The White Van

     Grey morning rain and sleet coated the streets. The chilled air is a great motivator to walk quickly. The timer on the signal light showed twenty-three seconds remaining to cross the four lanes of the boulevard. I knew I could make it, but a voice said 'Wait.' Twenty seconds remaining. I could still make it. Again, the voice said, 'Wait.' I decided I would cross the side street instead of the boulevard when the light changed and cross the boulevard at the next block. And then it happened.
     A white van sped up the hill from the river far too fast. The driver slid into a left turn, coming to a stop inches from a man who was standing on the corner. The driver of the van was only second away from pinning the man against a light pole. Ten seconds remained on the clock.
     While I stood watching the seconds click away, the van didn't move, nor did the man who stood on the corner. All activity suspended for those remaining seconds before the signal light changed.
     Ten seconds from not making it to work yesterday. Nine. Eight. Seven. Whoever spoke to me saved me.

MISTER R Opening Scenes

FADE IN:

EXT. DIMLY LIT NEW YORK STREET. WAREHOUSES AND CLOSED

SHOPS.

A young blonde woman looks nervous and scared as she

hurries along a sidewalk. Every few steps she glances back

to see who is following her. Her heels click on the

pavement so she stops to remove her shoes. She looks behind

her once more and screams. A black shadow overtakes her.

She is next seen laying on her back on the pavement as she

tries to fight off a dark figure in silhouette. Something

glints in the streetlight. The young woman screams louder.

EXT. SAME URBAN STREET WHERE THE YOUNG WOMAN

COLLAPSED.PORTABLE FLOOD LIGHTS ALLOW US TO SEE POLICE CARS

AND AN AMBULANCE ARE ON THE SCENE.

A body on a gurney is loaded into the back of the

ambulance. Sebastian Stephens is talking to a young

detective identified as Nolte by the I.D. badge hanging

from his neck. An older man slips out of an alley wearing a

fedora and a black topcoat with the collar turned up. He

sees the police activity, pulls the brim of his hat down

over his eyes and detours away from the gathering. He

passes a taxidermy shop window filled with birds. A crow is

prominently positioned in the center of the display facing

the street.

EXT. EARLY SUMMER. MIDNIGHT. NEW ORLEANS.

MASSIVE FAST-APPROACHING STORM CLOUDS APPEAR TO BE LEAD BY

A MURDER OF CROWS FLYING PAST IDENTIFIABLE LANDMARKS

STREETS. THE CROWS CONTINUE WEST CIRCLING THE GARDEN

DISTRICT AND LOWER TO THE GARDEN GATE ON THE SIDE OF

SEBASTIAN STEPHENS' HOUSE. THE GATE OPENS ITSELF TO REVEAL

A BEAUTIFUL WELL-KEPT FRENCH STYLE GARDEN. THE LEAD CROW

DESCENDS AND LANDS IN THE SHADOWS NEAR THE HOUSE. A PAIR OF

INCREDIBLE BLUES EYES STARES OUT FROM THE DARKNESS. NO

OTHER FACIAL FEATURES ARE DISCERNIBLE AS THE CROW SURVEYS

THE STEPHENS' GARDEN: THE BACKDROP OF FLOWERS, THE GARDEN

LIGHTS, THE BRICK WALK LEADING THE VIEWER TO THE PATIO AND

FINALLY TO THE SEATED FIGURE OF SEBASTIAN STEPHENS. HE IS

30-ISH, FULL-CUT AUBURN HAIR, HIS FACE IS CONTOURED BY

STUBBLE. HE WEARS A PALE BLUE V-NECK PULLOVER SHIRT OVER

KHAKI PANTS AND SOCKLESS CORDOVAN LOAFERS. HE IS SIPPING A

GLASS OF ICED TEA AND IMPATIENTLY LOOKING AT HIS WATCH.

2.

Mister R steps out of the shadow of the house. He is

dressed completely in black except for pearl grey gloves.

Everything about him shows wear and age.

MISTER R

Mister Stephens? Good evening.

Sebastian stands at attention. Defensive. He and Mister R

size each other up for fight or flight like territorial

animals.

SEBASTIAN

I expected you hours ago. You said

this was an urgent matter, yet

you're late.

MISTER R

My apologies. You were kind to

agree to see me on such short

notice.

SEBASTIAN

You caught me by surprise, sir. Do

you always come around the rear of

a house when you call on people?

MISTER R

I knocked at the front door. There

was no answer. What a magnificent

garden. You have quite a green

thumb, Mister Stephens.

SEBASTIAN

(Holding up his hands for

inspection.) No green thumbs here.

My parents created this. All I do

is water the plants and replace

them as they die. No special

talent.

MISTER R

Still, you keep the magic going.

SEBASTIAN

Magic?

MISTER R

Of course.

The Borrowers

     Where is my knit cap and my gloves? I had everything else I needed to go to work except my knit cap and gloves. I searched everywhere. The closet shelves and floor, under the bed and between the bed and the headboard, the kitchen, the living room, everywhere and they were nowhere to be found. Time was getting late to leave, so I relented and took another less-warm pair of gloves, but that was my only hat.
     My roommate emerged from his room just as I opened the door to leave. I asked him if he had notices my missing items when he came in the night before. He hadn't, but he would help me look again. 'No worries,' I replied. 'I've already done a thorough search. They aren't here.'
     'They have to be somewhere,' my friend replied.
     'The elves must have needed them. They'll bring them back when they're done with them.'
     When I arrived home from work that evening, my gloves and knit cap lay on the foot of my bed.
 

Deliverance

     Perfect posture was considered one of Deliverance Helly's finer characteristics. Now as she walked with her head high and her back straight neighbors mocked her baring saying she appeared about to ascend a throne instead of the pyre. Some said she stuck her nose up as usual, but she would regret her pride soon enough.

     Truth be told Deliverance struggled to maintain a brave face, shaken to her soul by the cruel lies proffered at her trial. These people she grew up with,  shared daily chores, and attended worship at the Congregational Church. Even as she walked to her death she struggled to understand this turn of events.

     Someone spied slight movement of her lips. 'Look! She's calling on her prince to save her!' Another said no, she's praying for forgiveness, but the crowd shouted down this person. Those who brought them raised their Bibles over their heads and called on God's justice. Stripped of her clothes and shoes, Verity stood in only her shift. The executioner pulled her arms around a post behind her and bound her hands with rope. A faggot touched the kindling. Flames and smoke rose to separate her from the view of those gathered to witness and celebrate her execution. Only her upturned countenance remained visible.

    Storm clouds gathered to blot out the morning sun. Lightning ripped open the sky releasing a torrential rain dousing the flames. The rope used to bind Deliverance's hands fell away. She raised her arms over her head and shouted, 'I am saved by the One who loves me, but you shall not escape my revenge. From this day forward you fortunes change. You so quick to judge shall forever be judged and damned. I will dog your heels through the far reaches of time.' The people stood as statues unfazed by rain, paralyzed by the curse. A second flash of lightning broke the spell. They scurried for cover, all except one. Deliverance disappeared.

The Landing

     She landed on something coarse but soft. Hay. A sliver of light slipped through gaps between the boards comprising walls of this strange enclosure. The young English noblewoman raised her hands up to the light. They were not the hands she knew with long, white well-manicured Dresden fingers. These were rough, calloused and almost square. One of them brushed her face. Stubble. 'Am I now a man?' The other hand shot to her throat. 'My necklace.' The red jasper touch piece her governess gave her as a child was gone. Wherever she was the light was too scarce to even reveal the gold chain much less the stone.
     The stone was gone and so was the dress, stockings and heeled shoes she wore. Dungarees, pull-over homespun shirt, and muddy boots replaced them. Something was in a pocket. Thrusting in a hand she pulled out three stones, one of which was her red jasper. The other hand checked the other pocket and pulled out empty. 'Nothing but stones in my pocket. Oh, my God! Is it not bad enough I've become a man? Must I be Irish as well?'
  
 

The Well

     Every morning Mr. Jones would walk a mile down the dirt road, wooden bucket in hand, from his cottage to the well for his daily water. Neighbors who saw him thought him crazy to walk such a long way to a well long dry, and never miss a day no less. No one ever bothered to watch for his return with his bucket brimming with water.

     One day one of the neighbors did bother  and asked if he could walk along.

     'Suit yourself. It isn't my road.'

     The two walked along in silence. When the well came into view, the neighbor ran ahead.

     'I'm going to prove to you this well is dry. Then I want you to show me where you really fetch the water from.'

     That said, he picked up some stones and dropped them into the well. Instead of a splash, the stones landed with a clacked when they landed.

     'See? Now we both know there's nothing down there but dry ground and some stones.'

     Mr. Jones said nothing. He removed a pocket knife from his dungarees, rolled his shirtsleeve and sliced his forearm.

     'What are you doing, man? You are as crazy as everyone says!'

     Mr. Jones paid no attention to his neighbor as he let his blood drop into the well. After a few minutes he tied his kerchief around his wound and lowered his bucket into the well. When he drew it up again, the bucket was filled to the brim with water.

     'I don't believe this! I want to taste this water of yours.'

     Mr. Jones presented his bucket and the other man dipped his cupped hand into it.

     'That's the best water I ever put to my lips! Amazing! We both heard those rocks I tossed in strike the bottom. Yet you have a bucket filled with fresh cool water.'

     Mr. Jones only shook his head and turned to walk back home. The neighbor grabbed his arm.

     'You're not going anywhere until you to tell me how you did this.'

     Again, Mr. Jones shook his head. 'You were hear. You saw everything I did. That's all there is to it. I'm going home now. Come or stay.' Mr. Jones shook his arm free of the other man's grip

and proceeded to walk away.

     The other man returned his attention to the well. 'Jones didn't drop his bucket that far down. I bet I can touch the water,' he thought to himself as he bent over the edge of the well. He couldn't feel any water, so he stretched himself a bit further over the wall of the well. This time when he reached down he lost his balance and fell in.

     Mr. Jones heard the thud of the body hitting the bottom. Without looking he knew the man's fate and smiled as he continued his homeward trek.

     The next day Mr. Jones grabbed his bucket as was his daily ritual and headed down the dirt road. When he was close enough he saw only the pitched roof of the well above the surface of a beautiful pool of clear water.

     'This should get me through the Summer,' he whispered to himself as he dipped his bucket.

 

Dark Moon Harvest

     Midnight. Dark of the moon. A time for planting, they say.

     Fog rises into the cold air like an exhaled breath. I'm out with my sack of seed potatoes and peas. We should have both in time for Easter. Fortunately, the earth is warm and willing so the digging takes little effort. I make mounds for the potatoes and massage the soil over the seeds once they're in. The fog blankets by work. A nearby voice moans.

     'Who's there? Someone there?'

     I hear neither voice nor footstep. I progress to the next mound where I again plant seed potatoes and massage the soil over them. There's that moan again.

     'Are you hurt, whomever you are?'

     No answer. No further moans. I feel the nervous Nell. Foolish to let the dark and the fog play me this way. I tell myself I'll not ever finish if I let my imagination stop me every two minutes. I move to the next spot. 

     I pack the soil into a mound into which I place the seed potatoes and cover them with more soil. I continue to the next and the next in silence.

     'Touch me  as you did before.'

     I straighten my back in my kneeling position. 'What's that? Who's there?'

     'Touch me as you did before.'

     'I don't know what you mean. I haven't touched anyone. Who are you? Where are you?'

     'Rub me like you did and I'll give you more than potatoes.'

     A woman. Out in this at this time of night did not bode well. She must be some sort of witch. I sprang to my feet. The fog was denser at my full height of six feet. I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, much less some woman begging me to touch her.

     'Go away, Woman. I have work to do. I'm not interesting in whatever it is you're offering.'

     'I said touch me. Get back down on your knees as you were and massage my mounds some more. I'll give you more in return than you can imagine.'

     Intuition told me to run. Apprehension and the fog forced me to stay. I got down on my knees and proceeded as I was told to do. I gathered the soil into a mound. Planted the seed potatoes and covered them with more soil which I massaged into form.

     'Oh, yes. That's it. I want you.'

     The ground shook under me. I tried to get on my feet to run, but the tremor keep me aground. A chasm opened and I fell in.

     'Now, my darling, it is my turn to return the favor' is the last thing I heard before the earth closed over me.

     Another Dark Moon. I rise from the earth like an exhaled breath. Touch me.