“Nah. I’m okay. But I’d like to head for home.”

The Deputy frowned at the body of the girl. She was on her right side, with her face in the grass. “I’m sorry, Peter. You’ll have to stay here with me until Sheriff Adams arrives. He’ll want to talk to you.”

Peter walked to the edge of the clearing in the woods. He leaned against a yellow birch for a few minutes, then sat on the ground at its roots. It was early afternoon on a warm day. The breeze in the tops of the trees didn’t make it to the floor of the clearing. The small birds were quiet because people were in the woods. 

Deputy Larsson walked slowly back and forth through the grass. He was sweating in his uniform. He had seen bodies in auto accidents in his years of police work but this was the first time he came to a scene where the cause of death was uncertain. The dead girl may be a homicide victim.

Peter heard a siren coming fast from far away. It slowed when the car left the asphalt and hit the gravel on Crosby Road, and then it stopped at the trailhead.

Sheriff Adams trudged up the trail. His uniform shirt was straining at his belly. He was red faced and puffing, and sweat ran from his gray hair onto his face. Sweat was staining his white cowboy hat.

The sheriff turned to his deputy. “What’s going on? Why was I called out here?”

Deputy Larsson pointed to the west side of the clearing. “Dead girl over there. I called for the medical examiner. She’s on the other side of the county. Said she’d be here in about an hour.”  

Adams looked at the body. The girl had long dark hair which was dirty and tangled, and was clothed in a large t-shirt and close fitting jeans. Her beach shoes were lying in the grass. Her face, arms, and feet were blue and damp. She looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. “Do we know who this is?”

“She has no ID, no purse near the body. I’ve been walking through the grass to look for anything. Nothing yet.” Larsson continued a slow walk through the summer grass.

“Bob, the grass is all beaten down. Did you do that?”

“No, Sheriff. It was like that when I got here. Looks like the place has been used by groups. Parties maybe.”

“Okay, this is a crime scene. And that kid sitting on the ground. Why is he here?”

“That’s Peter Ash. He found the body and called it in from the Lampela house down the road. I picked him up from there, and he brought me to the site.”

Sheriff Adams walked over to Peter. “Stand up, will you? I need to talk to you.”

Peter got to his feet. He didn’t like the way Sheriff Adams spoke to his deputy, or how he didn’t show respect for the dead girl. 

Adams looked down at Peter. “Tell me how you found this girl.”

Peter arranged his thoughts and then began. “I come here to go fishing. I leave my bike in the clearing and I walk to the creek. When I got here, I saw the girl over there, and I went to try to talk to her. She wouldn’t wake up, and then I looked and saw she was dead. I rode as fast as I could to the Johnsons’ house, but no one was home. I rode to the Lampela farm, and Mrs. Lampela let me use the phone to call 911. Then I waited and the deputy picked me up in his car and I told him how to get here.”

“What was your name, again?”

“Peter Ash.” 

“What kind of name is that? What nationality are you?”

‘Finnish.”

“Huh. Ash isn’t a Finnish name.”

“My dad said grandpa translated his name to Ash when he came here because people couldn’t say our old family name the right way.”

“So what is your real family name?”

“Ash.”

‘No, kid, what was it before your grandpa changed it?”

“My grandpa was Reino Pihlaja, then Reino Ash.”

Adams frowned at Peter. “Finlanders. Labor union rabble, socialists and communists.” The sheriff spat on the ground. “You were fishing, huh? Where is your fishing rod?”

“I left my stuff with my bike at the Lampela place.”

“Can you show me your fishing license?”

“No.”

“Breaking the law then, fishing without a license?”

“I’m thirteen. Not old enough to need one.”

“There’s no river here. How can you say you were fishing?”

“I walk through the woods to the creek.”

“How far is that?”

“Don’t know. Takes about a half hour.”

“Is that right? What do you catch there?”

“Brook trout. They’re pretty small.” Peter wasn’t going to tell the sheriff about the best trout fishing around if he didn’t have to.

“Where’s the trail to this river? I don’t see a trail from here.”

“I just walk through the woods. It’s maples and birches. Easy walking.”

Deputy Larsson walked up to the sheriff. “There’s a lot of beer cans and liquor bottles under the trees. Most of them are old. This is the newest thing I found, in the grass over there.” The deputy pointed toward the west side of the clearing. He held out a clear evidence bag. The bag held an orange cover from a small pack of rolling papers.

Sheriff Adams turned toward Peter. “Is this yours?”

Peter looked at the evidence bag. “No.”

“Are you a smoker? Lots of kids your age smoke.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“I’m not sure I believe you. When was the last time you had a cigarette?”

“Two or three years. I’m on the junior high basketball team. We’re not allowed.” 

“Do you always follow the rules?”

“Try to.”

“Is that right? You try to? What laws have you broken recently?”

Peter thought about this. “Trespassing is the only one I can think of.”

“Trespassing. And what did the landowners think of that?”

“Most of them don’t know. I cross private land sometimes to go fishing.”

“Most of them? Tell me about a time when you’ve been caught by the landowner.”

Peter shifted on his feet. “Neilo Gustafson has a gravel pit off Maki Road. It’s posted, but I go through the gravel pit to get to the creek on the other side. One time I rode my bike into the gravel pit and Mr. Gustafson was there, changing the oil on one of his machines. He saw me, so I rode up to him. He asked me if I caught any fish in the creek, and I said a few. I told him I saw his no trespassing sign. He said it wasn’t there for me. It was there for people he didn’t know.”

“Another Finlander? This Neilo Gustafson is Finnish, right?”

“I’ve heard him speak Finnish with my dad sometimes.” 

Adams looked at Peter with disgust. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?”

Peter bit his lip and shrugged. “My teachers tell me I’m smart.”

Adams looked at his watch. He turned away from Peter and moved into the shade of a big maple. 

Deputy Larsson continued to search through the grass.

Peter sat down under the yellow birch. Adams hadn’t asked Peter if he knew anyone who used the cigarette papers that came in an orange package. Peter didn’t see the need to answer a question that wasn’t asked. The Finnish loggers and sawmill workers he knew who used ZigZag rolling papers were old men, and not likely involved with the young girl who died in the clearing. Let Sheriff Adams find his own suspects. 

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The Cat is Out of the Bag

by Mimi Speike

I predicted this would be the final installment of my assassination plot. I identified a short path to a finish that worked fine for me. Well, my short path has elongated, has zig-zagged all the way to three-thousand words. I’m breaking it apart. This is the next-to-last installment.

* * *

Dee is furious. His first thought, once he’d got himself out of his nightshirt, his hair combed, his face washed, ready to start his day, was to locate Jack Daw. Informed by Rowland that Jack had spent the night in the library, he hurried to the spot, only, of course, to find it vacant. 

A quick look-around was all it took for him to realize all was not as it should be. His mother’s sapphire pendant, prominently displayed in a glass case since her passing, was gone. A jewel box, the repository of pieces that had belonged to two previous wives–he’d kept the stash a secret from the latest mistress of Windy Hill–was also disappeared. Had she been aware of them, Jane would have demanded to know why the ornaments hadn’t been turned over to her. Is she not as dear to him as were Eunice and Susannah? She’s succeeded where they’d failed. She’s provided him with the sons he’d long lamented the absence of.  

Ya! he thinks. And how! He’d been a fool to marry one so young without proper thought given to the potential for disaster. An enjoyable old age is what he’d hoped to gain for himself. Well, he’d made his bed; he must sleep in it. When the squalling of infants gets to be too much for him, he retreats to his quiet place filled with reminders of a life lost to him forever — to his library. 

You might think he would have withdrawn to his astrological observatory where, his brood put to bed, the house silent for the first time since sun-up, he might, undisturbed, contemplate the stars, a favorite pursuit. No. His books have the stronger pull, especially since he’s been forced to divest of them. His losses have caused him to be the more attached to the volumes he retains. 

Entering the space, a brief look-around had shown him that one particular piece dear to his heart was absent from its long-time locale. What was he to think? Jack Daw was behind it. Daw, and at least one item, probably many more, were out of the house and on their way to God-knows-where. He confronted his wife. “Why, pray tell, did you have to put him up in my library, of all places?”

“And where was I to settle him? The room off the kitchen houses the nursemaid I desperately need, will need for the foreseeable future. Was I to bed him down on the floor in the hall, at the mercy of Tycho and Mercador?¹ One of your couriers, treated so shabbily?”

“He’s not one of my couriers! I’ve not set eyes on him in my life.” 

“So well-mannered! I never could have imagined him a thief.”

“Blast me for an addle-brained idiot. In my fury to be off to Barn Elms, I made a snap decision. My thinking was, eyes and ears in a busy public house on Dover harbor, if what he says is true, would be a fortunate alliance. Patrons are rather more careless of their conversation, attended by a ten-year-old. He looks like a thug in training, but Señor Del Gado was no upright when I laid hands on him, still isn’t. He’s turned out to be my most valuable asset. I keep him in line with the carrot and the stick, as I would have done with Daw, except he didn’t give me the chance. I handed him over to Tom. Tom was in charge of him. Tom allowed this to happen. Tom should have had better sense. Why was Jack not placed in with Tom?” 

“You know very well Tom shares his bed with Archie. Husband! Tom argued against the library. I made that decision.”  Jane is trying to shield her sweetheart from censure. 

Tom had, in fact, insisted the boy bed down at the front of the house, in either the formal reception room, separated from a large entry by an open archway, or in the library, where pocket doors, slid shut, create a refuge ideal for one dead tired after a grueling trek.

“Please, Janie,” Tom had begged. “Do it for me, sugar. The laddie is beat. Let’s not stick him in the hall. He’s no ruffian, in spite of his rags. He’s bright. I sat with him after dinner explaining the intricacies of the best game in the world.² If I’m any kind of judge–and I am–and you know I am–the boy is quick as a wink and sharp as a whip. Uncle Dee is going to like him exceedingly.”   

* * *

Windy Hill, an expansive structure, short on sleeping quarters? This is indeed the case. Dee has his Spirit Room, his Séance Room, his library, his study, a laboratory for alchemical experiments, and an astrological observatory. Jane’s aunt, on hand for the impending childbirth, has insisted on, besides a bedroom, her own sitting room, normally the dormitory for briefly-lodged operatives. Dee has his bedchamber. His wife has hers, and an adjacent nursery. Two rooms do for three children and Tom. There will be a reallocation of space as additional infants arrive but, for now, that’s how things stand.

The grand front rooms were original to the domicile of a family prosperous until John’s father was arrested and imprisoned in 1553, during Bloody Mary’s campaign against prominent Protestants. He was released, but only after he had been deprived of all his financial assets. . John had expected to inherit considerable wealth from his father and be in a position to carry out scientific studies free from worries about earning an income, By 1566 he was living with his mother at Mortlake to reduce his living costs. With her assistance, he enlarged the structure to accommodate his scholarly interests, and added again after receiving a final sum upon her death in 1580. From that point the son of a man who had been a gentleman courtier at the court of Henry VIII earned his living, and was not terribly successful at it.

* * *

Dee has returned to his library to continue his inventory of missings. O-ek is next in line for a tongue-lashing. “You! This is all your fault!” 

Sly (known to Dee as O-ek) is engaged in his favorite game. He’s reading, out of Dee’s De Heptarchia Mystica, translating as well as his schoolboy Latin permits. He’s showing off, but it’s a harmless conceit, as conceits go. Delly’s enjoying being read to, a new experience. So many new experiences in the past few hours! She’s storing the memories up, to console her after she is, inevitably, she believes, returned to scritch-scratching for worms while she awaits a chicken’s time-honored end. What tales she’ll have to tell in the meantime! 

Sly is thrilled. He likes nothing better than to have an eager pupil. Back at the Cumbrian farm on which he’d first seen light of day, he’d been notorious for turning every casual conversation into a lecture. Some had accepted it as a sweet idiosyncrasy, others had mocked what they took to be a big-head’s pretentiousness. He was possessed of a substantial superiority of mind over his farmhand associates, and he availed himself of every opportunity to parade it.

Sweet, simple Delly hangs on his every word, full of admiration. Mavis is another story. She’s seen a lot of odd doings within these walls, her home for twenty-five years, and before that in Dee’s digs in Paris during his student days. The raven is not amused. Neither is she amazed. This cat is another of the odd characters her master takes pleasure in consorting with.

* * *

Sly, rudely accosted, looks up from his book. “What is all my fault?” He’s unaware of the theft. Tom had tip-toed into the library, seizing items before a curious trio had returned from a gala evening, careful not to disturb a child asleep on the floor.

“Jack Daw’s a lousy, filthy thief, and you know it.” 

Sly puts down his book. “What put that nonsense in your head?”

“He was in here all night, alone, unsupervised. You tricked my wife into sending him away before the theft was discovered. Why?”

“I had my reasons.” 

“Oh? Let’s hear them.”

Sly sits up. “I owe you no explanations. I am O-ek, the great and powerful.”

“Are you? I have another idea.” 

“I thought we’d settled this. Do I not speak to you?”

“You seem to speak to me.” 

“Did I not play your fiddle last night?”

“I have managed to convince myself I dreamed it.” 

“You didn’t dream it. Dig out the blasted thing and I’ll prove it.”

“All I know for sure is, you’re Jack Daw’s accomplice in his larceny. You maneuvered him into the house. You forged the note to my simpleton of a wife.” 

Sly’s trying to think of a sensible-sounding denial. Nothing comes to mind. “I have to tell you sooner or later,” he snarls. “It may as well be now. I can’t keep this charade up forever. It’s served its purpose, namely, to initiate an acquaintance with the great John Dee. Doctor! I employed the boy, yes, as the means of gaining your attention. He is no thief. And I am not the cacodemon O-ek.”

Dee freezes, but for his excitable eye. “Zooks!” he cries. “Who be you then? Lucifer himself, maybe.”

Sly sighs. “You disappoint me, sir. That you of all people should fall prey to the lazy thinking of the muddle-headed masses. I’m no more, and no less, than a cat. An extraordinary cat, of course. I don’t claim to be at your level, certainly not, but I’m as gifted intellectually in my way as you are in yours. The abilities you would refuse to grant me ownership of, I acquired through my own industry. I enlarged my cat’s capacity myself, with no assist of any kind. It’s a lot to swallow, I know. What more can I say to help you believe me?”

Dee, arms crossed, clutching himself anxiously, is thinking, This… whatever it is… is determined to conceal its true identity. Why? That will, no doubt, become evident in due course. Safest, for now, is to feign accord. 

Nothing could have done more to convince the man he’s in direct contact with a supernatural, no Edward Kelley moderating the encounter. He’s elated, and terrified. “If you would be so good as to answer a few questions,” he replies in a resolutely mild tone.

“Why, certainly. With pleasure. Ask away,” sings the cat. He’s always relished a battle of wits with a worthy opponent. John Dee, with perhaps the finest mind in all England, is that, decidedly so.

* * *

1. The family’s two Great Danes, adored by all, are allowed to roam freely.
2. Encryption.

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The Gemma Loop

by SL Randall

[For anyone curious about super moons … Here’s a link to a short video by NASA.

The Moon Illusion: Why Does the Moon Look So Big Sometimes? – NASA Solar System Exploration]

Super Moon – The Gemma Loop by SL Randall

The sweat dream tore Micky from his slumber. The one where Gemma died, again and again. He rose from his side of the bed, her side cold and empty as it had been the past two weeks. The clock glowed 4:17am. The sun would soon rise on the heels of the setting moon. Micky went out to stand on the little bungalow’s porch. A cool ocean breeze dried the night perspiration from his skin and soothed the aching dream. He stretched out a hand as if he could touch the impossibly large moon resting heavily on the horizon. Sweet jasmine floated on the breeze, mixed with the salty air. “Gemma’s scent,” he murmured to himself. Grief forced him to relive his memories.

Gemma died five years ago, but for Micky, it was only two weeks. He had tried to alter the timeline that resulted in her death, but it was impossible. Gemma told him it was impossible. 

“Micky, our time is finite. We can wander the infinite, and zigzag through the past, present and future, but our personal timelines are immutable. We are born, we age, and we die. That is linear.” 

He wanted to rail against her simple explanation, but she forbade him to try again. That explanation had been longer and more technical. In his frustration and grief, he didn’t understand it, but he promised he wouldn’t try again. Her death happened on a time jump. No matter how many times he jumped back to convince her to change her jump destination or not jump at all, death awaited her. Once she died by snake bite, another she landed in the middle of a buffalo stampede, and his last try talked her into returning to the Bungalow. There, she had an aneurysm. Her time was up. The aneurysm had been five years ago. He remained in that time stream long enough to have a funeral. 

Time travel was tricky business. He still didn’t understand how it worked. Gemma did, and despite all her attempts to explain it to him, he would get lost in her eyes, or distracted by the sound of her voice. He figured since she knew the ropes, he could tag along and enjoy the fun. 

Now he was stuck in a future without her. 

The little bungalow on the beach had been their sanctuary. Their point of return. Every time traveler had an anchor point.  

“Too much jumping between time streams without a break confuses the body. According to research, time travels need to rest in one place for two times as long as they are gone. For instance, if you travel for two days, you must rest for four.” Gemma explained.

“What happens if you don’t rest?” Micky wondered out loud.

Her answer chilled him. “You diminish your own timeline.”

“Can you recover any of your timeline with a longer rest?”

She shook her head. “It’s like the sleep myth. You assume you can catch up on the weekend after spending the week only getting three or four hours a night.”

They were careful to get their rest. Yet in the end, her timeline expired. Micky called that the ‘Bus effect’ You could be perfectly fine, step out of your house and get plowed by a bus. You just never knew. Facing the agony of life without Gemma, he didn’t find it humorous anymore.

Micky had options. He could go back to his original life as a taxicab driver in New York in the late 1990s. That’s where he met Gemma.

She’d gotten into his cab, eyes blazing with anger. “Drive!” she ordered.

“Where to, lady?” he’d asked.

“I don’t care. Just away from this nightmare city.”

“Aw now, don’t be like that,” He’d joked to soften her up a bit. “This town has its rough edges, but she’s a pretty lady, just like you.”

He was lucky to be alive after that comment. He remembered her passionate tirade, though none of the words. She wasn’t just pretty; she was dangerously beautiful. Micky fell in love that night. He drove Gemma out of the city and kept going. As a cabbie, Micky learned that listening was the most crucial element of his job. It paid off in big tips and interesting information he could barter. 

Two days later found them in New Mexico, the farthest Micky had ever been from home. The desolate scenery of brown flattop hills called Mesa’s and scrubby dried tumbleweeds fascinated him. Sure, he’d seen photographs and western movies, but driving through the desert, especially at night, felt vast and empty.

They halted at a rest stop near Tucumcari. Micky needed a break from driving and a bathroom. Walking back, he found Gemma leaning on the car, gazing into the night sky. The glittering stars and crisp, cold air made him feel that space and earth connected in this spot. 

He caught Gemma watching him. She smiled, “This is a first for you?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, bashful at his naivete.

She laid a finely manicured hand on his arm. Warm, gentle, and familiar, it sent an electric shock to his heart. “It gets easier the more you see new places, but the wonder…” she trailed off, returning her gaze to the stars.

“You travel a lot.” He choked out and then kicked himself for saying something stupid.

Gemma chuckled. “So, Micky, do you plan to return to New York? I mean, this is a bit out of your territory.”

A shiver, possibly from the cold but more likely from her question, burst the bubble around the thoughts he’d ignored. Once he’d accepted her as a passenger, he realized he’d already left his city life behind. He didn’t hesitate. “I’m done with New York. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” 

Since her death, Micky replayed that conversation over and over in his head. That was two years ago, or five years, or a hundred. Time travel was so confusing, especially without Gemma. 

Tears rolled down his cheeks. He sat on the top step of the lanai and leaned back against the post. Two weeks and several years of time travel trying to fix the unfixable. Micky knew he needed to do something besides languish in his bungalow full of memories. As the moon disappeared below the horizon and the first rays of sunlight illuminated the beach, Micky realized there was a person strolling along the shore. The familiar gait made him think it was Gemma.

He rubbed his sleep deprived eyes, thinking his grief deluded him. 

It was Gemma! Fear trickled down his spine. What trick was this? Was he dreaming? Would he see her die yet again? 

The woman approached cautiously. She was much younger than Gemma. “Why are you in my bungalow?”

Micky blurted, “Gemma?”

She stepped back with a little gasp. “How do you know my name?”

Realization slammed into Micky. This was Gemma as a very young woman, before he met her as a seasoned time traveler. She had never spoken of how she became a traveler or why she preferred the Bungalow as their Point of Return. He just accepted everything without question, except her death.

Micky laughed. For the first time, he understood why Gemma insisted he return to the Bungalow within this specific timeline.

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Make Up Your Mind

by S.T. Ranscht

Photo credit: Pawel Czerwinski