The Works of Nick Hayden

dimitrisvetsikas1969 / Pixabay

The colors rose into the sky, red and yellow and green, up and up, where they fluttered like the petals of flowers in a field of blue and white. The wind tugged at the fabric of the kite and snapped its tail in wild gyrations. The kite, in turn, pulled at its leash, struggled to ascend into still deeper sky, straining against its anchor.

Wendy laughed as the wind tried once again to snatch the kite from her grip. She stared up at it, her flag in the sky, squinting against the sun. Her hair tickled her face and blinded her in sudden gusts. Her shirt, patterned in bright Van Gogh swirls, billowed in front of her, the wind pulling her and pushing her and lifting her off her feet as the grass thrashed and moaned beneath her. She squealed, the kite jerking her forward, the wind pressing mischievously against her back.

“I’m going to fly, Daddy! I’m going to go spinning into the air!”

Her father peered at his phone, trying to read the unexpected text message through the glare.

Like a startled fish, the kite darted left. Wendy ran with it, screaming joyously. It tried to drop, to descend like a comet, but she planted her feet and forced herself back two steps, her face screwed with concentration. The wind died, then, and it released its grip, the whole world falling silent. Wendy turned and ran, ran to keep the kite aloft, ran to add her own little motion until the world began again to spin with wild abandon.

She felt the line tighten. The wind had her kite in its teeth. She watched it climb. Her movement had taken her closer to the other kites. White clouds like grand ships skimmed the pale blue, and they wore the colors and symbols of dozens of fanciful nations. Wendy leaned her head back until the sky enveloped her. She felt herself falling into that wide, clear, rainbow land where the wind blew and you flew where it led, free and happy and sure, because it knew where it blew and from whence it came — and it kissed the sun and swept the floor of heaven.

“Daddy!” she cried, not even caring where her own kite was, or where she was, just that she swam in a sea of motion and light. “Daddy!”

He came to her, groaning as he rose from the grass, preoccupied with the message and the mud on his shoes. She spared a glance to see that he was coming, a dim figure in the writhing grass.

“What is it, Wendy?” he asked wearily.

“Look,” she said, sinking again into heaven. The line struggled to free itself from her grip, but she tightened her hold and released one hand so she could find her Dad’s. “Look! Fly with me, Daddy. Don’t you want to fly?”

He looked at her, grinning and beautiful, as she gazed into the sky. Slowly, he wrapped his large hand around hers and squeezed. “Take me with you, Wendy.”

This story was originally published in the 4County Mall.

Life-Of-Pix / Pixabay

Ashlyn forced a smile and glanced at the clock. Her current customer had wandered in, dirty, ordered a coffee, and proceeded to relate his life story–for the last forty-five minutes. So when the bell tied to the glass door rang, Ashlyn welcomed the distraction. It was one of her regulars, Pastor Wendell. “Your normal?”

“That’ll work.” He sat on the stool, removed a little, as was his way.

She excused herself from the talkative stranger and began working on the pastor’s drink.  “I saw you yesterday on my way here.”

“Did you?”

“You were in that alley by the movie theater, just standing there, looking at the wall.”

He smiled slightly. “Just a little preoccupied, that’s all.”

She handed him his latte. He paid and left her alone with the stranger, who rambled on.

When Ashlyn walked past the alley on the way to work a few days later, she saw Pastor Wendell again. He stood near the brick wall, head bowed. He seemed to be praying, and he trembled slightly. She’d heard enough strange stories in her time as a barista to wonder if Pastor Wendell might not be a little off. It seemed most people were, nowadays. Or maybe she just attracted the crazies.

She was curious, though, so on the way home Ashlyn stepped into the alley. It was just a short, brick-walled passage, but it felt dark and grungy, as if it belonged in a big city and not on Main Street, USA. There were the usual symbols and embellished signatures in bold spray paint. Moving to where she had seen Pastor Wendell, she found two words, red and rough, splashed without the artistry of the other graffiti.

The words gave her pause, and she reentered the early spring evening, pensive.

The third time she saw Pastor Wendell standing in the alley, she almost went up to him. Pastor Wendell’s lips moved, and he stood transfixed, eyes closed. She went occasionally to church; the stuffy sanctuary made her feel as if she were sitting in a funeral parlor. This was different. This, she thought, was the quiet holiness of a man on his knees in a dark room. She backed out of the alley and continued on.

She considered asking him about it when he came into the coffee shop a half-hour later, but she wasn’t sure she wanted an answer. She listened to enough bizarre, long-winded stories as it was.

Still, the question remained. What drew the Pastor to this alley, as if he were a Jew sticking prayers in the cracks of the Wailing Wall?

When the pastor turned into the alley cautiously, almost reluctantly, the next day, he did not see her in the early morning shadows. When he did, he just looked at her, startled.

“Of course you’ve seen me,” he muttered.

“Who wrote it? Did you?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know who did it.”

She looked around furtively. “I wasn’t going to ask, but I can’t get it out of my head.”

He laughed. “Neither can I.”

“Are you all right? I mean, why do you come here? You can pray in your church, can’t you?”

“Church is too safe,” he said quietly. He looked at her. “Do you know what I mean when I say the Fall of Man?”

“Adam and Eve ate an apple or something.”

“The world was perfect. Imagine a picture in glass, a beautiful, indescribable scene. Imagine it shattering. That’s the Fall. We pick up this piece. It cuts our hand. We step here, it cuts our foot. The more we try to put it back together, the bloodier we get.”

He looked at the words on the wall. “I don’t know who wrote them. Anyone could have. That’s the point. The cross is not just to save people from hell. It’s deeper than that.”

He stepped forward and ran his hands along the words in red–I suffer.

“‘By his wounds, we are healed.’ If I can suffer with him, if only here, if only by praying for all the hurt I’ve seen, I can play a part in that healing. Does that make sense?”

When Ashlyn opened the coffee shop fifteen minutes later, the dirty stranger waited. She smiled at him and offered him a cup of coffee.

Originally published in the March 2016 edition of the 4County Mall 

Mollie stepped out into the winter cold and started walking. The snow crunched beneath her boots and thin flurries swept up at her balaclava. Her gloves were thin but if she curled her fingers into her palms, they kept warm enough.

Her snug house slid behind, her husband getting ready for bed, her three kids asleep, hopefully for the night.

She walked, lists running through her head–grocery lists, birthday lists, reading lists, dates from the school newsletter and events from the church bulletin, books to add to Goodreads wishlist and movies to her Netflix queue.

She’d left in a huff, the year’s calendar finally filled out with vacations and anniversaries and ceremonies. She was booked. The year was only a month old, but she’d be lucky to find a free weekend before next January.

She walked. She didn’t care where. Away. Away from the times and dates, away from the small boxes lined in neat rows, each scribbled with pieces of her fate.

Her fingers tingled. She should have dug out her thicker gloves.

She walked block after block, arriving finally at the lake. Bixler sat white and smooth, the moon bright above. The wind drove curtains of powder across the frozen surface.

Mollie didn’t want to stop or turn back. Determined, she walked onto the ice. She didn’t know how far across it was. She didn’t care. Her fingers grew numb, but she boiled within. She wanted to scream.

Across the ice she walked, unseeing, the relentless forward momentum cooling her frustration until she stopped in the middle of the lake, aware of the great emptiness around her. She turned and saw the library, dark and picturesque. She looked up. The sky was black and filled with stars. She stared at them. Even in a small town like Kendallville, the stars got eaten up by streetlights and headlights and house lights. Here, in the middle of the ice, they shone like cold crystals. They reminded her of nights when she was a child, when she was supposed to be sleeping and stared at the stick-on stars on her ceiling and dreamed.

She turned, a familiar sound calling to her. The heavy rhythm of a train filled the silence, and she saw the bright light of its passing. She knew its next stop was Waterloo, but she remembered suddenly how she used to sit on the bench at the top of the hill and watch the trains and imagine riding across the world.

The train drifted away and the wind grew cold. Mollie found herself in the barren night, beneath the myriad of twinkling eyes in a sky that had always existed and didn’t seem possible.

This was what she needed, more than food, more than sleep. She needed the sparkle of a far-off world; she needed a train with endless destinations; she needed a white expanse in a busy life, where she might remember what moved beneath the surface of the world.

She stood there for what seemed a long time, five minutes, perhaps, and turned back home, happy.

Originally published in the February 2016 edition of the 4County Mall