Trailer Park Vignettes: “Silent Goodbye”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Darnell Spate had been retired longer than many of his neighbors could remember. Though in a community of mobile homes such as Evergreen Estates, that was not remarkable by any definition. Generally, residents moved in and out at a rapid pace, due to financial woes, neighbor disputes, and frequent visits from the sheriff’s department. So, the population was always in flux. Only a handful of those inhabiting trailers in the park bothered to network socially with their peers. For the rest, ignorance of their environment brought a measure of comfort. They were content not to pay much attention, to anyone and anything.

 

But the shaggy veteran at Lot 71 had survived long enough to outlive everyone in his immediate family. Both children, his wife, parents, and brothers, had all passed away. Along with workplace friends, and fellow members of the armed forces, with whom he had served. He was alone in every sense, yet resilient in the face of his isolation. The only comfort he retained was sitting outside in his driveway, on a strappy, plaid, lawn chair manufactured in the 1970s. The folding seat creaked and groaned when he used it to rest, but somehow kept its structural integrity. Those who went walking up and down the street, with pets or siblings, or friends, tended to look straight ahead, for fear of making eye contact. Most simply wanted to get past the old fellow and his concrete perch, without any interaction. Though if they had known about his multiple tours-of-duty in Vietnam, some might have saluted, out of respect.

 

Spate was arthritic, missing fingers on his left hand, barely able to walk, half-blind from untreated diabetes, and partially deaf from the effects of munitions blasts. But every day, regardless of the season, he would struggle out the front door to sample a breath of fresh air, and a short tumbler of bourbon whiskey. In the winter, that meant bundling up in a snowmobile suit left from his younger days. But at more hospitable times of the year, he simply wore camouflage duds that duplicated those issued during his career as a volunteer soldier.

 

On a warm day in June, the cranky contrarian felt his chest tighten, while drinking from a souvenir glass. It soon became difficult to breathe, and then, a glow of afterlife energy filled his eyes. He could hear voices speaking in a whisper, calling him forward, through the veil. Then, everything went black. His heart seized with the force of a failed, truck transmission grinding to a halt. The rush of stalled blood caused him to jerk and shake, and yowl in pain.

 

He died at noon, with the yellow sun directly overhead.

 

At least a few others along the rustic boulevard might have come to his aid, if they had noticed anything out of place at the narrow, overgrown lot. But his profile in the chair, sitting in the driveway, was too familiar for concern. They trudged by staring straight ahead, smiling and laughing, engaging in friendly horseplay, smoking low-price cigarettes, or drinking Budweiser beer. Not a single tenant paid attention. As a final gurgle of sentient existence trickled through his lips, the senior loner gasped and coughed.

 

“God help me, I’ve had a good run, like Dean Martin, the pride of Steubenville!”

 

Spate’s body stayed in the lawn furnishing for several days, turning pale in the summer heat. A thunderstorm nourished his corpse with cool precipitation. Finally, birds and wild animals began to peck and claw at the lifeless figure, out of curiosity. Yet not a single neighbor came close, to see what had happened. The withered hermit was known for drunken outbursts, inspired by bouts of PTSD and past marital breakups. He would yell and toss empty cans and bottles around the ragged yard, as if battling with ghosts. Fireworks seemed to trigger these episodes more than any other phenomenon. Though he sometimes sobbed quietly, when remembering soldiers from his outfit that had perished before ever experiencing the joy of returning home to America.

 

A month had passed when the new property manager realized that his rent check was absent from her count. He had dependably dropped it in an office slot by the entrance door for decades, according to her predecessor. So, seeing that his account was overdue aroused both a sense of irritation, and worry. Riding on a golf cart owned by the proprietors, she rolled up the broken pavement, found his space, and squawked while still at a distance.

 

“Hey old man, ain’t ya got a gawdamn calendar in yer shack? The rent was due three weeks ago! What the hell, buddy? Don’t tell me yer broke, y’all never go anywhere!”

 

She could see that her leaseholder was in his seat, on top of the gravel drive. But the reclusive bum offered no reaction to her complaint. This evoked a sense of being given the brush-off. Something she had experienced from other, younger renters, but never from the white-haired grump in his green apparel. This made her speak more loudly as she approached.

 

“DID Y’ALL HEAR ME? YER FLIPPIN’ RENT IS DUE! WHATTA YA WANT, TO GET AN EVICTION NOTICE? TRUST ME, SHIT WILL GET REAL HERE, VERY, VERY FAST! I’VE ALREADY HAD THE POPO HAND OUT SIX NOTICES THIS MONTH! THE OWNERS DON’T PLAY THAT CRAP! LET’S SETTLE UP SO I CAN GO BACK TO THE OFFICE AND DO SOMETHIN’ PRODUCTIVE FER A CHANGE! LIKE FINISH MY COFFEE!”

 

Spate had been dead for long enough that his body had started to reek with a graveyard aroma. But being out in the elements had helped to disguise this ugly fact. Still, the stench was frighteningly apparent, as their park manager drew closer. She stood on her toes, balanced at the end of his sidewalk. And snorted upon catching a whiff of this decay-in-progress.

 

“Oh my gawd, what happened to ya, Mister Darnell? Say somethin’ already, yer freakin’ me out! Yer damn well freakin’ me out!”

 

There was no reaction from the deceased resident. Only a wobble of his leg as a squirrel went running for cover.

 

The property supervisor covered her mouth with both hands, and then went running clumsily, down the street. Her flip-flops scattered in opposite directions.

 

“HE’S DEAD! HE’S DEAD! HE’S DEAD!!! WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED? I NEEDED TO KNOW!”

 

At the township cemetery, on a hilltop nearby, the solitary veteran was finally laid to rest in a ceremony performed by a clergyman from their church on the square. A delegation from the local VFW played reverently, to signify the value of his service. But other than a few stragglers from the mobile village, no one else attended. All those who had shared his mortal journey were already waiting, across the great divide.

 

The pastor opened his Bible, and read aloud from the Book of John, Chapter 14.

 

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid...”

 

 

Mermaid & Walrus Revisited: “Paycheck Collector or Over Achiever?”

  

c. 2026 Cheryl Kelly, Rod ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

Her Take:

 

It is often said that the more money one makes and the higher up the proverbial corporate ladder one rises, the less one does.  It is one of those “they say” statements, where “they” are not quite formally introduced or identified.  As with most generalized assertions, there is some truth to be found but also exceptions as well.  During my career, I have run across both types of coworkers and bosses; those that do and those that either pass the buck or delegate depending on where they are on the organizational chart.  As a manager myself, I try to limit my delegation, however, proper and strategic delegation is not only good for the delegator, but the delegatee as well.  It is a great growth and coaching tool that can help an employee get prepared for upward movement when the opportunities arise.

 

Every company has its share of diverse personalities and work ethic amongst its employees.  I liken it to students in a way.  You have your “D” students who are your paycheck collectors; they do the bare minimum without any desire to move in any direction but out the door when the day is done.  These employees work the system in every way possible to get the maximum benefit with minimal effort, making sure it is just enough not to get fired.  Then you have the “B-C” students who are your steady work performers; they show up on time, ready to work and meet the expectations of the job.  These employees have a bit more care and pride in their work.  They truly want to do a good job, care about the quality of their performance, but are content where they are; there is no desire to move beyond their current job description.  Lastly, you have your “A” students who are your over-achievers; they consistently go above and beyond expectations and continually strive for improvement.  These employees are the first in and the last out; the ones who always volunteer for those extra projects; they excel in leadership and have aspirations of advancement.

 

For this mermaid, who has been in the workforce for quite some time, I have seen a trend that shows the truth part of what “they say” above.  Too many times I have seen “A” student employees taken advantage of to a point where they become overwhelmed.  They end up being the go-to employees for everything because their supervisors and managers know that the job will get done accurately and on time; with minimal to no oversight.  The positive attributes and qualities those over-achievers possess start to become a negative…for them.  Their plates become fuller and fuller, and at times those extra responsibilities come without proper consideration or compensation.  The company has now taken this wonderful asset and through their own fault created a liability; or worse, they have managed to push this asset with high potential right out the door to a competitor.

 

So much time and effort, and increasingly so given the recent focus on work/life balance, is put into human resources and projects to create awareness for corporations with regards to employee relations and well-being.  How then, do we continue to see companies fail when it comes to recognizing and promoting those employees who are exceptional performers; those candidates who show the most promise for advancement?  Are they so greedy that they do not want to allocate funds for proper compensation?   In other words, why pay when they can get it for free, at least for a limited time.  Or perhaps it is easier to climb an “A” student hurdle than a “D” student hurdle.  Typical “D” student employee behavior has shown more aptness for argument, complaint, and at times litigiousness.  On the other hand, typical “A” student employee behavior has shown an eagerness to learn and excel; a need to please and not cause waves or draw negative attention.  Could this simply be a case of the squeaky wheel getting the grease?

 

There is nothing more frustrating for an employee than to watch a coworker less qualified and less committed get away with underperforming.  Or worse, a coworker who holds a higher position doing less work or putting in less effort while they themselves are continually pushed for more.  Everyone has their breaking point.  The point at which they finally see the situation for what it is.  Unfortunately for some “A” student employees, this threshold doesn’t come until they have invested so many years that the commitment of time outweighs the desire to start all over with another employer.  Adding insult to injury is watching the years spent working to the higher standard they put on themselves become the normal expectation for their position from their boss.

 

So, what’s an over achiever, “A” student employee to do?  I believe your work ethic is your work ethic, and try as you might, it is hard to decide one day that you will no longer perform to the standard that is typical for yourself.  If the guilt doesn’t get you, the stress will.  The best you can do is to find ways to satisfy your inner self by doing your job to the best ability that you can for the day, and search for ways to push back respectfully when your boss goes to add that second or third helping to your plate without asking.

 

His Take:

 

My friend the Mermaid has a superior amount of experience in this area, and it shows in what she has written here, about employers and their human assets. While my own experience as a salaried manager was somewhat fractured, coming with five different retail chains and surviving numerous company closures and revisions, I can distill my own philosophy into a few, basic platitudes.

 

First – When joining the workforce, one should keep in mind that career goals and company targets may or may not always occupy the same points on a dartboard. Ownership groups generally have some master plan in place regarding their evolution and development, but that may not offer a proper amount of room for growth regarding their employees. As an example, I remember that a most talented manager I encountered while beginning my journey, at a local department store, was frustrated by the structure of their hierarchy. She found herself eschewing accepted routines of supplication to district supervisors when they visited, in favor of accomplishing necessary tasks. This prioritization of actual duties, over embracing ‘office politics’ to further her own advancement caused friction. She was tagged as a contrarian, not adequately a willing and cohesive part of the team. Eventually, she went to a competitor in a different market, and rose quickly to a position of general manager over an entire unit. Her talent was, I thought, quite obvious. But it seemed to matter less than following her superiors around at their heels, with the affection of a puppy. Another member of the same team was a shy, slender woman who took an opposite approach to doing her job. She deferred to the boss on every occasion, and helped to cover when there were issues with his own performance. Their bond remained unbreakable for many years.

 

Second – When working for a Cleveland chain in the 1990s, I saw several fellow associates getting moved from store to store, and having their duties reassigned, in an upward or downward direction. These shifts usually were a product of dependably achieving excellent results, or poor performance being delivered, without improvement. The only people who were able to stay on their spot did so by being anonymous contributors. They showed up as scheduled, did the basic minimum for their classification, and went home accordingly. There were no ripples in the water, having departed. One could rightly observe that their service gave little to the company, except for marking time and holding their position. Yet because they typically avoided controversy or questions, their place in the continuum was safe. Once again, many who were the best and brightest among us moved on to other work. Those veritable slugs who stayed on course, steady and slow, were around forever. With an obvious effect on our operation, a lack of zeal for seizing the day.

 

Third – In personal terms, I benefitted from a wealth of informal training, provided by fellow employees who had previously been veterans of corporate retailers such as A & P, Kroger, Valu King, and many regional operators. Sometimes, I learned more about the industry in this setting than through official manuals and handbooks that were provided. But most important of all was the concept of a work ethic. I sometimes heard members of the team complain that it made no sense to push their limits on the sales floor, when the amount of compensation gotten in return was minimal. That gripe fell upon deaf ears, because I remembered that those who handled simple tasks with dignity and determination did the same when climbing a company ladder. As an example, a Sunday School teacher from my childhood was a top-level executive with his firm in Virginia, but had started out sweeping floors in their stockroom. The character he possessed mattered, at every level of advancement. Sadly, it is something that can rarely be acquired through training at the store level. Instead, a downward spiral of thought and action usually takes precedence, when hiring people who do not fit the paradigm.

 

Fourth – One of the company owners I served, who had a franchise under the banner of a regional chain, urged me to ‘look down the road to see what lies ahead.’ So that I would be prepared when changes came my way, not surprised at the last minute. His advice still resonates with importance. But it also pointed out how we retain our individuality, while participating in a greater association of commercial interest. For a time, I wrote proposals that were submitted to our corporate offices, in another state. A chore I took upon myself for the purpose of seeking advancement while with my local employer. I literally wanted to have a forward outlook on career goals, as my mentor had advised. What transpired thereafter was puzzling and unexpected, however. About half of the ten structured ideas were implemented, some with great benefit for the entire company. But I received no credit for what had been done, and also saw no doors open for new opportunities. In a sense, I had failed completely to derive a personal benefit from this experiment. Yet as an exercise in developing comprehensive skills that would serve me well, later in life, the yield was valuable. I did not see the worth reflected immediately in my paycheck, but felt its confident glow when pondering my own image, in the mirror.

 

Bottom Line – Perhaps the question posed by our Mermaid can best be answered with another query, in response to the first. Is it better to be a paycheck collector or over-achiever? That ultimately comes down to what you expect of an employer, and of yourself.

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “Artist, Undercover”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

During my career as a salaried, retail business manager, I had to face difficult situations on a regular basis. Because it was literally part of the job description, I did not think too much about having that sort of responsibility. It was simply what I had been called upon to do, for the purpose of earning a regular paycheck. My employer required someone with a steady hand on the wheel, and an ability to balance priorities and obligations with a sense of human empathy. It was important to never lose sight of the fact that I not only represented a commercial operation, but also those on the roster, who were all equally important in the eyes of a loving creator.

 

Sometimes however, my patience was tested when executing the duties of a supervisor. And while I attempted to show genuine concern in every instance, regarding specific needs, ultimately the greater whole took precedence over any one individual. Including, as it were, myself and family members who sometimes complained that I was unavailable for them, because of this specialized occupation.

 

One perplexing chore was to receive word that a member of the crew had ‘called off’ and would be unavailable for a scheduled shift. This task was never a happy one to execute. But sometimes, it could be maddening when a replacement had to be arranged, and few were qualified and available. One instance of that sort that still lingers in mind, even today, was with an overnight clerk in our bakery department. A scruffy, black-eyed runt of a man, who looked pale and fearful of too much human contact. He seemed to hold a nearly perfect position, being present in a part of the 24-hour cycle when no customers were shopping, and only basic preparations were necessary. He would arrive at midnight, in a wrinkled uniform, power up the donut fryer, and begin his routine. We rarely interacted, except perhaps with a passing wave as both of us were busy in different areas of the building.

 

Apparently, this shy individual had a nagging kind of stomach malady, and he would sometimes need to miss work, while recovering from nausea. We had standards in place relating to these happenings, but instead of providing a fair amount of notice, his woeful calls would ring through as I was completing our closing process for the business cycle. I always did my best to cover his absences, generally by having to wake his boss who would be scheduled to begin his own day at four o’clock in the morning. With a sleepy grumble, our department manager would agree to start two hours early, and then, hang up abruptly. I never felt good about having to pester him on behalf of anyone.

 

Eventually, this issue swelled in the number of hours missed. It became so predictable that I found myself cringing each night, when preparing to announce that final purchases had to be made at our front registers. Due to slim staffing and a poor pool of potential candidates from which to hire additional clerks, we stayed with the same plan in place. That guaranteed grumpy episodes in the wee hours, and chaotic results in our display cases.

 

Finally, I had reached a terminal point of patience. When I was paged for a late call via our telephone system, and the familiar gripe about indigestion sounded in my ear, I balked. A serious mood took hold, as I spoke firmly and without emotion.

 

“This is the bottom line, friend. Either you show up tonight, or we will have a meeting with the store owner, tomorrow morning, to discuss your retention as a member of the crew. I think he and your department boss have been very forgiving. And I am sympathetic to anyone with health concerns, having plenty of them in my own family. But I am here, the overnight grocery team is here, the janitors are here, and you need to be here. I can’t say it more plainly than that, this situation has to end.”

 

There was a long pause as I listened to the rapid cadence of his breathing. Then, a short, simple reply.

 

“Okay Rod, I’m coming in...”

 

Somehow, after this metaphorical throwing-down-of-the-gauntlet, he became more dependable. I did not have any further issues with him, personally. But later, perhaps as a gesture of goodwill, he asked me to stop by his work station before leaving for the night. When I did, he produced an illustration rendered in charcoal pencil. An expressive, artful portrait of Mother Theresa, the Catholic nun and missionary.

 

“I just wanted to show you this, it is what I do in my spare time. I don’t have many friends, so this hobby keeps me busy. When I finish a portrait, it gives me a feeling of accomplishment. Like I have done something that really mattered.”

 

His revelation left me stunned. I drove home that night in silence, without any music on the radio, or rambling thoughts about my day echoing from the ether. This stunted, unshaved wreck of a man had suddenly transformed himself into a seeker of beauty and fulfillment. I was humbled to the point of a wordless stupor, with only guilt and amazement for companionship. It seemed very dark as I headed home to Painesville. Not only outside, with the sun having dropped below its natural horizon, but also, within my soul. Like everyone in the facility, I had not seen the baker for who and what he was, after hours. Perhaps that mattered more than I realized, as someone in a position of authority. Sadly, we never had a chance to discuss the disparity in real time.

 

In short order, the business changed hands. We never saw each other again, though I reflected on our unusual relationship while managing stores for other owners, around northeastern Ohio. My occupation lasted until disability and physical challenges brought that streak to an unexpected halt, in 2016.

 

My workplace tale came to mind recently, as I sat enjoying a cold brew after finishing a book manuscript in the home office. Like the anonymous, midnight clerk I had encountered, my own place in the neighborhood was somewhat murky and ill-defined. Did anyone take the opportunity to read what I posted online? Or had available, through publishing venues such as Amazon? I doubted that either was likely, despite long hours spent creating new material.

 

As with the troubled member of our crew in Geauga County, I had become invisible. But just as he did, I took comfort from having added my own, artistic contribution to the continuum.

 

For him and for myself, that mattered.

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 30

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

The first night of rest at Grafton Depot was a peaceful experience for the three travelers who had come from Evergreen Estates. Judson Baines and Serge Tarka shared bunk beds in an upstairs room with a scenic view across the hillside. Kelly Strafe slept with granddaughters of the proprietor, on a trundle bed with handmade quilts for comfort. They were all immersed in the primitive, yet gentle culture of Mountaineer folk, without any questions over future plans or pledged loyalties. This simple act of hospitality displayed how the hidden enclave had managed to thrive and develop, despite being located far from any other populated area. In the morning, everyone was treated to a breakfast bounty of sausage gravy over biscuits, bacon and eggs, and hot, chicory coffee. Then, members of the commune left to perform necessary chores that supported the group as a whole. Some tended to gardens in the sloped fields, while others engaged in barn raisings and other light construction projects. Children assembled at a one-room schoolhouse, for primary education. Washing laundry, cleaning and fixing things, and preparing the next culinary feast all took place as a matter of routine. No one needed to give directions to maintain this flow of local citizens, as everyone had a place in the continuum, and held it proudly.

 

Baines was most interested in the radio transmissions he had picked up while at their previous spot. But when he queried Bodean Pringle III about this interesting utility, it did not seem to register as being important.

 

“I reckoned y’all might ask about that contraption. And honestly, I don’t figure that it’s more than a curiosity ta our neighbors and friends. But Ezekiel Traffe found a transmitter device while scoutin’ around this region, it was up in a tower room at the old station in Morgantown. That feller likes ta tinker, which is a passion fer some folks here. His take on that habit is a little bit fancier than some, though. A bit more sophisticated, ta use a big word. He’s built a little generator that’ll burn coal, corn liquor, bacon grease, or cow chips, whatever y’all have on hand. That did okay fer a beginnin’ but now he’s made a river paddle that rotates and spins up electricity without usin’ any other precious resources. So maybe that’s the best of all, because we like ta be prudent with our materials. Some of the people livin’ in our village have crystal sets, they’ll pick up signals without any kind of power needed. Others have found parts and pieces that Zeke put back together, ta make receivers they can share. Some run on leftover batteries, or home-built, energy rigs that’ll spark enough output for somethin’ small. We get ‘em huddled around those sets sometimes, just ta listen. Mostly, it’s so we all stay connected, ‘cause there are some farmers livin’ out on the edge of this territory. More ‘n a stone’s throw from my general store. It’s a long hike ta get here, even if yer spry and good at runnin’ over these old hills!”

 

The university professor was excited about learning details that related to their rural way of life. In a sense, it made him feel like an anthropologist, at work.

 

“That’s what really attracted my attention, Mr. Bodean. Your social order is a multi-level strata of new and old technologies, all put together in a mashup of need and ability...”

 

The hillbilly entrepreneur stared blankly for a moment, then burst into raucous laughter.

 

“Boy, what the heck did y’all just say? Are ya tryin’ ta talk like a high mucky-muck? That sounded like a mess of beans ta me! Or like what comes out of a horse’s rear end!”

 

Baines flushed with embarrassment. He had not intended to be condescending.

 

“Sir, I apologize. What I meant was, in plain speak, you handle your business smartly...”

 

Pringle grinned widely, exposing tobacco stains on his yellowed teeth.

 

“Alrighty then, however y’all say it, we do what we gotta do here. We’re humble folks, we give thanks ta the Almighty every day fer what we have. We live in harmony with nature. We let the sky rule and the soil grow. That’s what’s kept us goin’ through harsh winters and dry summers and such. Mostly, through the dang storms that still plague this land. I believe it’s a curse sent fer punishin’ those who went before us, those who made things fall apart a hundred years ago or more. They were rebuked by Holy God fer sins against his creation!”

 

The classroom scholar raised his eyebrows.

 

“You know about the uprising? And the mass exodus that stripped this world of its population?”

 

The business master turned serious in mood. His face went pale and taut.

 

“Well now, we’ve got tales that were handed down, from one generation ta the next. Y’all might say they are whispers from another time, that keep comin’ back. They tickle our ears when we’re in the right frame of mind ta hear, understand? There’s no point in dwellin’ on it now, our charge is to survive and seek the love of our creator. The sun shines on good ‘n evil both, I believe. But I’ll do my best to be one o’ the good, if I can.”

 

Baines nodded with understanding.

 

“That’s a sensible philosophy, I must say. Anything more would be pointless...”

 

As they were standing in front of the depot emporium, a flicker of reflected light crossed the horizon. Another wave of Seagull bots had arrived from Calimex, on the west coast. Their arc over the mountainous terrain indicated that a search for clues was in progress. Having reached the abandoned park of mobile homes near Lake Erie, they were redirected to locating the Digger shuttle. Traces of C-drive emissions must have allowed them to track the course of their prey, with generalized accuracy. But now, they were lost amid the wilderness environment.

 

Pringle noted an expression of discomfort on the visage of his guest, after witnessing this unexpected appearance. He gestured with comity, and careful concern.

 

“Don’t worry yerself friend, we don’t care if y’all are with us fer a day, a week, a month, or longer. Our table is set by grace, there’s always room fer another one of the Father’s children. If ya come in peace, then we’ll share that gift, and be glad! Amen!”

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 29

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

The dinner table in Angelette Pringle’s expansive kitchen was long and sturdy. Covered with a white, lace runner that spanned its distance from one end to the other. It had been built by local craftsmen who were skilled at making furniture of all sorts, without sophisticated tools or any other modern conveniences. By necessity, they had relearned old arts long forgotten in the world that existed, over a century ago. Now, their services were desired around the small community of Grafton Depot, and in other pockets of civilization that were hidden in the wilderness areas. Perhaps most of all, in the eastern enclave of Atlantia. Though they shunned traveling to that dominant region, to find wealth and privilege. Instead, they preferred to retain the mountainous, Appalachian heritage that had made them so durable in the face of many challenges after the Great Uprising.

 

That simple furnishing was a fitting centerpiece for the lively grandmother, and her brood. To be invited for a meal, with her sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, children, great-grandchildren, and neighbors, was an honor not bestowed on seekers of fortune, or those who already held power and notoriety. But always welcome to common travelers, laborers, or those in need.

 

Judson, Kelly, and Serge were all seated together, at one end of this considerable platform. They stood out as being foreign and unfamiliar, yet were welcomed with enthusiasm. Once the full meal had been prepared, everyone gathered as a group, united in purpose and emotion. Then, the family sire appeared, from a stockroom behind their abode and general store.

 

Bodean Pringle III was a man in his 70s. Still fit and able to supervise the operation of his business directly, as a manager and purchaser. He did not keep a special office for himself, but instead, worked out of what had been a pantry before the home and emporium were expanded. He had a minimalist approach to acquiring goods and services, with every transaction occurring over a handshake. His word was secure in a way not enforced by legal documents, or public edicts. He spoke softly, but with a firmness of faith in the goodness of his kind. And trust in his own wits, to assess every situation on its particular merits.

 

Before the feast was served, he bowed graciously over the table end, placed both palms on its polished wood, and offered a blessing.

 

“Dear Lord, we give y’all thanks fer this food prepared ta nourish our bodies. We also give thanks fer the holy word ya have delivered, ta nourish our souls. We ask ta be worthy in partakin’ of these gifts, ta be humble in spirit and in deeds. We ask fer mercy when our hearts stray from the path of righteousness. And some slack when we become full of pride, and ferget the bounty we are given, in yer name. We also ask for ya to embrace strangers and outsiders that may visit us, and seek guidance or favor. Let us never ferget that but fer yer grace, we might also be as they are. We might also be in need of a helpin’ hand or a warm embrace. Let us shine as the sun shines on our fields, every day. Let us be cool-headed as the nights are cool, after dark. Let us always move carefully, with deliberation and affection, as we find challenges to face. Let us never act in haste, or with ignorance. Let us always be yer servants, lovin’ one another as we love our kin. In yer holy name we offer this petition. Amen!”

 

Baines felt his cheeks burning. He was not used to such crude expressions of fealty to a higher consciousness. He did not subscribe to the philosophical tilt toward a creation ethic. Science in any of its forms, was his primary focus. God as a concept seemed better suited to those who were intellectually weak, and uneducated. Yet something in the moment struck him as undeniably authentic. Perhaps, even motivational in a sense he that could not measure or quantify. There was an aura of some sort present in the room, a crackle of static electricity shared between all of the relatives and guests who were present. He felt this energy in his bones, ebbing from his pores, and resonating in his mind.

 

Strafe, the resigned Space Force officer, took to this prayer of humility more easily because of her own background as a sworn protector of the Mars colonies. She had also bowed in reaction to the blessing being offered. Her echo of the tagline was ebullient, and genuine.

 

“Amen, Mr. Pringle! Amen, amen, amen!”

 

Angelette and two of her granddaughters began to assist with passing heaping plates and filled bowls, around the table. Aromas of smokehouse ham, garden tomatoes, pickled onions and peppers, mashed potatoes, cornbread dressing, and fresh biscuits teased everyone’s nostrils and taste buds. Sweet tea flowed freely, along with hand-squeezed lemonade. A festive atmosphere swelled hearts, and caused faces to smile or grin. While this culinary celebration unfolded, part of the banquet was set aside, to be distributed around the town for those who were no longer mobile enough to attend. Those who were shut-in because of physical infirmities or handicaps still mattered.

 

Finally, Bodean turned his attention toward the new trio sitting in a place of honor, near the kitchen door. He was intrigued by their odd manner of dress, particularly with the one who seemed to be an outlier in this group of three.

 

“Friends, I won’t trouble y’all with many questions, ‘cause that ain’t my habit. I don’t concern myself with gossip, or pryin’ into details that aren’t mine ta know. But I do wonder ‘bout how ya have come to us, today. We are lost in the woods here, so to speak. Our hillside village don’t attract much attention from outsiders, which is a convenient benefit of bein’ hidden in the brush and bramble. Still though, I gotta ask, how did y’all find us? What miracle of goodness brought ya here? Is this an act of chance, or a result of some callin’ we don’t understand?”

 

The three voyagers stared at each other for a moment, being visibly unprepared for that kind of query. They whispered among themselves briefly, before sitting up straight, clearing their throats, and widening their eyes.

 

Baines identified the cause in simple terms. He did not attempt to elaborate.

 

“We heard about Grafton Depot on the radio, sir. You’ve apparently got great taste in music of the old-world variety! And so, here we are!”

 

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 28

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Lotharian Gardino was known for expressing blunt opinions when in the midst of difficult situations. And, for brooding in silence, when it appeared that he had suffered some sort of personal defeat. But the disappearance of their target in the wilderness that had once been called Ohio caused him to break every previous rule of conduct. He became a nuisance to those on his governance staff, and even other members of the ruling council. His obsession with what precipitated their failure to keep a watchful eye on the Digger shuttle would not abate. He pestered technicians and engineers at Toqua Platte to the point of verbal altercations, and a near mutiny.

 

Finally, he confronted Arbiter Goland Pick while the facility head was at his control console, directing operations for the day.

 

“YOU LET THAT PRIZE SLIP FROM OUR HANDS. AM I CORRECT, MISTER? WE NOW HAVE NO IDEA WHERE IT HAS GONE?”

 

The Calimex officer reddened with embarrassment. He did not appreciate being reprimanded in front of others on the technical team.

 

“Prime Keeper, we know that it apparently took off from its original location, south of the Lake Erie region. A C-drive signature registered on our sensors, but it was intermittent, and fluctuated in output. That is not normal by any measure, when compared to our compiled charts from previous sightings. We suspect the craft suffered some kind of damage, possibly when our Seagull bots deactivated themselves...”

 

Gardino did not accept this explanation graciously.

 

“SO, IT JUST DISAPPEARED THEN? DIDN’T WE SEND OUT MORE SURVEY DRONES TO KEEP TRACK OF THAT THING?”

 

Arbiter Pick grimaced over having to describe the incident in greater detail.

 

“Sir, our Seagull units take days to travel from this installation to the heartland. We sent a new wave of them out immediately, but none were present when the small ship departed...”

 

This response only intensified the raging tone of his superior’s voice.

 

“NONE WERE PRESENT? ABSOLUTELY NONE? YOU JUST ALLOWED THEM TO SIT HERE WAITING, WHILE THE OTHERS WERE STILL ACTIVE?”

 

The lead engineer was flustered by this ignorant remark. All of their normal procedures had been followed in a routine manner.

 

“Sir, we did what is customary when a group has already been dispatched.”

 

His answer only caused the tirade of insults to become louder.

 

“YOU IMBECILE! WE COULD HAVE BEEN PROACTIVE! WE COULD HAVE BEEN READY! BUT INSTEAD, YOUR SLACKING HAS PUT US IN A SPOT WHERE WE HAVE NO GOOD OPTIONS REMAINING! THIS IS RIDICULOUS! WHAT SHALL I TELL THE COASTAL GOVERNORS AT OUR NEXT MEETING? THAT WE SIMPLY DIDN’T KEEP UP OUR PACE IN THIS COMPETITION TO GAIN NEW RESOURCES?”

 

Pick was puzzled by this odd characterization.

 

“Competition, Prime Keeper? With who or what? None of the other enclaves have a sufficient level of technical skills to comprehend something like a C-drive system for propulsion. They would be completely dumbfounded by such an innovation. Indeed, we don’t even understand it ourselves...”

 

Gardino went wild at this candid admission. He shouted and stammered, and stomped his feet.

 

“NO, NO, NO, I WON’T TAKE THAT AS A STATEMENT OF FACT, GOLAND! YOU KNOW MANY THINGS, AFTER YEARS OF STUDY AND EXPERIMENTATION! YOUR CREW IS ALWAYS BUSY LEARNING NEW TRICKS! YOU ARE PERPETUALLY TRYING NEW IDEAS, DISCOVERING NEW COMBINATIONS, AND REVISING OLD STRATEGIES! THIS WAS A FAILURE TO EXECUTE YOUR RESPONSIBILITIES AS A LEADER OF MEN AND WOMEN! THE BURDEN OF GUILT RESTS ON YOUR SHOULDERS! YOU ARE THE ONE WHO MUST BE... PUNISHED!”

 

The Toqua Platte supervisor went pale. He felt a chill of fright run over his skin.

 

“Punished, sir? I must say that I do not understand...”

 

The titular head of their federated republic had to catch his breath, after such a long outburst. He could feel a drumbeat of cardiac elevation thumping in his chest.

 

“Alright Goland, once again if you please. Explain how the Digger shuttle was able to take flight and then disappear while we were tracking the signature of its unique drive system!”

 

Arbiter Pick covered his eyes with one hand. If was as if he were schooling a little child.

 

“Keeper, the transport initiated its impeller thrusters first. That produces a low hum of energy, it is difficult to detect with a distant array like our own. That sort of propulsion is very slow, we have something similar, but more primitive in nature. Their version has a level of sophistication we can’t duplicate. For whatever reason, after being in the air for a period of time, the C-drive was activated. Normally, that system is used for returning to a mother ship, which is in orbit. I cannot explain the event without more information. Then, for some unknown reason, the utility was terminated. That part of the continent was being buffeted by a cyclical storm, it had already passed over our area in previous days of the week. Maybe there is a connection? My suspicion is that the shuttle had already been damaged. Possibly, the meteorological conditions overwhelmed their ability to navigate, because of already being compromised. We could not tell from our remote scans. The Digger apparently circled over that large body of water, then turned south and perhaps, made a crash landing. The nearest Seagull we had in place was still at least 24 hours away. It wasn’t possible to document any details with certainty...”

 

Lotharian Gardino softened his facial expression. He understood, at last.

 

“Therefore, we can be sure that the craft is somewhere beyond that lake, directionally. It might be buried in the mud, covered with woodland foliage, or have even split into pieces, at this moment. Am I speaking the truth, Goland?”

 

Pick cleared his throat with a low groan of surrender.

 

“Yes, Prime Keeper. The Digger models are durable, we think, because they serve as a kind of workhorse for the Martian colonies. It is their conduit to haul goods and passengers between their interplanetary vessels, and the surface of whatever orb they are visiting...”

 

His head-of-state whispered with a deliberate growl.

 

“Then I task you with this – to stay on course regarding the Seagull surveyors. When we have more of them in place, scout around for that shuttle. Find it if you can. And if you cannot, then prepare yourself to stand before the council of governance. There will a hearing on this incident, and about your career as a servant of this republic. Do you get my meaning? We all have to be accountable for our actions. You do, I do, and all of my fellow governors do, as believers in the sanctity of this territory. Calimex exists because of our vigilance. It will survive because of the same. Failure is not an option, it is only a hindrance to us inheriting our birthright of greatness! We will endure, and succeed. That I swear is our manifest destiny! Let no one block our path to the ultimate goal of ruling this world and all its of people!”

 

 

Writer's Forum: “The 7 a.m. Train”

  

by Sarah A Burton 

c. 2026

All rights reserved

 

Editor's Note: The talented author featured here is someone I have known for at least 25 years. A native of the United Kingdom. We met on MySpace originally, where she shared music compositions that I thought were authentic and compelling. I became a long-term fan and have followed her career ever since. Recently, she spoke about writing short stories as a new project, and that news immediately made me want to become involved. I remember well as a young wordsmith, how a basic gesture of encouragement could mean so much. With that in mind, here is the next installment in her series...

 

I started walking to the station, it was a crisp day, not yet Autumn, summer sun still had warmth but in the early morning, breath could be seen. I looked down at my shoes, I could have polished them last night, don't like her to see me scruffy, she would worry. Oh well not this time, tomorrow I will make more of an effort. I went across the road to where the coffee cabin was, Sally was there, in her red tabard looking bright and fresh. She won't be long leaving now as she goes back to college, leaving grumpy Mr. Graves to work the winter months. Sally says 'morning sweetie, your normal? I smiled at her friendliness and nodded A large flat white no sugar was my 'Normal' I said 'I think I'll take one of those cakes too' 'for your lady friend no doubt' was her reply with a wink. I Paid for the coffee and the cake, 'yes’ I breathed, 'Her favourite'

I was walking slower today; most days I'm chipper I think it's the fear of not seeing her in the winter months. I get onto the platform, platform two. It's a lovely station, never been modernised like the city ones. Edgeleigh  Station aging with dignity.

The Big old clock showed 6:45. 15 minutes before arrival. No digital screens telling me of delays, it was just like the 'old days' I can picture her, with carful elegance she steps down from the train, her heeled shoes making a delicate sound on the steel steps. oh how I cannot wait for those minutes to pass before I see her.

I sat on the usual bench, sipping my coffee. Remembering other days, mornings just like this, people rushing, men greeting their loved ones, children rushing up to their fathers, their sons, tears of happiness and relief in their faces. Ladies (yes, I will still call women ladies, I am an old man, and I think it's only polite to call women ladies. Some sharply dressed, some in scarves and overalls, some, helping others with crutches.  it is always busy.

The sun was getting higher now shadows were shorter, thinner, looking up I asked in silent prayer, please let her be on the train again.  Then I heard it, the whistle, that familiar old sound that quickens my heart. The steam bellowing into the station, the conductor whistles and flags waving in an eager fashion as though his life depended on the very essence of the train's arrival. Then it stopped with brakes grinding, noises that sound like a dinosaur's roar. So much steam and smoke you could barely see anything accept the doors of all the carriages flying open, shadows appeared, like every day, crowds of people, families, rushing off the train, I saw one young girl wating on the platform and running to her beau, arms outstretched laughing and giggling as they walked past me. Her curls bouncing, coming out of her pins, she didn't care because she was so happy.  

 

Then out of the shadows, she came, she walked quickly but not rushed in her footsteps. holding on to her hat, her ruby lips; not a smudge out of place, she was searching, of course, searching for our bench. I sat still, not even wanting to breathe.

Then... 'Hello' I looked up and she smiled down at me, I answered, 'good morning' She then spoke uncertainly 'Can I possibly sit here for a minute? I need to find the address I'm looking for' She started rummaging in her bag, 'where is it, I need to know where I am going to let the taxi driver know' I smiled at her dizziness and spoke softly 'Have you tried your pocket?' she stopped and plunged her red fingernails into her Princess coat pocket.’ oh my you are clever, how did you possibly know?' there it was, the address, on the back of the  envelope in her hand. I could just make out, a glimpse of my father’s handwriting.

 

'You don't need to worry about a taxi' I say, 'I have been sent to fetch you' Her beautiful face looked astonished, 'Really?'  That's good news. Who are you?' Well I am the man You are going to marry in two years to the day, and I am the son of the Doctor you are working for at our village practice' Her face was a picture, like every other day, then she broke into that wonderful smile and said 'We better get on with it all then if that's the case' she gave a half giggle, a giggle that lasted until she died many many years later.  I got up from the bench and told her to ‘walk this way, with an exaggerated sweep of my hand, we strolled arm in arm until we got to the gate. the train already started moving on its journey, and there, with her beautiful, graceful face; disappeared into the smoke.  

The sound of the clock bought me out of my reverie, 10am, 2 hours, that was the longest time it had been, nearer now, nearer my love.  The station; emerging through a different light now......the smell, the noise.   Men with leather jackets and jeans strode passed with harassed wives and children, not really caring for their day out on the train, not realising until a few years later that it was a privilege to ride on a 1946 steam train. The train that meant, and still does mean so much to people, the sign of better days, wonderful days to come.

 

I get up from ‘our bench’ and walk towards the Edgleigh Station gate. I sigh, as a poster appears in front of me announcing, ‘Our lovely train will be going away for the winter by 30th of September until May the 2nd.  

 

If only they saw what I saw in those summer months.... my love, coming home to marry me. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Return Mission, Third Stage: Chapter 27

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

The abandoned trailer community of Evergreen Estates had seemed undeniably primitive, when compared to colonies on Mars, or the bustling confederation of Calimex territories. But upon reaching the small, hillside enclave at Grafton Depot, a new perspective was in effect. For all three travelers onboard the Digger shuttle, this sense of being displaced from their normal environment was unifying. As a trio, they hiked over the woodland terrain for about an hour, until reaching this cluster of brick buildings, board shacks, and log cabins. There was some evidence of electrification on a meager scale, yet many of the homes seemed not to have that mode of power available, or even indoor plumbing. Crude outhouses dotted the mountainous slopes, along with sagging barns and pig pens. Most curious was the multiplicity of steepled churches that were interspersed with the other structures. For such a remote and inaccessible population center, there was evidence that the inhabitants were still deeply spiritual as a group. Perhaps continuing onward with old traditions left over from a century, before.

 

Kelly Strafe and Serge Tarka were interested in the local geography, and agricultural development that had evolved, out of necessity. But for Judson Baines, the immersion into pure, Appalachian culture was most compelling. It was as if the history of humanity had been reborn, from some nugget of DNA revived in a laboratory. Even the life of his great-grandfather, T. C. Lincoln, had been modernistic by comparison.

 

At the bottom of a long incline, by the riverbank, they found a great hall of some sort. It appeared to have been constructed with hand tools, and manual labor. Everything had a rustic feel of antiquity, though the condition of its timbers indicated a lifespan that could not have been too great. Next to this large, central structure was a stone building that boasted a much older pedigree in its makeup. The kind of durable fortress that might have been a post office or other official terminal for government business. Creeping vines had worked their way up its sides, which provided a decorative accent of nature on what was otherwise, foreign to the area.

 

Across from this town concourse sat a general store, with tools and shovels displayed in the front window. A banner draped from the roof’s edge proclaimed what awaited, within.

 

“Bodean Pringle III, Sole Proprietor. Goods and sundries for sale, at fair prices. We aim to please our customers, so we’ll see them again!”

 

The university professor was stunned by this family connection. It referenced something included in one of his progenitor’s notebooks.

 

“Lincoln wrote about having a cousin in West Virginia with that surname. Maybe this is a descendant member of the bloodline? That’s an odd coincidence to encounter, but it would make our detour more worthwhile!”

 

Tarka was cautious while surveying the makeshift village. He still wore the duty uniform of a coastal commander.

 

“These people are likely to be suspicious of outsiders. I would be careful when we approach anyone...”

 

Strafe was less fearful of arousing conflict with their presence. She carried a long, walking stick which could also be used for combat, if necessary.

 

“Most of this looks like it came out of a museum. But the time markers don’t add up. Some houses look new, where others must be very old. You’ve got a few motorized vehicles sitting around, but also carts for mules or horses. It’s a strange mix of eras, all thrown together!”

 

Baines scratched his red beard, and smiled while pondering.

 

“That’s a product of social evolution, Kells. After the Great Uprising, they would’ve been in a quandary about how to survive. For those who didn’t hop on a Larman transport, to the Red Planet, life would have become inhospitable. There wasn’t much left, according to my archaeological digs, over the past decade. War, famine, and ecological destruction took a heavy toll on the civilization that remained. In essence, there was a breakdown of that order, and a return to methods not used for generations. They would’ve had to relearn everything. Basic survival skills were lost long before that collapse occurred.”

 

As they came near the long porch that fronted Pringle’s emporium, a woman appeared, carrying a homemade broom. Her long skirt billowed in the breeze. After sweeping away dried grass and dirt from the wooden steps, she paused and turned her head at an angle. Something unfamiliar had gotten her attention, a tingle of voices or a fragrance of unfamiliar chemistry.

 

She shielded her eyes with one hand, then called out across the gravel lot.

 

“You there! We’re open for business, neighbors! Come in and sample some of my dandelion tea, it’s fresh and feisty, just like me!”

 

Kelly Strafe was first to step out of the thicket of trees, and introduce herself. Her boldness resonated with authenticity.

 

“Are you the owner’s wife? We’re looking for some shade and home-cooked meal, after walking a long way. Our umm... wagon broke down out there on the hillside.”

 

Angelette Pringle had wild locks of gray, and a gentle face. She stood with her broom acting as a prop. It felt good to have an excuse to rest for a moment.

 

“Walkin’ around? I don’t reckon nobody ever comes here on a pleasure hike. We’re a good distance from anywhere else. But y’all are welcome just the same. We’ve got a little kitchen in the back, I got smokehouse ham, green beans, sweet potatoes, and biscuits on the table. Or if ya prefer cornbread, that’s still in the oven, bakin’ up in a cast-iron skillet!”

 

Tarka was uncomfortable with this new venue. It did not match anything he had ever experienced, on the Pacific coastline. But his associate from the Percival Lowell Institute had turned giddy with the glow of this chance encounter.

 

For Judson Baines, it meant interacting with living relics from his own past. The sort of experience one could never expect to have, without learning the fantasy art of time travel, through some artificial means.

 

Mrs. Pringle noted the hesitance of her guests to accept this cheerful invitation, and reacted with a motherly dose of encouragement.

 

“Y’all come on, there’s no need ta stand out here in the hot sun! Those storms from yesterday have passed by now, and its time ta celebrate! Let’s get inside, and have ourselves a feast!”