{"id":1147,"date":"2011-06-06T22:43:51","date_gmt":"2011-06-06T22:43:51","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/?p=1147"},"modified":"2013-09-22T05:15:35","modified_gmt":"2013-09-22T05:15:35","slug":"beasleys-machines-by-nathaniel-johnson","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/beasleys-machines-by-nathaniel-johnson\/","title":{"rendered":"Beasley’s Machines by Nathaniel Johnson"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/h1>\n

Beasley\u2019s Machines<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/h1>\n

By Nathaniel Johnson<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Raymond Eliot Beasley \u2013 his wife Ellen always summoned the full name \u2013 was up in the attic playing worn records in his dust-webbed playroom. Shelves groaned with hundreds of heavy, black platters \u2013 all sorted and alphabetically annotated in brown leather albums. Worse, he also collected those hefty old players with brass horns \u2013Victrolas \u2013 and they too had gathered the ashes of time.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t buy new needles anymore, Beasley,\u201d Ellen said. \u201cNext spring, off to the dump \u2013 the lot.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re priceless!\u201d cried the horrified Mr. Beasley.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCome spring, out they go!\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOut you\u2019ll go!\u201d cried Mr. Beasley, bug-eyed and balding, clutching Paul Whiteman to his bosom. \u201cAll my friends are here.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAll your friends died decades ago, Beasley,\u201d coughed Ellen, shaking a Swiffer in his face. \u201cDust to dust, you know.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThese are my Time Machines,\u201d protested the anguished Mr. Beasley.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s time these machines disappeared,\u201d said Ellen.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Each night following dinner, Mr. Beasley rose to his heavenly eaves. Ellen heard the spring ringing of the loft-ladder, mutters, and dull foot-thumping overhead, then the Victrola\u2019s creaky hand-crank, followed by scratchy music. In warm weather, Mr. Beasley opened the skylight to his spangled inky-way, while the platters played The Old Oaken Bucket, and everyone sang to the dreams of his childhood.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

When You\u2019ve Come to the End of a Perfect Day, always concluded the evening\u2019s musicale.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cClose that skylight when you come down,\u201d shouted Ellen, \u201cAnd remember, next week we\u2019re cleaning house!\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll go as well!\u201d growled the unregenerate Mr. Beasley, putting on another platter. \u201cI\u2019ve a good mind to get up and fly out that skylight \u2013 tonight!\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTake those blasted platters with you,\u201d Ellen cawed from the bottom of the ladder. After whacking the ceiling with her broom handle, she went scolding downstairs for a cup of tea. A moment later, After You\u2019ve Gone descended from the rafters; it was Mr. Beasley\u2019s dedication, and signature song.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

Ellen awoke in her reading chair and stared at the clock on the mantelpiece \u2013 stood up, stretched, and listened: the house was still and chilled. Is it really two in the morning? Beasley was not in bed \u2013 probably asleep in the attic, leaving the skylight open, again.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBeasley?\u201d Silence. \u201cRaymond Eliot Beasley, come down to bed \u2013 immediately!\u201d The loft-ladder was still in place. Better go up and find him.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The next morning, when the Beasley\u2019s son Alan and his wife Kathy arrived for breakfast, they found the house unlocked, and Ellen asleep in the vacant attic.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMum, it\u2019s freezing up here,\u201d cried Alan, helping his mother towards the ladder. \u201cWhy did you leave the skylight open?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCome down, now,\u201d said Kathy. \u201cWe want to talk to you about Ferncroft.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s really great, Mum, \u201csaid Alan.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd they\u2019ll have a lovely room ready in February,\u201d added Kathy.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow about the attic?\u201d said Ellen. \u201cAnd Beasley\u2019s stuff \u2013 what\u2019ll I do about all that junk?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s empty now,\u201d said Alan.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLeft, didn\u2019t he?\u201d Ellen paused. \u201cWent right through that skylight, the old mule!\u201d She smiled. \u201cTold me so.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

###<\/span><\/h1>\n

Nathaniel Johnson<\/span><\/b><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

The author lives in Rockport, Massachusetts, and is active in local writers groups and online at Francis Coppola\u2019s Zoetrope Virtual Studio. His most recent works have appeared in AlienSkin and Boston Literary Magazine, Writer\u2019s Stories, SNM Horror Magazine, Bewildering Stories\u2019 First Quarterly Review 2010, The Foundling Review, Every Day Fiction, and Absent Willow Review.<\/span><\/span><\/span><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Raymond Eliot Beasley \u2013 his wife Ellen always summoned the full name \u2013 was up in the attic playing worn records in his dust-webbed playroom.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_bbp_topic_count":0,"_bbp_reply_count":0,"_bbp_total_topic_count":0,"_bbp_total_reply_count":0,"_bbp_voice_count":0,"_bbp_anonymous_reply_count":0,"_bbp_topic_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_reply_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_forum_subforum_count":0,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[86],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1147","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-featured"],"aioseo_notices":[],"amp_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1147","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1147"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1147\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2177,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1147\/revisions\/2177"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1147"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1147"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1147"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}