Bedtime Stories: Michael Frost Presents

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Copyright © 2022 by Michael Frost

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions, contact Belen Books, LLC.

Individual Works

a Malice from This ©2010; Music of My Life, The ©2010; Attic, The ©2010; My Angel Across the Way ©2003; Boogeyman Returneth, The ©2002; Reflections in a Place Called Nahility ©2010; Brooch, The ©2010; Room Down the Hall, The ©2013; Demago ©1994; Rose Petal, The ©2010; Denouncing the Looking Glass ©2010; Theo Waited ©2010; Flakes, The Snowman © 1996; Though the Heavens Fall ©2013; Folly of Murder, The ©2009; Victor McSneed ©1997; Forgiveness ©2010; When Madness Calls ©2010; Happy Springs ©2010; Whimsy-Whimsy ©2010; I Have What You Need ©2007

This, and all stories within, are works of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or places is purely coincidental [You should be grateful].

ISBN: 978-1-959715-08-5

Published by Belen Books, LLC

7901 4th St. N, Ste 300, St. Petersburg, FL. 33702 USA

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Library of Congress Control Number for Print Versions: 2022948558

Edited by Beverly R. Waalewyn

Cover by Belen Media Group

EPUB made in the United States of America

For Mom & Dad

This thing, all things devours:

Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;

Gnaws iron, bites steel;

Grinds hard stones to meal;

Slays kings, ruins towns,

And beats high mountains down.

—J.R.R. Tolkien The Hobbit

Hold onto the reins of youth, son! Grab 'em, and never let 'em go, for if you do, you'll grow up, and then you'll change, and sometimes, you'll become something you've never dreamed possible! You just might become that monster under the bed, and I wouldn't recognize you at all!

—The Incredible Bouncing Bunny, Backo

Exordium

a Malice From thIs

*

To know him is to know me…

So often is the ruse so easily distracted,

torn away from the ideals from which it all began:

the steadfast dream of a child to weave the words

which He, She or I amongst the masses wander aimlessly to understand.

I beg to ask at times is it all lost,

carried asunder by winds of ill-virtue and timing;

pursued continuously by the demanding of the saints and souls

where even he—the one who writes—can no longer see the dream?

To speak of this, as I do now,

cryptic and misleading for those who attempt to understand,

do I really speak so uncaring to the reader?

Should I tell the ALL as my mortal horn keeps blowing?

How many close calls must one have?

How many ill fates must ride the winds and travel to the throat

--clawing away at it in attempts to get in--

only to be deflected by some unknown will and want?

Am I to accept fame and fortune,

or fail and falter like so many broken dreams;

murdered or sacrificed so that the masses can feel equal?

Shall I be just a burdensome claw in the side of society?

Are these my real questions to answers I will never know...

Is this just my own trepidation to what comes next?

That glorified reasoning that perhaps I have come full circle,

to that place where I should begin again?

Most importantly, will this riddle of my own enigma ever be understood?

Should it stand the test of time for others, and if so—

can it, should it, could it, would it ever explain the Me behind it all?

The real enigma in my name, as well as the title to this piece entirely?

a Malice From thIs...

Don’t you see? Can you not read? Is it not clear?

Does it not speak in volumes what the ultimate riddle tells?

Can you not read the words before your very eyes?

Read once more,

that I beg of you,

read it carefully for you then might see,

my anagram listed before you as it is written before all-seeing!

a Malice From thIs..

Riddled once,

twisted twice,

it reads exactly as it should:

I am Michael Frost, and I am a riddle no longer.

Flakes, The Snowman

*

I am going to write this once, only once, and then I will decide if I have any sanity left. It's been twelve years since it all happened, and in the latter four of those years, I sat in utter denial while the shrinks insisted that I should write it all out.

They all agree that it is for my own greater good—the doctors, that is—and to this moment, I am not sure what good a 'greater' is to come.

‘It will bring you closure,’ they perpend, regurgitating their dictation as patronizingly written once by a man who knew not of the word. I scoff at their arrogance encapsulated in a fancy frame on their office walls.

‘You will feel better when you have let it all go!’ my family concurs with the former and impedes their wills upon me, but I say it will kill me this time like it almost did—should have done—all those many years ago.

I don’t know...

Sometimes I think that the past should stay exactly where it died, rotting like so many discarded leaves in the fall and clumped under a porch stoop, low. Then again, it is the mind that drums it back to haunt you, to torture you with it, and the brain is a sick masochist for pain when it should be a potbellied hedonist.

Since I have begun, I might as well continue until my hands shake so badly that my fingers can no longer find the keys and my nose begins to bleed again, that, or perhaps until the story within splinters my mind for good and I fade away.

Either way, the horror is almost done.

That night happened just like this…

-1-

That night was crisp and clear; the air was cold, with a light breeze from the west carrying the icy taste of snow with every breath. New snow was not expected for another day and a half, which suited me just fine. It would be the weekend then, and I wouldn’t have to worry about digging myself out to go to work in the mornings to come.

I loved nights like those—airy, but with a sharp enough bite like opening a clean freezer on a warm day and catching just the essence of frost—and when you looked up, you could count more than a hundred stars in the sky (despite living in the inner city where the air and light pollution would usually drown them out). Clean somehow. Natural pureness despite the human reminders of arc-sodium lights illuminating the parking spaces a few hundred yards behind me, and there, on the hill—OUR hill—my son and I was enjoying our time out with the sled.

A chuckle found my throat and escaped without me knowing it was rising when Toby careened to the right when he should have gone left, bounding over a drift-mound near the bottom of the hill. Knowing him, he had aimed for it intentionally to send himself airborne, which he did spectacularly. Upon contact, he went one way while the red and silver sled shot the other, sending his yellow, snowsuit-clad body cartwheeling like a puffed-up doll over the surface.

Are you okay? I called down to him through cupped hands, attempting to hide my humor which had quickly changed to laughter.

Did you see that? he shot right back up to me, followed by a hero’s dance in calf-deep snow. Quickly, Toby trudged through the snow, collected the guideline from the sled, and began moving his way back up to me. I laughed now soundly, enjoying his successful crashing stunt, and waved my hands over my head to let him know I had. I so loved him, and I still do. That was awesome!

Want some of your cocoa? I called down to him when he reached the halfway mark, straining against the raw material there from a nasty sore throat I was nearly past having. Earlier I had told him that sledding might have to be off our nightly list of things to do because of it, but I folded once I looked into his disappointed brown eyes, which begged for reasoning.  He didn’t whine like most children his age might do. He held me with those eyes and explained that in a few days, when the new snow came, it wouldn’t be ‘slip-slidie’ enough.

A six-year-old with deductive qualities was a worthy opponent any day.

He was right, fresh snow and a steel-blade sled did not work well together, but it was not his reasoning that won his argument that night, just my inability to disappoint him. As I write this, I wish I had broken his dreams of a night of sledding and kept him home.

Oh God, do I wish I did.

Yep! he beamed up to me and dropped the sled line bunched in a thick yellow mitten that matched his snowsuit perfectly.

I pulled out the insulated Thermos from the inside of my jacket and began serving up a cup of the double-sweet brew, and already his mittens were off and hanging from the sleeves by a strap his mother had sewn into them so they wouldn’t get lost. She had a knack for little things like that, as his mother did, adding just enough to a nearly perfect, crafted ‘anything’ to make it function better. There had been times when I almost took up her jesting at me to allow her to do the same to my clothes so I wouldn’t misplace my car keys, cell phone, or briefcase.

Here ya go, Mr. Knievel, I smiled at a joke only I would understand for his age and handed him the aluminum drinking cup he took with both hands and drank hungrily past panting cheeks. That will warm you.

That was so cool, dad! he nodded, dismissing me and pointing toward the bottom of the hill. Man, I flew so high!

That you did, I smiled, taking back the drinking cup and securing the Thermos in my inside pocket. With a little effort, he began tugging his mittens back on, only requiring assistance to ensure the elastic edges were snug around the ends of the sleeves. With a quick lift of the edge of his scarf, his face disappeared to just above those like a fighter pilot snapping close their oxygen mask. You getting cold yet, little man?

Nope! he quipped over his shoulder as he gathered up the line and waddled due to his suit’s padding to position the sled for another run. I’m gonna hit it head-on this time, watch!

I briefly glanced at my watch and saw that it was going on 8:30 and nodded. We had only been there for twenty minutes so far, too soon to apply my authoritative veto on the night despite the redness of his cheeks or the tightening of my chilled fingers, which was remedied quickly by shoving them into my pockets. The temperature was more than bearable with the double-layered flannel coat I was wearing and the trusty full-body thermals I had close to my skin. No, we had plenty of time, and Toby had more than enough will to go a thousand more times if he could.

A few more times, I told myself as he plopped down on the sled, taking up the steering line in both mittens, and shot a glance back towards me, signaling that he was ready for my running shove to send him on his way.

Push me really hard this time, Dad! he commanded through his scarf, and I did as ordered, digging in deeply with my toes and darted forth, shoving my son into the snowy oblivion down the hill.

Like a yellow bullet, he zipped downward, holding the steering lines tightly, leaning slightly to the left as he guided the nose of the sled directly for the drift, screaming laughter the whole way. He did as planned and found the drift dead center. It seemed almost magical how he caught air and soared; for a moment, he and the sled seemed captured motionlessly in time.

Happy travels, Mr. Claus, I thought to myself, watching the twin contrails of powdery snow follow him. That is the one image I remember today: Toby on the sled in contrasting colors from suit to vehicle, his high-pitched cry of excitement escaping him and the whole while knowing his eyes were wide with excitement as he flew. For every breathing moment, I wish that image was the only one I carried of that night, to be powerful enough to wipe away all that later followed, but it is the only one that still allows me my sanity.

-2-

It was drawing on 9:20 when I told him it was about that time, and just like before at the house when I attempted to kill our plans, he didn’t whine; he held me with those brown eyes and spoke directly to my mind and my soul.

But I still want to go a few more times, he said quietly without as much as a movement.

I know, champ, but it is getting colder now, I countered without a hint of a lie because it was getting colder; that or I was succumbing to it, me standing in one spot for most of the time that night. And it’s very late. We can come back on Saturday.

It’s not that cold, he added confidently, although his bottom lip had quivered uncontrollably since the last trip down. Just a couple more times? Please?

I stood there with my hands in my pockets while my feet stomped around the snow to chase away the numbness in my toes. My eyes scanned from his to the bottom of the hill. I attempted to calculate the extended time the trips down and back up would take, save he didn’t get stuck in a drift like he had two trips down before. I shrugged, thinking ‘No,’ but I so wanted to please him.

I am not sure, I said but caved regardless. Okay, once more.

It was not the complete answer he was looking for, but at least it was halfway there. I had the chance to see the corners of his mouth curl up in a satisfied smile just before everything from the bridge of his nose down disappeared under his scarf.

Spinning, he turned and pulled the sled back to the absolute edge of the hill, and I assumed my position behind him; planting my palms squarely on his tiny shoulders, I took a deep breath as I anchored in my toes and—

That’s when I first heard it.

Swish! Swish!

I paused, looking about us, unsure from which direction the sound had come and whether or not I had heard anything at all. The cold, just like the heat, can play tricks on sound waves, and on a night like this, the sounds could have happened blocks away and still sounded up close and personal.

This time— he pointed outward with a puffy-mitten-clad hand. —I'm gonna go between those two bushes, around that park bench, and fly over that spot I crashed!

Oh, okay…one second, I acknowledged almost dismissively as I sought the source of the noise. Distantly, I could hear Toby babbling away about how he would lean into the curve this time so he wouldn’t topple over and maybe even use his hand as a rudder in the snow so his turn could be sharper.

Da-aad! Toby whined this time and scooted twice, letting me know he was ready to go. You have to push!

The sounds rose again, sounding like heavy passes of a straw broom on a ceramic floor, and as I looked about myself attempting to pinpoint the source, Toby was insisting he was ready to launch. We were alone that night, all the responsible parents of other children having their little ones fed and bedded by now, but there were the noises, nonetheless.

Toby whined my parental name several more times, drawing me to him and away from the sounds. Perhaps a cross-country skier out practicing had to be someone hidden in the distant shadows of mounded snow and densely packed trees.

All right, all right, I made mocking faces behind his back and dug in. Here… we… go!

Off he shot with my laughter trailing behind him as I straightened, watching the little yellow blur glide away from me into the darkness. I realized that the air had gotten slightly warmer, not a lot, but enough and snowflakes were coming down. I remember how I stood there bemused as a child watching ball tricks done by a magician as my mind locked onto the impossible oddity.

The breezes were still coming in from the West, yet the flakes were blowing in from the East, stronger.

-3-

Halfway up the hill on his last ride for the night, Toby had paused and was looking at something to his left, leaning forward in the direction of his attention. At first, I thought he was stalling, putting off the inevitability of us packing up and going home for as long as he could, but then I saw him lean forward even more, intently looking at whatever his keen eyes had picked up like the attention of a pointer.

To my right was Toboggan Run, or so it had been named up until I was about twelve years old when I used to come to this very hill with my father. There had been a straight toboggan track made of wood, and a few local high schools practiced on it when there were still competitions for such around. Now, Toboggan Run was called that only by us older generations who still remembered it as such.

The hill was very steep and ran a lot longer than our hill, where only the older teen daredevils and a few brave adults ever sled. The park district used the area often as staging and storage enclaves for various machinery, and during the winter months, one or two pieces could be buried over there under a mound of white. Most avoided the run for this reason, others simply because reaching the bottom often meant dodging obstacles half-hidden in the snow, only to take ten minutes to get back to the top.

Despite the dangers I associated with Toboggan Run, something was over in that direction, and it held my son's curiosity.

What’s wrong? I called down to him, feeling my throat scream against the stress. Toby looked up my way and then returned his attention towards Toboggan Run, pointing. Come on up, little man!

Toby quickly broke into a waddling run, blasting away packed snow with his boots and the sled trailing behind him. His round red cheeks were puffing as he neared, and his wide eyes glowed with a culmination of worry and excitement.

Toby? my hands shot before me to slow his approach, for his forehead was still at groin level.

A snowman! he screamed at me and shot a straight arm toward it. A big snowman is down there! Look! He has a scarf, carrot nose, a hat, and everything!

Toby was already moving to that side of the crest, and by the time I caught up with him, he was jumping frantically in place. As I slowed, his fast-talking became jumbled, sounding much like radios still had dials, and you could spin through the stations to create some made-up, mish-mashed language. I narrowed my eyes to see what he was so excited about through the falling snow, and he was right. There, at the bottom of Toboggan Run, was a snowman; tall, three-sectional, and seemingly very out of place.

‘In the meadow, we will build a snowman,’ I remember mocking that yuletide melody, a song to this day I can no longer bear to listen to. Someone had decided to build a giant fat snowman there for whatever reason was unknown to me; a place where no one would ever see it, well, that is, except for the sharp eyes of a six-year-old that saw anything and everything most people could not, including Santa.

That’s odd, I said aloud to no one in particular as I narrowed my sight to a fine slit and could barely make out the rolling trail from when whoever rolled up the snow-boulder-like bottom of the thing.

I want to smash it! Toby was beaming at me and every dim and distant light out that night twinkled in his eyes.

Not tonight, sport, I said and began to move away. We have to get going.

Pluh-ease! Toby whined loudly as he took my arm, and I stopped because he had never been so insistent about anything until that night. Last slide, I promise! I want to fly down and bash it!

No, son, that hill is way too danger—

Swish-Swoosh-Swish!

My eyes shot down the hill towards the snowman from where the sound came; I shook my head and started to turn back to Toby when my eyes went right back to it. At the time, my mind accepted that my eyes played a little game because it was dark and cold and snow was falling, but I swore it had moved forward.

I am big now, and I won’t try any stunts! he was begging me with his mitten-clad hands forming a yellow praying (pleading) gesture up at me.

No, sorry, too dangerous, I said flatly, focusing on the bottom of the hill, and my vision was beginning to get confused with the thickening snowflakes that were falling. Your mom would have my butt if she knew I let you go down there.

You told me you did at my age! he shot up to me, and then his expression suddenly drew blank, and those big browns of his leveled on me. So, I am not big like you were at my age?

He knew he had me dead to rights, and I wish I had learned to keep my big mouth shut to this day.

Slowly he let go of my jacket and let his arms drop to his sides, and quietly, without a whimper, he went to retrieve his sled. He never looked directly at me once he collected up the guideline, and with careful steps, he walked past me towards the parking lot with the sled in tow. At the time, it didn’t matter whether this was theatrics or genuine acceptance, but the pang that shuddered inside my chest was real. I was letting him down, my little trooper, and worse, I was telling him that I had no faith in him.

Tobester! I called out to him when he had gotten no more than a snowball's throw from me, turning slowly because of his large hood. From there, I could see his big eyes scanning me, shaming me. "Once, and I mean only once!"

His face expanded with utter joy and brightness, and he moved so fast back to me that I still don’t recall his legs ever moving to this day. One second, he was standing at a distance, upset and hurt, and the next, his forehead was rebounding off his abdomen with his little arms squeezing me like a vise.

**

I’m going to get some coffee right now, have a cigarette to calm the nerves, and if the neighbors don’t call the police because of my screaming, I will be back to finish this in a moment.

-4-

Remember, you get one shot at this, I told him, squatting down in front of the sled