Short Stories

by James Britvich

incidents that death or serious injury were miraculously avoided were not from blind lucky. They were orchestrated from above. I am called a 'Custodian of Life'. Many people have events similar to yours. Something happened, and they missed their destiny with tragedy, without ever giving it a thought why things happened as it did. That's because a Custodian tweaked some minor elements of the day affecting the recipient's life only. Times and places were so slightly changed. As an example, a man gets a phone call just before leaving the house. It causes him getting caught at a traffic light, missing getting into a serious accident down the road. Stuff like that."

  "The train wreck did happen. If you had been on that train, you would have had both your legs crushed beyond repair, needing amputations. You were my first assignment, and I botched it up a bit. Not by much. Just enough to let you have phantom pains. My superiors are correcting that oversight of mine as we speak. Very shortly, the pain will abate. So will the memory of our meeting. Because the wreck happened without you scheduled to be in it, the conversation you just had with your friends here, will be different."

  Veronica says, "Even though I think you're a kook, there's no way I could forget what's just happened!"

  "You will. Savor these few minutes, realizing a spiritual force saved you legs. Don't try to keep the memory alive, though.... Let it go."

  The Custodian rises from his chair and doffs his hat to her. He pays his bill and walks out the door, holding it open for a woman entering Rozay's. All the while, Veronica watches him leave with her mouth slightly agape.

  Her friend, Sally, sits at the table. "Do you know that man that just left?", she asks.

  "Never saw him before." Veronica says offhandedly.

  "So, how are you feeling, Ronnie?", Sally asks.

  "Great! Couldn't feel any better. Everything is fine."

  Sally says, "You were suppose to be on that train that wrecked yesterday, weren't you?"

  "Yes, I was. A couple of small things happened, that changed yesterday's schedule. Looks like I was really lucky to miss that train. It's just one of those things, I guess."

  The Bridge

  While traveling cross-country, I stop in a town I don't even see located on the map. It's not that small either. On and off, I heard a mild clunking sound from the engine the last couple of hours. I dropped the car off at a garage to get it fixed. I ask the mechanic for the closest restaurant. He says just over the bridge. "You'll be tempted to spend some time on the bridge while crossing it — Don't. Just walk across without stopping. Especially in the middle." I don't know why he said that. I'm too hungry to lallygag around on a bridge. 'Hey, once you've seen one bridge, you've seen 'em all, right?'

  It's a small bridge, over a roadway with four lanes separated by a narrow medium strip. While I'm walking over the bridge on the walkway, I casually look over the railing at the traffic. Odd. I stop to take a closer look. I'm looking at the southbound traffic. Over the span of three minutes or so, I see 15 to 20 vehicles pass under me. Mostly cars, with a few trucks and one bus. That wasn't so strange. What I thought odd, was that during this interval, there was no traffic in the northbound lanes — for miles.

  I shrug my shoulders and move on without looking at the traffic again. I get half-way across the northbound lane and I hear an 'ah-woo-gah' horn. I recognized the sound. I once had a 1930 Model A Ford coupe. Before I can look over the rail again, I hear a second, throatier one. To my amazement, I not only see two Model A's, but several cars and trucks from the '20s, '30s and '40s bopping along the northbound lane. I watch the traffic for a minute or two; then my peripheral vision catches sight of the southbound lane. I look directly at the traffic in the southbound lanes. There isn't any!! What the hell's going on here? I look again at the 'old-timers' lane. Cars traveling north. Still nothing in the 'modern' lane. No traffic for miles.

  I shake my head in disbelief, while keeping my eyes on the 'modern' lane as I'm running back to it. While I pass the center medium, I get a short light-headed feeling that passes as I get to the passing lane of the south traffic. The same thing happens. Modern vehicles in the south lanes, nothing in the north traffic. I wonder what I'll see if I stand directly over the medium strip?

  I run to the outer edge of the passing lane. I turn sideways and sidle across the medium. The more I get to the center, I see a dimmer view of the 'moderns' and a faint images of the 'old-timers'. All the time, the peripherals are growing darker. I get to the near center of the medium-strip. I am now in total darkness. I can't see anything! No roads. No cars. No sounds. I can't even speak to hear my own voice. Worse than that, I can't move my legs to get back to reality. This must have happened to others, too. This is what the mechanic meant when he said don't spend time on this bridge. I feel a cold clammy hand on my shoulder. I hear a voice, though I too petrified to turn. "You should've listened to the mechanic. I didn't listen either. You shouldn't have stopped to look at the traffic. Now, like me, you'll never get off this bridge."

  Slaughter on Elm Street

  Surveying the field, General Tommy thinks to himself, 'This won't take long'. The weapons sharpened, nice cool autumn day, everything in place. Let the attack begin! With every push of the war wagon, the clattering of metal causes hundreds and hundreds to get mowed down in one swoop. No resistance, no cries of mercy. Up and down the ranks, the same results. This is almost too easy. Such ease has seldom been seen on fields of battle. A complete annihilation in just over an hour.

  At the end, only one voice is heard: "Dad, I'm finished cutting the grass".

  The Bank Job

  Butch Casserole and the Sand Dunce Kid, along with their small gang, prepare to rob the bank in One Forks. Butch was a stickler for even the smallest detail. He considered every possible obstacle, then countered it with a foolproof replacement. Blocking the back exit, so no one could sneak out to alert the sheriff; at least two men for each teller window. Enough gunnysacks to carry all the money in. "Don't want anyone sticking money in their pockets or under their hats. "Folks get mighty suspicious seeing money in those places. Especially from people just leaving the bank."

  On Thursday morning, at 7:00 sharp, the gang took off for town. Butch was also meticulous about looks and demeanor. All shaved that morning and put on their cleanest dirty shirts. On the way to the bank, which Butch reckoned should take three hours and nine minutes to travel, no clowning around was tolerated by Butch. "Just concentrate on the job you're responsible for", he told them. "I've already taken care of all the minor details."

  They arrive in town at 9:51. Had a good tailwind. Each man casually got off his horse, and tied it to the hitching post. Then, just as casually, each man got ready to go to his assigned post. Butch, looking at them, nodded for those assigned outside duty to go to their post. Butch, followed by those to go inside the bank with him, started up the steps. He turned the door handle. It didn't open. He saw a sign on the door. "NUTS", he said. Sand Dunce wiggles his way to the front of the group and read the note aloud.

  "Closed today for our annual bank picnic. Reopen tomorrow at 9:00 am."

  "Sorry for any inconvenience to bank robbers."

  Fowl Play

  Three feathered friends are suspected of robin' Falcon's crest, near the Swanee River. Two of them were apprehended shortly thereafter. Martin Snipes was caught wren his pants fell down to his ankles. He was saved further embarrassment because he had his capon. Peli Dabchick, being out of shape, was runnin' and puffin'. Not being very swift, he was easy to nab.

  What a par-a-keets!

  At headquarters, the world-famous Chinese detective, Duck Ling and his assistant, Jay Peacock, got this information from the parrot them. They had their secretary bird take notes. To this day, they still crow about it.

  "We can make this very unpheasant for you two. If you don't want to get finched by an angry mob, you'd better squawk; and don't grouse about it."
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br />   "Auk, go fly a kite. We ain't cuckoo. We did it on a lark."

  "Gannet, Snipes. Toucan can play this game. Make it easier on yourselves — or we can make it ruff on you. We'll grab one of your wings and pullet. Eider Owl do it — or-i-ole! Tell us who the ringleader is, or you'll erne some more jail time"

  "I can't swallow that. Why don't you geese who he is. I was there just chicken' the place out. I can't tell you who he is, but Peli can."

  "Okay Pellie, it's your tern, you bustard, who is he?"

  "It's Al Batross. He's stork raven' mad."

  "Tell us moa."

  "He's a pigeon-toed marsh hen from outer space!"

  "Oh boy, can you tell some whoopers. Here's the confessions. You two can use this penguin you're ready to cygnet. Then both you turkeys are going to prison. Don't expect any treats though, like apple gobblers. You'll be there to poultries out of the ground for myna myna years."

  Death in Slo-mo

  In the spring of 1954, at the University of Callway, a prominent pain researcher, Doctor Ellis Carlton, is giving a speech on inflicting slow torture on lab animals to see how they react to the pain incurred. He anticipates his findings will help humans better able to endure the pain of slowly incurring debilitating pain, especially in terminal diseases

  Dr. Carlton's research is in calibrating the threshold