6 Fantasy Stories

by Robert T. Jeschonek

  “So let’s get this show on the road,” says Mr. Flood with a giant grin, and then he unzips the fly of his trousers.

  Howling like a wolf, he proceeds to pee off the observation deck at the top of the Incline.

  As soon as Mr. Flood pees, the rain really cuts loose. It’s been raining hard for at least an hour, but that was a trickle compared to the ocean that dumps down now.

  When he’s done peeing, Mr. Flood tucks himself back in and zips up, then whacks his cane hard against the railing. Immediately, a jagged bolt of lightning lashes down in the heart of the city.

  Thunder explodes overhead. As it echoes off the walls of the valley, every electric light in Johnstown except the headlights of the cars on the streets winks out at once.

  For a moment, the city is mostly silent and still and dark. Then, through the gushing of the rain, I hear a rising chorus of shouts and car horns. A lone fire siren wails, and then it’s joined by another and another. The flashing red and blue lights of fire engines and police cars strobe along the rows of darkened buildings.

  This is it, I realize, and my stomach does a somersault.

  History in the making.

  Mr. Flood whacks his cane on the railing again, and another blast of lightning leaps into the city. As thunder crashes louder than before, he swings the cane up and jabs its two-pronged tip at the sky.

  I swear, in the next triple-flash of lightning that sizzles down, the two snakes carved into the cane seem to squirm with a life of their own.

  The force of the rain intensifies. The Stonycreek River surges out of its bed, spilling over the sloped, cement flood-control banks that are no better controlling a flood tonight than they were in ’77.

  Whooping with joy, Mr. Flood begins to dance.

  In the middle of the observation deck, he kicks and gyrates like he’s twenty years old instead of ninety. He does the Charleston, the Lindy Hop, the Jitterbug, then shuffles a soft shoe and spins like a whirling dervish. He bobs and stomps like an Indian circling a campfire, shaking his cane like a ceremonial lance.

  He twirls the cane like a baton, tosses it in the air and catches it, bouncing the double-pronged tip off the cement. He does a Gene Kelly dance step and slings the cane over his shoulder like an umbrella, singing a song about singing in the rain.

  With each move he makes, the rain falls harder.

  “Rain, rain, don’t go away,” shouts Mr. Flood, doing what looks like a cross between the Hustle and a football player’s end zone strut. “Give us fifty feet today!”

  His magic is strong. I can’t believe how fast the flood is growing.

  In the valley below us, water rolls from the Stonycreek in wave after wave. Cars slam into each other and strike guardrails and buildings, drivers either blinded by the rain or panicked by the swiftly rising tide.

  People and sirens scream like shrieking fireworks. Geysers erupt from the sewers, belching up manhole covers that crash back down onto pavement or parked cars.

  And Mr. Flood keeps dancing like a wild man.

  Beaming blissfully, he shakes and twirls and jumps and flaps his arms. The rain comes down harder when he flutters his fingers, and the thunder booms when he stomps his feet.

  Looking over the railing, I see that the water is rising steadily down below. Already, the level near the river is higher than car tires, halfway up car doors. Pavement quickly disappears as the streets become canals.

  I hear the sound of distant glass shattering. A child screams and dogs yowl like it’s the end of the world. Lights flashing and sirens wailing, emergency vehicles hurtle down the expressway from the townships and boroughs in the surrounding hills.

  From somewhere far away, I swear I hear the crack of a gunshot.

  I feel a tap on my shoulder then, and I turn to see Mr. Flood bowing deeply, reaching out a hand.

  “Will you join me?” he says with a charming smile...too charming for someone about to give up his life.

  If I don’t help him, I wonder, will anything change? Will he live through the night? Or will he finish the flood without me and die anyway?

  It would be easy not to take that hand. It would be easy to refuse to help him kill himself.

  It would be easy if I hadn’t spent my whole life preparing for this night. If I didn’t feel compelled to make him happy.

  Especially if whether or not I cooperate doesn’t matter, and this is the last night I see him alive.

  So I take his hand.

  He tosses his cane over the railing and encircles my back with his arm. I follow his lead, looping one arm around him while he raises my other arm high, interlacing his fingers with mine.

  Only headlights and the flashing beacons of cop cars and emergency vehicles remain in the valley, but our dance floor on top of the hill is still lit by streetlamps. Windblown curtains of rain pelt down in the lamplight as Mr. Flood leads me in a waltz.

  Our feet splash in the water as we glide in a circle, stepping one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. Mr. Flood’s sky blue eyes lock with mine, and he laughs out loud and picks up the pace.

  Soon, we’re moving so fast that the waltz becomes a polka. Mr. Flood steps on my feet once or twice, but he’s light as a feather.

  I get dizzy from spinning around, and I try to slow down, but he won’t let me. I close my eyes for an instant as we keep turning, but it doesn’t help. I still feel light-headed.

  When I open my eyes, I realize that spinning around isn’t the only reason for my light-headedness. As I look down, I see that my feet no longer touch the wet deck.

  Mr. Flood and I are dancing on air.

  We’re floating three feet above the cement. There’s nothing under us but air and rain.

  I shoot Mr. Flood a look of surprise, and he just winks and keeps hauling me in circles like this is something he does every day. Then, he slows down the polka and tightens his grip on my hand.

  “Aphrodite,” he says, using my full name and raising his voice over the rushing of the rain. “I give you my power! Use it to continue my sacred work!”

  First, I feel a tickle in my fingers, like the start of pins and needles. Then, I feel a mild shock like static electricity buzzing into my palm.

  Then comes the real juice. A sudden, searing jolt burns its way up my arm and explodes in my chest like a firework and shoots out into every inch of my body.

  I feel like I’m on fire. My entire body quivers and hums like a power line.

  And it keeps coming.

  It’s too much for me. My vision whites out, and my heart jackhammers like I’ve just downed twenty espressos. Everything seizes up at once, and I can’t take a breath.

  Then, the current slows, and I start to come out of it. My muscles unclench, and the racing engine in my chest becomes a heart again. I choke down a breath, and my whited-out vision jitters back into color and form and light.

  It is only now that I realize we’re still waltzing, even though I’ve stopped moving my feet. Mr. Flood has been carrying me ever since the first shock of the power transfer crashed through me.

  I realize something else, too.

  I never knew it before, but until this moment, my senses of sight and hearing and smell and touch and taste have been blocked to the beauty of the rain. Though I’ve had more sense of rain than other people, and even some influence over it, I’ve been wrapped in layers of plastic and bound with chains compared to how I am now.

  I can see every shimmering pearl of rain as it falls. I can smell the difference between them, tell the exact altitude and part of the country where the source water evaporated to form the cloud that gave birth to each droplet.

  I can feel the size and shape of each drop as it hits my skin. I can taste the acid mixed in with the water and pinpoint the air pollutant that produced it.

  And I can hear the true song of the rain--not the staccato pattering of showers striking cement and wood and metal, but the vibration of droplets as they stretch and blow and collide, the secret shivering music like
millions upon millions of violin strings all playing different notes at once in one heavenly, keening chord.

  For the first time in my life, I can see and hear and smell and touch and taste. Everything around me is more amazing than I ever imagined.

  And this, I realize, is how Mr. Flood feels every day of his life.

  “This is it, Dee,” says Mr. Flood, the sound of his voice snapping my focus back to him. He smiles sadly, and I can tell that the rain running down his face is mixed with tears. I know exactly how many raindrops and exactly how many tears. “One big push. The two of us.”

  This is the moment he’s been getting me ready for all my life. The moment when he pours out the last of his power into me, and together we bring down the full force of the flood on Johnstown.

  The moment when I lose him.

  I know I’m supposed to go along with his plan like I always do. Take all the power and let him drop dead like he did his own predecessor. Watch as our flood drowns the city and feel all proud of myself for making history and saving a way of life.

  But what can I say? I guess he didn’t do such a good job raising me, because my priorities are all screwed up.

  Drowning hundreds of people just doesn’t do it for me. My heart just isn’t in it.

  And as for letting the person I care most about die, well...

  Forget it.

  Especially now that I’m surging with power and I know how to use it and I finally have a plan of my own.

  “Goodbye, Dee,” says Mr. Flood, and he pulls my hand in and kisses the knuckles. “Don’t let me down.”

  “I won’t,” I tell him, though I mean it in a different way than he does. “I promise.”

  “Then let’s show ‘em how it’s done!” he shouts, thrusting our joined hands high in the air.

  Mr. Flood shuts his eyes and knits his brows together in concentration. Electrical arcs spark from his shoulders and arms like tiny bolts of lightning.

  Our clasped hands glow blue-white in the rain, then disappear in a flare of light. At the ends of our arms, where our hands should be, all I see is a pulsing ball of energy like a dwarf star dropped down from the heavens.

  Once again, I feel the full current of power surging out of him, but this time, it doesn’t overwhelm me. My heart races, but I don’t convulse, and my vision doesn’t white out like before.

  This time, I sense the extent of the charge he contains. I know exactly how much he has left and how long it will take to deplete at the rate it’s draining into me. In other words, how long until he empties out and dies.

  We continue to turn slowly in the air above the deck. At the other end of the crackling circuit we’ve formed, I feel Mr. Flood reach out with his mind, coaxing me to focus my energies upward.

  I do as he wants, extending streams of power like glistening fingers toward the sky. All the while, I divide my attention between the heart of the storm and the level of life-sustaining charge still remaining in Mr. Flood’s body.

  Together, we massage the clouds like dough, wringing out more water. We reel in fresh clouds from afar and knead them into the thunderheads, heaping up mountains so heavy with rain that they burst at a touch.

  The rain blasts down like an emptying ocean. I hear the screams of sirens and people from below, the crash of waves, a distant explosion, but I can’t look down. The rain keeps growing stronger, just as Mr. Flood grows weaker and weaker still.

  When I feel that his reservoir of power has nearly gone dry, I take control.

  His eyes shoot open as he realizes what has happened. Desperately, he reaches through the link and tries to snatch back the reins, but it’s too late. I’m too strong for him now.

  I take a deep breath.

  As I draw the air into my lungs, I pull all the power back inside me. I press it into a ball and hold it there, burning and buzzing and straining against my chest.

  I count to three.

  Then, I blow out my breath and let loose the power, flinging out a billion sparks in all directions.

  Mr. Flood makes a hopeless grab for them with the flicker of strength he has left, but it’s not enough. The sparks race everywhere like hypercharged fireflies, leaving glittering trails that hang in the air.

  And every single one of those sparks carries a piece of me. I send them whizzing through the rain, chasing off the hillside and out over the valley. They divide again and again as they go, endlessly multiplying, spraying out twinkling constellations under the stormclouds.

  Then, when the sky over Johnstown is full of tiny, dancing stars, I pour my power out through them. I do something I saw Mr. Flood do earlier tonight, something amazing.

  But I do it on a much bigger scale.

  All at once, every falling drop of rain freezes in mid-flight.

  The hammering of water on pavement and metal and water suddenly stops. The droplets hang like billions of crystal beads, winking in the strobing red-and-blue light from the cop cars and fire trucks and ambulances. It’s just like before, when Mr. Flood froze the rain around us at Morley’s Dog...only I’ve stopped a major storm over an entire city.

  And I’m not done yet.

  I wait for a handful of heartbeats, touching every single suspended drop with my mind. Turning them.

  And then I let them fall again.

  Upward. I let them fall upward.

  With a roar, every hanging drop of rain pours straight up. Then, every drop that’s already hit the ground rushes upward, too.

  The flooded streets and parks and rooftops empty into the sky. Geysers gush up from the windows and doorways of waterlogged buildings. Point Stadium dumps up its watery load like an overturned bowl.

  Every drop that has fallen ascends. What came down must go up.

  I laugh out loud as it happens. I almost can’t believe what I’ve done. It’s like a miracle.

  And speaking of miracles, I don’t have to pee anymore...even though I never did go to the bathroom.

  Here’s history in the making. Here’s something people will read about and talk about for hundreds of years.

  A backward flood. An upside-down flood.

  A flood of the sky.

  Now this is something that will save a way of life. People will want to preserve and study this place, try to figure out what happened without disrupting whatever delicate balance enabled this miracle to occur.

  This will save Johnstown. I didn’t have to destroy the city and drown hundreds or thousands of people to do it, either.

  And I saved someone else, too.

  Mr. Flood looks at me, and the tears in his eyes this time are tears of betrayal and confusion and disappointment.

  But he’ll live. I left him more than enough strength to survive, whether he likes it or not.

  He might not be happy now, but sooner or later, he’ll come around to my way of thinking. It only makes sense, right? I mean, why destroy the city every forty years or so when there’s a better way?

  Here’s what I’m thinking:

  This might be the first flood of its kind in history.

  But it won’t be the last.

  *****

  The Genie's Secret

  By

  Robert T. Jeschonek

  You'd think genies might get a wish to themselves now and then...but from the pain in Magda's eyes when she opens the mansion's door, I can see she's getting zero wish fulfillment out of life.

  "Yes?" Her eyes are beautiful, an unearthly bright greenish gold--but the look in them is one of pure misery.

  "Good morning, ma'am." I flash her my badge, and she winces. "Oliver Singel, state Department of Mystic Revenue. I'm here to see Mr. Rudolph Gunza."

  She ushers me in without hesitation. She doesn't fear me at all; as a genie, she need only fear one man in all the world.

  That man is her master, Rudy Gunza.

  As she closes the heavy door behind me, I gaze around at the opulent entryway. Everything is glittering gold and crimson velvet and gleaming marble, from the winding staircas
e to the fountain in the middle of the giant room.

  Ill-gotten gains, all of it. Whipped up on a whim and a wish by the magical beauty standing in front of me.

  She tosses her head, and the lush, black curls flop about her shoulders. She straightens the dark blue satin bodice of her outfit, smooths the silk harem pants below her taut bare midriff.

  Even with the beaten look in her eyes, even with her mouth and chin covered by a pale blue veil, she looks breathtaking. She looks more perfect and radiant than any woman alive, as beautiful as any fantasy sculpted by a man's imagination.

  Then again, she has to, doesn't she?

  "What business do you have with Master Gunza?" There's a hint of a glint in her eye as she says it--a flicker of power. She might not be able to exercise it against her master, but that doesn't mean she can't use it against someone else, like me.

  "Serious business," I tell her. "Tax business."

  "Oh-ho!" Gunza's jolly voice booms from the top of the staircase. "And here I thought this was purely a friendly visit!"

  A weak smile doesn't quite make it onto my face. "Hello, Rudy."

  Gunza wobbles down the stairs, looking like a tubby sheikh. His glittering red robes can't hide the stupendous gut wagging in front of him.

  When he and I were partners, he never had a gut at all.

  "Long time no miss!" says Gunza as he drops from the last marble stair to the floor. "How's the old gang of idiots?"

  "Better than ever, now that you're gone," I tell him.

  Gunza throws an arm around Magda's shoulders and squeezes her tight. "Oleo and I used to work together! Isn't that something, Magda? We was revenooers together."

  Magda's head bobbles as he jerks her around. Her flat stare drifts past me like litter on a breeze.

  "Went after tax evaders, didn't we?" says Gunza. "Folks who didn't pay the state a piece of the action from wishes granted and spells cast."