inthegrowler

J. H. Bográn

Our judge for the fifth writing challenge of the year was born and raised in Honduras and is the son of a journalist. He ironically prefers to write fiction rather than fact. José’s genre of choice is thrillers, but he likes to throw in a twist of romance into the mix. His works include novels and short stories in both English and Spanish. He’s a member of the Short Fiction Writers Guild and the International Thriller Writers where he also serves as the Thriller Roundtable Coordinator and contributor editor their official e-zine The Big Thrill.

His debut novel TREASURE HUNT, which The Celebrity Café hails as an intriguing novel that provides interesting insight of architecture and the life of a fictional thief, has also been selected as the Top Ten in Preditors & Editor’s Reader Poll.

FIREFALL, his second novel, was recently released by Rebel ePublishers and it is slowly, but steadily, earning starred reviews.

Website at: http://www.jhbogran.com

Facebook profile: http://www.facebook.com/jhbogran

Facebook author page: http://on.fb.me/ZJwEq0

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4307673.J_H_Bogran

Twitter: @JHBogran

ShortFictionWriters guild link: http://shortfictionwritersguild.wordpress.com/

The Challenge:

You are at the neighborhood garage sale, looking for nothing in particular. Something inside an old, wooden box catches your eye. The old woman who is running the sale comes over to say something about the object. What is it? What did she say and why? The word limit was 2000 words.

José Bogran’s winners for the month are as follows!

“Given the parameters you gave me I made judgement based on the use of the prompt, but also how to the story arc progressed, character development, as well as complication of the plot. I love complicated plots! Here is my list of winners.”

In First Place we have Rebecca Young

The Garage Sale

Being a yard sale queen required dedication. Sara religiously bought the local paper every Thursday afternoon and went through the listings. She could tell based on the classified ads which sales would yield the most treasures. “Estate sale” usually meant a good sale, but was always a bit sad. “Moving sale: Everything must go!” was promising. “Exercise equipment” was a bad sign as was “Men’s and women’s clothing”. These usually meant a depressed “cleaning-out-the-closets” and “giving-up-on-resolutions” affairs. The items would be dated, but not in a vintage way, just an old, shabby way, and prices would probably be too high for used. Everyone thinks their garbage is precious. In a small community, like theirs, all the yard sale devotees got to know each other pretty quickly. The McLaren brothers were always on the lookout for stuff like antique farm implements, old tools, model cars and planes and the rare gems: pedal tractors. The Hernandez family collected good quality baby clothing for an unending slew of expectant relations. “Cat sweater Mary” went for antique canning jars and just about any kind of collectible figurine which she resold on eBay.

Sara didn’t yard sell out of necessity or for the money which could be made reselling items. She, like all yard salers, really, did it for the possibility. Because there was really no telling what you might find. It was like being a treasure hunter, an archeologist.

Sara never had anything in particular she was looking for, but could sift the wheat from the chaff pretty quickly. She knew she had scored some fantastic finds over the years. Like a brand new Kate Spade bag for $10, an antique pedestal gumball machine, tin lunchboxes and nice clothes to outfit her whole family.

But Sara’s kryptonite was worthless sentimental memorabilia. The other professional yard salers shook their heads as they saw her snatch up photo album after photo album. Why would anyone want another family’s snapshots from “Thanksgiving, 1974” when even the subjects of the photos didn’t want them? Sara’s husband, Mike, also thought it was bizarre, but thought it might stem from Sara having no family of her own to speak of. After pouring over each new treasure for a day or two, Sara put these items in her craft room, on a shelf, where they sat. Armed with her map in the passenger’s seat, Sara set off. She was on her way to her second sale of the day, the first being a total bust, when she spotted the Holy Grail: the unadvertised yard sale. She signaled, pulled over and parked. Sara took a minute to scope it out from the car. It looked promising. She vaguely knew the seller, Mrs. Graham, an active older woman with a beautifully kept yard.

Sara strolled over, waving to Mrs. Graham. She walked slowly by the sheets and card tables set out on the lawn, gazing over the items. Mostly junk. Bowling shoes, a set of snow tires, ancient Tupperware, out-of-date clothes, a rowing machine, quilting frames and batting, crystal candy dishes, cheap figurines, As-Seen-On-TV gadgets and a box of crime thrillers and Harliquin romance novels. Sara did pick up a pack of 10 embossed Thank You cards that were marked 25 cents. She moved towards the garage. Mrs. Graham sat behind another card table, set right inside the garage door. A few more tables and some built in counters in the garage were covered with items tagged for sale.

“Nice to see you. Please take a look,” invited the old woman.

“Thank you. Has business been good?”

“You’re my first customer of the day,” said Mrs. Graham.

Sara wandered into the garage. In her experience, sellers kept their most valuable items close by or tucked away, so chances were good there were some treasures here. Lots of tools. They looked to be good quality. If she ran into them later, Sara would tip off the McLarens. There was an ancient chest freezer, an army tent, some Christmas décor and a trove of old Avon perfume bottles.

Then Sara spotted an art deco style Lane cedar chest. It was grimy, but could look gorgeous cleaned up. “Do you have a key for the chest?” she asked Mrs. Graham, who was watching Sara idly.

“No, but I think if you just press the lock in and lift up, it will open. It was my cousin Rose’s. She left it to me when she passed away a few years ago, but I have one just like it. Our grandfather bought them for us before we got married.”

“Could I take a look inside?”

“Why sure, I suppose,” said Mrs. Graham. “I can’t remember what is in there.” The older woman turned her chair to better view the proceedings.

Sara pushed in the lock, which resisted at first, but then she felt it give way. Her heart was pounding as she pried the heavy lid up. The trunk had a green felt lined insert with some old letters. There were some brown dried roses that looked like they would turn to dust if touched. Below the insert was a quilt, handmade, but ordinary. Sara lifted the quilt up gingerly. From underneath, a doll winked up at her. “Lo-lo!” Sara breathed.

The doll was beautiful, about 18 inches, porcelain face, arms and feet in a cloth body. She had silky dark brown hair, sparkling brown eyes and dimples. She wore a beautiful pink dress, bloomers peaking out underneath, white stockings and soft kid-leather shoes.

The doll was remarkable, but the most remarkable part was that Sara knew her instantly. She looked back in the trunk, searching for the white and pink trimmed hat she knew she would find. And there it was. “Just an old quilt and the doll?” asked Mrs. Graham.

“Yes. Oh and some letters too,” Sara turned, holding the doll. “It’s funny, I remember playing with a doll just like this when I was younger. But I don’t think she was mine.”

Mrs. Graham smiled. “I remember when Rose got that doll. It was for her eighth birthday I think. I thought she was so spoiled. I suppose her daughter must have played with her; that is probably when she got damaged. Claire never was very careful.”

Chills ran up and down Sara’s spine. She looked down at the doll, knowing she would see the right thumb was missing. “Her daughter’s name was Claire you said? Do you have a picture of Claire or your cousin?” Sara asked.

“Why, I guess so. Can you hold down the fort for a minute?” Mrs. Graham asked.

“Yes,” said Sara, looking up to note that there was one other customer now. An older man, who was intently reading the back cover of one of the romance novels. Mrs. Graham returned shortly with a cream colored album. She sat back down and started flipping through the pages. “I think this is the right one. Hmm. Here is one with Rose, but it isn’t very good. Oh, here we are.”

Sara looked and there was a faded shot of a woman and a teenage girl. She thought the woman could be a slightly older or more care-worn version of herself. They had the same nose, the same eyes. The teenage girl was beautiful, with long, thick hair and high cheekbones, but she looked unhappy.

“Is that Claire?” asked Sara, pointing to the girl.

“Yes, she must have been about fifteen or sixteen then. Right before she ran away from home.”

“She ran away? Did she ever come back?” asked Sara.

“She would turn up every few years. I think she had a child, but I can’t remember if it was a girl or boy even. It broke Rose’s heart. She’d show up for a week, and then be gone for a few years. Then eventually she disappeared for good. Rose always hoped Claire would come back one last time but I don’t think she ever did.”

“I know this is going to sound crazy, but I think Claire might be my mother. I was left in a park when I was five years old, but I have memories of playing with a doll just like this. I called her Lo-lo. Same missing thumbs.”

Mrs. Graham turned pale. The album in her hands trembled slightly. “My cousin called her doll Lola.” She studied Sara. “You do look like her. Rose, not Claire.”

“Could it be possible?” asked Sara, cradling the doll. “Yes,” said Mrs. Graham. “It could be. Please, sit down and we’ll chat.”

In Second Place: Simi Kamboj

A Bohemian Tale

We are withholding Simi’s story as she is developing it further

In Third Place: Adnan Al-Baroudi

The Fate of Hikori

Middle aged, tall and stubble bearded Nathan traced the footpath along a set of detached houses. His forbearing eyes fell upon a small crowd mingling around plastic tables, shoddy stalls and strewn appliances; the garage sale his fellow anthropologists directed him to.

“Good morning.” Nathan softly spoke in a voice gruff and jittery. The stout, chubby cheeked old woman of East Asian descent in a flowery patterned white shirt and comfortable white knee-length shorts shifted her gaze up to the man towering over her. “I’m looking for any old valuable items you might have, family relics preferably.”

And then, it caught his eye. He knew he would have a very small window of time to go through all her packed boxes aligned in the back of the garage, but Nathan was a man accustomed to trusting his guts, and his guts told him there had to be some answers residing back there.

If Nathan ever had to make a career as a household thief, he wouldn’t get far as an organized one. The loud rips continued to echo inside the garage followed by violent clangs and noisy shuffles while he hastily sorted through regular household assortments. Eventually pupils widened excitedly. Rolled beneath old dusty blankets were a set of rugged scrolls.

Nathan, breathing heavily and wrestling with his nerves, kept the scrolls concealed as he crept into her traditionally decorated house. He found the small dimly lit toilet room and as slowly and gently as he could, he began to roll open the first scroll.

He nervously cleared his throat, stole a quick glance through the small crack in the door and proceeded to study the manuscript. The oil colors and dried ink was as fresh and preserved as though it was penned yesterday, drafted neatly with careful and affectionate attention. It was an outline of a middle aged Japanese man, bearing the confident eyes of a sophisticated gentleman in that period, with a solid brow and stern features. He bore a traditional Japanese goatee, greyed with age, as was his brushed back shoulder length hair. The portrait also contained a print on the corner that read: The ambassador of his lord, The Shogun, 1867.

Another scroll also penned by the same ink and familiar brush strokes contained a dazzlingly detailed portrait of a woman. Her young features wore a subtle smirk, and her brow was cynically uplifted accentuating the penetrating gaze of her eyes. She brushed her black hair back and tied it into a flowery bun, locked in place with a golden ornament of a bird of prey. The high collar of her garment was silk and colorful. The artist spent an obsessively long time on her character. This one had a rather significant print on it that read: The Queen, 1867.

He then unrolled the final and more ornate scroll and recognized the ink used that matched that of all the sketches he’d seen. The hand writing was cultured and stylish. It was undoubtedly that of a talented artist. Nathan began to read the words contained.

It is with a heavy heart my lord that I must convey to you this letter. I am afraid there is no soaring swallow that may sweeten this song. I will not be returning to Kyoto. The terrors I have witnessed bestowed upon the people of this land are beyond anything I have seen conceivable by a natural being of this world. The lush grass and hanging orchids here presents the onlooker with an evergreen spring, but behind the veil resides an outrageous demon. And I am now a prisoner of said demon.

My lord, I carried out my mission as instructed. The rumors were true. It is as we feared. The Hikori Clan has been wiped out. I took the opportunity upon my arrival to speak with the inn keepers and villagers, and although they indulged some of my questions I could not get all the answers. Harbored beneath their tired eyes and polite smiles I sensed a mystery untold. I also felt that I was being watched, assessed. My entire presence there felt rehearsed. I was directed to places subliminally from the moment I arrived. I cannot describe the feeling. It is as if I had walked on to a Nogaku stage and a spirit had been sitting over my shoulders manipulating the entire play.

I did however manage to piece together parts of this intricate puzzle surrounding this self-proclaimed queen and the disappearance of Hikori Nagatomo and his family. It began with an orphaned girl at an early age; adopted into the ruling clan. She was tended and loved by The Daemyo. The noble warlord ensured she got the best education, the most grueling of martial training and to witness firsthand his day to day handling of affairs. It is a curious thing. This ruler had already many a sons and daughters, and yet it was as though she had taken center stage in his life.

One morning many years later the people of this town woke up to discover that the ruling family had been murdered in their sleep, save one; the frail and sickly uncle of The Daemyo. Typically that would have meant he was the inherent ruler, however, that is not how it went. In a public statement only hours after the incident he transferred clan rule over to the adopted sixteen year old girl. She was to inherit the land, the palace and the loyalty of every Samurai in the land.

No one questioned the order; all quietly obeyed.

And so, as swift as a crisp cold wind beneath a shadow swept moon her reign of terror fell upon the people. She proclaimed herself queen and established a legion of Royal Guards, mighty masked warriors who adored her and have dedicated their lives to protect her until their very last breath. No one is allowed to see her except a select few women who form her personal aide and council, even the general of her army visits only on rare occasions.

The fate of the Daemyo’s uncle remains a mystery. Some say he too was murdered shortly after, others say he became her prisoner. Personally, I like to believe he was wise enough to leave.

I was finally granted an audience with her majesty and presented myself to her as an envoy along with Captain Pierre, a foreign veteran and part of the French Military Mission to Japan. However, I felt early on that she saw through our disguises. I have never met a more fascinating woman. The brief conversation we shared reflected a lot of intelligence. She wore a soft smile under a ridiculing gaze, and harbored an assertive voice behind a veil of politeness. And yet, beneath her calculating watch and beauty there was a brewing storm inside. In her eyes I could see the notions of madness. Their unmistakable attempt to tidy her appearance failed to conceal the loose locks of hair and the account of sleepless nights under her pupils. Despite all that however, I had no hold on the direction of our talks. I know my lord that I was sent to evaluate her… spy on her, but I couldn’t help but get the feeling that she was evaluating us. There was no deterring the notion that she is not a woman to be trifled with. She was quick to turn our ‘intelligent conversations’ into a terrible mind game. I began to discover that my thoughts were being manipulated. She was gradually transforming me into one of her subjects. My every attempt to get any information from her turned against me. A fish caught in a current my lord is doomed to embrace the waterfall. And hers is a mighty current indeed.

Heed this warning, my lord. Japan is facing a threat like none the world has ever seen. We should never cross the queen. If it is access through her territory we seek, we should pay any tributes she requires. If we can avoid it then we must do at all costs, lest we instill her wrath and lead to our ruin. This realm is lost. It is too late for me.

Two eyes in the long grass; the light buried in darkness; the fate of a land vanished.

“You’ve been hiding all this time.” Nathan confronted the stout old woman in her doorway. Her chubby wrinkled cheeks tilted timidly into a smile.

“Is’a long story, ye’a?” With her slanting eyes on him the smile gently faded, “Ve’y long ago, is’a bad hist’ery.”

“How much do you know?” Nathan persisted as she journeyed back into her tea room. “Where is she buried? Where is her palace?”

“Angry man take a tea.” She mumbled. “Still the mind, eas’a the soul.”

“Hikori.”

This time she paused, then slowly turned to face him.

“Your great ancestor was the uncle to The Daemyo, wasn’t he?”

“Hai.” She whispered with a solemn nod. Finally, he would get his answers.

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