Puddles

Maggie loved to splash around in puddles. And not just little puddles of water, mind you, but also the small pond that floated in the middle of the sidewalk.

Each weekend morning that it rained, she would wake up excited, run downstairs for breakfast, where while her mom would get her yellow raincoat and galoshes from the closet and her dad would ready a big hug for her at the front door—after she finished her eggs, toast, and orange juice, of course. Maggie would then go out and splash around in the pools of sometimes-chilly, sometimes-tepid rainwater for as long as the weather and her stamina would allow, and then slosh her way home, where dad would have a big smile and another big hug for her and her mom would have a steaming cup of hot chocolate ready in the kitchen.

This particular morning, Maggie was really excited. The rain was heavy. Not in a hurricane-heavy sort of way, but in a lazy, sloppy rainstorm sort of way. There was barely any wind, and the water droplets were huge, heavy, thick, and made crashing sounds when they hit the sidewalk. They cannonballed into the ever-growing lakes of water everywhere, splashing all of the little droplets of water that were hanging out on the edge of each pool. This was her favorite kind of rainstorm—heavy, warm, and comfortable, and they made for the biggest and best puddles to splash around in.

She jumped in a few, and was starting to get properly wet. Smiling from ear to ear, and starting to feel hungry and ready for some lunch, Maggie spotted the grand prize of puddles. It was too big for the sidewalk and spilled into her family’s front lawn. The heavy droplets fell from the sky and smashed into the lake of water like meteors hitting the surface of a distant planet, throwing flotsam in the air. It called to Maggie, and she answered.

The heavy droplets fell from the sky and smashed into the lake of water like meteors hitting the surface of a distant planet, throwing flotsam in the air. It called to Maggie, and she answered.

Grinning, and lightly quaking in anticipation, she jumped in the air and drove down with both feet. But her feet found no ground. They went through the water, then her knees, then waist. Her eyes were still open when her head went under the water, and she saw what looked like an endless cavern. She couldn’t see any end to the water, and above her where the puddle should have been it was all black. No way out.

Then in front of her and above, Maggie saw that it was lighter. She swam to the light area, and up through it. She reached and felt the sidewalk, and pulled herself up onto the ground in front of her house. The sky seemed more gray, the rain more menacing, and she was crying and frustrated.

Maggie ran to her front door, trying to stop from crying but the involuntary blubbering squeaked and tumbled out. She needed a hug from her dad, the hot chocolate from her mom. But when she went inside, there was none. Her mother yelled at her, calling her Margaret, for having gotten soaked and ordered her upstairs to change. Her father spanked her when she questioned why her mother was being so mean to her. After taking a hot bath and changing, and going without dinner for having disobeyed earlier, she cried in bed, confused and frustrated, until she finally fell asleep.

Her mother and father told her that they didn’t want her splashing in puddles. In fact, they told her that they never had said she was allowed to. Repeatedly. They didn’t hug her anymore, or give her hot chocolate anymore, or wait at the door for a goodbye kiss before she went to school. They yelled, and they spanked when she didn’t answer their yells quickly enough.

At school, things were now just as bad. She discovered she was failing every class, when she knew she had been getting straight As. Her answers to all of the questions, which used to be correct, were now wrong. Other kids laughed at her, the teachers shook their heads and kept her late after class, punishing her whenever she dared to suggest that the answers she knew to be correct should be acceptable.

Occasionally, on the way home from school, or after walking out of her house, she would see a puddle, and jump in it. Looking at her wet feet, she would fight back the tears.

As the years went on, she managed to get some of the answers right, and to do enough acceptable things at home so that she didn’t get spanked as much. She was able to graduate from school, but didn’t have the grades to go to a good college, and her parents refused to pay for it anyway. She found a boy who seemed to love her, but after two children he left one day and never came back. Decades of miserable jobs provided enough for her kids to have clothes and food, although they never had as much as the other families in town. Her son resented her for not giving them more. He left at 18 and never came back. Her daughter stuck around, but only out of a sense of responsibility. Maggie was never sure if her daughter really loved her.

Occasionally, on the way home from school, or after walking out of her house, she would see a puddle, and jump in it. Looking at her wet feet, she would fight back the tears.

Maggie saw her daughter’s children sometimes, but she could never get the kids to go out in the rain with her. Her daughter would chastise them, saying that they would catch a cold, although she never reprimanded Maggie. Maybe her daughter secretly hoped that she would catch a cold.

So that’s where Maggie found herself, over that Easter holiday. Her daughter’s family was inside, cleaning up after dinner, and she was outside, walking around in the rain. After all these years, she still jumped in puddles when she saw them. After all these years, she often forgot why she did so. But she still did.

Hi reader! This has been a finished short story, intended to be a completely fleshed out tale, unlike my One-Pagers, which explore a single idea, scene, or thought. Read more of my longer, more complete short stories here.

Evil Then Became My Good

By Greig O’Brien

It always seemed to be a dark and stormy night. This night, the tall, thin figure in a forgettable gray trench coat trudged through the ever-wetter mud on his way to the stoop of a large, warmly lit mansion.

The house easily had 30 rooms, and, at one time, each was filled with life. It was an old house, tended to by those who had once, like the structure itself, seen more lively days. The rosebush in front, for instance. You could clearly see that someone had loved it dearly, and while the wild had been fighting to get it back, it still showed signs of its previously sculpted form. The artificial lantern boy standing next to it had seen his light go out years before.

Evil Then Became My Good

But the lanky visitor in the trench coat didn’t care. Those little clay people had always left a bad taste in his mouth.

He stepped out of the mud, onto the marble step, and rang the doorbell. He then waited. If nothing else, he did possess the virtue of patience.

A woman answered the door and let him in. She was in her early twenties, light dusty hair and a serious look on her face. She shivered slightly at the sight of the lanky visitor, but if asked, she wouldn’t have been able to tell you why. He took off his hat, shrugged some of the water from his coat as he removed it, and smiled blankly at her. “Huh,” he said. “It’s always the same.”

She stood and stared for a moment before he held out his coat for her to take. “You’ve matured well,” he told her. He said so knowingly; there was no intent, no emotion in the statement. He wasn’t even looking at her.

“My grandfather is in his study,” she said, not even certain she was awake. She didn’t ask the visitor if he was there to see her grandfather, even though it was the old man’s house. But she knew. “It’s … ”

“Through the dining room,” he said. “I know.”

Out of the rain, the lanky visitor grew more energetic. He strolled through the dining room towards his destination. Two large, warmly lit crystal chandeliers hung over an exquisite 20-person oak table. Stained glass adorned two windows facing west, so that they would glow a rainbow during the setting of dinner. He stopped, checked his hair and the dryness of his shirt collar in a large, gold-rimmed mirror, and then departed for the next room. “Ah, the Barrow residence,” he said. “Not bad, Bobby. Not bad at all.”

The older man, a cigarette nearly burnt down between two wrinkled but relaxed fingers, didn’t turn, didn’t take his eyes from the fire, didn’t move, only said, “Where’ve you been?”

Putting on that wry grin that he always wears when conducting business, the lanky visitor slid to the end of the room and opened the door to the old man’s study. Inside, the room was dark but softly filled to its edges with the warm glow of the fireplace. A Degas hung over the mantle, an impeccable crystal shaker set rested atop an oak bar along one wall, and the rain poured down a pair of gold-rimmed bay windows. There were two chairs set up in front of the hearth—high-backed study chairs straight from a Silver Age horror movie. One was occupied by an old set of legs in pajamas and a red crushed velvet robe. The other chair was empty and expectant.

The lanky visitor slid to the empty chair. The older man, a cigarette nearly burnt down between two wrinkled but relaxed fingers, didn’t turn, didn’t take his eyes from the fire, didn’t move, only said, “Where’ve you been?”

“You know, Bob, I’m very busy.”

“I’ve been waiting a long time,” the elderly man responded, not waiting until the other was finished with his sentence before beginning his own. He turned, took a long look at his visitor and his face softened. Then he smiled and took the final puff from his filtered smoke before snuffing it out in an overflowing ashtray standing a few inches from the left armrest. “Years, in fact.”

“Sorry,” said the lanky visitor, with a genuine-looking expression of guilt on his face. “Most people live every day, praying every hour, never to see me.” He watched as the old man shook his head. “I tend to be what is called ‘a rude surprise.’ ”

At this, the old man laughed so hard he doubled over slightly. He stood up and headed to the near side of the room, and called out over his shoulder, “You wanna drink?”

“Does the Pope shit in the woods? Yeah, Bobby. Scotch. And the good stuff under the bar, not that cheap shit you serve your alcoholic son-in-law.”

“Bastard,” the old man breathed under his breath, knowing full well that the other could hear every word he said, whether he uttered them out loud or kept them locked in the antechamber of his mind. He heard the other laugh softly to himself across the carpet, publicly sharing their private joke.

Making his way back to the chairs with two tumblers filled with ice and pricey booze, Bobby said, “And don’t call me Bobby. Call me by my real name.”

“But Mr. Barrow … ”

“Mr. Barrow is who I bought from you. Call me by my real name.”

The lanky visitor was delighted. He leaned back in his plush chair, now ages removed from the cold chill of the storm outside the windows, and chuckled deep in his throat. “Whatever you say, Mr. Michael Callahan.” He laughed a little longer for the darkness in the corners of the room. “Mickey.”

Mickey shook off the laughter and looked back into the fire. “I’m finished being Mr. Barrow.”

“No shit,” laughed the lanky visitor. “Quite frankly, you’re finished being Mr. Callahan, too.” His laughing sputtered to a slow stop as he turned to look at the old man. “You do realize that I’m here to collect, right?”

“Yeah,” said Mickey. “And I’ve been ready to go for some time.”

“No, Mickey. Whether you think so or not, no one is ever ready to go.”

“Well, I’ve lived a full life. My children are grown. They’re wealthy, happy, with children of their own now. You met Clarisse.”

“Oh yes, she’s matured nicely,” the lanky visitor said with the same flat tone as he used earlier. He finished his drink and said, “All of the Barrows are doing quite nicely. Are you telling me you regret any of it?”

“No,” said Mickey. “I couldn’t have hoped for a better ending to my story. Growing up parentless, penniless, and homeless in Hell’s Kitchen … Ha! … I never could have dreamed of all this.”

The lanky visitor grinned, the light from the fire glinting off his long teeth like a set of daggers all lined up, ready to be sharpened. “And all you had to do to get that was sell me your everlasting soul.”

The lanky visitor enjoyed his Scotch in silence and took his time. What was time to him anyway?

Mickey’s eyes got heavier as they filled with more firelight, while the grin on his face grew in spite of his inner troubles. “But I did it. So I made the best of it.” The lanky visitor was listening attentively now, like a stoic priest listening to the confessions of a death row convict. “I didn’t hurt anyone. Some numbers running. Bootlegging. Then investing in steel, oil, microchips. I pumped money into schools. I would like to think that if there is such a thing as to sell yourself in the right way, I did it.”

“You’re still going to burn.” The lanky visitor bored his gaze into the side of Mickey’s head, since the old man wouldn’t turn.

Mickey got up. He refilled their glasses and thought about what the other had just said. The lanky visitor, meanwhile, left Callahan to think and walked to the window to watch the rain cascade down the thin panes of glass. The drops fell like doomed souls, erratically, entertainingly, and then hit the bottleneck of the sill. There, they crashed together, violently coalescing into an amorphous mass of water that welled up. Their individuality gone. His interest in their doomed fate finished.

The two turned and returned to their chairs, both a little distant and no longer as interested as they had been before the abrupt intermission, where they sat for several minutes. The lanky visitor enjoyed his Scotch in silence and took his time. What was time to him anyway?

Mickey Callahan looked over at his guest, his eyes a little watery, his determination a little less solid than it had been a half-hour before. It wasn’t longing that was in Mickey’s eyes, it wasn’t regret … it was the attempt to flush those two sensations from his mind and to steel himself, the way a mountain climber might stop halfway up a slope to rid himself of the thought of turning back.

Then the lanky visitor reached into his jacket and pulled out a cracked, rolled-up scroll. “That’s it, isn’t it?” asked Mickey. The other nodded his head.

As Mickey was almost ready to leave his house, his family, and himself for all eternity, the other tossed the parchment in the fire. The lanky visitor then sat there, sipping his drink, as the old paper slowly burned away in a rainbow of multicolored flames. He didn’t make a sound. He watched, consumed by the spectacle of his own making, occasionally sipping from his nearly empty glass.

Mickey gaped. He had been readying himself for years for an afterlife of pain and punishment. He had been waiting, believing like a fool that he had been ready to go. But as he watched the contract on his soul burn to nothing, he could only stare. The piece of paper, which a foolish young teenager, orphaned and on his way to an early and bloody grave, had signed in order to dig himself out of the mound of shit that was his life, was now reduced to ashes. His shackles had been opened, but the prisoner stood there, disbelieving and confused.

Mickey Callahan slid listlessly from his chair, and half-sat, half-kneeled on the floor. The glass of Scotch was still in his hand, clutched in white knuckles, but he couldn’t look at the devil sitting next to him. “Why?” was all he could stammer after his throat eased and allowed a little air out of his lungs.

The lanky visitor leaned back in his chair, his face a blank slate. “Why?” he parroted. He then hissed deeply in his throat. “I wanted to see what it feels like to do something good.”

Mickey turned to face him. He lifted his shoulders in a nonverbal prodding.

The Son of Morning sat up, handing his empty glass to his host. “Nothing. That’s all I feel.” He then stood up, and laughed at his frustration. “Kindness is one feat of engineering that I don’t have the ability to understand,” he said.

The lanky visitor stood for another moment, staring through the fire. “I used to be beautiful,” he said to whatever was back there.

Then, he turned to the doorway. “Have a nice life, Callahan,” he called out over his shoulder as he stepped into the dining room, which was blinding by comparison. He didn’t stop to look in the mirror on his way back and made it to the front door where Mickey’s granddaughter still stood, still holding his coat. She hadn’t moved, hadn’t hung up the stranger’s coat on the rack three feet behind her.

Without acknowledging her, he took his coat from her hands and threw it around his shoulders, and grabbed his hat that dangled in her other hand. Opening the door, he stepped out underneath the tumultuous sky, the rain coming down even harder than it had been when he arrived. He shook his head, muffling a grunt through clenched teeth. He turned his face towards the sky and said, “You would think it would at least stop raining.”