Mysteries
are everywhere. They can be found in the simplest of places, or the oddest
of places. They can be found anywhere from your latest travels to your own
backyard. They can be as near as your walk through the park where you’ve
walked a hundred times before, as the following story will show
A Short Story By C. P. Bergman
The park was still. As still as a portrait. The clusters of trees, tinted purple and black in the dusky, snow—soaked skies surrounded one, solitary figure on a bench. The figure, no less stationary than the scenery, stared at the carrousel as if at any moment it might begin its summertime music and wake the dead earth. Its canopy, laden with snow, was colorless where gold, red and green brightness should have been twirling and whirling. The horses beneath it were flecked and dolloped with hunks of snow, frozen in motion, their mouths open as if to snort one last, steamy breath of objection. Into this isolated world another entered, upsetting the picture that perhaps should have remained in icy repose forever.
“I
don’t remember ever seeing this here,” Kitty remarked as she approached the
dark figure on the bench. Sitting down, she looked into the man’s white face
and for a moment thought that he too was as frozen as the snow beneath his feet.
“That’s
because it wasn’t here before.” “Oh?”
she asked in puzzlement. She noticed the man’s eyes were dark…dark and
glossy, like two black, shiny buttons. He went back to staring at the carrousel. “I
usually walk through this park on my way home from work,” Kitty continued.
“Do you come here often?” “Never
been here before,” the stranger replied softly. Kitty
shifted her parcels, then laid them beside her on the bench. “Are
you new in town?” she asked. “Yes.” She
looked at the carrousel and smiled gently. “I would love to see this
merry-go-round in spring, with children on it, and its music playing, and a
garden in bloom all around it and…” “It
will never be like that,” the stranger replied abruptly, cutting her off. “Why?
What’s it doing here now in the middle of winter? Who owns it?”
The man
looked at her once again, with such intensity that she drew back slightly. The
wind roamed through the trees like a panther stalking prey. She thought she
heard the surprised call of an owl shoot past them.
The man
laughed. “Nobody owns it,” he said, shaking his head.
“But
how did it get here? It’s an odd time of the year to put it here.” She rose
then and ventured forth to examine it more carefully.
Then it
caught her eye: The large brass ring hanging over the horses in the center of
the carrousel, beneath the canopy and just above the mirrors. It was as shiny
and tantalizing as a bar of gold. She leaned to the right and it winked at her,
as if to tease. She frowned, then began to look at each horse, admiring the
handiwork.
“They’re
all different!” she said in delight.
The man
nodded slowly.
Indeed
they were. They appeared to be hand-carved and hand-painted, each steed as
different as the breeds of horses.
Cayuse,
bay, Arabian, dappled grey, even a huge, hulking Clydesdale pulling the one and
only chariot. She boarded the carrousel and sat in the chariot, imagining what
it would be like in spring with warm breezes blowing into her unconfined hair,
and the laughter of children mingling with the chortling tones of the
carrousel’s music. What must this magnificent work of art be like when in
motion? Almost alive, she thought excitedly.
Given a
sudden thought, she looked at the stranger with growing curiosity. “Have you
seen it before?” she asked.
“Oh,
yes, I’ve seen it before,” he replied, cynically she thought. She came
toward him once again, filled with sudden urgency.
“Where?
Where did it come from? Where did you come from?”
“This
carrousel has been all over the world,” the stranger replied, never shifting
position. His hands remained steadfastly folded in his lap. The only thing that
turned occasionally was his head as he regarded Kitty, now with some amusement.
“But
it’s so beautiful…so unique! Why bury it in the winter where no one can
appreciate it?” she burst. “Here it is, covered with snow, in this somber
setting, hidden in the trees…”
The man
sighed heavily. He did not reply.
She sat
beside him once again. Night was beginning to close in on them, and soon, it
would be too dark to see the carrousel at all. Kitty made a noise of agitation.
“You
seem to know an awful lot about it,” she tried again.
The man
merely nodded.
“The
colors, the carving, the look of the horse’s eyes…It’s as it were alive.
Or should be. I couldn’t have imagined any lovelier one.”
The man
nodded again.
She
looked at him expectantly.
“I’ve
seen it before,” he admitted. “Many times. In many other places.”
She
leaned toward him. In the deepening twilight, his somber dark eyes were
difficult to read. The snow began to acquire sparkly, like starlight. The top of
the carrousel glittered, as if laden with millions of tiny diamonds. The horses
seemed to be smiling.
“I’ve
followed it around the world,” he said, his voice a warm whisper in the
frosted air.
“Have
you ever ridden it?” she asked enthusiastically.
“No.
I’ve never ridden it.” There was bitterness in his voice now.
“Why?”
she caught herself. Oh,
no, what if he couldn’t walk or something like that?
“I’ve
seen it in motion,” he continued. “A whirlwind. A huge, sweeping bird,
alive, with colorful wings, bigger than any dream you ever had, a jewel, a gem,
a treasure in the midst of squalor. A king’s ransom in the middle of a ghetto.
A promise…in the dead of winter.”
“But
why haven’t you ridden it?”
“I’ve
tried!” he cried at last.
The
torment of his response echoed in the stiff, cold air and returned to make Kitty
shiver. She bowed her head. “What happened?” she whispered.
“There
it would be, spinning, smiling, all aglow; it’s music pulsing over the earth,
the vibration of it drawing my feet, the colors luring me, but when I ventured
to board it, it would stop. Stop as if I’d…”
“Yes?”
She leaned toward him once again, eagerly.
He
suddenly rose, as if pulled upward by unseen hands. All at once, he hurried
toward it, but stopped short of touching it.
“I
would board it, and it would stop as if I’d killed it,” he continued.
“But
that’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?
I could never get it to move,” he said stingingly. In the moonlight, his tall,
sloping figure made a shadowy, ominous contrast against the sparkling carrousel,
which seemed to be lit by the moon. It glowed violet and silver in the
spotlight.
“I
would step down, and it would start again, slowly, tauntingly, and the laughter
would begin again, and the joy and the life…”
“But
what about whoever operates it? What about the owner? Couldn’t you have asked?
Maybe someone was just playing a trick on you. Who does own it anyway? She
asked, with some annoyance.
He
laughed once again – a hollow, empty laugh, harsh and cutting in the
stillness. “You don’t understand,” he said derisively. “You and a
thousand others.”
“Well,
of course I don’t,” she said indignantly. Then softer, “I would like
to…”
“I’ve
followed it everywhere,” he went on quietly. I’ve followed it at my expense
of my job. At the expense of my family. At the peril of my life.”
“An
obsession?” she asked cautiously.
She did
not see the small, amused smile, but she heard it in his voice. “You might
call it that. If I could board it, and ride it just once…” he stopped
abruptly and returned to the bench. Sitting down in resignation, he took up his
vigil once again and stared at the carrousel.
“But
what about money? What about a place to stay?” she asked, wondering about the
man’s seeming lack of identity.
Kitty
paused a moment, then suddenly began to gather her parcels. It was frustrating.
There were more questions now than when she’d first arrived. Perhaps tomorrow.
Perhaps during the day she would stop by and visit the carrousel, and maybe the
man would make more sense. Right now, she had to get home. Her hands were
beginning to sting from the cold, and her feet were besieged by hundreds of cold
steel needles.
“I
don’t understand how you can sit here in the cold,” she muttered agitatedly.
“It
doesn’t matter anymore,” he replied heavily.
“Maybe
I’m just imagining all this,” she said sarcastically.
“Oh,
no. You are not insane,” he replied drolly.
She
stood, ready to depart, looking at the carrousel and the stranger one last time.
It seemed as if the horses were smiling rather snidely at her in the thick
moonlight. Snow flakes had begun to
fall more densely, lighting on the man’s still figure, covering his hat with
white flocking, blanketing his shoulders like a shawl. She shivered once again.
Maybe she would return the next day to find a dead man, frozen on the bench…
“Goodbye,”
the man said at last.
“Goodbye,”
Kitty replied.
She went
away, her steps picking up momentum as the cold closed over her like a starving,
arctic beast. Once or twice she glanced back at the man and his obsession. How
could he sit there like that without falling victim to the cold? She wondered as
she hurried home.
She had a
restless night. She turned over and over, back and forth, dreaming of the
stranger and the carrousel. Once she awoke with a start, having believed she
heard music. She thought she saw the spinning horses before her eyes, and the
winking glimmer of the brass ring. Chiding herself, she lay back down, waiting,
until sleep came at last.
The next
morning, she hurriedly dressed for work and almost ran to the park.
The sun
was bright, though the crunch beneath her feet in the thick, stiff snow was
precise and definite. Winter was definitely in control.
She saw
the bench in the clearing from the night before and hurried toward it.
As the
parting trees gradually gave way to the small alcove, Kitty was shocked to see
that neither the stranger, nor the carrousel remained. Not even an imprint in
the snow gave evidence to what she’d seen. Maybe the new snow had covered
tracks, she reasoned, as she began brushing the surface gently, trying to
uncover ruts or an imprint. After valiantly searching for several minutes, her
foot kicked something. She knelt in the snow to investigate.
The brass
ring shimmered in the new morning light. She stared at it a moment, smiled, then
removed her gloves. But as she picked it up, it’s cold, slippery surface
eluded her grasp, and it rolled over in the snow and away from her, easily
cutting a path, as if it were greased and hot.
“Now
where did it go?” she muttered as she scurried after it, kicking at the
snow, and brushing it away with her hands. She
thought she saw it, a few feet away, but it turned out to be only a new penny
someone had dropped. She kicked it away angrily, and continued to look for the
ring – the only evidence of the enchanting carrousel from the mysterious
encounter of the night before. But she couldn’t find it anywhere. Kitty was
late for work that day. She could not keep her mind on the business at hand, and
toward day’s end was resolved to pick up her search for that ring. Who
knows?” she reasoned. Perhaps it would lead her to the carrousel and the
stranger. She
smiled slyly. I’ll find you, she thought empathetically. I’ll find you… She
stared out the window, but did not see the flurry of humanity on the streets
below. She saw only the image of a stellar, grandiose carrousel, dripping
enchantment, playing it’s tinker toy music as it spun with laughter, warmth
and mystery – not in the grip of winter, but in the middle of an endless
summer.
…And
some things are destined to remain mysteries. But not
where to send your poetry and stories! The following publications take stories
and poetry of a mysterious nature: Cumberland
House 431
Harding Industrial Dr. Nashville,
TN 37211 Acquisitions:
Ron Pitkin Send a
self-addressed, stamped envelope for guidelines. Midnight
Mystery Magazine Gem
Printing
600
Reisterstown Rd. 200G Baltimore,
MD 21208
Sheryl
Lerner, Acquisitions Editor Short
stories: 2,000 to 10,000 words Pays 5¢
- 10¢/word Georgia
Review University
of Georgia 012
Gilbert Hall Athens,
GA 30602
Pays
$40/page Looking
for fiction of any length, not bound by type.
Out
Of The Mist Grants For Writers
by C. P. Bergman
This will be a departure from my usual mystery column because I need to address
a problem that is a real life mystery. Perhaps you've encountered a similar
experience.
In all my years of writing and sending my material out, I've never encountered a
publisher or magazine who simply and rudely neglected to honor the
self-addressed, stamped envelope and return a manuscript if there was no
interest in it...until recently. This is a mystery to me. Why would people in
this line of work not uphold an industry standard that is a staple and honored
tradition, and simply return the material when the postage and envelope or
mailer is included? They need not even include a reject form, but just return
the author's work if they had no interest in it.
This happened with an article I'd submitted to two publications on collectables:
Collection Bulletin out of Canton, Illinois, and Collector's Showcase, Source
Publications out of Tulsa, Oklahoma. Not only was there a manuscript involved,
but photographs as well, so there was considerable monetary expense. If either
of these publications had the inane "no unsolicited manuscripts"
policy, it was unknown to me, but even so, ample postage and return mailer had
been included, so why not do the right thing? By the way, that "no
unsolicited manuscripts" business violates our civil rights, equal
opportunity rights, and is just plain nasty. Listen ye of the publishing
industry: If you can't be bothered to do your job and read at least a portion
from a submission, maybe you should go into a different line of work. Did it
ever occur to you that you just might find a gem among what you consider chaff?
I have mentioned my experience in order to caution any of you who may have been
considering submitting to these two publications. The mystery remains: if a
publisher hasn't got the time or patience to review all incoming material, it's
time to do something else because that company hasn't got in its bones the love
of literature or the common sense to do its job. Why don't you make room for
those who truly love the art of writing?
Some markets for mystery:
Crimestalker Casebook
Andrew S. McAller, Editor
121 Follen Rd.
Lexington, MA 02421
Fiction: 1,000 - 1,500 words
Poetry: 15-35 words
Pays 2 -3 cents a word
DoubleTake
1317 W. Pettigrew St.
Durham, NC 27705
Short stories: 3,000-8,000 words
Novel exerpts: 5,000-8,000 words
Pays competitively on acceptance.
Mystery Time
Box 2907
Decatur, Illinois 62526
New Mystery Magazine
101 W. 23rd St.
PMB #7
New York, NY 10011
by C.P. Bergman
The following information regards grants for writers:
George Bennett Fellowship: awarded annually to anyone embarking on a career as a
writer who can take the time to complete a project. Selection is made for a
manuscript in progress. The committee favors writers who have not been published
by a major publisher. The grant is for $6,000 plus room and board for the writer
and his\her family during the academic year. Send SASE for information and
application. Deadline: December 1. Apply to: Phillips Exeter Academy, Exeter, NH
03833
Also sponsored by the Phillips Exeter Academy is the Phillips Foundation
Journalism Fellowship Program. This is a $50,000 full-time and two $25,000
part-time fellowships to working journalists who have less than five years'
professional experience in print journalism. Write for additional information
and application to the address above. Deadline: March 30
The Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Maine offers a prize of $1,500 and
accommodations during the month of September. This award is given to six
accomplished poets and fiction writers who are 50 years or older. It targets
writers who earned recognition early in their careers and are now reemerging
with new work. Send an SASE for application and guidelines. Deadline: May
1. Address: Fine Ats Work Center in Provincetown, Senior Fellowship Program, 24
Pearl St., Provincetown, MA 02657
George Washington University invites applications from writers of fiction to
teach two semesters at the university. The salary is about $48,000 plus benefits
package. If you have demonstrated a commitment to teaching and have some
published credits, you may apply. You need not have conventional academic
credentials. Residence would take place in the Washington area while the
university is in session, September through April. For application write
to: Jenny McKean Moore Writer-in-Residence Grant Department of English George
Washington University Washington, DC 20052
Writing Tip:
WRITE WHAT YOU DON'T KNOW! You read it right. If you have a yearning for a
topic, take it on. RESEARCH. Don't let anyone-expert or professor-tell you
"Write only what you know." If everyone heeded that ill advice, think
of all the great books that would never have been written. After all, Ray
Bradbury never went to Mars, yet he wrote "The Martian Chronicles," as
well as other beautiful science fiction projects. Margaret Mitchell didn't live
during the civil war, yet we feel she might have been there when we read
"Gone With the Wind." H.G. Wells didn't travel in time, yet voila,
"The Time Machine." Get going. Research…and imagine!