The Archive of Unsent Messages, by Mark Mrozinski, French martini

Jon had been working with Vince, his counselor, for almost three years, which was less than ten percent of his thirty-five years on Earth. If he only considered his adult years since he was eighteen, well, that was just about eighteen percent of his life. Still, it took Vince all that time to mention the archive. Wasted time. Jon had never heard of it before. That Vince had never mentioned it frustrated him. It sounded like something that might break the stalemate in the darkness that had covered him for most of the eighteen percent.

“It’s not going to heal you,” Vince said, but Jon was certain something might shake loose.

The Archive of Unsent Messages.

“I think if I just saw a few of them, I’ll see how ridiculous it is I’m not content with my life.” Jon snapped his wrist, cracking the joint with a brittle pop, a tick he’d had since middle school.

“It doesn’t work that way. You and I can only do so much looking backward. Immerse yourself in today. That’s the answer.” Vince always said this at least once a session, and Jon hated it.

Immerse, immerse, immerse!

Sometimes he thought himself submerged in concrete, immobile, almost unfeeling. How’s that for immersion, Vince?

That night, Jon started his clandestine search, the one for the archive, for he couldn’t ask Vince about it again. Skiffer, an orange tabby that had found Jon a few years back, skittered across his laptop as he began his quest in earnest.

“Quiet, Skiff. I’ve fed you. Now, settle yourself.” He reached over and gave Skiffer a long stroke down the length of his spine. He enjoyed how the cat pressed back, arching all the way to the tip of his tail. Look at me, Skiff seemed to say, I need your attention.

“Now, get down.” Jon gave him a gentle shove and the cat jumped to the floor, running to his nesting spot on the back of the couch.

It should be so simple—a few well-chosen keywords and the site should appear, with little map pins even—but no, there was nothing. Just junk—mostly describing how to unsend a text or email. And an online project where people posted their stories of regret. All emotive nonsense.

Jon didn’t need others’ stories, not when he had his own.

No. The place he was looking for wasn’t one of grief, or processing, or directions on how to do anything. According to Vince’s cryptic reference, some place kept the messages you intended to send but didn’t, the ones you typed but never sent. Instead, you deleted them, backspaced over them, or let them sit in a draft folder of accusation.

But even more—there were messages you intended to write, the ones you composed in your mind, the ones that never made it into your phone—your courage floundered, or your faith. They were all captured in the archive.

What would Jon learn from seeing them after all these years? For some, he’d have made the right choice not to send them, and others a wrong choice, but they’d all be unchangeable. So, why? Because you get to a place in your depression where you sense you’ve tried everything that everyone has suggested—more exercise, what to eat, what to read, what not to read, and on and on. But it had been four months since Vince had mentioned the archive, and Jon had thought of nothing else since. He realized his OCD was beginning to spiral, yet he needed to know.

#

In 2003, Jon was a young nineteen, and it was his first summer back home from university. Accounting was a breeze for him, so much so, he wanted to change his major to something more … dreamy. He considered quantum logic but found he couldn’t even explain it to his parents. Perhaps that made it perfect.

 He’d worked for his dad that summer in his accountancy firm. The work dulled his mind—especially his imagination—yet he could think of anything but numbers, even magical things, and still get the footings right. He told his dad how he hated the work, how it smothered some small flame inside his soul, but his father was uncomprehending, recalcitrant even. “You think I love my job,” he threw in Jon’s face, “but it makes a life for us—clothes, food, vacations, a good life, and it pays your tuition. Don’t forget that.” Discussion over.

So, he didn’t speak of how he loathed his studies, but most everyone understood, his mother most of all. They would never speak of it, but she knew, and it added to the heaviness she carried, her own demons compounded now with those of her husband, and her son.

#

“I’m not going to speak of this anymore,” Vince said. And that was that.

Jon had anticipated Vince’s reaction after what he’d said in their last session. But Jon had made no progress in his research. He’d slept little. His work was suffering, but he told no one what he carried—about his sessions with Vince. It was none of their business. But they still knew something, like his mom knew.

“I don’t think we’re making any progress.” Jon couldn’t look at Vince, afraid it would weaken his resolve. He instead looked at the small hologram globe on Vince’s coffee table, rotating so slowly it looked as though it were frozen. But Jon was sure it had moved, for he’d watched it long enough to notice. And then he popped his wrist, somehow pacified by the snapping sensation.

“You’re endlessly replaying—reliving—things you can’t change. Learn and move on.” Despite Vince’s directness, his face was void of sharpness, angularity, absorbing whatever ill will Jon could summon.

“But my mind seems to have its own life. I wish it were that easy.”

“These things take time,” Vince said, with a surety that ended that line of conversation.

Jon always interpreted these comments as failure—his failure to internalize what Vince was teaching. After all, Vince was a degreed, licensed psychologist. He knew his stuff, and if his stuff wasn’t working on Jon, it must be something in Jon. If he could only be more disciplined, more earnest, more something. After all, he liked Vince.

“How long?” Jon looked up, expectant of something new—something novel to hang on to.

“You know I can’t say that? It takes what it takes.” And Vince’s face transformed from one of thoughtfulness and concern to a warm graciousness that sickened Jon now. “We’re making progress. I’m certain you can feel it.”

And Jon knew then this would be their last session together, because he felt nothing. He was tired of Vince’s empty platitudes, all the churning through emotions and memories. And all for what? He had nothing to show for their time together. No—he owed Vince nothing. It abruptly seemed so transactional. I pay—he heals me. But that was the trick. The healing. Was it even a possibility? And for the first time Jon entertained a notion of utility in Vince, motivated only by the session fees. After all, Vince had a family and deserved to make a living. Jon understood the notion was a whim of his mind—not reality—yet it made the rupture more palatable, even sensible.

#

Skiff was watching from the back of the couch again, his tail flicking in intermittent irritation. He didn’t like Jon spending so much of his time at his laptop, staring at that screen. And Jon would glance up every few minutes and stare back, so Skiff would understand who the boss was. He’d pushed Skiff off his laptop enough that he’d roused the cat’s arrogance. How can an animal carry so much pretense in defeat? And then he realized Skiff didn’t see the defeat, like a great dementia that deceived the cat’s mind and allowed for the incongruence—Skiff’s superpower.

But finally, he found what he was looking for. Not truly found it himself, but rather found someone who found it through some blog in some dark corner of the Web. And after a few careful posts, the purchase of a burner phone, and then trading texts, he learned where to look.

It was there—or almost. Just a single page. An international number to text.

Jon: I need to find some unsent messages

+41 22 123 45 6: credentials?

Jon thought. How could there be a password? There was no mention of a password.

+41 22 123 45 6: ???

He closed his eyes and saw his mom on that day, the last time he was with her, face puffy, eyes half closed, in the blue robe she’d worn for the last month and a half, cigarette fuming in her hand, unsmoked. He’d never forget.

Jon: 2003.09.22

Nothing. His chest felt empty, something stolen from inside him in an instant.

But just before he threw the burner against the wall …

A hyperlink.

A form to complete.

Name: Jon Rivas

Age: 35

Messages for retrieval: _

He paused, then smiled. His hesitancy amused him. He’d assumed he’d need to provide some context of the messages, otherwise how could the office find what he needed? An individual might have hundreds, even thousands, of contemplated messages that never found their recipients.

The cursor blinked after the colon, patient, waiting.

Messages for retrieval: correspondence with my mother, September 2004

Would they need more than that? There was a lot unsaid that summer, a lot unsent. His throat tightened, then his chest. What was this? What was he feeling?

Vince would have him journal the sensations until they coalesced into emotions that would unsettle Jon. But now there was something infinitely dark on the edge of his perception, a hole of some kind, an emptiness, a longing—grief.

Yes. They’d need a bit more, so he added: regarding my mother’s death

#

After trading a few texts with some administrative type, Jon’s messages were approved for retrieval. The admin described the process as incremental. Jon wasn’t sure what that meant, but he assumed it was more of a trickle than a data dump.

In fact, he went to bed that night with nothing to show for his work. He’d made contact with the archive and followed their protocol, but no messages followed. A familiar emptiness sat in his chest as he lay in the dark that night. Skiff watched from under the desk, his eyes glowing an iridescent green, awake, indicting.

But in the morning, without preamble or explanation, the first text appeared. The message looked no different from any other on his phone, except he knew. It struck something deep inside, even though he didn’t immediately place the context. It was so generic, it could be dropped into anyone’s life and have context.

But then it burned in him in an inextinguishable way. He almost deleted it, but instead he reread it a hundred times, as though it were difficult to decipher.

The archivists. How could they access his thoughts—something unspoken, unsent—for seventeen years?

+41 22 123 45 6: It’s not your fault

#

It wasn’t her fault. She had endured enough of his dad’s oppression. He had always been missing, negligent, first with her, then with Jon. Perhaps the only blessing was the difficulty of his birth, for afterward, she could have no others.

It wasn’t her fault. The way his dad’s job consumed him, a race for some point unseen by anyone but him. And what was enough? His mother kept asking, pleading with him—we have all we need and more. Sell the firm.

And that was the first time Jon remembered. He was in the family room gaming when he heard the shouting. Jon clamped the headphones tighter on his head and turned up the volume, but still he heard the sickening smack and his mother crying.

He ran to the doorway to see, but his father, filled with some mix of anger and shame ran to him and shoved him back. He was falling, and then nothing.

When Jon woke in the hospital, his mom and dad stood by his bed, a concerned, loving suburban family. Mom had applied the makeup just right to play the part.

After that, Jon and his mom walked about the house as though any sudden noise, any shift in tone or pitch, would detonate his anger—and that became the way.

She started taking pills to help her sleep, then more to help her wake, but he never saw her eyes alive again.

It wasn’t her fault.

He wanted to say it, for he was sure she felt she had failed the family, or at the very least failed him. Why didn’t he say it?

#

Jon hadn’t been to work in days. No more messages came, yet he checked the burner every few minutes, over and over. Skiff was confused. They’d run out of cat food, but Jon wouldn’t leave, so afraid was he to upset some metaphysical balance that might be required to receive the next message. Skiff was satisfied with tuna, Jon discovered.

His head pounded from lack of sleep.

Every few hours he’d move to the couch and lie there still, eyes closed, hoping for a respite from his vigil. Skiff took offense and dropped onto his chest, causing Jon to bolt upright. Skiff screamed and darted under the desk. Now he’d been there for days, only coming out to eat and use his litter.

Jon should eat. He just didn’t know why he didn’t care.

He tested the phone a few times.

Jon: ?

Nothing.

Jon: 2003.09.22

Nothing.

Then he was worried he had violated some protocol and was afraid to send anymore texts. Did he say the wrong thing, or did he say too much?

So, he lay there in a black hole with sides so slick he stopped reaching for a way out. And when sleep finally came, his dreams were of Vince and Skiff. Now Vince accused him. Jon wasn’t trying hard enough. He needed to be open to new ways of thinking. I can’t work with nothing—you have to be more courageous. Skiff’s accusations were silent, but even more penetrating. Jon had trusted him, but now he saw the cat’s narcissism. “Give it up, Jon,” Skiff said. “You’re wasting your life even trying.”

Buzz.

He startled awake. A message.

+41 22 123 45 6: run away

#

Jon was back at university when his aunt called. His dad was incapable, apparently. They set her funeral for next week. They’d called the dean’s office, and it was all arranged.

Jon shot back question after question. When? What happened? Was Dad there? But only received the most appropriate veneer—she died in her bed. “I think it was peaceful,” she added as an afterthought.

That’s when the numbness started, and the concrete, and the darkness that covered his life. Standing by the grave, his father finally touched him on the shoulder. Jon flinched and his father pulled away, sealing the fate of their relationship. When he walked away, leaving Jon beside that hole in the ground, Jon knew he’d never see him again. He would make certain of that, and he snapped his wrist to punctuate the thought.

#

Skiff was angry. He never liked his carrier, but there was no way they’d survive the drive with him darting around the car and vomiting at will.

Destination: Maine.

White pines—tall, wavering in the wind yet unmoving. Jon had heard you could lose yourself in forests as old as time. He didn’t have any idea how they’d live, only that they would.

He never received another message, or so he guessed. A week after the second one, he dropped the phone into a pot of boiling water and watched as the screen cracked, the plastics warping beyond recognition.

Jon smiled as he locked the apartment door for the last time, Skiff hissing a furious concerto in the carrier. He’d give it a try—immersion, or whatever this was. See where it took him.

About the author

Mark Mrozinski, Ed.D., writes short fiction and composes music. His stories appear in Mystery Magazine, Beyond Words, and more. A former educator and musician, he’s earned recognition in contests from Writer’s Digest and Tennessee Williams/New Orleans Literary Festival. He lives in Chicago, where he continues to write, compose, and create.

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Magic on Pendle Hill by Michael Barrington, French Martini

 An icy November wind swirled the dense mist over Pendle Hill, almost obscuring the stone obelisk marking the summit. Professor Isaac Cedric Effingham, known simply as ICE to students and faculty at Merton College, Oxford, walked seven times around it, first clockwise, then anticlockwise as prescribed by the witches code of conduct, although he was not particularly superstitious. His heavy topcoat, sturdy boots and deerstalker hat helped keep out the bitter cold. Suddenly, he noticed a small wooden trapdoor at the base of the obelisk. How was that possible? he mused. How come he had never noticed it before? He’d been here so many times. He’d written the definitive work about the Pendle Witches. Bending down, he realized it wasn't locked. He pulled it open and the noise of chattering voices reached his ears.

After descending a flight of stone steps, and passing a sign that read, The Missing Bride Inn, he suddenly found himself in an oak beamed lounge, with logs crackling in the huge, open fireplace. People were sitting, standing, drinking, and laughing.

            “Welcome.” A tall, handsome, tuxedoed, man behind a bar called him over.

“Welcome to the International Authors Association. We’ve been waiting for you. Come and have a drink. The first one’s on the house.”

Somewhat startled by being recognized, he replied, “I’ll have a martini.”

“And shaken, not stirred?”

“Well, yes, if you say so.”

“My name is Bond, James Bond,” the bartender said, offering his hand.

“That's an interesting name. I may have heard it before. Just can’t remember where. And you can call me ICE. Everybody else does.”

“Then you’re welcome, ICE, and I really like your topcoat.”

A loud guffaw erupted from a corner table.

“Sit down, Ernie,” a dark, curly-haired, pipe smoking, but pretty, young woman was shouting. “You’re just showing off again.”

“But you should have seen this matador.” The man had taken a table napkin, lowered it, and with his head following the movement, swung his arms in the motion of a slow sweeping veronica. Then gathering the napkin to his waist spun his hips making the napkin swing in the stiff arc of a rebolera as it passed the bull’s nose while he calmly walked away. “Absolute perfection,” he added. “Simply perfection.”

“Pay no attention to Hemingway,” she said as ICE and Bond arrived to see what the noise was about. “He can’t make his mind up whether he wants to be a bullfighter or a writer. He’s just published Death in the Afternoon, and won't shut up about it. He’s obsessed.”

“Maybe when I get some time, I should educate myself about the art. My name’s ICE, by the way, and it’s got nothing to do with the weather. My real name is Isaac, but nobody ever uses it. And you are?”

“Just call me George. That’s the name I write under. Surname, Elliot. Then she turned her head to search for the nearest spittoon.

“Don’t want to get into it just now,” she said, “but it really irritates me that publishers believe women do not write as good as men. In fact, I’m on a mission to liberate women and the book industry from male dominance. My books have had good sales, and people have given a positive reception to my last one, Middlemarch. But I want to be recognized for who I really am.”

“And with a passion like yours, I’m sure you’ll succeed.”

“Let me introduce you to a couple of other interesting people,” Bond said, steering him towards a man in naval uniform. "That’s Ian Fleming. He worked as an officer in the Royal Navy's Naval Intelligence Department. I have it on good authority that he also worked for MI 5. But more importantly, he attends these gatherings because he is writing a series of spy novels based on his experiences.”

The man smiled as they approached. “Nice boots,” he said, pointing at ICE’s feet.

Before he could respond, a tall, burly, bearded Scotsman in full highland dress complete with kilt and sporran interrupted them by slapping Bond on the shoulder.

“How about another wee dram of usquebaugh, James?” he said, using its Gaelic name. Then addressing ICE,  “You should always carry a flagon of whiskey in case of snakebite, and furthermore, always carry a small snake.” A bellow of a laugh filled the room.

After moving to the bar, Bond poured the man a double measure of twenty-five-year-old, Glenmorangie single malt, which he grasped momentarily in his beefy hand, then shouted, “Lang may yer lum reek!”—(long may your chimney smoke.) And added, “The drinks are on me.”                                                                                                                                   

It took several minutes before the cheering died down and James had replenished everybody’s glass.

“Who is that man?” ICE asked discretely.

 “That’s Walter. Sir Walter Scott. He’s a prolific writer. His latest novel, Ivanhoe, has just been optioned by a Hollywood Studio for a huge amount. And apparently, he wants to play the leading role. Bond rolled his eyes and said, “Good luck with that!” He paused momentarily looking towards a woman sitting on her own.

“But you must meet Jane—she needs cheering up. She has been attending the meetings for years but is stuck and can’t finish her novel. She’s quite depressed.”

After brief introductions, a small petite woman in her thirties, quite pretty but her face now stained with tear marks, explained she had created five sisters in the Bennet family but couldn’t decide how the father’s favorite, Elizabeth, should get married.

“I have this strong-willed, charming but self-assured young woman who seems to push away her suitors. I can’t find the solution. Without a wealthy partner, her life will be ruined.”

ICE could see her lip beginning to quiver as she spoke, and reaching into her petticoat, she retrieved a dainty lace handkerchief. Then she looked pleadingly at ICE as if he might save her.

“It’s just a thought ma’am. but why not have your characters work together but as opposing forces? Have your female become humbler and more empathetic while maintaining her signature confidence in who she is. And have a suitor realize just how arrogant and assuming he has been.”

There was a short pause and ICE wondered if he had offended her.

 “Oh, my goodness, Professor,” she exclaimed. “I do believe you may have given me the solution. However could I repay you?”

“Finishing your novel would be payment enough. And do you have a title for it?”

“Not yet, but I’m thinking about Pride and Patience or something similar.”

“Then, I wish you good luck.”

“So what’s next, James?”

“Well, we always invite a well-known writer as keynote speaker and this time it was a tossup between Harper Lee and her book To Kill a Mockingbird and Sally Rooney’s Normal People. We’re going with Sally since she wants to explain why writing novels for millennials, with little punctuation, is really hip. She’s standing near the bar with George Bernard Shaw. He’s probably trying to convince her to stop using the apostrophe in contractions. Boy, does he have a thing about that!

But look over there. We also always invite a magician to our events. and as you can see, it’s David Copperfield. He’s doing card tricks. I’ll introduce you.”

“Nice boots,” David said, “and I love the topcoat. Perfect for this kind of weather.”

“I wish I could stay for your show, but unfortunately, I’m expected back in Oxford. However I saw that amazing YouTube video where you walked through the Great Wall of China. Maybe you will do something equally dramatic on Pendle Hill, perhaps land a helicopter.”

“So sorry you can’t be here, and I’ll try to work that trick into my next act,” David replied. “But you and I will always be connected—by magic, of course.”

“So, what’s the history of this place?” ICE asked as Bond made another martini, shaken, not stirred.

“A man called Black Harry built the inn and called it The Pot of Gold. Some say they called him black, as he had a black patch over one eye. Others, that he had a long black beard. He never shared what had happened, but rumor said he lost his eye as a pirate with Long John Silver’s crew. They found buried treasure on an island, lots of gold coin. But they fought among themselves, and Black Harry took a knife in his eye. Only a few men lived to tell the tale and get back to England: Long John Silver with his parrot that cried ‘pieces of eight’ whenever they met a stranger, Jim Hawkins, a young man who had stowed away on Silver’s ship, Ben Gun who had been marooned for years but showed them where the gold coins were buried, and Black Harry.”

“The story is told that Black Harry built this inn with his share of the coins from the treasure island, and called it Casino Royale. From then on, some folks referred to him as Goldfinger. You have only seen a fraction of the inn. And if we’d had time, I would have given you a complete tour, for your eyes only. It is extensive and can house up to thirty guests. Harry married and had a beautiful daughter, Elvenia, which means magical, whom he adored. She met a sea captain, and they were married in this very room. Their initials are carved into the oak beam over the fireplace. As the guests were enjoying themselves, Elvenia and her husband played a game of hide-and-seek. It lasted for hours and into the night until all the guests had left.

For a final game, Elvenia hid in her husband’s huge sea chest, which was padded and comfortable, but once inside, it self-locked and she could not get out. Her husband, seeing that the locks were secure, never thought to open it. Nobody discovered Elvenia. Very early the  following morning, while it was still dark save for the light from a full moon, the husband walked around Pendle Hill seven times, hoping, praying she would return. Unable to contain his grief he shot himself.

In despair, Black Harry set fire to the inn and rode off with his wife on his black horse. No one ever saw them again. Local people say that on a November night when the moon is in its first quarter, and you stand in the shadow of the obelisk and listen carefully, you can still hear a horse’s footsteps and two people loudly weeping.

“Sounds like Satanic Verses,” ICE said.

“Yes, but you have to live and let die,” Bond replied.

“And how did the inn survive?”

“Since it is underground, the fire damage was only superficial. The Association took it over, refurbished it and renamed it The Missing Bride. We meet here every quarter.”

“That’s amazing,” ICE replied. “But I really must go. I’m so sorry I’ll miss the presentation,”

“I’ll escort you to the stairs,” Bond said. “That’s as far as I may go. It’s been a pleasure ICE, and remember, you only live twice.”

The frosty night air hit Isaac Cedric Effingham with an arctic blast. He shivered and pulled his deerstalker hat closer around his ears. Then he realized he was no longer wearing his topcoat, and his bare feet were freezing. Looking around for the trap door so he could return for his coat and boots, all he saw was the cold, stone obelisk —and the mist.

About the author 

Michael Barrington has written eight historical novels. Passage to Murder is a thriller set in San Francisco. Magic at Stonehenge is a short story collection. Take a Priest Like You is a memoir. He has published more than 60 short stories and also blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net. 

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