Three Valentines by Ken Whitson, americano with a dash of cinnamon

The box of Mom’s things has been sitting accusingly in my apartment for months—her death another uncomfortable truth I’ve been trying to avoid. If I open it now, I tell myself, I’ll dredge up feelings I’m still not ready for. But I know that’s a lie. One of many I’ve been telling myself lately. So, I trace my rough, blue-collar fingers across the smooth folded flap…

The soft thud of a bone-white envelope meeting hardwood at my feet pulls me back. How long has Mom’s box been open, her faded photo album in my hands? I retrieve the envelope, study the stamp adorning its upper corner—three cents, purple eagle’s wings spread in a ‘V’ for victory. Unstruck. This eagle never got to fly. Never got to deliver its message. The return address is for the family’s old Beacon Hill estate. A yellowed obituary, dated 8 January 1944, is paper-clipped to its back:

Thomas O’Malley, 22, killed in action. Memorial Mass to be held at St. Joseph’s, Cardinal O’Connell Way, Thursday, 13 January, 10:00 AM.

But it’s the envelope’s contents that mist my eyes. My grandmother’s handwriting, still crisp after all these years: 

Happy Valentine’s Day, my dearest Thomas. I’ve waited too long to tell you what I should have said before you left. I love you—have since our first dance at Ellen’s party. I laughed when you stepped on my toes. Remember? You turned so red I thought you might faint. Come home to me, my love. Come home.

 She’d written it. Sealed it. Then hidden it behind Brahmin walls she dared not breach. Wiping a tear, I set it aside and lift a photo from the box.

I’ve never seen it before. Mom, maybe twenty. Pale and freckled as ever and wearing a bright yellow sundress. She’s with someone. He’s dark-skinned and strikingly handsome in his Marine Mess. They’re laughing. They’re shoving cotton candy at each other in front of Sleeping Beauty’s pink-tinged castle. Valentine’s Day at the happiest place on earth, and it showed in their faces. There’s a heart candy attached to the front with wax. It captures the whole scene in its faded one-word message: LOVE. Just that. One word. And so much more.

My phone buzzes. Another message from David asking me to dinner tonight. He’s been patient. Respecting… my walls. Walls that I kept up with Gran and Mom’s support. And so, we meet at cafes where nobody knows us. Take walks in parks without holding hands. I keep saying I’m just being cautious, but he knows the truth. That I’m still that boy who learned the hard way what happens when people find out. 

I look at Gran’s letter, at Mom’s photo, and mourn the price they paid for brick and mortar. Be careful, I hear them say. Wall your heart high against those who would hurt. But what I want them to say is, some walls really should crumble. And sometimes ‘careful’ is the worst lie of all.

It’ll be a madhouse, of course. It’s Valentine’s Day after all. I text David back: ‘Yes.’

About the author

Ken is a retired civil servant still figuring out what retirement means. When not consulting or advising startups (in exchange for questionable stock options or even more questionable coffee), he coaxes stories from his keyboard well into the night. His work often drifts between genres—often tangling along the way.

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Noel Noir by Ken Whitson, a hot mug of Valrhona Hot Chocolate

 Nobody suspects the reindeer. That’s what makes us perfect. The big guy gets all the  

attention while  me and my crew run our operation right under his rosy cheeks.

Comet cooks the books. Dancer and Prancer work the chimneys. Vixen and Cupid bat their lashes so nobody notices the rest of us. Donner and Blitzen provide muscle. Dasher… well her name says it all.

Me? I’m the brains. This glowing schnoz is packed with sophisticated sensors and enough compute power to hack the NSA. Cost an arm and a leg, too—well, somebody’s, at least. Worth every stolen penny, though.

One big job a year, then we hole up, all rich-like, in Santa’s crib. He never mentions the designer harnesses or our Caribbean trips. Whether he’s clueless or doesn’t want to know—that’s one mystery I don’t care to solve.

Perfect, right? Then one year, this snotty-nosed elfling shows up with an upturned tin drum full of reindeer droppings—Dancer’s by the smell. The little shrimp said she’d found them in front of the rare manuscripts’ door while playing in Santa’s library. Spying, more like. Everyone knows only Santa’s allowed in that part of the library.

Still, Dancer did seem fidgetier than normal that night. Figured she’d just had one too many of those candied gingers we import from Kochi. She and Dasher had nearly finished them off before the rest of us could get any. Said something about the elves sneaking into our stash again and not wanting to leave them any. The little buggers love them way more than we do. Never seen an elf turn one down when offered. Ever!

Anyway, there we were getting ready for our one big night, when up shows this pointy-eared half-pint, all big-eyes and smug cat-ate-the-canary elf smile. Just pranced right in and set the smelly drum on the ground in front of me. Then she said something about not worrying, that she’d cleaned it up. Clean up is Dasher’s job, though the thought didn’t fully register at the time. Besides, the kid’s voice was distracting me. It reminded me a lot of Donner’s on the rare occasion a job goes sideways. Except for its tinkly, high-pitched tone, that is.

Now everyone knows Santa’s elves are born sneaky. Nosy, too. But they’re honest—as long as candied ginger isn’t involved. To a fault. This little girl, though? She was different. When I didn’t say anything, she started wandering around our stalls, fingering silver- and gold-inlaid harnesses, caressing our Vicuña wool blankets, and side-eyeing the not insubstantial collection of priceless trinkets, baubles, and doodads we’d gathered from around the world.

At a loss for words, I asked if she saw anything she liked. Then added ‘Miss…?’ for good measure. She plucked a small jade carving from my stash—Tang Dynasty. I mentally added ‘good taste’ to my list of elfin attributes and told her to keep it. She smiled, set it back down, and introduced herself as Twinkles.

I was like, what gives? This kid waltzes into my stable with evidence of supposed transgressions, evidence she herself tidied up for us like some kind of crime-scene maid, then nonchalantly turns down payment? That’s not normal elf behavior. In fact, that kind of behavior falls into only one of two categories: stupid or dangerous. And Twinkles didn’t strike me as the stupid kind.

So, I asked her point blank if she was working for Old Man Claus? What he’d offered her? Asked her if maybe the fool had finally wised up and sent her down to see what we’d confess to? The kid’s smile changed, then. It lost that innocent canary-eating, candy-cane-sucking quality elves are famous for and took on something darker. Something that belonged in Krampus’s dark kitchen, not a stable for magical reindeer.

Then she started listing things. Fourteen unauthorized rare manuscript vault entries between Halloween and Thanksgiving. Comet’s toy production skimming racket. She’d even found out about our Bermuda storage unit—number, combo, security system, everything.

She had all of it in a little red, snowflake sticker-covered notebook. Our whole operation recorded in flowing elfin script using, if you can believe it, glittery pink gel ink.

Naturally, I asked why she hadn’t snitched. Though I was pretty sure I already knew—you don’t compile that kind of evidence and walk into the suspects’ lair just to make friends.

She told me she was bored. Tired of being cheerful, of being good. Said she didn’t want to spend her life painting stupid smiles on nutcracker faces that will stay boxed away most of the year. Swore she’d go crazy if she had to constantly dress dolls or toy soldiers that would be played with once or twice then forgotten. But mostly she seemed irked that despite making all of those things, and more, elves get nothing for Christmas—except some quiet when the ‘fat guy’ leaves for that one special night.

She spun in a circle, eyeing our stuff again—this time though, with longing. When she finished, she looked at me dead in the eye and said she wanted in. The stable got real quiet. Even Donner stopped chewing.

I asked what made her think we needed a pint-sized elf with a runny nose and a sticker-bedazzled notebook. Turned out she had a whole pitch ready. Of course, she did. I won’t go into details, but it involved being small, being nosy, excellent hearing, reading hundreds of languages, and most importantly… ‘nobody suspects Santa’s elves.’

Hard to argue with a page outta my own playbook. So, I checked with the crew. Comet shrugged. Dancer looked up from sniffing the tin drum and nodded. The rest went about their preparations as if the girl had been part of the team all along.

Nothing for it, I thought and offered her the final piece of our candied ginger to seal the deal. Her saccharine smile as she refused said it all. What had she said? Oh, yeah. Nobody suspects Santa’s elves.

About the auhtor

Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn’t yet figured out what retirement means. In turns, he consults, mopes around, and crafts wildly varying types of fiction—literary, horror, humor, as well as many things undefinable. He often plies Virginia’s backwaters on his kayak, searching for both fish and inspiration. 

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Hamlet in Size Nine by Ken Whitson, a fine cristallo of sherris-sack

 I see them, sitting alone in the prop room’s far corner—scuffed brown leather, toes curving upward, brass buckles pleading for a shine. Four hundred years old, if the playbill is to be believed. Unlikely. Still, it’s obvious these shoes have seen way more Hamlet performances than I have or ever will.

Now, it’s my turn to slip them on. Tradition, I’m told. Whoever plays Hamlet with this troupe must always wear these shoes. And in the wearing, each leaves something of their performance behind.

‘They’re too tight,’ I complain, but the costume mistress merely smiles.

‘They always are… at first,’ she says. ‘You’re too new to know, but they’ll… stretch. Always do.’

At least the first dress rehearsal butterflies distract me from their discomfort as I hit my marks and lines as if I’ve played this role for years.

The director interrupts, pen tapping his bottom lip. ‘You’re hitting your marks, but pausing in unexpected places,’ he says. ‘It’s unsettling… but somehow, it works.’

I nod, unsure what he’s talking about, hitting the next mark, the next line without conscious thought. The shoes, I notice, no longer pain me—their worn leather as relaxed as a once reluctant horse finally accepting its rider.

Memories, not my own, hover just out of reach as I belt out my lines: a taller man, favoring his right leg; a shorter one rushing through soliloquies; another kicking the floorboards before exiting stage left—pursued by a bear.

Opening night, the stage manager finds me staring at my feet. ‘Nervous?’

‘They still hurt,’ I say, which isn’t quite true anymore. It’s the shoe’s memories, not pain, that bother me. I can’t tell him that, of course, but he knows.

The house lights dim. My left heel catches on a nail head as I cross to the stage— But instead of stumbling, I find myself in a drafty church basement. Plaster dust. Wet wool coats. Bombs exploding nearby. A baby crying. The London Blitz, though how I know this is unclear.

‘To be,’ I swallow wrong. Cough. Try again. ‘Or not to be.’ And I’m back.

The Times will say I “deliberately mangled the most famous line in theater to jolt the audience awake.” The stage manager will smile knowingly.

After our final curtain call, I remove them one last time and place them again in their solitary spot to await the next Hamlet. How many feet have they shaped? How many actors have they guided?

‘He had bunions, you know,’ the costume mistress breaks my reverie.

‘Who?’

‘Shakespeare, silly.’ She points to a shoe. ‘Left big toe. Made him walk funny. He had these made to help with that. Never had an issue on stage again.’

‘Hmm,’ I reply, picking them up again. Turning them over, I noticed stitching I hadn’t seen before—as if the soles had been replaced—stretched just enough to keep me from stumbling on stage. 

About the author

Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn’t yet figured out what retirement means. In turns, he consults, mopes around, and crafts wildly varying types of fiction—literary, horror, humor, as well as many things undefinable. He often plies Virginia’s backwaters on his kayak, searching for both fish and inspiration. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Last Call at the Ambrosia by Ken Whitson, Golden Apple Cider

By Ken Whitson

Golden Apple Cider

Aphrodite swirls her near-empty tumbler of liquid starlight, one eye on Aeolus and his blasted sundial, the other on Freyja thirstily studying her now empty goblet of Golden Apple cider. 'Hey, sweetie! We probably don't have long before old blowhard over there,' head nodding toward the bar, 'decides to send one of his lesser winds into the last call chimes.'

Freyja waves her dry goblet toward their server. 'Whaddya think? Enough time for another round and a couple more stories?'

'Absolutely!' Aphrodite's eyes light up. 'Hey! Remember when Dionysus got Cupid so hammered he couldn't walk or fly? The little cherub kept trying to hover and just... sort of flopped over sideways.'

'I've never seen him so tipsy,' Freyja smiles, trying to remember how many she's had herself. 'That's the night Branwen bet him he couldn't hit a thousand sheep before sunup. Only... Cupid's wine-soaked ears heard "shepherds" instead.'

'Yes, by Zeus's glorious... um... beard!' blushed Aphrodite. 'He was barely able to stand, but his aim was still perfect. A thousand unlucky shepherds, all struck with the little guy's unique poison, and not a woman anywhere to be found.'

'Poor Pan,' Freyja wipes a joyful tear from her eye. 'I mean, he had to do something. "A shepherd distracted is a shepherd not watching his flock," he always said. But traveling around to all those mountain pastures like that must have been a pain? I wonder how many sheep he ended up... err... saving? Or, you know... whatever?'

'Ewww! And can you imagine having to teach all those unfortunate sods another use for their skilled shepherd's hands?' Aphrodite groans. 'He was quite put out about it too, as I recall. Kept muttering about how "this isn't in my job description" and "I'm a relationship counselor."'

'Though I heard he did eventually add it to his official duties,' adds Freyja, leaning forward. 'Something about comprehensive pastoral education.'

'I'm just glad the sheep survived for those first few weeks,' Aphrodite grins. 'Can you imagine a thousand shepherds, all suddenly discovering their own... um, charms? The mountains must have echoed with---'

'The music of Pan's flute!' Freyja cuts in. 'Very loud flute playing. All day. And all night.'

'Dionysus found the whole thing hilarious, of course,' Aphrodite rolls her eyes. 'Kept showing up to check on his progress---claiming Pan needed moral support.'

'Riiight,' Freyja says, dropping her voice and leaning closer. 'Speaking of moral support, have you heard about Eros and Psyche's latest spat?'

'No!' Aphrodite perks up, raising her hand to get a server's attention just as the last call chimes ring. 'But we're definitely going to need more drinks first.'

About the author

Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn't yet figured out what retirement means. When he's not consulting or otherwise unretiring, he enjoys crafting vivid, emotionally charged stories with unconventional themes. His work appeared previously in CafeLit Magazine, Bunker Squirrel Magazine, and in Dragon Soul Press's The Fear Doctor Anthology.

Luna by Ken Whitson, a piping hot café au lait

Whiskers tickle me awake as Luna sniffs my morning breath—every morning and I wouldn’t have it any other way. But then I realize, again, that she’s not there, hasn’t been for over a year now. The weight on my chest is not her warm furry body, but the heaviness of grief. Nineteen years is a long life for a cat, but not nearly long enough for me. My lap misses her when I read, my desk misses her when I write, and my heart misses her with every beat. The tickle comes again, and I finally open sticky eyes, my reflection in the bedroom mirror breaking the spell. For a moment, I stare uncomprehending at my face, Luna’s memory still strong. Oh, I think, as focus returns. I really should shave that off. Damn thing looks like something Luna would have left for me, anyway.

About the author 

 Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn't yet figured out what retirement means. When he's not consulting or otherwise unretiring, he enjoys crafting vivid, emotionally charged stories with unconventional themes. His work appeared previously in CafeLit Magazine, Bunker Squirrel Magazine, and in Dragon Soul Press's The Fear Doctor Anthology. 

 

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The Christmas Gift by Ken Whitson, a warm mug of mulled red wine

It’s been a year now since you went away, and my guitar still won’t let me sing your song, the one I wrote that Christmas Eve. Now, as then, I place a single package under the tree, my song to you within. The bow, your favorite shade of red, sits slightly askew now, like my life. But the paper, like my love, still sparkles and shines. A song is all I could afford that year. You’d have smiled and said it’s more than enough, more than you had for me. I’d have smiled back, seeing the lie. We’d have hugged then. And kissed. But our smiles never came.

About the author

 Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn't yet figured out what retirement means. When he's not consulting or otherwise unretiring, he enjoys crafting vivid, emotionally charged stories with unconventional themes—or hunting little green fish, AKA, bass. His work recently appeared in Dragon Soul Press's The Fear Doctor Anthology.

 Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)