| "The Forgotten Key" (the eleventh ACW monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Forgotten Key" 2500 words or less. Deadline: July 15, 2002 |
| The Forgotten Key by walshnyc@yahoo.com (Entry #15) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| Cole dragged his fingers through the
layers of dust, feeling around for the object he sought. The surface he was
navigating blindly was high enough above his head that he needed to stand on
his toes to reach it. Suddenly, he made contact with the object he sought. It
was hard to pick up, so he used his fingertips to drag it to the edge of
it’s hiding place, where he was able to grab it and bring it down.
His heart surged as he held his prize up for inspection. Earlier, he had struggled against the locked door with futility, but the memory of this key’s existence signaled a change of fortune. He inserted it into the lock, but quickly learned that his victory was short lived. He tried to turn the key, but found it did not work, despite the repeated attempts. When he was finally convinced to quit trying, he returned to cursing his luck. “Shit,” he said turning away from the door, defeated. He lit a cigarette, then sat down on the steps of the porch. He checked his watch and silently cursed his brother who was supposed to be meeting him. Cole just wanted to get inside, take care of the business at hand, and to put this place behind him forever. But it seemed that closure would have to wait a little longer... This house had been the only home he had known as a child, yet Cole could not muster up a single good memory associated with it. His mother died when he was thirteen, but any recollections of her were overshadowed by the years spent being raised by his father. His brother, David had started college before their mother died, and without the balancing presence of another adult , Cole’s father seemed to transform into an, unreasoning dictator overnight. While other kids his age had typical teen lives, Cole had to adhere to strictly regimented chores, a dress code, and oppressive curfews. In his father’s world, only two things were important: studying and obedience. Countless hours were lost to the endless itinerary housework and yard-work, which Cole probably wouldn’t have minded if he had received any sort of compensation for his efforts. His father gave him an allowance to cover his most basic needs, but did not believe in paying his son for doing what he considered to be ‘family duties’. Cole tried to challenge his father’s ways, but nothing he did gained any headway, so he begrudgingly obeyed. He eventually realized that his chance to rebel came in violating curfew. Curfew was nine o’clock on weekdays, and ten p.m. on weekends, and had a crippling effect on what little social life he had. His father would make him ‘turn in’ his keys each night, and would hide them to ensure that his son would honor the curfew. Cole knew that the key to escape was that his father was virtually impossible to wake up once he fell asleep. He made copies of the house key was soon sneaking out and back in undetected. One key was hidden in his room, the second lay atop the porch light, just in case. He couldn’t remember how often he had used the keys, but he was pleased to recall that he had never gotten caught. “You know, you can smoke inside now; I’m pretty sure dad doesn’t care anymore...” His brother’s voice snapped Cole from his brief daze.. “I would have, if I could just get in the damn house,” Cole replied as he stood. He turned to greet his brother, who was carrying several cardboard boxes. “What happened to the keys I gave you?” “I wish I knew. I seem to have lost them sometime after the funeral...” “Here,” David said, offering half of his awkward burden . Cole complied, watching as his brother used his newly freed hand to pull a set of keys from his pocket. He maneuvered a key into the lock, and opened the door with one turn of his wrist. He stepped through the doorway and into the house. Cole put out his cigarette and followed him in. The house smelled stale, but was otherwise exactly as Cole had remembered. The furniture was arranged the same way, the books on the shelves aligned as they always were. The only thing that seemed out of place was the dust that was visible on the surfaces that had always been meticulously clean. “Dad would have hated this,” David said, drawing a line in the fine particles that had accumulated on the television. He dropped the boxes on the floor, and settled onto the small sofa. Cole put down his boxes as well, and sat in the nearby chair. “Did you notice the lawn while you were out there?” David asked. “Yeah, I saw it. It’s pretty obvious where cut grass stopped and the uncut began.” “That would have really drove him nuts. He was so obsessed with that lawn.” “Tell me about it. He used to make me mow the grass in the same exact pattern every time. He would go out there and lay on the ground to make sure it all matched...” Cole replied. “I guess that’s kind of ironic, considering he had a heart attack while pushing the mower. The last thing he sees in this world is his uneven lawn while he’s lying there, dying on it.” “You can call it ironic, but I’m going to call it poetic justice.” Cole’s voice took on an edge that was contrary to his brother’s lighter tone. He bit down on his lip, as if holding his resentment in were a considerable effort. David was startled by the sudden shift in mood, and quickly sought to avoid it. “I wonder what’s in the fridge,” he said, changing the subject. But Cole seemed even quicker to change it himself. “Hey, did dad change the lock on the front door?” he asked, oblivious to the tension of the previous moment. “I don’t think so. Why?” Cole reached into his pants pocket. “Well, for about half a second out there, I thought that I had a way into the house when I remembered this...” He held up the key.. “What is it?” “Do you remember the key I told you about? The secret spare? This is it. It was right where I left it, on top of the porch light...” David’s eyes showed a quick hint of recognition, and then, he began to grin. “I remember that key,” he chuckled. “What’s so funny? Cole demanded. “Let me guess- the key didn’t work, did it?” “Well, obviously. But-“ ”That’s because it’s not the key you think it is.” “What are you talking about?” Cole inspected the key more closely. It certainly looked as he remembered it. “Dad found your key. He was doing something on the porch and he discovered it sitting up there.” “When?” “Not long after you told me about it. He called me and told me he’d found it. I acted like it was a surprise to me too.” “If he knew, why didn’t he ‘bust’ me for it?” Cole wondered as he pondered the old key. “Oh, he wanted to,” David explained. “He told me that he wanted to catch you in the act . He took your key, replaced it with that one, and figured he’d ‘nail’ you one night while you were stuck out there trying to get in.” “But I had another one; I kept it in my room...” “He figured you would; he found it and replaced it too. You should have heard him; he was practically giddy about teaching you a lesson...” Cole seemed to contemplate his brother’s words while trying to sort them out. “If he was so determined to catch me, how come it never happened? I mean, he never said or did anything that suggested that he knew I was doing it, and he never caught me sneaking in...” “I think I know the answer to that; as dad was plotting his stakeout operation, there was had been a lot in the news about juvenile delinquency. It was an election year, and the mayor needed a campaign issue, so all of the sudden, there’s this big crackdown where teens were getting busted for everything this side of having acne.” “I remember that. Richie Gumbel got cited for an exaggerated trespassing charge...” “Yeah, well dad always worried about you getting into trouble, but he was really worried about it then. He said he had already switched your keys, and he decided to give you a subtle warning about respecting your curfew, since he still expected you to slip out anyway. That Friday, he goes to bed at his usual time, but stays awake. He said he waited awhile, listening for you to make your move, but eventually, he gets impatient and he goes to check on you. He sees you asleep in your bed, figures you won’t be sneaking out, so he goes to sleep. The next night, he’s positive you’re going to skip out, so again, he stays up, and again, you never leave the house. The next day, he hears you on the phone with somebody he assumes you were supposed meet up with the night before. He hears you say you “couldn’t make it” because your father didn’t want you to go out- not that he wouldn’t let you, but that he didn’t want you to...” “Do you know why I didn’t go out that weekend?” Cole interrupted; “It was because for the first time ever he didn’t demand that I do something. He actually said “Cole, do me a favor and make sure you get in by curfew this weekend”. I figured if something was serious enough for him to actually ask me, it must have been important, so I stayed home.” “Whatever the reason, I think you must have impressed him. The very next week, he said he bumped your curfew back by an hour on weekdays, and two hours on Friday and Saturday. He said he stopped waiting up for you and that you were behaving responsibly, and he eventually lifted the curfew completely.” “Oh, I was behaving responsibly, alright. I thought it was some sort of trick, and kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. With the exception of one time, I made sure I was home with time to spare before curfew. And I only got away with it that once because of dumb luck.” “What happened?” “ I was coming in one night, and suddenly realized I was was about twenty minutes past curfew. I hoped he would be asleep, and figured I would lie about what time I got in if he asked. But it turned out he was not only awake, standing right inside the door. I braced myself to catch hell, but instead, he just nods toward the clock and says “looks like you just made it”. I look at the clock, and it’s says 1 a.m. He says “goodnight” and goes to bed. I check my watch, and sure enough, it says 1:30. If the battery in the wall clock hadn’t been running down, I would have so busted....” David chuckled again. “The battery wasn’t going dead. Dad told me this story, and he said when he heard you coming up the steps, he rushed over to clock and pushed the hands back. He knew you were late; he just wanted to give you a break...” “Why did he go through all that trouble?” Cole asked in disbelief. “If I had earned a later curfew, why didn’t he just tell me ? If he didn’t have a problem with me coming late that night, why not just say so?” “He felt he needed you to fear him in order to have your respect. He was afraid if he showed some flexibility, you would start to push back harder and more often...” “And you wonder why I hate him! Now you know why I didn’t waste any time getting out of here after high school! Now you know why I haven’t been back to visit him since I left!” David went to his brother, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Everything he did, he did for you. He was scared of raising you alone, but he did it. He pressured you because he thought it was the right thing to do. He knew he was alienating you, but he thought it was worth it. And he was right. Look at the success you’ve become. You got great grades in high school, which got you into a good college. You have a work ethic that guaranteed that you would do well there, you seem to nailed how to get by in the real world pretty well. “Don’t even suggest that he’s responsible for how I turned out,” Cole snapped, turning his gaze away. “I succeeded in spite of him, not because of him.” His voice crackled with emotions that made them both uncomfortable. “I think that’s what he was counting on...” David said, as he turned and paced the room. He was looking for a distraction. And found one in their purpose for being there. “I guess we should get started packing some stuff,” he said, reaching for one of the cardboard cartons. “The realtor is going to want to start showing this place as soon as possible.” “I can’t.” Cole said. “What?” “I can’t do this. Not today.” “You know, you don’t have to sell the house,” David said. “Dad s wanted you keep it. That’s why he took such good care of the place, so he could pass it on to you...” “I can’t think about that right now,” Cole replied. “I need some time alone, time to think. The bastard should have said something. I shouldn’t have had to hate him for so long. He should have told me...” David nodded.“I’m going to go now, let you work out what you want to do,” he said as he pulled his keys from his pocket. “When you’ve decided, you call me and let me know.” He wrestled the house key from the ring and handed it to his brother. “If you need anything, just give me a call,” he added as he stepped toward the door. “I do need something,” Cole called out;. “Let me get the key to the backyard shed...” David said nothing as he found and removed the key from the ring. “I need to get the mower out,” Cole said as he took the key and began to put it onto his own ring, “that uneven lawn has to go.” He watched as David grinned and stepped outside, and closed the door. He added two more keys to his ring, the house key, and the spare that didn’t work. He had no practical use for it, but would always be reminded that it had unlocked something very important about his past. |
| The Forgotten Key by Ken Goldstein greenkenrg@yahoo.com http://www.kengoldstein.net/ (Entry #11) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| I no longer predict the future, and
with the way things have worked out, I'm beginning to doubt I ever did. People
still stop me in the street and ask if I'm Kevin Yarborogh, "the one who had
that TV show?" I always deny it, and don't even consider that I'm
lying. It doesn't feel as if I'm that Kevin Yarborogh, I'm someone different now, although I can't yet say who. As I walk away their admiration turns to taunts. "Hey, Yarborogh," they shout after me, one finger raised in my direction, "Can you tell what I'm thinking now?" When I was at the top of my form I really did some good for people. They'd come to the show and I'd follow my visions through the audience. When the force was particularly strong I'd stop and pull some young woman from her seat and into the aisle. "You came about your sister," I'd say, without needing to ask. "Yes," she would speechlessly nod, tears in her eyes. "I see a reunion, but not for another four months. She doesn't want you to see her the way she is right now. It will be another six weeks before she has the courage to go into rehab." It wasn't always clear, however, that there was only one possible outcome. Several times in a situation like this I'd have to warn the family not to rush the reunion. "If you force her into rehab before she's ready, she'll drop out, run away, and it will be another ten years before you see her." Each vision would be just as clear to me, and just as likely. It would be up to the family to choose which future they wanted to pursue. Sometimes the visions would be fun. "Yes, play those numbers," I'd say to the future Lotto winner. Sometimes they would send shivers through each viewer's spine as I'd intone, "Whatever you do, don't ride with Uncle Jack on the 27th, and get the keys away from him if you possibly can." I'd get a letter a month later thanking me for saving the audience member's life, and explaining how Jack refused to take a taxi home on the day he died. The letters were the final segment on each day's show. Most of the people came for the reunions, though. Relatives and lovers long lost filled their thoughts. Their yearning would rip right through me, as they'd look into my eyes for their happy endings. More times than not I'd give them what I was never able to give myself; an answer that would lead to a whole family. I never knew any family of my own, as I bounced from one foster home to another, rarely staying long enough to build any connections. Each family would quickly tire of my habit of answering the telephone before it would ring, or exposing where my foster father was really heading, as he'd leave the house for a "business dinner." I could only imagine that my real parents were equally terrified of my visions, and that my foresight was the reason they'd abandoned me. Only being able to see the future, I had no memory of when they put me out, or when my talent first became known. I only knew when each placement would end, and I'd have my bag packed before they could come and tell me the news. Of course, I knew that the joke would be on them once I got to be rich and famous. By the age of twelve I could already see each foster family clamoring outside the studio, trying to apologize for sending me away, and seeking some kind of financial payback for the few months that they had had to put up with me. My downfall began in the middle of a live show, with twelve million people to serve as witnesses to my embarrassment and panic. This was not my usual afternoon program, which we tape weeks in advance of the airdates. This was the prime-time special that was supposed to launch me into the upper echelons of television history. Instead it ended my career as a celebrity seer. The show started strong enough as I marched up to a woman in the fifth row of the audience and said, "He's going to find out in two weeks anyway, but it will go much better for you if you confess before then." She then broke down in tears and confessed her affair to her husband. He was upset, but agreed to accompany her to couples counseling to work on several issues, including his own infidelities. I was riding high as we went into the first break. Coming back from commercial I had a vision of a dusty, old plaque. I described it to the audience as I walked the aisles trying to figure out from whom it was coming. "An oval, cut out of wood and lightly stained. A green outline frames a key and a saying of some sort." I was starting to sweat as I realized that I'd reached the top of the stands without being drawn towards any particular seat, or even row. I started to head back down to the main stage and continued describing the plaque. "The key is an old-fashioned skeleton key, maybe four inches long. Above it, the plaque reads, 'THE FORGOTTEN KEY,' in all capital letters." As I hit my original mark in the center of the stage panic set in. I realized that I'd never gone this far without knowing to whom the vision pertained, or what it had to do with their future. I turned to face the audience and the cameras and had nothing to say other than to keep repeating, "It's the forgotten key. Does anybody know what this key goes to? It's the forgotten key." The director threw it back to commercials and my assistant came out with a moist towel to cool my forehead. She asked if I was alright as she mopped up the sweat from my brow. I managed to pull myself together as the make-up artist touched up my face, giving me back some realistic color. "I'm fine," I lied, and greeted the audience with a smile as the cameras came back on. Because this was a special show, we'd invited several of our alumni to sit in the audience and prepared clips of their shows. Unable to shake the vision of the "forgotten key" from my mind, or latch on to any visions for anybody else, I spent the rest of the hour interviewing the returning guests and playing every clip we had. Returning to the set the following Monday to tape another afternoon show, nobody spoke of our ill-fated prime-time debut, or the disastrous reviews that had filled the weekend newspapers. In fact, they didn't speak much at all, but just tip-toed around me as if they were afraid of setting me off again in pursuit of some forgotten key. They needn't have worried; I would set myself off soon enough. Only the introduction to the show went well. From there I went into my usual walk into the audience, seeking visions, and one came almost immediately. I was soaring over a string of small islets, it was a tropical setting and it looked like the bits of land were made up of coral. A long bridge connected the larger islands to the mainland. Rather than panic when I again couldn't figure out who was sending me the vision, I tried guessing, as if I could fake my way through the show. I described the coral islets and zeroed in on elderly gentleman and pulled him to his feet. "Do you recognize this setting?" I asked him. He looked shaken and surprised and for a moment I thought I'd hit pay dirt, but then he said, "I don't know what you're talking about and you're scaring me!" I let go of his shoulders and turned down the next row. "These islands, they're the home of somebody's parents," I was getting more from the vision and I could feel the sense of loss from nearby. I kneeled next to a middle-aged woman and asked her, "You're here to look for your parents, isn't that right?" "No, my cousin. She doesn't know yet that our Grandmother died." "And your Grandmother lived on this island, correct?" I realized I was talking faster and beginning to sweat. She shook her head and slowly said, "Grandmother lived in Utah," as if I was a child who should have known that already. Standing in the center of the stands I shouted, "Who lost their parents on these damned islands?" Then the stage lights went out and my microphone went dead. As I heard the director announcing that there would be no show taped today I realized what islands I was describing; the Florida Keys. I also remembered the one thing I knew about my origins; I was born in Florida. I must have been the one who lost his parents in the Florida Keys - the Forgotten Keys? When my producer came to me backstage to suggest I take a couple of weeks off, I was only too happy to oblige. I was going to Florida. I assumed that the "forgotten key" plaque had something to do with the Florida Keys, and I prayed that I'd be able to put the pieces together once I arrived down south. On the flight to Miami, and then in the rental car heading out to the Keys, I wondered what it all could mean. Were my parents using my powers to summons me? And what did the key go to? I drove out over the Caribbean following Highway One through Key Largo, down to Plantation Key, then the long road to Marathon and beyond, all without having any idea what I was doing. After Big Pine Key, however, both visions returned to me and led my driving. It wasn't too much further before I got to Summerland Key and I followed my instincts north up Niles Road. I took Niles to the end and looked out to the off islands. I knew that whatever I was looking for lay beyond the roads. No need to follow Highway One all the way to Key West. The vision had a hold of me and pulled me like a magnet out of the car and down to the shore where I found a small row boat. I jumped in and started splashing my way violently through the salty water around one little islet, then another. I finally came up on the shore of the smallest, furthest key I could imagine and saw a small structure. To call it a cottage would be an exaggeration, but I knew it had been my home. The door to the cottage had a faded, weather-beaten, red notice stating that the property was condemned. Inside the place was a shambles. The dusty remains of rotting, crudely made stick furniture lay beneath years of spider webs and mold. I looked around the two rooms and started digging in the filth for some clue as to why I was drawn here; some clue to my origins beyond the obvious poverty to which I was born. This close to the ocean and the elements, not much survived to piece together a story. As the sun began to fade, and I was about to give up for the day, I found what I had been looking for. In a corner, beneath what must have passed for a bed, I saw the plaque from my visions. I reached for the key, but my fingers were deceived. I picked up the plaque and blew the dust away from the surface. It read "THE FORGOTTEN KEY," just as I had pictured it, but key was not real; it had been painted on. As I stood staring at the plaque I became aware of somebody coming up behind me. I turned, half expecting to come face-to-face with my parents. Instead I saw a young deputy sheriff holding a flashlight. When he saw my face he said, "Well, Hell! You're Kevin Yarborogh! I'm real sorry about how your show went the other night." The owner of the row boat I'd stolen had called for the sheriff. Luckily, being a fan, Deputy Morris understood that the vision I had on the show had led me here, and he was willing to do what he could to keep me out of trouble. I offered to pay for the use of the boat and no charges were pressed. Deputy Morris then helped me search the county records for details about my family. The cottage had belonged to a couple named Yarborogh, but had been condemned for nearly twenty years. There was no record of what happened to the Yarboroghs, where they might have gone, or any children they might have had. We found no social security numbers or birth dates to follow-up on. Only the purchase of the cottage, and their subsequent eviction, had been preserved in the county hall of records. I returned to the airport a few days later with the "FORGOTTEN KEY" plaque, but precious little detail of how my parents had lived, who they were, and why they had put me into foster care. All I had was this stupid plaque I couldn't understand. There was something else missing as well; since stepping out of the row boat onto the island I'd stopped having visions. Try as I might, I couldn't get inside anybody's head. Even walking through the crowded Miami airport I couldn't tell where a single soul was going. Checking in for my flight, I passed my suitcase across the counter to the ticketing agent and that's when I saw it. The monogram on my bag read "KEY" - for Kevin Edward Yarborogh. I was the forgotten key! I understood at once; the "forgotten key" was the child that they had had to give up. Yes, I was the forgotten key; only my parents had never really forgotten me. They'd made that plaque to keep my memory alive. It was I who had forgotten them. I'd put so much effort into seeing the future that I didn't realize my own answers lay behind me. With that fatal error, I lost any hope of ever returning to my family. Then, robbed of my chance for a past, and no longer able to see the future, I boarded the plane back to Los Angeles. It was time to learn how to live in the present. |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Forgotten Key by Lester F. McGlurk lestermcglurk@hotmail.com |
#1 of 17 |
| As Lillian pulled up in the driveway, I scrambled
around the kitchen putting the dishes away, wiping the counter, and generally
tidying up so she wouldn’t think I was more of a slob than I actually was.
Being single again-for the second time-made me think that that my chance of
being able to carry on a truly intimate relationship with any hope for
longevity was slim at best. Lillian was different, though. She knew me like no other woman could or tried to. We grew up together, went to the same Elementary, Junior High and High School together, and even dated back in Junior High-if what we did could be considered dating. We managed to stay friends over the years, though. In my mind, any girl who could tolerate my eccentricities enough to maintain an amicable association with me was certainly worth my effort to make dinner for. The doorbell rang. My heart started thumping like the pounding hooves of Thoroughbreds running the Kentucky Derby. My eyes darted around the bungalow; taking inventory that everything was in its proper place. I inhaled quickly to make sure that my endeavor of disinfecting everything and subsequent sprinkling of potpourri scented carpet freshener did, indeed, leave the place smelling like a French Garden as was propagated on the container. Everything was as close to perfect as it was going to be. Passing by my Elvis clock mirror, I ran my fingers through my hair to make sure that I didn’t look overly primped (Lillian liked the rugged look, but not Grizzly Adams rugged). One more deep breath…. “Hi,” I greeted her. “Glad you could make it. Don’t mind the mess.” I can only imagine the faces of the doubting tribes of Israel, faced with the alternative of being drowned in the Red Sea versus that of being slaughtered by the Egyptian armies and then Moses doing that thing he did by parting the waters, would garner on them an expression not totally unlike the one Lillian exuded when entering my humble abode. She looked around, seemingly amazed by the practically pristine cleanliness of my house. I offered to take her coat. Then I realized that it was mid-summer, it was about 87 degrees outside, and my gentlemanly gesture was completely redundant. She knew me well and figured that I was just trying to be funny. “Please, have a seat,” I invited. “Dinner won’t be quite ready for a few minutes yet.” She straightened her skirt before sitting on the couch. Every move and gesture she made bewitched me. I had had several relationships since she and I went together in Junior High-two of them even resulted in marriage. There was something about Lillian, though, that entranced me. She was the one girl whom I could not get out of my system; nor did I want to. Yet here she was, sitting in my house, looking radiant, beautiful, and thoroughly amazed that my house was as clean as it was. If she only knew that I had spent three days digging through the refuse that had piled up all over the place, cleaning, scraping, fumigating, shampooing the carpets, washing dishes that had been sitting around for over a week, and thoroughly redesigning my bathroom all in preparation of her coming over. She was that special to warrant my doing so. I only hoped that my culinary skills would not cause her any incurable illness. The last attempt I ever made at food preparation for someone else was when I was younger, and my brother John and I had to whip up something for our little siblings. Igor was the only one who didn’t need the stomach pump. I was an order out kind of guy. The staples in my cupboard consisted of bread, peanut butter, and an assortment of high fiber cereals. My fridge generally housed a jar of pickles, some cheese, and a container of milk. Tonight, though, I was going to be intrepid and attempted construing a quiche. Lillian broke the silence. “Do you have any records?” “That depends…. I hold the High School record for fastest speed, running to catch a bus-but that’s unofficial,” I responded spontaneously. She laughed. She had a wonderful sense of irony-at least when someone else is being ironic. “No, I mean music records. You know; the big, flat, black vinyl disks you put on a stereo turntable?” “Oh! Records! I’m sorry; I thought you meant…. Never mind. Yes, I have a few around here. Do you like Meatloaf?” “Is that what’s for dinner?” she asked facetiously. “Ah, now who’s being funny? Let’s see here: Fleetwood Mac, Air Supply, Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, Rocky soundtrack, Star Wars soundtrack, Meatloaf-of course, a few Jethro Tull albums…. Hey, here’s something I haven’t heard for a long time; Chuck Mangione.” I put Chuck on. Lillian seemed to melt into the couch. “I love jazz,” she mushed. “I’ll go check on dinner,” I said. Go check on dinner. What? Am I stupid? Did I not catch her subtle inference? She wanted to cuddle and smooch for a few minutes. Lester, you’re an idiot. “Did you say something?” she asked. I have this bad habit of muttering my thoughts out loud. Lillian has known this about me for as long as she’s known me. As much as I try to suppress it, I just can’t. It’s gotten me into a lot of trouble. I checked the oven. The quiche looked perfect. Being overly conscientious, though, I had to make sure. I poked a toothpick into the top of it. It seemed to be as close to flawless as it could be, given my lack of skills in the kitchen. As I took the quiche out and set it on the counter by the sink, I looked over at Lillian. She seemed transcended by the music. For a brief moment, I almost considered taking up playing the saxophone if Jazz music had that kind of effect on her. I went back into the living room. I extended my hand and offered, “May I have this dance?” As she gracefully lit off the couch, I took her into my arms and together we started swaying to the music. My living room is not spacious enough for me to do any Fred Astaire-like moves, but the quaint smallness of it was ideal for the romantic embrace we found ourselves in. Quiche or no quiche, I wasn’t letting go of her. I had waited too long to be this close to her. The years since Junior High were agonizing and pointless for me. No matter whom I professed to be in-love with at any given time of my life since I was 15 seemed empty in comparison to what I felt being with Lillian. Everything about her made me weak in the knees: her honey-wheat golden hair-long and luxurious; her sparkling, sky-blue eyes; her soft, tender skin; her curves-not voluptuous, but obvious in a subtle sort of way. Her voice was pure music. And the way she carried herself-womanly, but with just a hint of tomboy playfulness. I was well over a foot taller than she, yet we somehow fit each other like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that are supposed to fit together, fit. My heart had been locked for so long-not wanting to be open to vulnerability. Lillian, however, held the forgotten key that could turn inside that rusty latch. ***** Our meeting again was purely coincidental. Or was it? I had gone back to school to earn a degree in Physical Education. She was an Art major. In the vain effort to woo another girl on campus, I offered to pose for her painting class. At 6 feet, 5 ½ inches, and an athletically muscular 235 pounds, I was, without a doubt, an extraordinary specimen to behold-even in my clothes. When I arrived to pose, however, I was instructed to discard my clothing and strike a position that I could sustain for a long period of time. The room was dark, except on the platform upon which I was posing. Once I assumed my stance, several little lights flicked on atop easels. I could not, nor did I want to discern the faces faintly illuminated by the lights, but one pair of eyes caught my attention, and held them for a very long time. I knew those eyes. I had seen those eyes before. Whose were they? At the graduation ceremony, fate would have it via a very insensitive and juvenile practical joke, that I found myself sitting elsewhere rather than the seat I had been sitting in prior to going up to retrieve my diploma. It so happened that it was beside Lillian. I was surprised to see her. Not that I was surprised she would be attending University, but that she was here, now, and by the grace of destiny, I had the honor of being in her company. We got to talking about a variety of topics. The topic of Art came up. Without going into painful detail, hers were the eyes that peered up at me from behind one of the easels. She had the upper hand; she saw me naked! ***** Carnal thoughts raced through my mind. I would not be opposed to having an opportunity to see her naked. I dared not think that, though; not with my habit of muttering my thoughts. On the other hand, though, maybe, at this point, she would happily comply to such a thought. I dared not think that either, though; not with my habit of muttering my thoughts. To take my mind off the probability of seeing her naked, I remembered the quiche. I asked her, “Are you ready to eat?” She looked up at me with those beautiful blue orbs of visual perception. She didn’t want to eat any more than I did-not really, anyway. She did, nevertheless, concede the notion. I escorted her to the kitchen table, pulled her chair out for her and slid it under her beautifully rounded bottom. I lit the candles on the table, turned my attention to the quiche, carefully sliced it and served her the first portion. I poured us each a glass of sparkling cider (I don’t drink alcohol). We toasted the evening, took a sip of cider, and then I sat there waiting to see how she would pick up her fork, gently lance a portion of quiche, and put it to her rosy lips. She did not disappoint the image I played in my mind. Her motions were fluid. Her lips sensuously wrapped around the fork. And like a moving camera in slow motion, she pulled the fork out in such a manner that defined delicate grace. Dinner was going to be painfully long. It was. As I sat across the table from her, everything she did-every hand gesture, the way she lifted her glass, the way she held her head, the way she flicked an errant lock of hair from her face, and the way her eyes picked up the glow from the candle-mesmerized me. Nothing I could do or had the aptitude for would ever be so beautiful. I was a human mountain gorilla. About the only thing I had going for me was my statuesque physique, my rugged good looks, and my Jaguar convertible. I was a methodical dancer at best; a mediocre writer by professional standards (at least that’s what most of the publishers said, to whom I submitted my material), and my manners…. Well, given that I was raised by bohemians didn’t garner my ability to develop, let alone practice, any semblance of tact and politeness. I eventually started understanding why women were eventually repulsed by me. Lillian never was, though. She saw beyond the superficial man. In some ways I wondered if she perceived more in me than I was even aware of. What did I have locked away that only she possessed the key to release? Dating her again was nothing short of magic for me. Twelve years after Junior High makes such a difference in the way people relate, react, respond, and reach out to one another. Being more mature-in all ways-was a bonus too! There was less to worry about so far as our inhibitions were concerned, but more to worry about so far as our lack of inhibitions was concerned. I wanted her more than I had ever wanted anyone or anything. But I respected her too much to ever want to degrade her honor. My emotions and values were a paradox in conflict. James Bond would never be faced with such a moral dilemma. Who was I kidding? James Bond was a fictional character-it’s the way he was written; it was all in the script. He didn’t have to worry about conscience fighting lust. He just acted on his passions. Man, to be so cool would be, well, so cool. Her hand reached across the table to touch mine. Her fingers gently caressed the hairy fish sticks that were mine. My lumber-like digits intertwined with her dainty ones. Silently I praised whatever and every god I could think of for allowing this moment to happen; for permitting her to be here; for not invoking some horrid curse upon me that would repulse her; for showing mercy, compassion, and giving me the proverbial break I so badly needed in my life. Sitting across the table from her was not the most ideal position for us to really interact with each other. I stood and invited her to join me back in the living room. She took my hand and lit off her chair. I’m telling you, if she doesn’t quit setting my furniture on fire, I might have to resort to using stone furnishings. We sauntered towards the living room. An impure thought raced across the stage of my mind; to the effect of, the bedroom is just around the corner, down the hall…. That bedroom hadn’t been used for that since my second wife and I…. We sat down on the couch, together. Not thinking and by impulse, I reached for the TV remote on the coffee table. She intercepted my hand with her foot. She had pretty feet. I took her foot in my hand and started massaging the underside, kneading her arch, giving a little Shiatsu pressure to her heel, and caressing every toe. She sighed with delight, lying back on the arm of the couch, hoisting her chiffon skirt just high enough for me to proceed with therapeutically stroking her calves. She moaned pleasurably. I continued doing whatever it was that induced her reaction. The record had long since stopped. She asked if I could play it again. Who was I to refuse her request? I flipped the record to play the other side. Chuck Mangione played Feels So Good; Lillian and I certainly did |
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| The Forgotten Key by Barbara W. Campbell hello@caboolture.hotkey.net.au |
#2 of 17 |
| Philip watched his older sister unlock the battered
unit door. The stale odor that greeted then puckered her face. “Looks as
though the housekeeper was lazy and then quit altogether. Let me open a window,
maybe we can hear some freshness.” “Philip, you cannot hear freshness.” “Sure you can.” He stood still with his head cocked to one side. “Hear that siren wailing? That's life and it's bound to be fresher than this neglected rat's nest.” “Philip, I know you inherited Dad’s sense of humor, but on a serious note, thanks for coming here with me. It must have been a hassle for you, being right in the middle of your exams. The responsibility of arranging Dad’s funeral sickened me.” “The old man’s numbers finally came up. Remember him saying he would win the big lotto in the sky?” “Can’t you be serious about anything?” “Not if I can help it.” He said, looking around the room. There was nothing of value in the unit. A few outdated clothes sagged from their hangers above two pairs of old fashion shoes. “Dad always was a dandy dresser when he was on a roll.” Philip picked up a walking cane, and blew the dust from the fancy handle. “Philip, I must go and settle with the landlord. You take anything you want, the Salvation Army will collect what is left sometime today.” She brushed away the tears. “Then you had better take the train back to boarding school.” In the bottom of the wardrobe Philip found an old tin box. He took it to the table, and lifted the rusty top. From the assortment of keepsakes, he picked up a picture taken when he was a baby. The picture showed him on his mother’s knee while his sister clung to their mother’s arm. Oh yes, he remembered that perpetual worried look his mother pasted across her face. There was also a racing form in the box, refolded until the writing was worn away. A feather from an unknown bird lifted as he rummaged. He picked up a once shiny button with a safety pin fastened to the back. It had big letters across the front. S M I, or was it S M T? It could stand for Some Morons Think. He laughed and pushed it to one side. A large brass key lay at the bottom of the box. Philip picked it up. The real world disappeared when he looked into the hollow shaft of the key. It seemed to open like a pot on a potter's wheel when turned too fast. Philip saw his parents framed within the enlarged cylinder. His dad was laughing as usual, while his mother yelled. “Not another get rich quick scheme. Please, you lost our home on that ostrich venture.” His dad danced her around, and sang a silly little ditty. “When my sun shone warmly, you came out and basked in it. When the money poured in, you helped me spend it. When the eggs did not hatch it was my fault for counting.” Of course his dad had counted on all the eggs hatching. Then he penned them into a small cage. It had bothered Philip, and he had asked. “Shouldn’t you take better care of them?” His dad had looked up from his favourite book. He was forever reading it, and said, “Those birds will look after themselves, all I have to do is bring in the buyers when the chicks are ready. I wish your mother were a chick instead of a pecking hen.” Philip looked again deep into the key cylinder, and saw a newspaper. He pushed the key forward for better focus. His dad, on the floor now, studied the racing pages. Philip heard his mother whine. “Why don’t you get a job? Our children suffer because of your laziness.” “Laziness? You’ve never seen a man working harder than I am, at this moment. Look here, LAZY E to win in the fifth race at Eagle Farm.” He seldom won, but after every defeat he would return to his treasured book. Philip now looked around the room wondering what the book was about. He turned again to the key. This time he saw his dad with a brief case, and he was putting tapes and a recorder on the dining room table. “Philip” he said. “Do you want to be an important man someday? Of course you do, now listen to tape one every night before you go to sleep. Next week listen to tape two.” “Oh yeah” Memory caused him to chuckle. The SELF MOTIVATION INSTITUTE had him repeating ten times, “I am great. I can succeed.” It was crazy how often he rambled and said, “I am green. I can plant seeds.” Why had his dad kept the key? Maybe it had belonged to his mother. He looked again down the barrel but all he saw was an old brass key. There was a knock on the door. Philip expected the furniture remover, and called, “Come in.” A toothless old man stumbled through the doorway. “Did you find the treasure chest?” “No, but I am sure a salty sea dog as you know just where to look.” He was not a Salvo, Philip guessed, when he caught a whiff of his whiskey breath. Perhaps he was a neighbour? “Jim told me he had a treasure chest under the bed, but he couldn’t open it, because he had misplaced the key.” “If that’s the case you are welcome to it.” Philip watched as the old-timer knelt and looked under the bed. “I should have known Jim was lying, there’s nothing here but a tattered old book.” He grumbled and staggered to his feet. When he had gone Philip picked up the book and brushed it against his pants’ leg. The title was, THE KEY TO SUCCESS. He opened it and saw his mother’s handwriting sprawled across the fly page. “To Christopher, There is a time to work, and a time to dream. Love Margaret.” Philip put the key inside the book, clutched it to his chest, and rushed into the fresh air. His dad would be proud of him. He was also a dreamer, but influenced by his mother’s logic, which reminded him of his exams. Philip had a train to catch. And he knew it was time to set aside his dreaming. The key to success was balance. |
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| The Forgotten Key by Mjules69@aol.com |
#3 of 17 |
| Look into my eyes You will see my life Pain that cuts like a knife Look deeper There is a little girl One that knew horror Can you see her sorrow She is crying for help No one hears her She is the forgotten key No one can save her They pretend They look the other way She burrows deeper and deeper into her self Until she is no longer there But no one cares They are still pretending They think that makes everything alright They are so contrite |
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| The Forgotten Key by Michelle Owens Pooh9324@aol.com |
#4 of 17 |
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that had so many doors that everyone always got lost. There were many rooms in the castle in which the doors were locked. Their keys would hang by their door, hoping to be used. Many keys were used quite often, excpet one little key. He had been forgotten. For the room that he led to was never used or needed. One day a young girl came up him and made him extremely happy because she used him and he then no longer was known as the forgotten key. |
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| The Forgotten Key By Loretta A. Stradley readlorey875@hotmail.com www.issues-mag.com |
#5 of 17 |
| Leslie reached for another box. The attic was full of
boxes, old clothes on racks, and a few pieces of old furniture. Her mother had
been a pack rat and didn't believe in throwing anything away. Now it was up to
her to clean it all out. As the only child and heir to the dead woman there was
no one else to do it. Leslie and her mother had never been too close. Not as close as some girls' relationship's to their mothers. Leslie always figured that they were too much alike in temperament to get along for very long. Sighing to herself she put the box of old clothes that she had found aside for the Disabled American Veterans. What she didn't want she was going to give away to the charity. Someone could use them. The attic was hot and stuffy. Full of dust that kept making her want to sneeze and cobwebs as big as her five feet eight inch height. She would have to make sure the cleaning crew came up here and gave the attic a good cleaning. As soon as she could she wanted the house on the market. Leslie hated this old house. She grew up here but it was anything but a good childhood. Her parents were always fighting. At least until her father disappeared. Her mother said that he ran off but Leslie didn't believe her. At least when she was a little girl. She was her daddy's little princess and there was no way he would ever leave his little princess. He told her that all the time when he came in to tuck her in bed. Or when he came to her room late at night. Leslie couldn't remember much of those times. Her head would hurt and then she would get nauseous when she tried to remember those nights. After that her mother sent her off to boarding schools. Leslie rarely if ever came home on holidays or summer vacations. She either stayed at the school or was shuffled off to some relative. It was almost as if her mother was punishing her for her father's disappearance. Reaching for another box, Leslie tried to remember her father. He was tall and good-looking with dark hair. But she couldn't remember his face. For some reason his face was a blur. Damn this headache anyway! The box that Leslie was trying to get, fell with the top flying off and the contents scattering all over the attic floor. Cursing under her breath, Leslie bent down to pick up the papers and other things that were the closest to her. She was going to have to get some of this downstairs and outside. She was making a bigger mess trying to clean it up. There were boxes and suitcases strewn all about with piles of clothes either in give away or throw away piles. Grabbing the now empty box she began to stuff the contents back into it. Newspaper articles and letters from long ago. A name caught her attention. Picking up the clipped article Leslie read the faded and yellowed lettering. "Walter Thompson missing for three months. No clues have been found as to where he went or how. Wife denies knowledge of her husband whereabouts." It went on to say that Mrs. Thompson hadn't even called the police and filed a missing people report. Her husband's job had. There was a picture of Leslie as a little girl being held by her mother on the front steps of their house. Her mother looked angry and anything but worried about a missing husband. Leslie put the clipping back in the box and reached for more things. A glint of a sparkle caught her eye. The sun shown through cracks in the small painted over window on the far wall that faced the front of the house. One lone beam shone down on the floor where Leslie knelt and something caught and reflected the errant ray back. Reaching for the small metal box, Leslie wondered what could be in it if anything. Picking it up she ran a finger over the odd design that had been etched onto the top. It looked like some kind of symbol. Maybe of the occult or something because of the one large eye inside a circle. Her mother had a fascination for anything occult. It was locked and there was no sign of a key. The box itself was only the size of a pack of cigarettes so the key to its lock would have been tiny. Leslie briefly wondered if the key was in her mother's bank deposit box or jewelry box. No matter, she would just pry the box open with a screwdriver or something. Standing up from where she had been sitting on the dusty floor, Leslie brushed the dust and bits of dirt from her tee shirt and jeans. Taking the small box with her she went down the attic stairs to the second floor. Leslie walked down the stairs to the first floor and went down the hall to the kitchen. Quaintly appointed, the kitchen had a window box window for herbs and small plants that looked out onto the patio. Her mother loved to grow plants and flowers. Framing the patio were daffodils, gladiolas, and irises and there were two rose bushes on each end of the house, one red and one white. Flowerbeds were here and there in the back yard. She got a flathead screwdriver from the junk drawer and putting the box on the counter started to pry open the lock. It was an old box but very sturdy. The small lock finally came open with a loud snap. Opening the lid, Leslie spotted the key at once. A large ornate skeleton key lay on the black velvet that inlaid the inside of the box. That key, the forgotten key! Her mother used to say it went to a special room in the basement. She remembered that room. Her mother had a room that had been used for storage room converted to a workspace for her. No one was allowed in it. Leslie had gone looking for her mother one time when she was a young girl and found her in the room. Leslie also remembered the rolled up parchment that her mother was studying. Her mother became very angry and took Leslie upstairs. Leslie asked her mother what was written on the parchment. “Oh this is a spell about the dead. Ancient peoples believed in an after life and there were many spells that they cast when preparing the body to preserve the soul unto eternity. Except for those that were criminals or those that they thought were unworthy..” Her mother said. “Sometimes they even buried people alive and put spells on them to keep them alive for a very long time while buried.” She continued. “Very interesting concept I think. A suitable punishment for the evil.” Leslie quickly left her mother alone and never went down there again. Her little chat with her mother had given her the willies and she was never comfortable in the basement again. Now she wanted to find that room. Surely there would be some relics she could sell. Her mother’s medical expenses had been large. Cancer care was very expensive and took most of the life insurance money. With key in hand Leslie went to the basement stairs and went down. The house had a full basement so there were a couple of separate rooms for storage as the house was large. Originally built in the 1920s the house was a three-story monster. Her parents loved the old and mysterious house and restored it to its former glory. Leslie went around the old boiler heater and down the small hallway that led to the back of the basement. The old coal chute door had been nailed shut years ago and old pots and tools for gardening were kept in the old coal room. The room Leslie was looking for was next to the stairs that led out side to the back yard. It was as long as the width of the house with a big oak door with fancy copper fixtures. It had an old lock on that the key fit to. But when she got to the place a blank wall met her. Against the wall was a bench that had other pots and gardening tools sitting on it. Leslie looked around the rest of the basement for the door she remembered but her memory was cloudy. She was sure it had to have been by the back stairs. Pulling the bench away from the wall Leslie felt the smooth wall for any kind of bumps or something that would indicate that there used to be something there. She couldn’t feel anything so she stood back a little to take another look. She was sure that the door had been on this wall. Surveying the blank wall Leslie noticed that the plaster looked newer than the rest of the basement. The color was not as dirty and as dingy. The door must have been walled up, but why? She would have to bust the plaster to see if the door was there. Finding a sledgehammer from the tool room, Leslie swung it at a spot where she thought the door should be. The plaster was old and dry so it cracked and broke on contact. Removing the bigger pieces from the hole she had created, Leslie saw the door. So it was here after all. Swinging the hammer over and over again, Leslie was able to make the hole bigger. Tearing down the wooden support beams that held the drywall intact, she was able to completely clear the door. It was exactly as she remembered. With her headache getting stronger Leslie was filled with a sense of foreboding. Something bad was in that room. She sensed it! But her curiosity got the better of her and she put the key in the lock and turned it. The door opened with a hard tug on the knob. Swinging on squeaky hinges the door opened up to a dark room. No light had been allowed in this room. All the windows had been nailed shut and bricked up. There was a lantern right inside the door on a ledge with some matches. There hadn’t been any electric run to the room either. A small fireplace, almost big enough to roast a small pig, was on the left sidewall. In the fireplace was a cauldron suspended from a chain attached to a bar that was sunk into the stonework. Cobwebs and thick dust covered the fireplace and the room. Neither had been used in a very long time. Leslie walked farther into the room. Against the wall opposite the door was a box. It was approximately seven feet long and three feet deep. It had been propped against the wall and there were strange etchings on the lid. Fanciful figures of animals and plants were on it. The foreboding grew stronger and Leslie did not want to open the box. Her headache and nausea was getting worse. She knew that she had to find out what was in it. A morbid curiosity got the better of her and she walked over to the box. Running her fingers over the strange words and pictures she shivered with dread. It had been nailed shut. She went to get a crowbar and pried it open. Grasping the edge of the lid she lifted it up and with the box now open she could see the contents. With a gasp, memories flooded her mind, memories of all those nights when her father came to her room. Bending over with the sudden pain in her gut, Leslie puked. She remembered everything now. She remembered her father molesting her and her mother catching him. She remembered the tea her mother gave her to put her to sleep. Dropping to the floor Leslie stared at her father’s remains. He had been tied up and put in the box. And from the look on his face he had been alive when it happened. The horror that was in the expression on his shriveled and sunken mummified face was evident that he was fully aware of what was happening to him. He hadn’t disappeared! He had been murdered! Leslie got up and stumbled out of the room. With the wall to support her she went up the stairs to the kitchen. The police had to be notified. After calling them she sat down at her mother’s kitchen table. In total shock she surmised that her mother must have drugged her father and put him in the box. She had been a full figured woman and knew a lot of nursing. She could have managed a drugged body easily. Leslie remembered her mother telling her the next morning that Leslie had been having nightmares and she gave her medicine to sleep. Leslie knew now that her mother had made Leslie forget about the molestations. That was why Leslie had the headaches and nausea. Her unconscious mind never forgot and was trying to tell Leslie what had happened. She remembered everything now. The forgotten key had opened more than a locked door. (c)2002 |
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| The Forgotten Key by Dalia M. daliameg@yahoo.com |
#6 of 17 |
| “Where is it, huh? Didn’t I specifically ask
for the report to be on my desk nine a.m. this morning?”
“Yes, sir.” “Then where the hell is it?” “It- it’s right here, Mr. Hutton.” The young employee awkwardly handed over the ten-page report. He had finished typing it late last night. Raising his eyes slowly, he stole a look at the churlish man standing in front of him. Why would someone who has everything be so irascible? The young man wondered. He can afford to buy anything or travel anywhere. He probably owned the keys to the gates of Heaven right there in one of those drawers. Except he probably forgot the one related with being a nice guy. “Well,” The deep voice made him jump ever so slightly. “It appears that you have done an acceptable job, but I’ll discuss it thoroughly with you once I’ve had a chance to read it comprehensively, just to make sure you haven't fouled up.” Jacob just stood there, not knowing whether to defend himself, thank his boss, or just silently retreat out of the office. Luckily, the decision was quickly made for him. “That’s all, Mr. Bennett. You’re dismissed.” Jacob turned and walked out of the office, silently cursing the man. What a condescending, sadistic son-of-a-bitch! Patrick sat in his genuine leather, swivel chair, watching the new employee close the door behind him, and contemplating the fate of his lucrative business, briefly wondering if those young employees he had working for him could possibly run it into the ground with their stupidities. He remembered quite well when he was young and hopeful. He had had people smarts and an ambitious streak that would not allow him to be second best. So he had gotten on the corporative ladder and started the steep climb one rung at a time until he had become owner of one the largest growing enterprises on the East Coast. I was never a blundering idiot like that Bennett character, he thought haughtily. But turning around to face the Hudson Bay from his thirtieth floor window, he had to admit to himself - but to no one else - that he had paid dearly to be where he was. Not that he had had any regrets, but there had been a lot of compromises that he had been forced to make, starting with his parents, then his wife and daughter. They had never understood what it meant to be always on the balls of your feet, ready for the competition to slam you down like a wrecking ball. No one had understood. His parents had been sympathetic, but coming from the Bronx, they had been all wrong for the kind of life he had wanted to build. They didn’t know anything about dining out in fancy restaurants, or how to behave with multi-millionaires, and they certainly did not know anything about his work which was why he had decided to put them out of their misery, and his, and had erased them from his existence. He no longer called or visited, and he truly felt that this was for the best. Unfortunately, his ex-wife hadn’t. she had reproofed him constantly for treating his parents so callously, and had nagged about it incessantly. It’s a good thing I got rid of her too. He remembered the first time he ever saw her. They had met at a party he wasn't even supposed to go to. He was still a small employee in the company, she was working on her Master’s Degree in Business Communications, and from the time they had started talking, he had felt this intimate bond between them. She had a great-looking body with fully-developed breasts that had seemed to call out to him, and her shapely hips swayed erotically whenever she moved. They were married several months later. At first, he was completely happy. His life was perfect. In the morning, he had his job where he was making great progress, and at night, he had Susan who could do this to him in bed no other woman had dared. He did not think anyone could have that much satisfaction out of life. He was right. Soon, afterwards, the carpet of bliss was cruelly snatched out from under him. Susan had started complaining about the long office hours. She wanted him to spend more time with her. “I’m your wife. I have a right to see you, and talk to you, and do things with you.” “But, baby, you do. You do the most wonderful things to me.” “See? You said it yourself, to you, not with you. that’s the only time I see you, Patrick, in bed. I feel like I’m your mistress, not your wife.” He had explained it all to her, slowly at first, then when she wouldn’t understand, he had gotten impatient and the irksome fights had started. Soon after, he had found out she was pregnant. “I told you, Susan, right from the start that I didn’t want any children.” “But I thought--” “You thought what?! That if you had a baby, I’d stay home more, I’d take you out on picnics, that we can go to Disney World! Get real, Susan! I thought you were smarter than that!” “But, honey, this is your child growing inside me.” “How the hell do I know that?” the sharp slap that had followed rang in his ears. He was surprised, but had feigned indifference. He hadn’t seen her hand going up, it had all happened so fast, but if he had, he would have broken it for her. “You don’t want a wife, you bastard! You never did! You just a whore to wait for you every night in bed with garter belts and perfumed oils to please your sorry dick whenever your whim desires it.” He looked at her coolly; arms on her hips, her eyes spewing fire, her nostrils flaring, and said, “You know, Susan, that does sound good. Maybe I will get a whore. Right after I get rid of you.” it had been so easy. The words had just rolled off his tongue, and the divorce papers had been ready in record time. Serves her right, the bitch! He had of course, found the mistress of his choice, half a dozen actually, then after that, he had moved on to a handful of over-priced prostitutes who were worth every dime. Yet, he admitted that there had never been anyone he had wanted to make permanent. He didn't want the hassle and he certainly couldn’t stand the nagging. Women were only good for one thing, he thought, instantly remembering his latest find and he felt a stir in his groin. Sheila was her name and he had her shacked up in a penthouse in one of the fanciest hotels in Manhattan. He looked at his watch, quickly deciding that he had plenty of time to pay her a visit before his afternoon meeting. But he didn't leave to go to her. He couldn't. Something kept him glued to his chair, something he remembered his father saying once, a long time ago. “Life, son, is a series of doors. You get the key to one door, you can move on and have a chance at getting the key to a second door, and so on. But, if you don’t have the key to the most important door, none of the other doors matter at all. it’s that simple.” “And which door would that be, dad?” Patrick had asked, sarcasm inundating his voice. ”Happiness, son. It's crucial if you want to survive in this world. You’ve got to find happiness in order to find the other precious things that life has to offer.” Patrick hadn’t understood him then, and he didn’t want to understand him now. He couldn't figure out why that conversation had suddenly popped up in his head. He had completely forgotten it, until now, and was completely baffled at what could have made him remember it. He turned away from the Bay and faced his magnificent oak desk, the one he had had shipped in from Italy. "Who needs the key to happiness when I’ve got a ten-million marketing report on my desk, and a horny, young lady at my beck-and-call? Tell me that, huh." He asked the desk for lack of anyone else to ask. "I’ve got all the keys I need right here in my hand. Who cares what that old man had once said? That was a long time ago, and it’s better left forgotten anyway." |
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| The Forgotten Key by mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#7 of 17 |
| "Mom, how did you and dad meet?" The girl was rocking
on the chair, chewing her hamburger. "How did we meet?", repeated the mother putting a salad on her husband's plate. A glimpse of a dreamy smile made its way into her face. She remembered that evening how Bill, soaked to the bone, knocked on her door and asked her permission to call a locksmith, because he locked himself out. Silly man, he couldn't come up with anything better. She forgave him this innocent lie. She knew better. She remembered how many times he passed by her apartment frowning and sad, (she peeked at him from behind the curtain) and even though he didn't turn his head in her direction, she knew he was thinking about her. Oh, girls always know this stuff. She understood he was just too shy to invite her out. At first, she even enjoyed tormenting him a little. It was a pleasure to notice how he moved his eyes away when they met. After a while though it started to irritate her. He was so reserved, so restrained from showing his emotions. Apparently the thought of achieving her was so ephemeral, so impossible in his mind, that he was afraid to make any decisive move. Even when she gave him some definite signs of affinity, he was hesitant. Whenever they would meet he said "hi" giving her an aloof and a hopeless smile. So that evening, when he finally came in all wet from the rain, she decided to take the matter into her own hands. She suggested he to take a hot shower and handed him some dry clothes. When he undressed obediently she noticed that he had wide shoulders and strong hands. When he came out of the shower, he looked so funny and cute in her sweatshirt and pants. She brought some brandy and they drank and talked, talked and drank. And then when she saw how difficult it was for him to step over the line … the smile on her face got wider and dreamier…then...she kissed him. She shook off her memory and said. "I lived in the same condominium complex with your dad, pumpkin. Once he locked himself out, he forgot his key, you understand? "Mmmmm." Said the little girl nodded her head. Her mouth was full of food. "…so he came to me to call the locksmith" "Honey, do you remember that key?" she said touched her husband by the shoulder. "Of course, darling" he answered, chewing the salad. "a little too much salt, I would say…" Yep, he remembered. That night six years ago still stood in his memory as if it happened yesterday. This night he finally was able to get a hold of Natalie. "What's going on?" he asked. "Nothing" she answered after a while in a measured tone of voice. "Well you're avoiding me, not answering my phone calls". She did not respond, "is it something I did?" "No it's not you it's just me". At that point Bill understood that everything was over. "Did you meet someone else?" "Yes, I did" she said. "Who is he?" "It doesn't matter." "What are you in love or something?" "Maybe" "And I thought you loved me" he grinned. She didn't answer. "So this is it eh?" "We could still could be friends." She suggested. "No, friend is what you failed to be in the first place. Goodbye." He threw the receiver back on the hook, fell back into his chair and sat motionless for several minutes. Then he got up and went out slamming the door. It was raining, but he didn't care. He walked and walked hitting the stones with his boot whenever they got in the way. He was all wet when he dragged himself back. "Where is the damn key? I must have forgotten it. Shoot" Bill wanted to knock the door down, and even gave it two unsuccessful tries, but he felt so weak. Leaning on his door he noticed a light in the neighbor's window. She was a lovely girl and seemed so friendly. Bill knocked on her door. "Oh my god, Bill you are so wet. What happened?" "I am sorry I locked myself out. Can I please use your phone to call the locksmith?" "What locksmith, it's night time. You'll do it tomorrow. Now you take a shower. I'll give you some dry clothes." "Ok, thank you" Bill obeyed. He took a shower and put her clothes on from which his hands and feet stuck out. "You look so funny" she laughed. "You're still cold" she concluded touching his hand. "Sit down I'll make you something hot". She went to the bar, pulled a bottle of brandy and poured some for him and a little bit for her (for courage) and sat by him on the couch. "Cheers" she smiled. "Cheers" he answered mechanically. After she kissed him Bill felt so sleepy. He was exhausted. Bill wrinkled his forehead, lifted his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "I wonder what Natalie s doing nowadays?" Then he put his eyes down again and said out loud "Yep, definitely too much salt". |
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| The Forgotten Key Julie Thomas-Zucker dkmerlin61@juno.com http:\\www.juliesworkshop.homestead.com |
#8 of 17 |
| If she could do her adult life over, she knew many of
the changes she'd make. Instead of being so insistent on her own way maybe her
husband would still be her husband and maybe her children would visit her some
times. Instead of always hiding, she'd answer and question those things that
mattered. Cherib missed having those around her. She'd see others at the home with visitors and get very depressed. She wanted so much to have friends. As the years passed, she learned that many of the mistakes she made could be fixed, but most of the important ones, couldn't. People had either died or moved on leaving her without anyway to contact them. One day Cherib watched as some young people came to visit. That day, instead of walking away - ashamed, Cherib stayed and leaned in close to hear what the young people said. She listened intently and waited expectantly. Then it happened - one of them - a young man smiled at her and asked, "What's your name?" She hesitated, then answered, "Cherib" much too loudly. She thought she frightened him with her answered for he started to walk away. "Please wait. I haven't had visitors in so long. I hope I'm not intruding on your friend here." "No. No. It seems there's never enough interested folks for all of us to share." "I'm glad you called me back. My name is Billy. We are learning about the elderly in our sociology class. " "Well, Billy, what do you think of this place? Would you feel comfortable living here among strangers?" "I can't say that I would. I guess, that's why I decided to try this and see if I could brighten someone's day." During one of Billy's weekly visits, he noticed Cherib wore a key around her neck. "What does the key open, Cherib?" "You know, I'm not sure. I need to think on that awhile. When I know, I'll tell you." As they talked and shared, Cherib stared at the key. Then slowly began the following story: "The day started slowly. Why couldn't I get going? I wanted so much to enjoy the day, but I just couldn't get going. The heat felt suffocating. "As the day progressed, the temperature climbed higher and higher. I got so hot, all I could think of was cold - no matter the kind - shower, drinks, ice, everything! I felt life a fish out of water: scaly and dehydrated. "I dreamed of tons and tons of ice cream so it would take away the intense heat I felt. Needless to say, as I became older I bought myself an ice cream truck business. Though I never enjoyed classical music, the signal most drivers use to call the children, as I continued my route, I grew accustomed to the tranquil sounds of the orchestra. "For years all went well, the kids grew accustomed to me and I to them. I helped many, and they helped me. "So, Cherib, the key belongs to your old ice cream truck? Why do you continue to wear something so worthless?" "Not worthless, Billy. Priceless. Let me continue "One bright sunny day, when the humidity became unbearable, my icemaker broke. The other electrical things failed that day one at a time. First, the icemaker, then the engine wouldn't start and then the worst thing of all, the freezer broke. Seeing the melted ice cream flow out the truck door awoke me to more important things in life like: family - I hadn't visited with them for 20 years; friends - I couldn't remember when I actually talked with anyone that wasn't connected to the ice cream business. The dream of that business possessed me so I just couldn't do anything without worrying about the ice cream. "I wear this key to remind me to listen and share what dreams and even disappointments I've had. Unfortunately, I had even forgotten that until you asked me. So thank you for reminding me." Cherib learned to take up that key again and allow her heart to be broken and/or filled up whenever the need arose. |
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| The Forgotten Key by blackmetalsun@yahoo.com |
#9 of 17 |
| My first thought when I woke up in this place was
“where in the hell am I?” I was a little dizzy and weak, almost
falling when I attempted to stand. I was in a white room flooded with light. I
couldn’t see any door or window, nothing, except the six walls that seemed
to be the very source of that light. I remained mute in my amusement for a
moment, then started to laugh. My situation, although uncertain, was very
funny. It seemed that I was kept in an observation room in a top secret
facility, or, even better, on an alien ship. I never doubted the existence of
such facilities, but I never thought that I would be held in one. As for the
possibility of being on an alien ship, that seemed very unlikely; after all,
this was for real and not a science-fiction movie or novel. The next question that needed to be answered was “why am I here?” I tried to remember something about my activities and see which one could’ve attracted the attention of the government, but I encountered a small problem: I couldn’t remember a thing. I had no reason to panic since the lack of memories gave me none. It’s possible that I was a schizophrenic and I was a subject in the testing of a new treatment. Although this situation is not probable, it is possible. On the other hand, if I was held for something I knew, they would have no further use of me, since I couldn’t remember a thing. Either way, things weren’t too bad. Remembering the movies with people confronted with the same situation, I started laughing again. They let the emotions control their actions, so they start screaming and hitting the walls, but there’s no point in doing that. They don’t realize that the ones who put them in there made sure that they are out of reach for the others. “Many think that the spectacular situations require spectacular actions, but they are wrong. Such actions demand huge amounts of energy to be consumed in short periods of time and since a perpetuum mobile cannot exist, the energy cannot be recovered immediately. So, if the first attempt fails, a second one is not possible. To be sure that the action is successful, an equal amount of energy has to be spent constantly until the purpose is reached. Since the energy available is limited, it is better to wait and see what happens than start making noise.” Just as I was ending my syllogism, I remembered something very important, which could’ve helped me to determine what happened… “I guess that was it; that was the end. No one ever imagined that the end of our world would be so melancholy. Less heroic and so… quiet, almost unheard. Some time ago some were talking about a nuclear war, capable of annihilating humankind. Others predicted a “natural” death: earthquakes, floods, overheating, a new ice era… Others, on astronomic bases, talked about the sun explosion or heavy meteorite falls… a great end for the humankind. But that wasn’t a glorious end; it was like the death of the trapped mouse. Maybe that was the repay for all the things that man has done… a slow silent and unstoppable death. Dust falling from the sky. People died quietly those days, waiting for the dust to cover their nostrils, their mouths, their esophagus, so they can’t even scream. The sky was always gray and all of my days seemed the same; I couldn’t tell if it was day or night; the stars seemed to be gone, appearing only in my dreams. It wasn’t raining anymore and the wind wasn’t blowing anymore. The air was still. Dry. Dry as the dust that was falling, constantly, with a slowness that could’ve driven you mad. No one knew where it was coming from. It seemed like the Moon was turning into dust. The towns were empty and cold; no one was on the streets anymore. The dust had swallowed all. The house was empty and covered in darkness. When I was walking through the rooms and the hallways, little clouds of gray dust surrounded me. I went to the only window I hadn’t sealed. The glass was gray, but I managed to see something. I cleaned it a little with my sleeve, but all I could see was the dust that was falling, and it seemed to me that I could see every single one of those small particles. A whole gray world was looking at me: dust all over the roofs, the trees, the cars… I felt like something was eating me inside; I felt like I was going to blow; I couldn’t take it anymore… I prepared my fist and I watched it slowly heading to the window, hitting the glass and going further. Some noises. Blood. Broken glass. Dust. Dust entering into the house. I could feel it on my skin, on my hair, on my clothes. Gray dust covering me... I was feeling like my lungs were burning already. I stumbled, trying to see outside again. The window was wide open. The dust was coming in constantly, swallowing the room without a sound. I tried to hear something, anything, but all was silent around me. The world died or was about to die or was already dead and was buried under that tombstone that God has put it on above. My breath was slower… I searched with my eyes for something… all was burning inside of me… the dust was spinning asking for me… I couldn’t see anymore… I fell on my knees in front of that open window… I tried to get up, but I stumbled… I tried to take my hand to my throat, which was burning… I wanted to scream… all was spinning around me… I was bending… I felt like I was falling and I realized that my last thought will be:” May the dust above me seems easy, and I mean the six feet of gray dust…” Now there I was safe and sound. I guess that the dust wasn’t so heavy after all, which lead me back to the first question: “where am I”? Assuming that memory was real, I should’ve been dead and this place should’ve been either heaven or hell. Assuming that memory wasn’t real, someone had spent a lot of time to put it in my mind. I was walking around the room trying to decide which hypotheses to accept for the new analysis of the situation, when I realized that I was floating. That meant that I was dead and that I was at a crossroad. I went near one wall and tried to touch it, but my hand passed trough it. I tried to touch the other walls, but they were all just a projection. If I’d started screaming and hitting the walls when I woke up, I would have saved a lot of time… I decided to spin for ten seconds and go through the wall that I will be facing and that’s what I have done. You are probably wondering how I can write my story, since I am dead. The answer is very simple. There were three paths: one was leading to heaven, one to hell and one to the living world. But I have made another mistake; the path to heaven wasn’t through the walls, but through the ceiling. All the walls lead back to the living world; there were four choices, four parallel worlds. The chance brought me here. The story is mine, but is not written by me… I have haunted a student until he accepted to write it… There are advantages in being dead, you know… |
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| The Forgotten Key by Rita Wood annietn34@tds.net |
#10 of 17 |
| She is sitting in her favorite chair; the big blue one
by the window and the phone rings, startling her. Instantly chills run down her
spine, wondering if it is the call, the call telling her that her daddy is
dying or worse, already dead. "Hello?" she says, answering the phone. "Hi, sweetheart, can you come over?" her dad says. "Sure, daddy, are you okay? Is there something wrong?" "No baby, nothing is wrong, just thought we could talk, that's all." She hangs up the phone and feels the relief drift from her. Not today, she thinks. Please don't let him die today; I'm not ready yet, just not ready yet. She drives over to his house and parks in the driveway. She sits in her car for a minute, looking at her parent's house and the tears start running down her cheeks. She thinks back to her childhood when she hardly knew this man, who was always so closed up, never showing his feelings for her or his family. It just isn't fair, she thinks, why in the hell does it have to take someone dying for them to finally open up? But she is very thankful for this time and the talks they have every day. She has learned so much about her dad, more than she ever hoped for and she understands it all now. Understands the man perfectly now. She gets out of the car and walks into the house. The nurse is there, sitting in the chair writing something in her book. "Hi Maria, your dad has been asking for you," Shelia says. "He just called me, how is he doing today?" "He is doing the same, his vitals look good and he's hanging in there." "How much longer does he have Shelia, I really need to know, I need to be prepared." "Well, honey, that is hard to say, it could be today, but then again it could be 6 months. You know his heart is really bad, we know that." "I know, I know, I just. well, I don't know." "Honey, let me say this, okay? When I walked into this house 3 months ago I saw you, your mom and your dad. He was calm, did not talk a lot, and seemed to be very withdrawn. I saw you that first day lean over to kiss him and I saw the awkwardness you felt in kissing him and knew you must not have kissed your daddy very much, or that he never kissed you very much." "Yes, that is true, but we've come a long way, haven't we?" "I would say so! I have been doing this job for a very long time and I don't see this happen very much. What I see now is a daddy that loves his daughter and truly shows it. I see you now kiss him before you leave each day and hug him tight to you and you don't feel awkward now, do you?" "No, I don't. My dad has really opened up these past 3 months. I guess dying does that to a person, huh? "Sometimes it does baby, sometimes it does. Sometimes there's a blessing amidst all the pain and we have to go through the pain first to get there." Maria walked down the hall towards her daddy's room, thankful for Shelia. "Hi daddy," Maria says, as she walks over to him and kisses him on the forehead. "Hey sweetheart, I wanted to talk to you today about something I 've been thinking about." "What is it dad?" "A little piece of you that I just remembered and wanted to ask you about it." "A little piece of me? Daddy, are you okay?" "I was just thinking about when you were little. You probably don't remember but I do now. All of a sudden this memory just popped into my head out of nowhere. Do you know what you always did, every day, for hours upon hours when you were around 4 or 5? You would take a book, it didn't matter what the book was, any book would do, and a piece of paper and a pen and you would write the words from the book onto the paper, one after the other, you would sit on my lap and copy the words. You weren't even old enough to know how to read yet but you would copy those words down. I would ask you why you did that and know what you said?" "What daddy, what did I say?" "You said, daddy, I'm practicing writing. I'm gonna be a writer when I grow up and I'm just practicing." "I did that, really?" "Oh yes, you did. And I was just sitting here wondering, why you never became a writer. And that's what I wanted to talk to you about today." "Daddy, I can't believe we are having this conversation. Honestly, I have been trying to write over the past few months but haven't gotten very far with it and had just about decided to quit." "Well now, maybe all you need is to just practice, huh?" "Yeah dad, maybe I just need to practice." "You know, it was like a forgotten key that was found. A key hidden away in my heart and today I found it, opened up my heart and that is what I found. So baby, promise me something, will you?" "Sure dad, anything." "Keep writing, okay? Don't give up and don't quit. I know you are destined to be a writer. I knew when you were little you would be a writer one day, I had just forgotten about it." "Oh daddy, thank you so much. I wish you knew what you just did for me." "I think I do, I can see it all over your face." Maria reaches over and hugs her dad tight and kisses him on the cheek. "I love you daddy so very much." She sits with him for a while and watches him while he sleeps, and smiles to herself. To think, just last night I decided to give up writing and now he tells me this. Shelia walks in to check his vitals on the monitor above his bed and updates her book. "Have a nice talk today?" Shelia says. "Yes, we did, a very nice talk." "That's good, that's really good." She leaves the room and Maria sits and waits for him to wake up once more before she leaves. She hears him start to cough and he opens his eyes. She rushes over to him and asks him if he is okay. "I'm fine honey, just fine. I'm just a little tired and will probably sleep for a while. Why don't you go on home now and I'll see you later." "Yeah, I think I will but I will be back tonight to eat dinner with mom, okay?" "Okay baby." "Oh and dad, thanks." "Thanks for what?" "Thanks for finding the key." She looks at him and sees that he has already fallen back asleep. She leaves and drives back to her house, her heart feeling a little bit lighter on the drive home. She walks into her bedroom, turns on the computer and sits down to write, somehow the words coming much more easily now. |
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| The Forgotten
Key by Ken Goldstein greenkenrg@yahoo.com http://www.kengoldstein.net |
#11 of 17 Runner-up |
| I no longer predict the future, and with the way things
have worked out, I'm beginning to doubt I ever did. People still stop me in the
street and ask if I'm Kevin Yarborogh, "the one who had that TV show?" I always
deny it, and don't even consider that I'm lying. It doesn't feel as if I'm that Kevin Yarborogh, I'm someone different now, although I can't yet say who. As I walk away their admiration turns to taunts. "Hey, Yarborogh," they shout after me, one finger raised in my direction, "Can you tell what I'm thinking now?" When I was at the top of my form I really did some good for people. They'd come to the show and I'd follow my visions through the audience. When the force was particularly strong I'd stop and pull some young woman from her seat and into the aisle. "You came about your sister," I'd say, without needing to ask. "Yes," she would speechlessly nod, tears in her eyes. "I see a reunion, but not for another four months. She doesn't want you to see her the way she is right now. It will be another six weeks before she has the courage to go into rehab." It wasn't always clear, however, that there was only one possible outcome. Several times in a situation like this I'd have to warn the family not to rush the reunion. "If you force her into rehab before she's ready, she'll drop out, run away, and it will be another ten years before you see her." Each vision would be just as clear to me, and just as likely. It would be up to the family to choose which future they wanted to pursue. Sometimes the visions would be fun. "Yes, play those numbers," I'd say to the future Lotto winner. Sometimes they would send shivers through each viewer's spine as I'd intone, "Whatever you do, don't ride with Uncle Jack on the 27th, and get the keys away from him if you possibly can." I'd get a letter a month later thanking me for saving the audience member's life, and explaining how Jack refused to take a taxi home on the day he died. The letters were the final segment on each day's show. Most of the people came for the reunions, though. Relatives and lovers long lost filled their thoughts. Their yearning would rip right through me, as they'd look into my eyes for their happy endings. More times than not I'd give them what I was never able to give myself; an answer that would lead to a whole family. I never knew any family of my own, as I bounced from one foster home to another, rarely staying long enough to build any connections. Each family would quickly tire of my habit of answering the telephone before it would ring, or exposing where my foster father was really heading, as he'd leave the house for a "business dinner." I could only imagine that my real parents were equally terrified of my visions, and that my foresight was the reason they'd abandoned me. Only being able to see the future, I had no memory of when they put me out, or when my talent first became known. I only knew when each placement would end, and I'd have my bag packed before they could come and tell me the news. Of course, I knew that the joke would be on them once I got to be rich and famous. By the age of twelve I could already see each foster family clamoring outside the studio, trying to apologize for sending me away, and seeking some kind of financial payback for the few months that they had had to put up with me. My downfall began in the middle of a live show, with twelve million people to serve as witnesses to my embarrassment and panic. This was not my usual afternoon program, which we tape weeks in advance of the airdates. This was the prime-time special that was supposed to launch me into the upper echelons of television history. Instead it ended my career as a celebrity seer. The show started strong enough as I marched up to a woman in the fifth row of the audience and said, "He's going to find out in two weeks anyway, but it will go much better for you if you confess before then." She then broke down in tears and confessed her affair to her husband. He was upset, but agreed to accompany her to couples counseling to work on several issues, including his own infidelities. I was riding high as we went into the first break. Coming back from commercial I had a vision of a dusty, old plaque. I described it to the audience as I walked the aisles trying to figure out from whom it was coming. "An oval, cut out of wood and lightly stained. A green outline frames a key and a saying of some sort." I was starting to sweat as I realized that I'd reached the top of the stands without being drawn towards any particular seat, or even row. I started to head back down to the main stage and continued describing the plaque. "The key is an old-fashioned skeleton key, maybe four inches long. Above it, the plaque reads, 'THE FORGOTTEN KEY,' in all capital letters." As I hit my original mark in the center of the stage panic set in. I realized that I'd never gone this far without knowing to whom the vision pertained, or what it had to do with their future. I turned to face the audience and the cameras and had nothing to say other than to keep repeating, "It's the forgotten key. Does anybody know what this key goes to? It's the forgotten key." The director threw it back to commercials and my assistant came out with a moist towel to cool my forehead. She asked if I was alright as she mopped up the sweat from my brow. I managed to pull myself together as the make-up artist touched up my face, giving me back some realistic color. "I'm fine," I lied, and greeted the audience with a smile as the cameras came back on. Because this was a special show, we'd invited several of our alumni to sit in the audience and prepared clips of their shows. Unable to shake the vision of the "forgotten key" from my mind, or latch on to any visions for anybody else, I spent the rest of the hour interviewing the returning guests and playing every clip we had. Returning to the set the following Monday to tape another afternoon show, nobody spoke of our ill-fated prime-time debut, or the disastrous reviews that had filled the weekend newspapers. In fact, they didn't speak much at all, but just tip-toed around me as if they were afraid of setting me off again in pursuit of some forgotten key. They needn't have worried; I would set myself off soon enough. Only the introduction to the show went well. From there I went into my usual walk into the audience, seeking visions, and one came almost immediately. I was soaring over a string of small islets, it was a tropical setting and it looked like the bits of land were made up of coral. A long bridge connected the larger islands to the mainland. Rather than panic when I again couldn't figure out who was sending me the vision, I tried guessing, as if I could fake my way through the show. I described the coral islets and zeroed in on elderly gentleman and pulled him to his feet. "Do you recognize this setting?" I asked him. He looked shaken and surprised and for a moment I thought I'd hit pay dirt, but then he said, "I don't know what you're talking about and you're scaring me!" I let go of his shoulders and turned down the next row. "These islands, they're the home of somebody's parents," I was getting more from the vision and I could feel the sense of loss from nearby. I kneeled next to a middle-aged woman and asked her, "You're here to look for your parents, isn't that right?" "No, my cousin. She doesn't know yet that our Grandmother died." "And your Grandmother lived on this island, correct?" I realized I was talking faster and beginning to sweat. She shook her head and slowly said, "Grandmother lived in Utah," as if I was a child who should have known that already. Standing in the center of the stands I shouted, "Who lost their parents on these damned islands?" Then the stage lights went out and my microphone went dead. As I heard the director announcing that there would be no show taped today I realized what islands I was describing; the Florida Keys. I also remembered the one thing I knew about my origins; I was born in Florida. I must have been the one who lost his parents in the Florida Keys - the Forgotten Keys? When my producer came to me backstage to suggest I take a couple of weeks off, I was only too happy to oblige. I was going to Florida. I assumed that the "forgotten key" plaque had something to do with the Florida Keys, and I prayed that I'd be able to put the pieces together once I arrived down south. On the flight to Miami, and then in the rental car heading out to the Keys, I wondered what it all could mean. Were my parents using my powers to summons me? And what did the key go to? I drove out over the Caribbean following Highway One through Key Largo, down to Plantation Key, then the long road to Marathon and beyond, all without having any idea what I was doing. After Big Pine Key, however, both visions returned to me and led my driving. It wasn't too much further before I got to Summerland Key and I followed my instincts north up Niles Road. I took Niles to the end and looked out to the off islands. I knew that whatever I was looking for lay beyond the roads. No need to follow Highway One all the way to Key West. The vision had a hold of me and pulled me like a magnet out of the car and down to the shore where I found a small row boat. I jumped in and started splashing my way violently through the salty water around one little islet, then another. I finally came up on the shore of the smallest, furthest key I could imagine and saw a small structure. To call it a cottage would be an exaggeration, but I knew it had been my home. The door to the cottage had a faded, weather-beaten, red notice stating that the property was condemned. Inside the place was a shambles. The dusty remains of rotting, crudely made stick furniture lay beneath years of spider webs and mold. I looked around the two rooms and started digging in the filth for some clue as to why I was drawn here; some clue to my origins beyond the obvious poverty to which I was born. This close to the ocean and the elements, not much survived to piece together a story. As the sun began to fade, and I was about to give up for the day, I found what I had been looking for. In a corner, beneath what must have passed for a bed, I saw the plaque from my visions. I reached for the key, but my fingers were deceived. I picked up the plaque and blew the dust away from the surface. It read "THE FORGOTTEN KEY," just as I had pictured it, but key was not real; it had been painted on. As I stood staring at the plaque I became aware of somebody coming up behind me. I turned, half expecting to come face-to-face with my parents. Instead I saw a young deputy sheriff holding a flashlight. When he saw my face he said, "Well, Hell! You're Kevin Yarborogh! I'm real sorry about how your show went the other night." The owner of the row boat I'd stolen had called for the sheriff. Luckily, being a fan, Deputy Morris understood that the vision I had on the show had led me here, and he was willing to do what he could to keep me out of trouble. I offered to pay for the use of the boat and no charges were pressed. Deputy Morris then helped me search the county records for details about my family. The cottage had belonged to a couple named Yarborogh, but had been condemned for nearly twenty years. There was no record of what happened to the Yarboroghs, where they might have gone, or any children they might have had. We found no social security numbers or birth dates to follow-up on. Only the purchase of the cottage, and their subsequent eviction, had been preserved in the county hall of records. I returned to the airport a few days later with the "FORGOTTEN KEY" plaque, but precious little detail of how my parents had lived, who they were, and why they had put me into foster care. All I had was this stupid plaque I couldn't understand. There was something else missing as well; since stepping out of the row boat onto the island I'd stopped having visions. Try as I might, I couldn't get inside anybody's head. Even walking through the crowded Miami airport I couldn't tell where a single soul was going. Checking in for my flight, I passed my suitcase across the counter to the ticketing agent and that's when I saw it. The monogram on my bag read "KEY" - for Kevin Edward Yarborogh. I was the forgotten key! I understood at once; the "forgotten key" was the child that they had had to give up. Yes, I was the forgotten key; only my parents had never really forgotten me. They'd made that plaque to keep my memory alive. It was I who had forgotten them. I'd put so much effort into seeing the future that I didn't realize my own answers lay behind me. With that fatal error, I lost any hope of ever returning to my family. Then, robbed of my chance for a past, and no longer able to see the future, I boarded the plane back to Los Angeles. It was time to learn how to live in the present. |
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| The Forgotten Key By Lindsay lo121286@hotmail.com |
#12 of 17 |
| Sam mournfully glanced out of the window as she began
to pack her belongings. The rain came pouring down from the gray sky and
everything was dreadfully gloomy, but it was that way rightfully so because
this would be the sixth time she and her family had moved in two years. Her
parents were not too well off financially, so whenever there were superior
opportunities in other places or their present town began to require too much
money, they just left. Her parents never stopped to ask their only daughter if
they could disrupt her life at any given minute. They just did. Sam was exhausted from of all the moving, but there was just no way to get through to her parents, so she miserably went along with them. She in no way had any time to make any accomplishments or figure out exactly who she was. She never got a chance to play sports, and even if she had wanted to no coach would want a person who could leave at anytime, especially one with no skill or knowledge of the game. Sam also hardly ever got a chance to join any clubs, and when she did the people did not accept her. Sam’s grades were a little less than average, but since her parents paid little attention to them, she had always done the same. In her fifteen years, she could only say that she had only two genuine friends, and one of them would have to be forgotten next week when she moved again. Her other friend had been made when her grandfather had died and they had had to go stay with her grandmother for an entire year to keep her company. Only two days after she arrived in Brockton, her current residence, an average-looking brunette with large emerald eyes named Chloe had befriended her. Chloe had actually asked if Sam could be her lab partner in Biology class and from then until now they had been great friends. Sam thought back to that day with fondness. “Hi, my name is Chloe. What’s yours?” Chloe had asked although they both knew each other’s names well enough. “My name is Samantha. Sam for short, though. I really hate Biology. Are you any good?” Sam had answered while looking at the disgusting squid in which they were assigned to dissect. “Oh well, you’ll think I’m crazy, but science is kind of a hobby for me. I love it!” She had squealed in reply. Sam had thought that Chloe was really crazy, but she had not said anything. Sam continued to pack her few items that she had obtained in her lifetime until her mother called her for lunch. She walked to the kitchen that served as a living room as well, wondering why her mother bothered to make such delicious dishes every meal, since she obviously did not take time to do anything else for her daughter. But cooking seemed to be a passion for Carrie Aldine, and sometimes Sam wondered if the only reason she had been born was to critique all of her mother’s new concoctions. In the middle of eating what seemed to be some kind of broccoli-cheese soufflé, Sam drifted off and began to dream again of her life in Brockton. The first weekend after meeting Chloe, Sam had invited Chloe over to help her unpack and arrange her room. Since her family moved so much and did not have much money, they always stayed in crammed apartments with tiny rooms. Sam usually left everything in boxes except the necessities for the next move, but she had wanted to do something with Chloe and the only thing she could think of at the moment was decorating her room. Chloe had been thrilled because as well as science she also had a passion for decorating. “Excuse me, Sam. I don’t know what land you drifted off to, but you don’t have to be so rude. You know, you could at least tell me if you like your dinner. It’s a new recipe I found.” Sam’s mother huffed interrupting Sam’s thoughts. “Oh, it’s very good, Mother.” Sam halfheartedly answered. Sam drifted off again to her own thoughts as she finished eating her rather bland meal. Chloe had been absolutely delighted when she saw Sam’s room. “I love decorating small places! They’re so comfy and cozy.” She had exclaimed when she stepped into Sam’s room. Sam had never seen it from that point of view before, but now that Chloe said something maybe there was a pleasant side to having a miniature room. “So, what are you in to? How should we decorate this dull room?” “Well, I’m not really sure. I have never decorated anything before.” “Oh really, we can start by cleaning this filthy place out, I suppose.” Sam and Chloe had begun by dusting, vacuuming, and clearing everything out. When they began to clean out the closet, they found an out of the ordinary looking box with an antique key inside of it. Chloe had been sure that it had to fit into something really awe-inspiring, but neither of them could figure out what. After arranging Sam’s things in a fairly fashionable looking way, they had gone out for dinner. “Sam, please hurry up and finish eating and go finish packing your room. After you’re done, which had better be soon, come help me pack in here.” Sam’s mother interrupted again. Sam went to her room, and began to pack once more. When she began to pack her clothes, she stared into the mirror and looked at her long, disheveled auburn hair and short stature. Sam did not think that she was very attractive and she supposed that if she brushed her hair and wore a little makeup people would notice her more, but it did not really matter anyways. She sat down on her now very pretty pale blue bed and examined the key that she and Chloe had found. It was large and irregularly shaped. It had turned slightly green with age, but it was in good shape and would definitely still fit into whatever it was intended to fit into. Sam wished she knew what exactly that was, but she would soon have to leave and the mystery would remain unsolved. After finishing her room, Sam went to go help her mother. “Sam, go pack things in that corner and do it quickly.” Mrs. Aldine said pointing to the dusty area beside the dilapidated couch. When Sam had been busy for a few minutes, she suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, I can’t believe it!” “What is it?” “Nothing really, Mother, can I call Chloe please?” “I guess, but don’t talk long.” Sam ran to the phone and quickly dialed Chloe’s number. When Chloe answered, Sam shouted, “Chloe, you are so not going to believe this. You really need to come over now.” “Is everything okay, Sam? Are you hurt or something” Chloe asked in desperation. “No, No, I’m just fine. Everything is just fine, but you really would love to see this.” “Okay, calm down. I will be their as soon as I ask my mother if I can. See ya soon, bye.” When Chloe arrived she rushed in to see what was up with Sam. “Come over and see this, Chloe.” Sam called as she motioned to the back of the couch. “What is it? Oh, wow. Did you open it? Does the key fit?” “I don’t know I was too excited and I wanted you to be here when I opened it. It sure looks like the key will fit. Let me just go to my room and get it.” After Sam got the key, she put the end into the hole and turned it. The small barely noticeable door opened, and Sam pulled out a very dusty and old box. She carefully opened it and stared in awe. Inside there was a whole lot of money, more than Sam had ever seen. “Wow! This is unbelievable.” cried Chloe. “Let’s split the money, Chloe” “No, you can have it. You found the money.” insisted Chloe, who was well off financially and knew about Sam’s financial problems. “But, really, that wouldn’t be fair.” “Of course it would, so don’t complain. You need it way more than I do. Chloe had to go home because it was late, and Sam decided to wait until her father got home and tell him about the money. When her father finally got home, she rushed over to him and told him about her discovery. He was also incredibly excited, but he said that it was not really there money and that they should turn it into the police. Sam argued, but he insisted so the next day on the way to work he dropped by the police station and told them what his daughter had found. They thanked him and agreed to look for the real owner and contact him on the details. Sam’s father and mother decided to stay for two weeks longer than they had planned since there was a possibility of actually getting to keep the three million dollars. When Sam heard the amount, she could not believe it. She knew that it was a lot of money, but she never considered that it was that much. Chloe also was flabbergasted and could not wait to see if Sam’s family got to keep the money. One day Sam’s father came home with some bad news. After advertising in the newspaper and on TV, the money’s owner had been found. The old lady had had proof that it was hers, and had legally claimed it that afternoon. The Aldine family regretfully repacked their belongings and planned their move again. Sam called Chloe in tears. “I actually thought we would have money for once. I really thought that we would get to stay here, you know.” “I’m so sorry, Sam. I really wanted you to have that money.” “We have to leave, Chloe. We’re moving tomorrow.” “This is absolutely horrible! I am going to miss you so much!” When the moving van was packed and everything was ready to go, Sam | |