Orange

By Terome Fordham III

Orange is a collection of fifteen short stories. The topics of these short stories can range from friendship, gender and sexuality, death, loneliness, and even humor. Each story is only twenty pages each and there is something for everyone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781387473823

Book preview

Charon

The clock on the wall ticked loudly.

There was a light rain. A rare sight for Arizona.

It was a slow day today. I would wrap up quickly and head home for the evening. The Super Bowl was on. I had decided that I was going to watch it this year.

I watched as the minute hand struck midnight. I got up from my chair and began counting the cash in the register. Only twenty dollars today. That was a good thing. The less money the better.

Once I was done closing I grabbed my windbreaker from the coat rack and shut off the lights. I put on my scarf and prepared to enter the night.

Ring ring.

The front door was pushed open.

Hello? they said.

My heart stopped. No. It couldn’t be.

The child walked into the shop and made eye contact with me. They were barefoot and wore nothing but dirty overalls. Their brunette hair was unkempt and their skin covered in grime and dirt. There were dried tears on their face and their fingers covered in cuts.

The shop is closed. I said.

The child shook their head. I-I’m lost. I don’t know where I am.

I know, child. I said softly.

The Super Bowl would have to wait.

I took my windbreaker off and placed it back on the coat rack.

Can you tell me where I am? the child asked.

I smiled gently. Of course. You are on the other side of the fence now.

The fence?

I motioned to the chair in front of the counter.

Sit, child.

They hesitated for a moment, but decided to obey. Slowly, they walked over to the tall bar seat and climbed on top. I reached under the counter and pulled out the bag of wet wipes and other sanitary materials. I was going to take care of this child. It was only right.

I grabbed the child’s face and gazed at them.

Hey! they struggled.

What is your name? I asked.

Dakota. they said.

Dakota. A lovely name.

I grabbed the wet wipe and began to clean the grime off of their forehead.

Are you a boy or a girl, Dakota? I asked.

The child’s eyebrows wiggled. I don’t know.

I nodded in understanding. It’s okay to be uncertain.

Dakota’s gaze left mine, and I could sense that they were thinking long and hard about something.

I dipped a cotton ball in alcohol and grabbed their hand. There were numerous cuts and scars near the wrists. Defensive wounds.

How old are you, Dakota? I asked.

The child stared at their hands. Nine.

Nine? Really?

Their head shook vigorously.

You’re quite young to be on this side of the fence.

What does that mean?

I hesitated. No. I couldn’t tell them.

I smiled. Dakota. What is the last thing you remember before walking into my shop?

The child picked at a patch of dry skin on their hands. They were in deep thought. I could tell something was very troubling. Whatever happened before they walked in must have been traumatizing. Something sad and unfortunate.

I was running. Dakota muttered.

I raised an eyebrow. Running?

They nodded.

I grabbed the child’s hand. I see. Why were you running?

My fingers squeezed a tiny amount of antibiotic onto their hand. I smeared it across the dry patches of the skin, making sure nothing was left untreated.

Dakota winced in pain.

Forgive me. You’ve been hurt in quite a few places.

Dakota nodded. They were mean.

They?

My classmates.

I put the tube of antibiotic cream down and addressed their legs. Multiple bruises and abrasions. Cuts of the skin. Dirt and grime. Swelling.

For a second, I found myself trembling.

As I touched the child’s ankle, they winced in pain again.

It’s broken. I stated.

Dakota nodded. I tried to run.

Behind the store counter was a kit to make a splint. I rummaged through the drawers and got out the necessary materials. Gauze. Rope. Some thick sheets of durable plastic.

I patted the other bar stool. Can you put your leg here?

Dakota struggled and their eyes filled with tears. Before I suggested something else, they managed to swing their leg atop the seat.

Very good. I applauded.

As I went to work addressing their leg, I began to wonder more and more about what happened to the child. Usually, I didn’t care about these things. People cross the fence for a lot of reasons. Most very common. Accidents. Crimes of passion. Substances. The elements.

Hatred. That was common too.

Dakota. I said.

Mhm.

Why were you running from your classmates?

They bit their lip as I applied tape. They don’t like me. I don’t know why.

I considered this. The child was only nine years old. That made them a fourth grader. A smart and charming one as well. They posed no threat to me. No threat to anyone else.

Did your classmates do this to you, Dakota?

They nodded.

I stopped what I was doing and laced my fingers. I did this because I did not want Dakota to see my hands shake. This was a moment of weakness. Something that did not happen.

It is not my job to become passionate.

I simply take those who come to me to the appropriate place. I am nothing but a chauffeur. I do not ask questions. I should not be asking questions. That job was for someone else. Someone not me. This was not something that should have concerned me.

But, what kind of person would I be if it didn’t?

I nodded. Okay. What happened after?

The child’s brown eyes refused to meet mine.

It was raining. I was trying to go home and they followed me. I slipped and fell down a hill.

Dakota touched their broken ankle.

Did you call for help? I asked softly.

They shook their head. Too far from home. Too far from school.

I let out a deep breath.

Dakota picked at a scab on their knee. They hit me a lot. They hit me with a lot of things.

How many of them?

They put their hand up.

Five.

I stared at the number. Five children. Five of them.

I nodded.

Did you know them?

Dakota shook their head.

They were always mean to me. Ever since school started.

I grabbed the alcohol wipes and began to address the knee. There were terrible stories from travelers that I have heard. Some things that I would rather not hear again. But, this one. This child. It…hurt me.

What happened after they hit you, Dakota?

Well, it hurt a lot. I couldn’t move. I could hear them laughing and calling me names. Really bad names. Names that my teachers told them not to say about people like me.

I applied ointment to another cut.

I started to feel sleepy. They dragged me to this tree and left me there. They started throwing dirt on me. Dirt and leaves and other random stuff.

The tube of ointment dropped to the floor.

For a moment, nothing was said. Just the ticking of the clock and the clashing of rain on the windows.

Are you okay? Dakota asked.

The smile I gave was weak. Yes. I’m okay.

I reached down and grabbed the ointment. My hands still refused to calm down. My heart threatened to jump out of my chest. My mouth felt dry. I felt as if each word was a dart of poison. This was it. This was the traveler’s story that had broken me the most.

How do you feel, Dakota? I asked.

The child looked at their injuries. It feels better.

Good. I’m glad.

Dakota looked at me. You’re pale.

I dropped my head. I suppose so.

How do you feel? the child asked playfully.

I…am just tired. I lied. No. I couldn’t. Not yet.

Sorry I came in while you were closed. they said. Dakota genuinely meant what they said. They felt they were inconveniencing me. No, not at all child. However, I wish you’d never walked in here at all. Not ever.

Are you hungry? I asked.

Dakota’s brown eyes nearly turned hazel. Yes!

I smiled. I skipped my lunch today. Do you want to share it?

Anything to get my mind off of this.

Dakota nodded eagerly. As I went to grab my lunch from the fridge, my brain would not let me forget what it had learned. A child so innocent that they haven’t even asked for my name…

I shook my head and grabbed the paper bag off of the top shelf. No. There is no such evil in the world. Something more must have happened. Something that I don’t know. Something else.

Five children.

My body got chills.

I placed the paper bag onto the counter between us.

Okay, let’s see what I got.

Dakota couldn’t wait. My hand reached in and I pulled out the first item.

A tuna sandwich.

Yuck.

Very well.

I pulled out the next item.

I believe this is called an Uncrustable. I said examining the package.

I’m allergic to jelly. Dakota said matter-of-factly.

Really? Well, let’s keep digging.

I pulled out the next item.

Cheez-itz. I said.

Yes! Dakota cheered.

I gave the package to the child and they ripped it open quickly. They began to eat like they’d been raised by wolves. I hadn’t seen anything like it before.

Dakota wiped their cheese fingers on their shirt.

You never told me what this place is. Where am I?

The smile on my face disappeared.

Dakota…you are…

Could I really do it? I mean, would they even understand what it meant? I couldn’t tell his child what had happened. I just…

Dakota tilted their head at me. Are you okay?

No. No, I was being selfish. No matter the age or the context or time, I had to.

It was my job.

Dakota. You are dead.

The child stared at me. The food in their mouth stopped moving completely. In fact, they stopped all motion completely. They were frozen in time.

I swallowed hard. My name is Charon. I am the first person you meet when you die.

The bag of Cheez-itz fell to the ground and scattered. I watched as the orange squares slid across the tile.

Dakota’s eyes filled with tears.

I’m…dead?

I nodded grimly. Yes, child. You are no longer among the living. You are on the other side of the fence. You have completed life.

My tongue burned. No they hadn’t. They hadn’t completed life. Not even ten percent of it. Not at all.

Dakota began to wail. It was a cry so distraught that it was uncomfortable. It was piercing and genuine and full of hurt. I’d been in this shop for centuries, and nothing had moved me much. Nothing like this at least. Nothing.

The child continued to sob. I felt as if I had to-

Their arms wrap around my waist and hugged me tightly. Tears began to dampen my cardigan. Dakota’s cries were muffled as they leaned into me.

What was happening?

Centuries ago, I was told one thing when I started this job.

Do not become attached to the dead.

The dead have a fate that is only for them. No other person can bear this fate. It is ordained this way.

I’ve met plenty of the dead. Some were murderers. Some were victims of circumstance. Some were evil and mean. Others were gentle and heartbroken.

None of them made me feel this way. Feel this vulnerable.

This random child from Arizona. Killed by their peers.

Five children.

I shuddered, and suddenly the bear hug was much needed.

Reluctantly, I placed my hand on the child’s head.

It’s okay. You’re okay. I promise.

Dakota’s wails slowly began to fade.

They sniffled. Why did they do that? Why?

I found myself stunned. A situation so utterly evil had befallen this child. There was no way they could comprehend it. There was no way I could understand it. A senseless and tasteless murder. An evil that I thought couldn’t have existed.

Hatred.

I patted the child’s head. You are different. They didn’t like that.

Dakota continued to sob. Why?

I’m sorry, child. I do not know.

They continued to cry for a few more moment before finally calming down. They were still shaken up. Uncomfortable. Scared.

I-I was always nice to them. Dakota stammered.

I grabbed a tissue and wiped their nose. You did the right thing.

Dakota blew their nose hard. Why did they kill me, Charon?

I sighed. This was a question that I had heard plenty of times. Why did the dead have to die? Did they deserve it? Did they do something wrong? Was it karma for something else? Was it preordained by a higher power? Why them? Why not someone else? Why not someone more evil or more deserving?

Why did the good suffer and the evil flourish?

For thousands of years I’ve pondered this very question. I’ve watched as terrorists and serial killers and sexual predators get awarded job promotions, news coverage, TV shows, prizes, and even brand deals. None of those people deserved a good life. None of them.

Then, people like Dakota walk in. Or a brain surgeon that succumbed to cancer. A special needs man who was a victim of gun violence. A mother of four in the wrong place at the wrong time. Neglected elderly people. Figure heads in oppressed communities killed by their own governments.

Why?

I took this question to my boss. The answer was swift and unfulfilling:

Death does not discriminate.

Dakota sat down on the bar seat again and wiped their eyes. This child did not deserve what had happened to them. They wouldn’t like my answer to their question. But, it was my job to tell them.

Dakota. Do you know someone that is dead? I asked.

The child knew instantly. My mother.

Your mother?

Dakota nodded. She died when I was two.

I nodded. They didn’t know her for long. But they understood that she was no longer among the living as well.

How did she die, Dakota? I asked.

The child shook their head. She left the house and never came back.

I raised an eyebrow. Your mother left? How do you know she’s dead-

She’s dead to me. Dakota said. There were no tears this time. Just the stoic face of a child who clearly knew more than I.

I see. I said softly. Dakota’s mother was not dead. She had abandoned the child. To Dakota, she might as well have been in the grave.

My dad takes care of me. Dakota stated.

In my head, I began to put things together.

Dakota. Did your father know about the children being mean to you?

The stoic face of theirs disappeared. Yes.

I could sense another story unfolding here. One that was no less hurtful and disheartening than the others.

At that moment, I decided I had to sit down as well.

Dakota wouldn’t meet my eyes again.

What did your father say, Dakota? I questioned.

The child’s lip quivered. Tears rolled down their cheeks, but they were silent. There were no wails of grief this time. This was a sadness stoked by anger. By disappointment.

He told me…

Dakota wiped away their tears first.

He told me to man up.

Ah.

And when I tell him I’m not a man he gets angry.

I offered a tissue to them and they refused.

So I never listened to him. I listened to my teachers.

This child…was brave.

You did the right thing, Dakota.

The child shook their head. I died. I did something wrong.

This was another predicament that the dead faced. It was survivors’ guilt despite being the victim. Sometimes the dead feel they could have done something different. Different enough to avoid death altogether. But I knew the answer.

You cannot avoid death.

Everyone and thing has a time and a place. Before that time comes, some may have near death experiences. Some may be close to death. Others may suffer for their entire life. Some will die quickly and pleasantly. But some will die terrible and violent deaths.

I have never agreed with this.

Death does not discriminate.

Well, why not?

Nothing you did was wrong, Dakota.

The child put their head in their hands.

Why does nobody like me? Why does nobody understand me?

The dead either accept their fate or resent it. Sometimes, they never understand it.

Your peers and your family failed you. I said bluntly.

Dakota looked at me. "Should I have manned up? Was I wrong? Am I…wrong?"

I shook my head. I cannot make decisions for you, Dakota. The great thing about life is that everyone is different. You did what you thought was right. I will always support that.

What good is being right if you die for it?

The question swam around in my head. Death tends to teach us lessons. What lesson was learned from the death of a nine year old? What did the world gain or lose? What would be the outcome? Would there be outrage? Or would it get reported once on the six o’clock news and never spoken of again?

I stood up. It was time to do my job.

Come, child.

Dakota gazed at me. We’re leaving?

I nodded. My shop is closed, after all. It’s time for you to move on.

Dakota slid off the seat.

Can you take me back?

I shook my head.

No. I cannot.

Will I ever come back?

I do not know.

Dakota looked at their muddy shoes.

I never got to fight back. I couldn’t get revenge.

I grabbed my windbreaker off the coat rack again.

Revenge is a faulty concept. It leads to more violence. More death. I can assure you that you would still lose your life if you attempted to fight back. Does that make sense?

The words marinated in Dakota’s head for a moment. They knew I was right. Their death was imminent, as unfortunate as that sounded.

What did I die for?

I picked my umbrella up.

Let’s find out.

I opened the door to the shop, the smell of rain filling my nose. It was dark in the Arizona desert. Clouds of rain covered the stars. Hundreds of miles away from civilization, it was a place that only the dead stumbled upon.

The rain turned the desert sand into a gritty mud. I made sure my boots were fastened and motioned for Dakota to follow.

I stuck the umbrella above them.

Where are we going?

The car was situated just in front of the building. It was archaic and loud. Something you would have seen on television in the 80s. I preferred it this way. It was my chariot. My ferry for the dead.

I opened the passenger door. Elysium.

Dakota hesitantly crawled into the car. I shut the door and went around to the driver’s side. I closed the umbrella and climbed into the driver’s seat.

The car turned over and the bright headlights pierced the darkness. The windshield wipers worked quietly to remove the rain. I let the car sit for a moment, making sure the engine was ready for the drive.

I suppose you have no way to pay for this. I said.

Dakota raised their eyebrows. Pay?

Yes. I take cash, card, doubloons, and even those beads the Mesopotamians used.

Dakota opened their mouth in a confused manner.

I smiled. I’m kidding. This one is on me.

Dakota managed a smile.

I put the car in drive and we began to speed through the desert. This was a drive I had taken millions and millions of times. Back and forth through the desert. Bringing the dead to their final resting place.

What is Eleesium? Dakota said. They had said it wrong, as most people do.

Elysium is your final resting place. It is a paradise.

Dakota lit up. They had seemingly accepted the fact that they were dead. Not many people could do this.

What is paradise like?

It is different for everyone. I could not tell you that.

My boss would not approve of what I was doing, but He would have to make an exception. It was closing time. I had to make the final decision on where this child went. I chose Elysium.

Those five. They would go elsewhere one day.

I’d make sure of it.

I glanced at the child. They were squirming from excitement. Perhaps this was how most children would react. They didn’t think much. Their brains only took in so much information then moved on to the next thing. However, Dakota did not remind me of this. They were much smarter than they let on. Much more resilient and braver than most.

I began to wonder what their Elysium would look like.

But first, we had to cross a bridge.

A bridge of the living.

Fasten your seatbelt. I instructed the child.

Dakota put their seatbelt on and sat back in the seat.

The bridge would take us back to where it began and where it ended. It would paint a scene for the deceased and remind them of what had happened.

It was a final goodbye.

In the distance, a large canyon spread across the land. It was miles long and miles wild. The darkness made it seem bigger than what it actually was.

The windshield wipers began to work harder as I sped up.

Dakota gripped the door handle. What are you doing? There’s a cliff!

Trust me young one. I said.

The

Reviews for Orange

[Keanu Lover · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Amazing writer. Love the thrill and anticipation of short stories. I like how so many of them start off like “Here… theres a secret somewhere”