Colin Palmer - More Short Stories to Read on a Bus, a Car, a Train, a Plane (or a comfy chair anywhere)

“Why do you cry?”

The old man closed his eyes for brief seconds, brief because he had waited so long for this chance and was not going to waste it crying and dreaming. Though short in duration, he had enough time to think, go back, the thousand years or so since he’d been in cryogenic suspension waiting for this very opportunity, to see his home one more time. He saw, the animals at the zoo, giraffes and lions, hippos and zebras and those ever funny penguins, he saw them all now as they flashed before his eyes. He saw people climbing mountains, mountains covered in snow, deserts of white fine sand, the beaches, the oceans and streams teeming with fish, the green earth teeming with life. He opened his eyes and saw the redness of the planet below him, the hostility, the loss, and a few more tears escaped. The little voice urged his attention again.

“Why do you cry?”

He took a deep breath, aware it was one of his first for a very long time, aware it was close to his last, meaning the longest time. He looked directly at the little girl, looked into her eyes, saw the mirror image of another pair of eyes as her less than brave brother peered across her shoulder and he surveyed his young guests with as much dignity and respect as he could tiredly muster. Before she could voice her question again he answered while delicately squeezing her little hand.

“That was my home,” he nodded at the red dust swirling across the bare planet below them, then went on. “It didn’t used to look like that you know. Once it was very beautiful,” and a choking sob erupted from his chest forcing him back into his casket and releasing, slowly, reluctantly, the hand of the little girl.

She shrugged her shoulders and looked at her brother who returned her shoulder shrug and they both switched their eyes to the view of horrible planet below. They forgot about the old man. They forgot about the casket. And when the tour was over and the walls of the great hall solidified, the casket was no longer there.

Later, as the huge ship prepared for the long return journey, caskets replacing seats, the great halls filling again, a small dot was ejected from a service port, accelerating away toward the hostile atmosphere of Earth. A casket, but a special casket carrying a special client, a customer who had paid to return home. His casket bored the Trump logo, everything from the ship did, but this casket also carried an inscription;

…I REMEMBER BEFORE …

============= THE END ============

Luigi was the last in a long, long, line of master craftsmen. Their skills, precision, and traditions were handed down from father to son over many generations. They made blades, cutting implements, not just battle weapons like swords, daggers, long knives or scythes but anything for any purpose that required the keenest edge available. He’d heard many times in hushed tones that his family was responsible for the mythical sword wielded by Arthyr himself, and closer to home the dagger Brutus used to betray his Emperor, though Luigi scoffed at the idea of either!

In recent centuries of course, most of their products were sold to overseas buyers – Kings, Dictators, Pharaohs, Despots, any warlord willing to pay the exorbitant price for the best. Their wares were all custom designed and made, and in keeping with expectations and desires of the purchaser, as plain as a cheap market trinket or elaborately scrolled with the best metals and jewels money could buy. Each buyer knew their item was unique, one of a kind, and regardless of decoration, capable of cutting through almost anything without losing its edge.

The modern world however, was taking its toll on Luigi – his Grandfather and Father had passed decades earlier and he had no son to pass on the skills he had painstakingly learnt under their watchful paternal supervision and guidance. Then came the day that changed his life, not that Luigi would live to see the final result of his labours. He would instead become the first victim, a first of many.

The little bell over the shop door heralded a new customer, the custom tinkle something his great grandfather had worked very hard to achieve using left-over material from a large order of katana blades bound for a Japanese samurai clan. The bell design would be viewed by most as a windchime, however the blades were wafer thin and, in accordance with their heritage, sharpened to an edge of infinite keenness. The tiny weighted blades hung from individual fine chains – the shop door’s upper edge sheathed in protective alloy to stop the blades from slicing through the timber frame and contributing to the fine tinkle produced by the bell. The tinkling was a rare occurrence nowadays, customers almost always ordering online or through an anonymous middleman. The very occasional tourist or windowshopper sometimes activated the tinkle but as the shop bore no sign or displayed any wares, these were usually wayward accidents. Oh how Luigi would wish this time had been one of those instead of the vision who now stood before him.

At first, she appeared to shimmer but as Luigi allowed his middle-aged eyes to focus and adjust to the bright noonday sun silhouetting her from the street behind, he saw the curvaceous figure of a woman. She was looking slowly around the small shop, devoid of products or advertising. Finally she noticed Luigi sitting behind the small desk and she stepped forward, her low heeled boots clicking against the wooden floorboards almost at the same pitch as the bell over the door. Her piercing dark eyes sparkled as she watched Luigi observing her from head to toe. She was pleased to see that he appeared absorbed in his examination because her preparations for this visit had been lengthy and detailed, not to mention painful at times. His eyes finally arrived at hers and he was startled quickly to his feet as his brain registered the beauty before him. He dropped his gaze quickly before speaking, his hands wringing together and advertising his embarrassment at being caught.

“I’m sorry, Miss? How may I help you? Are you lost?” He shuffled his feet adding to his look of abject misery.

“You are Luigi?” Her voice was deeper than expected but in a sultry, smoky way. A slight accent was evident but her question too short for Luigi to assess further.

“Yes, that’s me – how may I help you?” Finally he lifted his face and his eyes widened as he took in her beauty from less than a metre away. He frowned slightly, “how do you know my name?”

She reached out a gloved hand, a dainty lace glove trimmed in gold edging which highlighted her slender long fingers. “ Chovani you may call me, and for me you shall be Armandino !”

She spoke the two different names with a much heavier accent than the rest of her sentence and Luigi recognised an Eastern European clip but couldn’t possibly determine the source of the accent. It was not unusual at all for the middlemen or customer to have a foreign accent, in fact, it was the norm but what wasn’t normal was for that person to be a woman, an extremely beautiful woman at that. In her face Luigi could see an almost Central-Asian countenance tinged with some Slovak and something else almost middle-eastern in her dark eyes. She wore short, patent leather boots and the glint of sunlight on metal showed a small stainless cap backing the rear of the stumpy heels and probably the source of the tinkling sound as she walked. He legs were sheathed in patterned soft-pink stockings until the fine lace hem of her below the knee dress interrupted his view. The dress was multi-coloured but the tones were subdued and the pattern itself random, set off with lace edging on the half-length sleeves, bodice and neckline to match the hem. A soft pink mantilla draped across the top of her head and slinked around her shoulders, with her dark eyes making her almost appear Spanish. She held a patent leather clutch in her left hand. He studied her amused gaze.