by S. L. Menear
Terror gripped me as blackness closed in. Strong hands grasped the front of my suit and yanked me up, saving me from a disastrous fall. The men hauled me to the platform and opened my faceplate. When my world came into focus, I couldn’t wait to get that damn helmet off.
I discovered later the only reason they had allowed an untrained person like me to do the hard-hat dive was because I was an airline pilot. I’ve no clue why that should’ve made a difference unless it was because pilots tend not to panic. In any case, I’ll never forget that dive, and I’ll always be grateful for strong men.
Note to self: Remind relatives and friends to keep their big mouths shut about my pilot career.
Dottie and Sharon
We hope you enjoyed our silent adventures, including Sharon’s silent screams, and that we proved silent activities can be filled with thrilling moments.
When Time Stood Still
D.M. Littlefield
Wilbur, an old dilapidated Wichita truck, had been abandoned on the prairie hill for many years. With each passing year, the morning dew penetrated deeper into his rusty green body, but at least the hot Texas sun warmed his aching steel frame. Wilbur gazed down at the highway, exhaled a lonely sigh, and blinked his headlights, recalling the glory days of the East Texas oil boom that had started in 1930. If only he could go back to that time and remain there forever.
Of all the buildings on Kilgore’s main street, the gas station and oil-well-supply store were the most vivid in his memory. During the Great Depression, the discovery of rich oil deposits transformed tiny Kilgore into a bustling boomtown. Twenty-four oil wells inside one city block yielded the richest acre of oil in the world.
Production of new wells increased from seven wells every two weeks to seven wells a day, then to one hundred wells a day and more. Regular gasoline was sixteen cents a gallon, and ethyl was eighteen cents. People looking for work flocked to Kilgore from all over the country. The streets were crowded with horse- or mule-drawn wagons and cars and trucks made in the 1920s and early 1930s.
Kilgore was where Wilbur met Lily, his long-lost love. Wilbur remembered that wonderful day like it was yesterday. He was in front of the oil-well-supply store when she parked near him—the prettiest white pickup truck he’d ever seen. He almost blew a gasket, trying to build up his courage to speak to her. Then a shiny black Ford sedan parked between them. The sedan’s motor idled softly as his headlights roamed over Lily’s lovely steel body.
“Hey, oil patch bumpkin, pay attention,” the sedan whispered to Wilbur. “I’ll show you how a slick city sedan makes out.” He honked his horn at Lily and said, “Honey, they call me Handsome Harry. I’m the slickest, fastest sedan in East Texas. Why don’t we take a little drive up through the hills and find a nice secluded place to park?”
Wilbur was so steamed over Harry’s crude proposition to Lily that he had to hold onto his radiator cap to keep it from blowing off. Lily wasn’t one of those Tin Lizzies that Harry usually parked close to ... the hussies that parked in front of the saloons at all hours of the night.
Lily’s cold glare should have deflated Harry’s tires, but his ego was as big as an oil derrick. He assumed she was just being coy. When her driver returned from the store, she backed into the busy dirt street, muddy from a long stretch of rain. Lily cautiously accelerated around a mule-drawn wagon stuck in a big mud puddle. Beside the wagon, she sank into thick mud up to her lovely hubcaps.
Handsome Harry’s driver jumped in and drove him up behind Lily. “Don’t worry, honey,” Harry said. “I’ll have you out in a jiffy.” Harry eagerly pressed his bumper against hers and tried to push her out. Lily shook with indignation as Harry raced his engine and pushed harder. Soon, he was stuck deeper in the mud than Lily.
When Wilbur’s driver returned, he took charge of the situation and backed up Wilbur behind the embarrassed sedan. He hooked a tow chain to his bumper, and Wilbur easily pulled Harry out of the mud to the top of the hill. After the tow chain was unhooked, the humiliated sedan drove off in a huffy puff of exhaust smoke.
Wilbur snickered. An oil field bumpkin like him may not be handsome, but he knew how to handle a sticky situation. He hurried back to help Lily. His driver nosed him up to her front bumper and attached the tow chain. When their headlights met, Wilbur felt a massive jolt of electricity, like a jump start from a lightning bolt. He quivered with excitement as he gently pulled her to firm ground.
Lily demurely dimmed and blinked her headlights at Wilbur. “You’re the most powerful truck I’ve ever seen. Thanks for rescuing me. I hope we meet again.” She reluctantly drove away.
Lily obviously liked him, even though he wasn’t a handsome sedan like Harry. He was built in 1926 to do heavy oil field work. No fancy frills, just a powerful motor, a winch, and a strong bed that could carry three tons.
Lily’s compliment elated Wilbur. As he watched her drive away, he sighed with happiness. Her molded steel curved in all the right places, and her headlights—wow! When she gazed at him with her demure little blink, she fogged up his windshield and almost melted his transmission.
The next day, Wilbur was thrilled to see Lily parked at his driver’s drill site. Nervous, his motor sputtered when he drove up beside her. “I was hoping I’d see you again, Lily. This is where I work.”
“Wilbur, it’s wonderful to see you again too. My driver is the new supervisor, so I’ll be here with you every day.”
Each day, Wilbur parked next to Lily. Soon they were roof over wheels in love. Deep down in their motors they knew they had found true love. Their happy days seemed to fly by until the work on the drill site was finished.
“I heard my driver say we’re going to another drill site far away. We might never see each other again! Good-bye, Wilbur. I’ll always love you and be true to you. I hope and pray we’ll be together again someday.” Tears glistened on her headlights.
Wilbur choked out the words, “I’ll always love you, Lily, and I’ll never stop looking for you.” He felt like his engine block would crack from sorrow. He watched her drive away until tears blurred his headlights.
Wilbur never saw Lily again, except in his memories. Those happy reflections were the only things that made the long, lonely years bearable.
A mockingbird perched on Wilbur’s rusty winch and chirped a sweet song, interrupting his reverie. Wilbur sighed and listened to the bird, which had weaved its nest into his caved-in roof. His torn, ragged seat harbored a family of field mice. Wildflowers poked their pretty heads through the spokes of his rusty wheels as he watched vehicles speed by on the highway below.
Over the years, Wilbur had witnessed the dirt lane below become a gravel road, then a paved two-lane road, and finally a four-lane highway. Years of accumulated prairie dust on his headlights had dimmed his vision, but he diligently looked for Lily every day. He marveled at the speed of modern vehicles. Wilbur’s maximum speed had been 18 mph when he was in top condition.
He was surprised to see a shiny red Chevy pickup drive quietly up the hill and park in front of him. Two men circled Wilbur, inspecting him. They decided to ask his owner if they could haul him away. He watched them walk down the hill toward his owner’s house.
“What do those men intend to do with me?” Wilbur asked the new truck.
The arrogant truck looked disdainfully down his shiny chrome grill at Wilbur and sneered. “I’ve never seen a truck as old as you, all rusted and falling apart. You can’t be good for anything. They’ll probably dump you in a junkyard with derelicts. Why they’d even bother to haul you away is beyond me, unless it’s because you’re such an eyesore.”
Humiliated, Wilbur was too hurt to respond. This truck was young now, but time would catch up to him sooner than he thought. One day, he’d be old and unwanted too.
The men returned and drove the young truck away. Wilbur sadly searched the traffic, perhaps his last chance to find Lily. He dreaded what tomorrow might bring.
The next day, the men loaded Wilbur onto a flatbed
truck and hauled him away. He squinted through his dirty headlights, surprised at how much the towns had grown. Finally, his long journey ended, and he was unloaded. He glanced around for other derelicts, but the warehouse was empty.
Alone again.
On Saturday morning, a group of men entered with all sorts of tools. An old Ford Model A drove in. Wow, it looked good for its age! A sign on its door was a clue: East Texas Vintage Auto Club. Its driver walked over to inspect Wilbur.
“Old-timer, they don’t make ’em like you anymore, but we’ll do our best to restore you,” he said, patting Wilbur’s hood.
The men sanded and scraped Wilbur all day. It felt wonderful, like a deep massage. They returned the next day and every weekend for months. He thrived on their company and attention.
Finally, Wilbur’s restoration was complete.
He no longer hunched over from his caved-in roof. Now, he proudly stood tall with a new roof, new seat, new glass, and repairs too numerous to list. His coat of shiny green paint made him look young again. He felt grateful these men cared about him. And the best part? For the first time in fifty years, he could see clearly. His headlights shined with happiness. I wish Lily could see me like this.
The men were admiring Wilbur and taking lots of photos when they heard a horn. They walked outside to investigate. Moments later, they pushed a pretty pickup into the warehouse and parked it in front of Wilbur.
Wilbur blinked his sparkly headlights in astonishment. Could his headlights be deceiving him? Was it really Lily? His long-lost love was right in front of him—just as young and pretty as ever! She had a happy gleam in her headlights and a flawless coat of white paint.
A man snapped photos of them together. “If these two could talk, they’d have some mighty interesting stories to tell.”
The other men agreed as they gathered their tools and departed.
The happy old couple chatted all through the night, recalling the good old days and catching up on the many years they’d been apart. They were thrilled to be together again and wondered why they’d been restored.
The next morning, Lily was loaded onto a trailer while Wilbur watched, resigned to whatever fate had in store. Then he was loaded onto a flatbed truck that followed Lily’s trailer. Wilbur strained his headlights to keep Lily in sight as they drove through town. They parked next to a large building with a big oil derrick in front. Lily was unloaded and pushed inside the building while Wilbur waited apprehensively.
Soon, the men pushed Wilbur inside too. Wilbur couldn’t believe his headlights. He found himself back during the oil boom. Did this building have magical powers? He was on the main street in Kilgore with all the old familiar buildings, just as he remembered. The movie The Great East Texas Oil Boom was still on the theater’s marquee. Even Handsome Harry was there, handsome as ever, but stuck in the mud again. The mule-drawn wagon was mired in the muddy street too, just like long ago.
Wilbur’s headlights beamed with happiness when he saw Lily. She was up to her lovely hubcaps in mud, like she’d been when they met so many years ago. As Lily’s motor hummed like a contented purring cat, Wilbur knew they would always be together now. His wish to return to this special time had been granted.
The kind people who’d made his wish come true had his and Lily’s motor-felt thanks forever. In the East Texas Oil Museum in Kilgore, time will always stand still for Wilbur and Lily.
Author’s Note
“When Time Stood Still” is based on the Main Street display inside the East Texas Oil Museum that depicts antique vehicles stuck in the mud during the Great East Texas Oil Boom. The museum is located in Kilgore, Texas, where I used to live.
Deadly Rejections
S.L. Menear
Sir Clive Pierpont adjusted his gold cuff links emblazoned with the family crest and pressed the elevator button for the hotel’s tenth floor. The doors were closing when a hand with blood-red fingernails gripped one of them. A middle-aged woman built like a fireplug barged in.
Clive focused on her frizzy brown hair and black polyester pantsuit, shiny from wear. Typical, frumpy American. Hideous hair. Hope she doesn’t try to converse. Why is she staring?
She moved closer. “I saw your picture in the brochure for the Mystery Writers’ Conference. You’re that literary agent, Clive Pierpont, aren’t you?”
“It’s Sir Pierpont to you.”
“This is America.” She thrust her hands on her hips. “We don’t use titles here.”
“Americans aren’t worthy of titles.” Clive lifted his chin and adjusted his silk tie.
She glared at him. “You’re just as snotty in person as you are in your letters.”
Clive raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon. Do I know you?”
“Frieda Frobisher. You rejected my brilliant cozy—called it a 186,000-word monstrosity best suited for burning.”
“Frobisher ... ah, yes, you could’ve fit three cozies in that word count. Worst writing I’ve ever read—used it as fire starter in my fireplace—lasted six months. You haven’t a clue how to write properly.”
“Shows how much you know. Friends and relatives said my novel, The Butler Didn’t Do It, was the best murder mystery they’d ever read.”
“Oh, really?” Clive sneered. “How many of them are literary agents?”
“None, but they’re avid mystery readers.”
Clive stepped out of the elevator at his floor and turned to face her. “I shall mimic your detestable writing as I slowly and stealthily creep down the ominously dark hallway to my luxuriously appointed, highly-priced suite.” He shouted through the closing doors, “Don’t quit your day job!”
Later that night, Clive was startled awake when someone injected something into his silk pajama clad backside. He blacked out before he could roll over.
“If the Devil wears Prada, her evil twin, literary agent Priscilla Penthouser, wears Chanel.” Prissy Penthouser deleted the disparaging quote a rejected author had posted on her Facebook page and checked the time on her iPhone. She tapped her Montblanc pen on the table and turned to the coordinator for the agents’ panel. “Where’s Clive? Our panel starts in five minutes.”
The harried woman glanced around the crowded room. “I called. No answer on his room phone or cell. I’ll ask someone to check the men’s room.”
“Good, I’ll have time to powder my nose.” Prissy adjusted her Chanel suit and strode into the restroom, her Manolo spiked heels clacking on the tile floor. She applied fresh red lipstick and smoothed her short, salon-styled black hair. While gazing into the mirror, she noticed a thin, gray-haired woman exit the stall behind her.
The woman squinted at Prissy. “You’re Priscilla Penthouser, the literary agent.” She held out her wrinkled, liver-spotted hand. “I’m Lily Whimple, and I’d like you to represent me. My cozy is sure to be a best seller.”
Stepping back, Prissy recoiled as though Lily’s hand was infected with leprosy. “We may not be a good fit.” She turned up her nose at her cheap pantsuit and worn sneakers. “I only represent high-end clientele.”
“My cozy is very high end. You’d love it.” She moved to block the door.
Prissy blew out a sigh. “Give me a brief description.”
“My novel, Dead Divas Don’t Sing, is a 197,000-word, twisty-turny, suspenseful, murder mystery.”
“I thought you said it was a cozy.”
“That’s right, it’s my first novel. You should pitch it to Hollywood. They’ll want to make it into a movie. We’ll be rich. What do you say?”
“Forget writing. Try basket weaving.” Prissy pushed past her and strutted out.
When Prissy entered the meeting room, an anxious conference volunteer pulled her aside.
“Top secret: Clive was murdered in his room last night,” she whispered. “Don’t tell. We don’t want to upset anyone.”
Prissy’s jaw dropped. “What happened?”
“Someone sedated him, connected a portable printer to his laptop, printed out s
everal rejection letters he’d written, wadded them up, and stuffed them down his throat. He suffocated.”
“Oh, that’s awful!” Prissy smoothed her skirt and glanced at the wall clock. “We should begin the panel, don’t you think?”
The volunteer looked across the crowded room and sighed. “Yes, as they say, the show must go on.”
After listening to droning amateurs in afternoon pitch sessions, Prissy ordered a bottle of Montrachet chardonnay at the conference cocktail party. Distracted by conversation, she felt a sharp prick when someone bumped into her back. She assumed it was just a protruding ring on the person’s hand and didn’t bother to turn around.
It wasn’t long before she felt drowsy and excused herself. Back in her room, she kicked off her shoes while sitting in a chair facing the door and leaned her head against the wingback. Comfortable, she closed her eyes and dozed off.
She woke when she felt a sharp object pierce her neck, severing her left carotid artery. Without thinking, she yanked the Montblanc pen from her neck. As blood spurted from her wound, she spotted her executioner standing in the shadows with a small crossbow.
Veronica Vixenne greeted her fellow agents at the power table for the Mystery Writers’ Banquet. Two seats were empty. A rotund middle-aged man in a too-tight suit sat in the open seat beside her and dabbed his sweaty forehead with a linen napkin.
“Veronica, I enjoyed my pitch session with you earlier today. You’re my first choice to represent my 168,000-word international thriller, Tubing Down the Ganges. You remember me, Rupert Finch, from this afternoon?” he asked.
