About the Author
Jayson was named after the hero of Jason and the Argonauts, but his mama just spells things differently, okay? As a waiter, teacher, copywriter, and gleeful public bus rider, he's had many experiences with strange humans. He enjoys all storytelling and tries to compose music. Jayson lives in Providence, R.I. with a cat he generally dislikes.
The Ghost Orchid Estate: or METAFICTION
A late-night plane ride got me thinking about how we travel great distances for good food. But what would it be like to be taken by extraterrestrials that gave you that food. Also, what if those aliens had a mansion that was floating through the cosmos? And what if they were inept and needed some chump to do their dirty work? The Ghost Orchid Estate: or METAFICTION allowed me to answer these questions, for myself, and the Fillamentals. Order the Kindle version for the same price as an affordable cup of coffee:
The Sycamores
Rich Pellegrino's spectacular cover (above) for The Ghost Orchid Estate is one of our many collaborations. His illustrations and paintings have seen their way into Entertainment Weekly, Lucasfilm Printing, Blue Moon Brewing Company, galleries across the country, and the likes of Wes Anderson's The Grand Budapest Hotel. Please see Rich's works here: richpellegrino.com
Recently, Rich and I decided to "hip fire" a few stories and images for fun. This experimental series of vignettes — which we called "The Sycamores" — can be viewed just below. We hope you enjoy.
THE DOLL AND THE MIRROR
Lily rehearsed her smile.
The antique mirror played it back; looking good, looking both happy and kind, as her parents always instructed. She picked up the blush to redden her cheeks just so, but also to freeze that smile in place a bit more. Scarlet lipstick finessed the caricature. No amount of foundation could capture it, though; Lily’s face ached from all that showing of teeth (a tired face).
Tom and Julie had adopted her, struggled to buy her, really. Lily spent infancy in foster care in some Australian town whose name Tom and Julie quickly forgot. Lily, herself, could never recall her birthplace of Baishan. When she was six she was flown to Michigan where her earliest memories of understanding English are of the repeated phrase: What a little doll. That was in “98.” Lily ran a finger over her mirror’s patterned trim, musing that the old carved wood had more dimension than the face it now framed…
As the mirror played back her own carved-out grin, it played back the last eighteen years too. In the quiet fatigue before bed, or before a shift at the Sycamore Diner, Lily was often blindsided with a blunt download of the past. Single sentences, though, like cracks in a porcelain vase, were what lined the walls of her insides. They were seemingly harmless but the words were hot-iron-branded from friend, stranger, and family alike; sentences such as, “Your eyes are brown but so exotic,” and “I know what you’re going through because I’m Mexican,” and “Even though you’re Chinese, you’re still one of my best friends,” and “Do you remember your native language?” and “Adopted Asians are basically white,” and “All good girls smile even when they’re sad.” So she did.
She walked away from the mirror, ready to take that smile to work tonight where slobs would treat her like shit and short her on tips, yet Lily had it prepped and loaded, baring it stern like the fangs of a white wolf.
Her hair was still wet too.
The cracks in the porcelain threatened to spread and shatter.
THE NEGATIVE
OPEN EASTER DAY
That’s what the gas station sign said through her binoculars.
Nikki let an ironic chuckle slip. I’ll be in and out, she thought. She dropped her heavy bag on the gravel rooftop and then slid down to the alley from the third-floor fire escape. Being high up was protocol these days, as the Shades did their dark work at curb level. When she cleared the alleyway, she did a once-over of the street. It was clear... while just two blocks away, all of Sycamore Village was ankle deep in the tell-tale inky fog of the Shades. Dead Shades, to be precise. That was their post-mortem state — a dissolved, crawling black mist.
Wraithly as they were, the Shades had sharp hearing; sharp enough that Nikki slipped size 12 wool socks over her One Stars to mute her steps. She darted through the gas pumps, surprised to find the front door glass unshattered. They eased open. She shot behind the counter and dropped down, waiting to hear if she disturbed anyone or anything inside. A full minute, and nothing. Outside, brown and yellow leaves slowly fell to the pavement in an all-too-quiet, lightless world. She snuck a peak over the counter, suddenly being eye-level with a blue-violet glow in what was probably the storeroom. The station itself was bare of course, or in Nikki’s experience it just looked that way for the fatally lazy. Something good must be hidden in there, in fact looking for it would be the only fun she had in her life, so she set her mind to it.
Nikki had two blades. One was a fairly new and dependable buck knife, and the other was a sharpened letter opener with one of those gel handles where the woman’s bikini fell off when it went vertical. She pulled out that one, held it at the ready, and entered the glowing storeroom.
The room was littered with newspapers, all soiled with shit. A dusty aluminum desk sat under some emptied shelves, but nothing more was in here. The source of the glow, however, was a wall-mounted blacklight display for the energy drink, Rapid. This was a score. It was still lit because of a battery somewhere, as it certainly wasn’t pulling power from the city’s dead grid. Nikki took the display off the wall and used her (bikini) blade to pry the back off. Batteries were the currency of the world now, and the four D’s she extracted would be worth many meals. She almost danced when she read the word RECHARGEABLE. The blue-violet Rapid logo died out...
Her treasure hunt culminated when she spotted the unmistakable toothed end of a Slim Jim wrapper. The beef stick was perfectly camouflaged, standing erect among pencils in a mug on the metal desk, but there it was. Her MRE breakfast seemed like it was weeks ago, so she tore open the red plastic right there and tore into the greasy, brown meat stick.
“Disgusting,” she said to the empty world.
She spit it out. It became camouflaged once again when the chunk landed among the shit-stained newspaper.
BOX FULL OF HADES
Bart would liked to have been a spaceman.
Didn’t work out.
As an entry level paralegal at Sycamore Investments INC., he was about as replaceable as a light bulb. Lunch was Bart’s private time to go into the men’s room and quietly cry. He subsisted on power bars and smoothies, so a lunch this poorly spent wasn’t a problem (though, he had tremendous gas all day long). The only person to know of his personal noontime collapse was Danny the janitor, and Danny didn’t care about anything, most especially cleaning the toilets. The man also chose not to learn English — a tactic that had kept him out of trouble for the past fifteen years.
It was Thursday at 4:00 that Bart got an email from Ritchie Palano. The email read: This is not a mistake, Bart. Come to my office at six sharp and bring a beverage. Keep this just between us. Much appreciated! See you then — Richard Palano III, Director of East Coast Operations
Bart fought the urge to show one of his friends at the office, but he never got around to making any of those.
So. Ritchie Palano. The Ritchie Palano wanted to see him for something. Bart couldn’t wrap his head around it. He struggled most with what drink to bring. Did Ritchie mean champagne, or something like V8 Black Cherry Fusion? By 5:30, Bart was sweating through his underwear.
When he heard the elevator door to Ritchie's office BING open, his heart slowed from all the possibilities: Could this be an elaborate process of employee termination? Or even more unlikely, a promotion? Was he in trouble with the police somehow? He had some unpaid parking tickets. What would Bart do if he opened the door to find stern looking detectives waiting for him? He turned the corner to the alcove outside Ritchie’s office to find his secretary (administrative assistant) getting ready to leave for the night. She was a busty, redheaded, pornographic cartoon packaged in a black blouse and skirt. Her voice was deeper than Bart expected when she said, “You must be Barty Trainer.”
“Just Bart,” he told her.
“Well, Mr. Palano is expecting you. You can go right in,” she said through a smile.
Bart only nodded, not because he had poor manners and couldn’t say thank you, but because he was in a momentary struggle not to stare at her smooth, available cleavage. She picked up her purse and left, and so Bart was left alone in front of the dense mahogany double doors. He took a deep breath and knocked. Ritchie opened up fast, as if he were waiting to surprise Bart.
“Barty!” said Ritchie, “Come on in.”
“It’s just Bart, actually.”
“How did you like Linda?”
“... Your administrative assistant?”
“Yeah, my secretary. Bet you’d like to slip into that shit, right?”
“I-- I would.”
“So what did you bring me? Something awesome, I bet.”
Bart had been carrying a paper bag from the liquor store. From it, he produced a six pack of Dutchman's Triple Malt. Ritchie flashed his solid blue eyes at Bart, and for a long second Bart was afraid of the Director of East Coast Operations’ disapproval. But then Ritchie simply said, “Love it.”
* * * * * *
They carried on about malt beers. Bart’s dad had been a brewer, so when Bart had some ammo for the conversation, he began feeling more at ease with Ritchie. Before he knew it, it was 7:00. Ritchie loosened his tie, looked long at Bart, and then said, “Hey. Wanna see something out of this world fucking awesome?” Bart shrugged and said, “Well, with a sell like that, how could I say no?” Ritchie pulled a cigar box out of a side drawer. Bart was afraid it might be drugs... This was going so well so far, but Bart never as much as smelled pot. Ritchie put the brown box on his desk and motioned for Bart to come over. “Go ahead,” coaxed Ritchie.
Bart unsnapped the brass latch. Inside was what must have been a weeks old severed hand. Maggots crawled in and out of it. One maggot slept soundly on the college ring still attached to the rotting fourth finger. The blood had turned to something like tar and blackberry jam. Bart went pale, then spewed.
THEY GATHERED IN THREES
When they gathered in threes, it rained with a fury. When they gathered in fours, it ushered an all-encompassing snow. Gathered with five, the sun was allowed to touch their faces... And that sun seemed to set immediately in Lockwood Forest. The orange light bled through the pines, casting the mirage that the treetops were aflame. Beneath this thick glow, The Witches of Lockwood did gather, their very presence a formula to dictate the weather above.
Gally was tall, and powerfully built despite her soft-furred appearance. When just a mere jackrabbit years ago, she was a laughable familiar, but since she had killed her mistress and absorbed her power, Gally was now the leader of the Witches here. She spoke to the others in her grainy voice; the louder she got, the hissier and more serpentine it became. To alert the others of her entrance, she rang a tubular bell. The voice of the bell scattered tiny woodland creatures around her.
Horn approached his coven leader and bowed before her. His crimson robes pooled over his bristly fur. “What news, old friend?” asked Gally. Horn would have laughed at Gally using the word friend... if he didn’t think she’d behead him for it. He spoke up to her but avoided her stare. “Jaska’s spies report that the Sycamore have slowed their pace. But we should expect them in Lockwood by winter.” Gally’s nose twitched. The news was disconcerting, even to her. The Sycamore wanted nothing more in life than to make good on a river of blood — the blood being The Witches of Lockwood’s.
When Horn stood his stout body up, three others parted the brush to join their badger and jackrabbit brother and sister. The first was a dainty bat, breathing heavily from the moist spring air — this was Allium. The second strode in gracefully, his blue robes and gray fur giving him an icy composition — this was Lumar, the lynx. Last to join the witches was Amaranta, the smallest, the skink.
“Rabbit, skink, badger, lynx, and bat!” screamed Gally. The tree branches near the witches curled inward. The resulting fallen leaves did not dare land around them. Gally’s voice had cast an electricity into the air. The five were gathered now, and their ritual could begin.