Greetings to everyone!
I missed you all! I hope Life treats you well!
I know I had promised a new story sooner - and I didn't deliver- but I can't start posting a story I haven't already finished - a vow to my disappointed self after all the unfinished stories I've read. Too much frustration...
Now, I'm posting this short story I had written for a TWS anthology years and years ago. The theme was Erik's Birthday and many writers - better than me - shared their versions of celebrating Erik's birthday. After all, it was the Phantom's 100th celebration! (Is Erik getting old? A rhetorical question, I guess.)
This is a modern-day fic and I have to warn you: we had a word limit. :-(
If anyone has read my other story, "The Chain Unbroken", already knows I have a problem with word limits and other limitations in general. Things are more... mentioned than actually happening in this story, but I'm sure you can fill in the blanks.
Since this author's note tends to get wordier than the story itself, I'll shut my mouth…for now.
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The spider and the butterfly
Christine wrapped her present in brown, recycled paper, a wicked smile forming on her face. None of her friends would welcome a graphic novel about spiders. Well, Mr. Stevens would appreciate it!
"Such misunderstood creatures! So much hard work and artistry disgraced for the silliest reason: they follow their instinct!"
Christine would always remember his light chuckle under the low, deep voice filling her room through her laptop. Being her support tutor in her "distance learning" program, Mr. Stevens had been more than a friend.
When Christine had broken her leg and wrist in a hit-and-run accident, facing the danger of losing the already paid courses' fee, it was Mr. Stevens who suggested a computer program converting dictation into written text to complete her courses without losing the period. And when she didn't provide any feedback—how on earth
would a now unemployed hairdresser, paid by the hour, spend so much money on a stupid program?—a brown, recycled paper envelope, containing the precious CD miraculously appeared at her door.
Mr. Stevens had categorically denied any involvement—"perhaps one of your friends in your time of need?"—but couldn't deny her via Skype communication since typing was impossible.
The experience of hearing his voice for the first time could only be compared with walking into a room with freshly cut coffee beans: excitement and aroused desire for what comes next.
During these always polite, always formal conversations, Christine had discovered Mr. Stevens' fixation with spiders, graphic novels and music, while she revealed her incurable habit of reading recipes she was absolutely incapable of performing, watching cheap melodramas, and her guilty pleasure named "shortbread biscuits."
The email communication they went back to when she was healed revealed a whole new-settled fixation. The cure to this new addiction was found only after discovering Mr. Stevens was an old man probably doing this work for the added income to his retirement pension.
"Young man, take this advice from someone who could be your father" he had reprimanded Raoul, a Portuguese fellow student. Along with this, Raoul had also forwarded a photo of the university's Senate. Mr. Stevens was a member of a group where no man could remotely be called "gracefully aged." It was devastating! All the times of being called "young lady," or "little one" she kept recalling of their conversations now sounded ludicrous. Christine felt like a pervert. The man she had gathered information for from all her group members, the man she was calling Erik in her dreams did not even exist!
Christine smiled sadly at the formerly kept-as-a-treasure package—with his address on it!—the one he'd sent, lending her the expensive, out-of-stock novel Mrs. Giry had instructed for an essay—on her bed. His note "Can't let old crones prevail. It'd be un-Christian!" still made her laugh. After months of self-degrading thoughts, Christine was now ready for her new life. She had finished her courses, and the man responsible for her accident had astonishingly surrendered himself, confessing his crime—his ridiculous claim a vigilante had haunted him was his smart lawyer's advise, no doubt.
With the borrowed book packed along with her present, Christine had decided to pay an unexpected visit to her tutor, who lived surprisingly close to her part of the city. Closing her door, she stole a glance at the calendar on the wall. The blood red ink marked the date months ago—when dreams were still alive— "Erik's B-day."
II
"Try the back door! He never hears the bell." Mr. Stevens' neighbor advised Christine, rearranging her groceries in her shopping bag. Christine smiled her gratitude at the old lady, and walked to the garden, wondering whether she'd share her shortbread cookies with the bald man wearing a bow tie or the shorter one in the photo.
"I'd like to talk to Mr. Erik Stevens!" She stretched over the tall fence, and shouted with all the force her lungs allowed her at the back of the gangly man weeding the garden. She rapidly averted her eyes from his face when he turned to look at her, removing tiny earphones from his ears. Christine was raised not to stare, but she had to concentrate hard to repeat her request in a neutral voice, her eyes locked on the man's throat instead of his deformed face.
The man peeled off his gloves, revealing unbelievably long, bony fingers, and without a word, walked to the half-open kitchen door.
"I've brought something for him," Christine explained, following him, feeling the wet grass under her shoes. "A present for his birthday…I am one of his students, and Mr. Stevens has been very helpful—" She was rambling!
Christine forced herself to smile, her heartbeat rising, not knowing what was making her more nervous: the man's face and unearthly figure or his silence. He kept looking at her from inside the house, his stare on her intense, unwavering, almost challenging. With a knot in her stomach, she stepped onto the dark floor tiles.
"I think this is for me." The beautiful voice from her laptop reached her ears in all its glory as Christine gaped. "Not what you expected?" The faintest smile was curling his lips.
"No…I mean…I thought you were older." She thanked everything holy for being able to speak after the multiple surprises.
"Is it still for me?"
Her eyes locked on his inhumanly long fingers and his outstretched open palm, waiting.
III
Erik was not a gambler. If he was one, he would thank his good fortune for his beautiful guest, but this wasn't a matter of luck. A man should make his own fortune.
He poured a fresh cup of coffee for his unexpected visitor. It had taken more than an hour for the lines of stress to leave Christine's face. Now she was searching his library with a genuine smile lingering on her face.
"You don't have that graphic novel I brought you!" Her enthusiasm alone was a source of warmness.
"No, what is it about? Have you read it?"
"I was curious…well…two spiders of different families and with different traits compete for the love of a butterfly."
He was counting on Christine's curiosity. It wasn't like his neighbor's nosy inquisitiveness. It was pure desire to know, a raw thirst to learn!
"Isn't that an unfitting match?" He placed the cup on the table.
"I guess love is beyond rules."
He narrowed his eyes. Did she believe that?
"Even self-preservation?" She shrugged her shoulders, avoiding his stare. Was she blushing?
"What happens at the end?
"Do you want to know the end?" The elegant line of her neck trapped his glance as she tilted her head to look him in the eyes, questioning him.
"I wouldn't ask otherwise."
"The trapdoor spider and its silken web won."
Oh, no. It wasn't the silk web that won the butterfly. It was the patience and the hard work. The careful planning.
"According to the Vedic philosophy, the universe is created by God the way the spider web comes out of the spider. Spider creates the web while living within its borders…" He looked at her violet eyes, dazzled. Maybe the silken web worked both ways, after all. "Excuse me…the course is over—" he apologized for the lecture.
"Isn't that what every person does? Creates a world, or a personal notion of the world, a private universe and lives within?" She paused for a while. "Funny that Raoul and I had been so mistaken about your age." She glanced at him over the rim of her cup. It was interesting to have her in his living room looking at him. She was a smart girl.
Erik wondered how long it would take for her to put together all the pieces of the puzzle. Raoul had been an easy target. If Erik wanted, he could have persuaded him he was an alien collecting specimens and Raoul would run to Christine with his news. It was so easy to manipulate his narrow mind.
"Would you have come if you hadn't this mistaken idea of the old tutor?" If pity and sympathy were not her motives… if safety was not insured… if she knew he was younger but deformed and slightly….
Erik shook his head, sending the thoughts away. So many ifs. So many different parameters and equations… Sometimes, a man has to take charge of his own fate. After all, "love is beyond rules." She had claimed that!
Sometimes, he has to take care of all the parameters and concentrate on the only one unknown factor. Erik stared at her face. She was blushing again.
Sometimes, a man has to claim the birthday present he really wants even if he has to invent the birthday date that suits him.
Erik opened the graphic novel. A black and white illustration greeted him. He turned the page. Only the butterfly was colorful. A shade of purple turning to orange and red.
"Thank you, Christine."
Thank you for giving me a chance.
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update: 20-9-2017
That was it... What do you think of it? Leave a word to let me know!
How are you all? I wish I could read your news. I wish I could tell you mine but I'd bore you to tears.
The short version is that I have co-written (with Chapucera) an original story (it's called The Falconer and you can find it on Amazon) and I'm now writing another one. I'll start posting it here in a few days.
Until then "Parting is such sweet sorrow..." ;-)
Ink