52stories

(4 votes, average: 3.25 out of 5)

 Loading …

Lizzie sat hunched over the computer, straining her eyes to read every word on the screen. The smell of bacon in the kitchen had been heavenly, but was giving way to a light covering of smoke. John ran into the kitchen, smelling the results of Lizzie’s concentration. “Hey!” he yelled.

“Oh, sorry. Can you flip that for me?”

He looked for the spatula, scrounging through all the right drawers until he found it in the wrong place at the end of the counter. He quickly removed the bacon from the pan, gauged whether it could be saved, and placed it face down in the pan to continue its brutal burn.

“Were we going to have this for breakfast?” he asked, half-jokingly.

“I cannot believe this, John. Look!” she said, ignoring him.

“What now, sweetheart?” He knew she loved to read the news on the web, and figured it must be something about a family that ate their pets, or lived in the trunk of a car, or had forty two kids. To her credit, these weren’t the sensationalized stories that everyone read in the supermarket. These were actual stories. How she found them all, he could never guess.

“It’s 52stories.net. That Ribar guy keeps writing stories about us!”

“What are you talking about?” This was too sensational. What could she be talking about? Stories about them? They didn’t even know anyone with that name.

“Someone mentioned this website on a podcast I was listening to, and I went to read some of the stories. This guy wrote one I really liked, about being lonely on a business trip to South America. It was really touching. Not really polished, but a good start, so I’ve been reading his new stuff every week.”

“And? Has he gotten any better?” He went back to check the bacon, now barely salvageable. He would certainly not be having her cook the eggs!

“The next story he wrote was about the retirement place you got for us.”

“And?” The eggs were now in the pan, gently resting into white.

“He knew all the details. Even the part about the fishy smell.”

“Sweetheart, you must have told everyone you know about that place. What’s so surprising that someone made it into a story?”

“That wasn’t the only one, or I would agree with you. The other story he wrote was about the boys trying to fly our summer house out to the dock.”

“You told everyone about that, too.” John flipped the eggs, added some dill and paprika, and peppered the two waiting plates with well-done bacon.

“But I always told them it was just something the boys made up. This story says it really happened!”

John set a plate down next to Lizzie on the desk, and took up a position to her left, balancing on a stool with his own plate in hand. “What really happened?”

“They really took a trip. They got to a dock, and got chased away by a night watchman, and then came back.”

“And you believe it?” He started eating, not yet certain of the extent of his wife’s morning streak of insanity.

“John, you need to read the story. He describes the boys as if he lived with us.” She took a piece of bacon, grimaced at its burnt flavor, and returned her gaze to the screen. “But that isn’t the end of it. The next week, he wrote about Noah losing his tooth.”
Noah let everyone know about the tooth, he thought. And about the alleged tooth fairy sighting. As any eight year old in his right mind would want to do. “Again, it wasn’t a secret, Liz.”

“No, but the descriptions, John. He wrote about the tooth fairy. Who she was, where she came from, what she was thinking. It was her first day on the job. I didn’t know that.”

“Liz, the tooth fairy doesn’t exist.”

Lizzie continued, ignoring his negative interruption. “The things the boys say, how they act, even the state of the bedroom, such as it was… it’s worrying me.”

“Sweetheart, I can see this bothers you. But so far, I can find a somewhat ridiculous, but still plausible explanation for each of those stories. Couldn’t it just be one of your friends?”

She looked at him and thought for a moment. “Maybe. I really was trying to keep this in the realm of the possible. But the last story he wrote… I didn’t even know the whole story. Did you find our tickets by tripping over them in the dark?”

His hand dropped the fork to the plate. He spoke with his mouth half full, forgetting for the moment to chew the eggs and bacon he’d started. “Yes. How …”

“It’s in the story, John. All the parts you told me, and much more. All your emotions, your thoughts about how we got together, how we fight. I learned more about you from that story than I knew after being married for three years.”

“Two, honey.”

She laughed, hesitantly. “Oh, yeah. Two.”

Now his curiosity was rising. “Let me see that one,” he asked, bending over her shoulder. He set his plate down on hers, without looking, compressing their breakfasts into something best left uneaten. She brought the story up on the screen, and backed away.

“How the hell…”

“I know. What should we do?” Her nails dug into his arm, as her breath became shallow. He’d never seen her like that before. His wife was the most stable person he’d ever met. Nothing could shake her. But this was something new, unexpected. Something even he had a hard time believing.

“Nothing.”

“What? Shouldn’t we contact this guy?”

“Lizzie, we’re only in Paris a few days. Let’s make the most of it, and just keep a watchful eye. If things still look weird when we get home, we’ll contact that site and see what we can do.”

“Alright.” She trusted John. He took good care of her, and was usually right about things like this, things she couldn’t understand on her own.

Her hunger was returning, and she looked at the plates. “Ew, what happened to my breakfast?”

“I think it wanted to go out for a walk. Join me?”

“Sure, babe.” She stood up, ready to escape from this nightmare. She hugged her big bear of a husband, and took his hand as he led to the door.

They both loved Paris, he as a returning visitor, and she as a returning resident. They walked from their rented apartment along the Rue de Bièvre, she studying the architecture and he, the people. From time to time they would take a side street as they looked for breakfast.

As the morning evaporated with the rising temperature, they decided on a picnic lunch. It would hit the spot when they got to the Louvre.

They found the perfect shop. A little hole in the wall really, a convenient store built into the side of an old building, with a window and doorway blocked by their own stand of vegetables and fruits. There were colors and smells to entice nearly anyone. Especially two hungry visitors.

Inside, they found cheeses, breads, and wine. A small basket to carry their treasures. Within minutes, loaded with apples, oranges, pears, and even a pineapple, brie, brioche, and burgundy, they left for the museum in search of a cultural adventure.
It was early in the evening before they returned to their rooms. John was exhausted. He had watched Lizzie digest every sign they’d seen during their tour, a habit she had inherited from her father. Unable to complete reading the entire museum in one day, she announced plans for an additional visit in the morning.

He sat on the couch, released his feet from bondage, and leaned back into the fluffy cushions.

“I just want to check the 52stories site one more time, okay honey?”

“Sure, sweetie,” he mumbled, trying to keep his eyes open while reaching for something to munch on from the picnic basket. It had been a long day. He was ready for a nap, or a quick dip in the whirlpool.

When he saw the transformation on Lizzie, all thoughts of relaxation disappeared.

Her mouth fell open. Her fingers stopped moving. Her shoulders dropped.

“Johnny!” she breathed.

He came to her side, looked at the picture, and sat slowly on the stool. Unbelievable. On the screen, right in the middle of the page she had retrieved, was a picture of the little stand where they had gotten their lunch. Maybe she was right after all.

“Do you see who’s in it?” he asked, noticing the two people walking away on the left side of the photo.

She looked more closely and gasped. It was them.

“Oh, my gosh, John. Look at that picture!”

“I know. How can that be? We were just there. How…?”

“Johnny, I mean look at what you’re doing. You’re not supposed to do that in public!” She laughed.

He looked again, and then chuckled. “I didn’t know I was on Candid Camera.”

They laughed another minute.

Silently, without even looking, they took each other’s hands. As they turned to face each other, looking into eyes deep with terror, they realized what this picture really implied.

Note to readers: the stories mentioned in this episode refer to my earlier submissions at 52stories.net, for pictures 1.04 through 1.07. Feel free to read them, too, if you dare