Guest Author William Fripp

Charlie Blevins knew the moment he boarded the plane that something was wrong.

It wasn’t anything readily identifiable, nothing like a weird noise or a vibration or even something about the other passengers, it was just a feeling, a premonition, if you will, and the little voice we all hear in the back of our heads that we more often than not ignore was screaming at Charlie to climb back down the little stairway and run. But, of course, he didn’t listen.

The props on the Piper Chieftain were already turning when Charlie boarded. He was the last passenger out of roughly a dozen on the little turboprop headed to Barrow, Alaska and so he got the seat all the way aft on the port side, pushing sideways down the narrow aisle, holding his black calf’s leather briefcase over the heads of the other passengers, fielding icy looks as he shuffled past, late as usual and holding up the whole affair. They had waited for Charlie for about fifteen minutes and everyone, including the pilots, was less than pleased. Screw them, he thought as he finally reached his seat. I paid just as much for my ticket as they did.

His seatmate was an older gentleman, at least in his early sixties, silver haired and sloppily dressed in an ill-fitting Sears and Roebuck business suit, the wrinkles in his shirt and sport coat augmenting the lines etched in his tired and drooping face. He smelled of Aqua-Velva and cigarettes and wheezed like an old hand organ with each labored breath. Charlie wondered if the old man would survive the three hours to Barrow. Or if I will for that matter. As he stowed his briefcase and settled into his seat on the aisle the old man shifted in his seat to accommodate him, breathing his Marlboro breath in Charlie’s face and smiling as they greeted one another, showing a set of yellow dentures which moved in his mouth as spoke. (more…)

Guest Author William Fripp

A chill October zephyr chased the fallen oak leaves of spring across the cemetery grounds and under the dangling feet of Steven Giles as he sat on the corner of a large tombstone that bore his family name, the marker of his family plot. The false dawn colored the landscape gray around the headstones beneath his feet as the vestiges of the fading night gave way to morning. There were generations of Giles’ here; there would be more still to come, but it was the most recent addition that brought Steven back here, once a year, to sit and wait for Melissa.

They had been apart for five years now, but every year on their anniversary they met at the big granite marker and every year the scars over the loss of their only child Sean were ripped open and bled fresh and every year Melissa swore she would not return, but Steven knew she would be there the next October. He knew the compulsion would be too overpowering. He knew because he felt it too, felt the longing for just one minutes worth of extra time with his son, one extra hour’s memory to recollect where he held Sean and told him how much he missed him. He knew Melissa would be there because she simply had to be there. She had no other choice.

Steven and Melissa had known each other all of their lives, from kindergarten through high school, where their romantic feelings had blossomed, then through college and into the world, marrying and settling in to a comfortable upper middle class American existence, Steven as a software analyst and engineer, Melissa as an assistant district attorney for Mecklenburg County. They lived in a modest three room house in a respectable Matthews, North Carolina neighborhood, they drove economically and environmentally conscious automobiles and when they had lived in Matthews three years, Steven put a pool and a deck in the backyard. Many a barbecue and Superbowl party had been held at the Giles residence since then and many more birthdays, Christmases, Thanksgivings and Fourths of July. The last gathering ever held there was Sean’s wake. That was 2006. (more…)

William Fripp

I believe the Ouija board wanted to be found. I know how that sounds, and before Patty’s death I would have thought it sounded crazy too, but now that I have seen with my own eyes, I am convinced it wanted, needed to be found.

It lay among Patty’s Aunt Tracy’s belongings, stored away in the attic of her home with the various boxes of baby clothes and pictures and keepsakes, the scattered remnants of a long life, dust covered and cob webbed. When Aunt Tracy passed, the house became Patty’s and it was an easy decision to pack up and move into it. The kids were grown and gone, so our empty nest was not that difficult to abandon. Aunt Tracy’s was paid for and the taxes were less than our yearly rent. Like I said, an easy decision.

So, six months to the day after we buried Aunt Tracy, we stuffed our worldly possessions into a U-haul truck and drove the four hours from Myrtle Beach to Charlotte and parked in front of 1333 Queens Road West. The house was over fifty years old and it reflected the style of the times; columns on the wide porch, three stories with an ample attic, a big back yard, four rooms and two and half baths. Compared to our two bedroom bungalow at the beach it was a mansion. Patty was overjoyed.

“God, Michael,” she breathed, “it’s beautiful.”

“You act like you’ve never seen it before,” I teased her. “Didn’t you use play here when you were a kid?”

“Only when we visited.”

“So you already knew it was beautiful.” (more…)