Psychochronograph: Short Fiction Bursts

Far away from here, and many thousands of years in the future, a young girl by the name of Coletta von Nestershaw walks through the empty rooms of the station. Its formal name is very long and tedious, as names of things tend to become when the same organizational scheme has been used to assign them for over a thousand years. It all ends in a number—893. Thus, its three occupants call it Station 893.Coletta is twelve and has many strict ideas about all sorts of things. One of these is her annoyance over the fact that some things have multiple names. It seems redundant, hampers communication, and makes everything harder to learn. So, while she is not satisfied that the station has multiple names, she accepts it. She is also very fond of her home. She has lived here since she was ten, when her father—Venya von Nestershaw—was assigned to the planetoid in which the station is embedded.The planetoid has no name, it’s just a seemingly endless series of numbers and letters, so Coletta calls it “the rock” or, more often, “planetoid” because there seems to be no reason to give it another name. It is brutally cold outside, and as far as Coletta can see vast planes of ice recede into the distance. It glitters at sunrise, although the star for this system is very distant. The light will sometimes refract in hues of purple and blue. But now the short day is done, and the sun is hidden.The station is anchored into the ice—it’s shark-tooth shape sunk deeply in through force and heat. She never tires of the vast emptiness of the rock, but she loves it most of all this time of year. Because she is only days away from Kriznas, and the cold and Kriznas go together.“It is time to sup, Coletta,” says Nan, the ovoid comfortdrone who has raised her since she was very little, after her mother expired.“Very well, Nan,” Coletta sighs, stopping the game of leapscotch she was playing in the game room, and bowing her head slightly. A smooth tube slides out of a recessed panel in Nan’s side and attaches itself to the center port in Coletta’s nexum, a cluster of natural ports that all humins have evolved. A puree of fiber and nutrient-rich suspension shoots through the tube, past the center port’s tasting ring, and directly into Coletta’s system. Coletta smiles appreciatively.“Mmmm. What was that? I liked it very much,” Coletta said. Nan chirped, pleased with herself.“It is a special mix I’ve been thinking up. It’s called ‘Rain in the Woods,’ If you like it, I can add it to the regular rotation,” Nan said.“Yes, please. Are you planning a new taste for Kriznas?”“Perhaps. If you are good.” With that, Nan floated away to attend to other duties. Nan had many bodies throughout the ship, all working simultaneously, so she was never far away. When Coletta’s father was away working, Nan was more than just her comfortdrone. She was the keeper of their residence. Venya operated a large rover and did his scientific work over long sojourns over the ice. The weather on the planetoid was too violent for aircraft. Even the formidable traction of the rover wasn’t enough when the weather was at its worst. So, it was a slow and tedious business, and he was usually gone for months at a time.“I hope he’s home for Kriznas,” Coletta said, stopping by the nativity on her way to the Kriznas tree. Nan was not physically present, but her warm intelligence permeated the station. Coletta would often speak to her, just to make her thoughts known, without expecting a reply. The nativity was a traditional one, although other families had trendier-looking ones. At least, that was her impression from the shows and commercials she saw on the viewer. They were well out of regular broadcast range, but they got data bursts every six months. It was expensive, because of the raw power needed to send the info, but it kept them at least marginally in contact with civilization. They were due another a few days before Kriznas. In any case, Coletta had always favored the more traditional set-up for the nativity. Three walls of plantone mimicked ancient wooden walls. Shaved plantone sticks represented the hay. In the center of all this was Mahre*E, the most holy birthing chamber, recreated down to the most minute detail by artisans working in precious metals. Within the birthing chamber was the traditional glowing green egg, made of a spongey, bioluminescent fungus that was meant to mimic the look and feel of the real thing.“May the light of Josu Kriz, still but a spark in Mahre*E’s womb matrix, guide papa home, safe and sound, on Kriznas morn,” Coletta intoned reverently. Tucked within the green fungus was a genestruct of Josu Kriz, ready to be “birthed” at the appointed hour. He’d emerge from his protective cocoon, deliver the traditional Kriznas speech, and be generally available for play for about a day or two. Then the genestruct would dry up and shrivel, the way all genestructs do, and be pitched in the recycler. But for a couple days she’d have her very own pocket god. It was always very exciting.“Nan, may I trim the tree?” Coletta asked, as she entered the main hall of the station. Here, the enormous holographic projection of their Kriznas tree slowly turned, hovering above the circular gift pit. The tree itself was also traditional, a crystalline lattice of sharp green spikes emanating from a central, rotating cylinder. The facets of each spike cycled through video memories, stretched and semi-translucent over the length of their surface. The memories were from the collections of all the Van Nestershaws going back hundreds and hundreds of years. The distortion of the shards rendered the memories somewhat abstract, but all were selected for their happiness and nostalgia quotients.“Yes, my dove,” said Nan as a panel in the wall slid open and one of her ovoid forms glided gracefully next to her. “Would you like me to sing, or would you?”“Oh, you, please. Your voice is so beautiful.” Coletta raised her hands up to the Kriznas tree, and Nan began to sing.Guide my hand / Oh JosuAs I shed / The past intoCrystal limbs / Vibrate the callReveal the gifts / For one and allColetta swiped gently at the jagged crystals near the top (you had to start at the top, it was a rule) and they fell away and shattered into nothingness. You did this a little each day leading up to Kriznas, until finally the base of the tree was swept away, and the gift pit was revealed. This reminded Coletta that she needed to finish and wrap her gift for her father so Nan could place it in the pit. Her father was not a sentimental man. So Coletta had wracked her brain for most of the year trying to think of something practical he’d enjoy on his long sojourns. She settled on a radiation detector, and had Nan add it to their last shipment order—they got shipments only once a year—in secret, using her allowance funds. Coletta had painted it in her favorite colors—purple and blue—and affixed a small picture of herself on one end. It was practical and sentimental, so she hoped her father would like it for one aspect at least.Oh three-headed god / we wait for youIn your cloak of man / Sweet JosuThe wrath-head God / And Gentle SonuGhost-head Spirri / All are youSweet JosuSweet JosuColetta had tears in her eyes. So great was Josu Kriz. She couldn’t wait to play with him on Kriznas morn.Weeks passed, and Kriznas grew closer and closer, and the tree was nearly half gone.“No word from father, yet?” Coletta asked Nan. It was long past her bedtime, but Nan had allowed her to stay up later as a treat.“No, my dove. Not yet. But the storms have been terrible lately,” she replied. Coletta knew this, of course, because beyond the constant weather map that was projected in the communications room, she also could hear the winter storm battering the walls of the station. Months could go by without hearing from her father, especially when he was on the far side of the planetoid as he was now. The thought that he was on the sunny side of the planetoid made her happy, somehow,… This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jonwesleyhuff.substack.com

Kennedy's eyes grew heavier by the second until, at last, her head dipped forward, her hands fell heavily on the keys, and the computer let out an electronic squawk. This shook her awake, and she tried once again to focus on the Excel sheet in front of her. But the grids began to dance in front of her eyes—numbers jumping in her vision from row to row and column to column. Mr. Bowles paid her a little extra each week to balance the books, even though Kennedy had no training in that sort of thing. It wasn't exactly hard, but it was tedious—especially when she was running on three hours of sleep. Her main job here, acting as the second shift desk clerk at the Paper Moon Bay Motel, was equally as easy. Particularly through the weekdays.The motel was old, built sometime in the late 60s when the old highway saw a lot more business than it did now. It hadn't been maintained well enough to be a cute-and-trendy destination, and Mr. Bowles refused to invest any money to get it there. That meant it was a motel for diehards who found its decay charming, people who didn’t want to pay a lot for a room, or for the people who were visiting the nearby state park. Kennedy's eyes were feeling very heavy again when the old phone on the desk rang. Kennedy hated this phone. It was made of an off-putting peachy-flesh color better reserved for prosthetics. Oh, and usually when it rang it was a customer complaining.“What’s up b***h?” Teri yelled as soon as Kennedy picked up the receiver.“Me, unfortunately,” grumbled Kennedy. “Can you please not shout.”"Poor girl, you must really be feeling those shots. They went down so smooth, but damn, they could mess a person up,” Teri said.“How are you so… not dead?”“I haven’t gone to sleep! That’s the secret. Just keep going until you can sleep for the next day. Speaking of which, want to come by my place tonight? Keith and Shawn are going to swing by.”“No! No, that sounds like the absolute worst idea. Aren’t you going to crash before then?” asked Kennedy, although she already knew the answer. She’d been friends with Teri since college, and she was fun. But she was a Chicago suburbs trust-fund baby through and through, and had no clue about how life in the real world operated. Kennedy was equally judgmental and jealous about this fact."No way," Teri said, shaking a bottle of pills near the phone. "I get tired when I want to get tired, and I stay awake when I want to stay awake." Kennedy involuntarily yawned so hard the muscles in the lower part of her jaw cramped painfully. A small, older woman entered the motel office at that exact moment, thrusting the door open with such force the small entrance bell clacked tunelessly."I'll talk to you later," Kennedy said quickly before hanging up the phone. The woman was halfway through the door and gave Kennedy a quick smile before suddenly turning around and poking her head back through the door.“Do you two want something to drink? Maybe a fruit juice? Sure, Grammy can do that," the woman said before turning her attention back toward Kennedy. She closed the door behind her gently. "Sorry about that, my grandkids are darlings, but they never seem to stop needing food and drinks! Do you have any fruit juice?"“Sure, over there in the case. I mean, it's Snapple, but I think that still counts,” Kennedy said, pointing toward an old, refrigerated unit that kept the bottles inside a few degrees colder than the air outside of it. The woman tottered over toward the case. She was very short–under five feet tall—with fluffy white hair and a thick middle. She wore a blouse with a delicate pink and green floral pattern and light blue jeans worn high on her hips. A loose-knit shawl in light blue draped around her shoulders and hung down her back and at her sides, almost to her knees. She completed the look with a large purse slung over her neck, its strap bisecting her breasts. Kennedy knew that Teri would find her hilarious, so she pulled out her new flip-phone and took a quick snap while the woman deliberated between two flavors of Snapple. Almost the instant after she took the shot, the older woman whipped around, a smile on her face and two different flavors of juice in her hand.“These’ll do! Little George likes strawberries, and Addison usually likes this fruit punch flavor, I think,” said the woman.“Will that be all? Or did you want a room?” Kennedy asked. For some reason, the woman found this funny and laughed.“Of course, dear! Why do you think I’m here?”“Right, silly me," Kennedy said through a forced smile. She was too tired and had no patience for this. Plenty of people stopped in just to get food and drinks and head back out on the road since gas stations were in short supply on this stretch. “How many people will be staying in your room?”“Oh, just myself, Georgy, and Addy," the woman said. Kennedy nodded and started typing information into the computer. And, since Mr. Bowles didn't want to invest in some software to manage the reservations and guests, it was just another Excel sheet.“That’s fun. Taking the grandkids for a little vacation?” Kennedy asked, mustering as much enthusiasm for this obligatory banter as possible.“Yes, I figured they wouldn’t want to spend their whole visit sitting around some old woman’s home. I haven’t seen them in years. My son lives with his wife on the East Coast. So, this is a special treat.”“That’s nice of you to go through the trouble.”"Oh, no trouble. We like to go on sightseeing trips. It's not too much money, but we get to take our pics in all sorts of interesting places! I've got a fancy new digital camera and tripod and everything," the woman said.“Well, there’s a great view of the lake if you follow the signs in the park for the Outlook,” Kennedy said, trying to stifle another monster yawn building inside her.“Oh, thank you, dear. I’ll do that.”Kennedy kept forging ahead with the check-in process, and the woman said her name was Cecilia Ann Yates, but to just call her Grammy Yates. Everyone did. Kennedy nodded at this politely, and minutes later, Grammy Yates was heading out of the office with two Snapples in her right hand and the key to room six in her left hand."Now, you two settle down!” Grammy Yates said the moment she stepped out of the door. “Or you won’t get your fruit drinks!” The woman’s voice raised a few octaves when she said “fruit drinks” and Kennedy had to stifle a giggle. The door closed, and (to Kennedy’s relief) muffled whatever the woman said next. Kennedy waited a few more seconds, just to make sure the woman was gone, before picking her phone up again and texting Teri.Kennedy: You have got to see the pic I took of this woman who just came in.Teri: my data is sooooo low show me when I see you toniteKennedy: I am not coming tonight. And this is worth it.Kennedy sent the picture. She needed something to keep her occupied so she wouldn't fall asleep. After all, she was only a couple of hours into her shift. And, gossiping about people with Teri was almost always fun.Only one other person checked in all night, a man in his mid-forties with greasy hair and beads of sweat on his immense forehead. Kennedy checked him in as quickly as she could. Whatever he was up to, she was sure it wasn't anything she wanted to know about, and she figured efficiency on her part was all that he required. Somewhere around seven, she gave in to her exhaustion and nodded off, only waking up to the crunch of tires on gravel. She jolted upward, glanced at her watch, and was amazed to see it was past nine. Only two more hours, and she could get some sleep in an actual bed. Still, she figured she might as well get some of the other daily nonsense out of the way, like refilling the pop machines outside. She thought some of the cool night air might help her feel less groggy, too.As soon as she opened the door, she realized her black short-sleeve Stone Temple Pilots t-shirt was not going to be enough. Not only was it cold outside, but the wind had picked up, sending an … This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jonwesleyhuff.substack.com

Hello everyone, and welcome to this month’s Short Fiction Burst. Usually I present a piece of short fiction here. But this month I have something a little special for you. That’s because my horror novel, In the Dark of the Grove, has been released from Gurt Dog Press!That’s right, it’s October 29, 2021—the day is finally here! To celebrate, I’ll be reading a couple chapters from the book. For more info on how to order your copy (ebook or physical) you can go to my website: jonwesleyhuff.comIn The Dark of the Groveby Jon Wesley HuffPrologueDying ended up being more difficult than Herb Thomas had anticipated. He’d assumed the build-up to it would be the worst part. The drive to Silver Cove had been an uncomfortable mix of familiar and foreign. He hadn’t been up this way in nearly a decade. The once charming lakeside town had taken on a commercialized feel, with tall condos now partially blocking the view of Lake Michigan. He drove into the familiar parking lot of Silver Cove Beach, though he preferred the free parking along the roads of the quaint downtown. His wife, however, had always insisted on paying to park in this lot, since it was closer to the beach. She could spend twelve hours working in the fields, but she hated walking on sand. He smiled at the memory of her and their son, Kyle, running as fast as they could to the shoreline and the cool wet sand that awaited. The smile didn’t last long.Herb’s wife had been gone a long time now, and he hadn’t seen his son in fifteen years. This time, he parked in the lot because he wanted his car to be easy to find. He snuffed his cigarette out into an overflowing ashtray—the result of picking the bad habit up again in the two years he’d been planning all of this. The build-up to this moment had been hard. The uncertainty of whether this was an act of bravery or cowardice plagued him. He never thought of himself as a brave man. Even the book, the greatest act of bravery he’d ever managed, was masked in illusion and art. He looked at the passenger seat, where his comp copy of Dunbar’s Grove sat. His last book, and his most important one.Herb thought of his life. He thought of the series of mistakes and blunders that had left him with a family he hadn’t wanted, and finally to this moment. Why was it that now—just as he was ready for it to be over—it suddenly felt precious? One last time he allowed his mind to wander. What if he’d told his father he wasn’t going to take over the farm? What if he’d been able to write full time, instead of at night, when it rained, or when the fields were dead and frosted over? He put those thoughts away, as he slid Dunbar’s Grove into his jacket. It was long past time for that sort of daydreaming.He mentally went over every detail again, craving the solace of knowing he’d done everything he could do. The agony of the last two years of planninghad left him utterly exhausted. He’d spent so many sleepless nights trying to figure out how to get his message across, but in a way that they wouldn’t know what he’d done. This kind of exhaustion wasn’t cured by even days of sleep. This kind of exhaustion crept straight to the bone and then rested heavy like a lead weight. He was only alive because his death would draw too much attention, given the talk that had started to swirl around the book. But his suicide? That would be a nice bow wrapped around everything. They’d put their guard down, at least at first.The fact this entire plan hinged on someone—who had every reason to hate him—piecing together clues that were designed to be vague at best didn’t fill him with much confidence. That was, of course, assuming Kyle even bothered to return home. There was always the chance his son could leave it to the lawyers, and Herb wouldn’t have blamed him.All of this, however, was just a prelude to the annoyance of dying itself. He walked a half hour down the shoreline, away from the lights of the condos. Here there were just a smattering of lake houses. The last of the sunlight disappeared as the dusty amber of the horizon faded to gray. At last, he came to a stretch where all of the houses were dark, and the calls of the gulls faint in the distance. Hopefully that meant he’d have privacy. The last thing he needed was some well-meaning witness trying to stop him. He walked out into the lake, but its waves battered him away as though he were an infection it wanted rid of. His annoyance turned to rage as he kicked his legs and thrashed his arms to get further away from the shore. How had anyone ever managed to drown themselves? He had a memory—from a movie or a book, he couldn’t remember which—of someone weighing themselves down before walking into the water. That would have been smart. For all his planning, he hadn’t really thought this part would be so difficult. With one last, determined surge of power, he dove further into the murky depths of the lake. Finally, the undertow took him.This death wasn’t like he’d imagined it would be. It was no gentle descent into oblivion’s embrace. He choked and sputtered. His body rebelled against his intentions, tried to claw back to the surface of the water and back towards life. Even as he whirled in confusion and terror in the lake’s depths, he cursed himself. He cursed himself—ever the writer—for trying to write his own ending. His last thought was of the cruelty of reality. A world he could not control. Full of people with their own thoughts and desires. Narratives he could not weave.Chapter 1It was a perfect summer day, and Kyle Thomas resented the hell out of it. He rolled his window down, and the perfect sweetness of fresh-cut grass stewing in sunshine washed over him. It mixed with the more earthy scent of the sweetcorn, standing proud (if a little stunted, thanks to the lack of rain) and ready for harvest. The late afternoon sun washed everything in a slightly golden haze and caused the crops to cast long dark shadows that stretched over the newly cut road-side grass and onto the mottled surface of the road. The effect was dream-like and nostalgia-inducing.It reminded Kyle of the summer drives he and his mom used to take in the country. Sometimes they had a destination, and sometimes they didn't. Sometimes it was just a reason to get out, listen to some music, and collect some of the wild grasses from the side of the road. His mom used the grasses to create fragile bouquets to decorate their home. Bouquets that would inevitably be destroyed by his dad’s fumbling.This was exactly what Kyle wanted to avoid. The false comfort of sunlit days only made the harsh reality of what came after more painful. He was coming back to the town he had grown up in—he refused to think of it as home—in protest. He was the last Thomas. The last in a long line that stretched back to the town’s founding. He passed a low sign made of polished stone that read: Essen, Indiana, Population: 4,500. And underneath this: A Good Place to Live. He could see the faint outline of white spray paint—the last remnants of some sort of graffiti that’d been scrubbed away—and found this strangely reassuring. When he was young, a wooden welcome sign had been posted here. The kids in town had frequently made a game out of vandalizing it in new and creative ways. He was glad to see this small act of rebellion had continued. Other than some soulless new housing developments on the outskirts of town, Essen, Indiana, looked unchanged even after all these years. The twin towers of the Baker Farm's grain silos still glimmered weakly in the sunlight as he entered town along Mills Road. The road curved past a small industrial park that used to house a microwave popcorn manufacturer, an aluminum siding plant, and a tool and die shop. All those businesses were gone now, but new tenants occupied the buildings. The general shape of it was the same, with only the signs having changed. This gave way to the stretches of tree-shaded houses that lined the streets in a ring around downtown. In the darkest pa… This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jonwesleyhuff.substack.com

Witch Adderby Jon Wesley HuffWitch adder blackWitch adder greenWhich is the riderAnd which the unseen?Witch adder crimsonWitch adder whiteWhich is the cureAnd which is the blight?Run to the milland run to riverRun past the straw manThrough briar and heatherRun past the winding roadWinds round the deadWave to the porchmanThat holds his headWitch adder silverWitch adder yellowWhich is the sawbones—that curious fellow?Witch adder slitheringWitch adder blueWhich adder killed me?Witch killed you?Thanks everybody for listening to Psychochronograph audio. I hope you don’t mind me diving into spooky season a little early. I had planned to save this one for October, but then I realized I’ll have something more pressing to read for you then. My new book, In the Dark of the Grove, will be out next month (October) from Gurt Dog Press. The exact date is still up in the air, but I’ll let you know when it’s coming out. Don’t worry. And I'll be reading a couple chapters from it next time.Witch Adder was written a couple years ago for Halloween. I find poetry difficult. I have written some, but rarely every feel like it’s good enough to share. The line between impactful poetry and not-great poetry always seem so razor thin to me. And i’m not even sure I’m a good judge.But my main goal with Witch Adder was just fun. Something that incorporated a little bit of the lore I heard around the campfire as a kid. But mostly I just wanted it to be fun to read out loud.Audio: Very Low Note by Kevin MacLeodLink: https://incompetech.filmmusic.io/song/4581-very-low-noteLicense: https://filmmusic.io/standard-license This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jonwesleyhuff.substack.com

Don’t worry, this isn’t Groundhog’s Day. I’ve decided to upload audio versions of my short fiction so you can enjoy them podcast-style. This required re-posting this story. In between each newsletter, I’ll be sharing some of my short form writing. Some, like this one, will be older. Some will be new. The first one is, in some ways, a special one.Bartleby’s Miracle TonicCrik-crik-crik-crik-clak-crik-crikI listened for this sound. I listened with my whole body. Do you know that sort of listening, where you try to open yourself wide as if trying to summon some other senses beyond the ones that are failing you? I clutched the rope with all my might, its coarse, twined strands digging into the flesh of my hands, biting with every lurch and twist. I held on for dear life, and wished my hands were calloused again. Ahead, somewhere, was Bartleby’s wagon. Brown dust stung my eyes, impossibly thick. I could not see the end of my arms, though of course I could feel them. I could not see the wagon, though I could hear it. I tried to conjure the picture of it in my mind, as though it might make it easier to follow. I was so afraid. So afraid I’d be lost to the dust. I imagined the wheels, cracked red paint flaking from the split wood of the spokes. Crik-crik-crik-clak-crik. They rhythm of them was comforting, as was the discordant sound where the forward left wheel rim had been broken and hastily mended.I tasted the dust. Grit and earth in my mouth. I spat it out, but only succeeded in swallowing more. Concentrate on the wagon, I told myself. I imagined it not as it is, but as it must have been long before I first saw it. Bold colors blazing, apple red and evergreen; ornate swirls and decorations. On the center of each side, inscribed in grand letters upon a swirling yellow-painted banner: “Bartleby’s Miracle Tonic.” I was crying now, involuntarily. Dispassionate tears flowed from my reddened eyes. Such tears always feel strange, as if someone else were crying them. Wet and trickling and mixing with the dust to form rivers of brown sludge on my face; products of basic physical reactions to the foreign agents in my eyes.“You still alive back there, m’boy?” Bartleby’s voice called out from the brown mass before me. There was no real concern in his voice. But then, I expected none. I did not call out, nor attempted any sort of response, already struggling with the taste of the storm in my mouth. Bartleby did not bother to ask again. After what seemed like hours of struggling through the dust storm, it was over. I coughed and spat and rinsed my eyes out with the canteen.“Now don’t you go wastin’ that water, boy. You’ll wish you had it ‘fore long.” I eyed him miserably. He laughed–his nasty, phlegmy laugh–before taking a deep swig of his own canteen. It was not filled with water, but rather liquids of a harsher temperament.“Why couldn’t we have just stopped?” I spat on the ground, and the spittle was brown and rough. “Stopped, ‘til the storm blew over?”“Timing, my boy, is everything. Now be a good lad and try to get some of the dust off the ol’ wagon.”“Yessir,” I said. I must have let my reluctance creep into my voice too much.“Now don’t you go acting like that! You’re the one who wanted to come along with me, remember? Now git to it!” Bartleby’s tone was harsh, but I could see in his eyes that he was just enjoying giving me a hard time. I rubbed my hands together, trying to stop the sting of the rope burns. Bartleby saw me and grabbed my hand. “Ha, that’ll teach you. I told you you’d regret it.” I said nothing.I shaved a few pieces of soap into the bucket, poured about half of what water was left in my canteen in it and let the soap dissolve a bit. I grabbed the old scrubbing brush, its bristles barely clinging to its bone handle (it might have been an expensive horse grooming brush, ages ago) and got to work. I was worried about scrubbing the decaying paint off the old thing, but only a few flakes relented. I took the opportunity to scrub my arms and face in the soapy water. Finally, I was done, and the effort hardly seemed worth it. The old box was clean, but it still looked faded and worn. The once brilliant reds and greens were now sun faded pink-browns and limes. The yellow of the banners had faded nearly to white, the words obscured.Bartleby emerged from behind the wagon in full regalia. He traded his usual drab cotton shirt and brown slacks for his “entertaining” outfit. It had probably been expensive at some point; a black suit with tails, faded to gray in splotches by the sun and a dandy top hat set at an angle. His undershirt was yellowed and wrinkled. Only one part of his attire looked right;  his cane. It was a bright, polished silver. Ornate decorations of claws and fangs swirled around a blood red ruby on its very top. I’d looked at it once, in the dead of night, while Bartleby slept. I remember staring at the ruby, getting lost in the glint of the moonlight splintering through the ruby’s facets. I’d been mesmerized, and absently wondered how much it was worth.“Why can’t we get a respectable looking operation, Bartleby?”“And what, may I ask, do you have in mind?”“Well...” I hesitated, already anticipating his reaction. “Maybe something like Otto Danzing has.” He flew into a rage. His face trembled, veins popping in his forehead. His long, stringy white hair flailed about as he shook his head in fury. I knew it was coming and, in fact, I sort of enjoyed pushing his buttons.“Otto Danzing?” He spat and shook his fist in the air. “That pompous, preening, over the t–Danzing? You want us to be more like Danzing? Danzing is an idiot. He’s got his velvet cloak and his gold and his dancing girls. Bah! The problem with Danzing is he looks too expensive. You’re going to put off half your customer base looking like that.”We had run into the The Great Otto Danzing about two weeks back. It was an unusual occurrence, as Hobbleston—the city we’d earmarked to sell our wares—was larger than we were used to. It was also a great deal smaller than the cities that Danzing played. He did have quite an act. His box wagon had a frame of (what at least looked like) gold with red velvet curtains for walls. When it was time for the show, the sides of the wagon swung out. Two gorgeous women, decked out in exotic, near-transparent veils and flowing gowns danced about as strange music filled the air. The townspeople’s eyes were wide. A few of the mothers shielded their children’s eyes, not sure of the appropriateness of the display. They needn’t have worried. The dancer’s outfits revealed nothing. I know. I looked.The strange music swelled with instruments I had never heard, and a great billow of purple smoke shot up from the center of the splayed wagon. Children squealed, women fainted, and men stood motionless as The Great Otto appeared out of nowhere. He had a long, purple velvet cloak with a high collar, a bright white tunic, and frilly lace about his chin and sleeves. His brilliant blue eyes pierced your soul. That was an act. He offered his potions and his cures, performing simple illusions as the dancing girls made the sales. Finally, when all the money was collected, he took the collection buckets in his hand. He threw the change into the air, and the crowd held out their hands as the money shimmered down like rain upon them. I’ll admit, I was holding out my hand too. Money is money, and they certainly weren’t going to get it back from me. Of course, before it touched our hands it disappeared. I asked Bartleby to explain the trick of it to me, but he refused. He doesn’t deserve it, but we working men keep each other’s secrets. I didn’t believe him. I’d seen the way they had talked to each other. Their body language told me everything I needed to know. They had known each other a long time. They were not friends. I read body language well. That’s why Bartleby kept me around, to read if a crowd was turning against us.“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to look a little more expensive. T… This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jonwesleyhuff.substack.com