November | 2023 | SYNAPSEONFIRE

THE JAZZMAN

In the gloomy haze before dawn, Gerald Gubbins stirred in his lumpy bed, roused by an urgent sense of purpose. The air hung heavy with the anticipation of something peculiar, something off-kilter in his universe. He squinted at the alarm clock, its digits casting an eerie glow: 3:27 AM.

Gerald was a man of routines—boring, predictable routines, but this wake-up call was certainly not one of them, and it left him feeling unnerved. He shuffled to the kitchen in his mismatched socks, the cold linoleum sending shivers up his spine. The refrigerator hummed, the only other thing awake in the entire block, maybe the whole town. He opened the door, blinking in the brief flood of light, and peered inside, then shut the door with a grimace. Nothing in there called to him. All traces of sleepiness had fallen away like the leaves on an autumn tree and the bathroom seemed like the next logical stop.

In front of the mirror, Gerald wielded a toothbrush like a magic wand. He stared at his disheveled reflection, the wiry hair sticking out in all directions, resembling a dandelion in desperate need of a breeze. He finished up and dressed hurriedly, feeling an urgent and inexplicable need to go outside.

His wife, Ethel, snored softly in the next room, blissfully ignorant of her husband’s peculiar early morning expedition. Gerald tiptoed past her, careful not to awaken her. A cranky and grumpy Ethel was something he had no desire to confront at this hour. The creaky front door swung open with a groan as he stepped into the chilly darkness and Gerald winced at the sound, loud and disturbing in the silence of the early morning. But Ethel did not wake and Gerald walked down the steps to the street, drawing his coat around him to ward off the cold.

Outside, the neighborhood slumbered under a blanket of silence, disturbed only by the occasional rustle of a raccoon in the garbage cans. A peculiar scent wafted through the air, a blend of wet asphalt, stale donuts, and the distant echo of a saxophone, played by some mysterious musician whose tune seemed quite out of sync with the hour.

Gerald cautiously made his way down the deserted streets, eyes darting nervously at every shadow. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the universe had scheduled an appointment just for him, a clandestine rendezvous in the enigmatic realm before dawn, and he wasn’t sure he would like what waited for him.

As he approached the town square, a flickering streetlamp cast long, distorted shadows that danced around him like mischievous imps. The town clock struck four, its chime echoing through the empty streets, the sound mingling with the eerie melody of the nocturnal jazzman.

Gerald reached the heart of the square, his breath forming misty clouds in the crisp air. In the center stood an ancient fountain, its waters frozen in a perpetual state of indecision. As he circled the fountain, the worn stones beneath his feet whispered forgotten secrets. Gerald did his best to ignore them.

As if on cue, a solitary figure emerged from the shadows shrouding the square. The Jazzman materialized, instrument in hand, a fedora pulled low over his eyes, his silhouette painted against the dim glow of the streetlamp. He beckoned Gerald closer with a flick of his saxophone.

“Mr. Gubbins, isn’t it?” The Jazzman’s voice was a smooth blend of smoke and bourbon.

Gerald nodded, his heart pounding in his chest. “That’s me. Why am I here?”

The Jazzman chuckled, a sound that echoed through the square like the laughter of unseen specters. “You, my friend, are privileged. You have been selected to witness one of the universe’s cosmic jokes.”

The Jazzman raised his instrument to his lips and played a haunting melody, and as the notes spilled out like crystals into the morning air, the fountain began to tremble. Water gushed forth, not in liquid form, but in a cascade of laughter. Laughter that echoed through the empty streets, laughter that reverberated in the stillness of the pre-dawn hours.

Gerald stood there befuddled, as the Jazzman’s tune unveiled the punchline of the joke. The laughter went on and on, and Gerald wondered that it did not wake anyone else. Then he realized that only he could hear it. The laughter was for him alone. In that moment, as the laughter of the fountain mingled with the jazzman’s saxophone and the strange scent of the early morning, Gerald Gubbins couldn’t help but join in the cosmic merriment, realizing that perhaps the universe had a sense of humor after all.

THE EMPORIUM OF SENTIMENTS

In a world where experiential emotions, known as sentimotes, had become commodities, purchased like groceries, Olivia yearned for something unique. She didn’t want the humdrum sentimotes available on every street corner. The rarest and most exotic sentimotes were what intrigued her, and there was only one place where they could be found—the mysterious auction house known as “The Emporium of Sentiments.”

The Emporium was a legendary establishment, shrouded in mystique and legend. No one knew who owned it, but whispers of its auctions reached everywhere. This was the place where sentimotes beyond the mundane could be acquired for the right price. These auctions, held just four times a year required an application to attend.

Olivia had heard tales of people obtaining sentimotes so intense their lives had changed forever. She yearned for a genuine experience of courage, a sentimote of bravery that would enable her to face her deepest fears and uncertainties. To her astonishment and delight, her application was accepted.

The night of the auction, Olivia found herself standing inside an ornate building, its interior bathed in the warm glow of chandeliers. The crowd gathered there was a motley mix of eccentric characters, all seeking sentimotes to fill their perceived voids.

The auctioneer, a charismatic figure, presented a series of sentimotes, each accompanied by its own backstory and power. Love that could mend a broken heart, happiness that could make the world seem a better place, anger that could topple empires, and sorrow that could move mountains—sentimotes beyond the ordinary.

Olivia’s heart raced as the bidding process unfolded. The tension in the room was palpable, a heady mix of desire and desperation.

Then, the auctioneer introduced a sentimote of courage, and Olivia felt an indescribable pull. This was the opportunity she had been waiting for. She entered the auction, her heart pounding with every bid as she wondered if the price would rise above her financial limit. Luckily for her, courage was not something in great demand at the Emporium that night. The buyers seemed more interested in sentimotes of the sensory kind. Eventually, the coveted sentimote of courage was hers.

Once home, she activated the sentimote, and as it coursed through her, Olivia felt a newfound strength and determination. Her fears and uncertainties seemed to melt away, replaced by a resolute belief in herself. She could face challenges head-on and make decisions she had long avoided.

Yet, as the days passed, Olivia realized the cost of her acquisition. The courage she had purchased had consequences. It sometimes bordered on recklessness, and the line between bravery and foolishness blurred. She found herself making impulsive decisions, unafraid of the outcomes.

As she pondered the enigma of sentimotes and the worth of her own newfound courage, she began to see them in a different light. She had paid a great price for courage, but it came with a heavy burden. True courage couldn’t be bought; it had to be nurtured and developed within oneself. Emotions earned and cultivated were much more valuable than those simply bought and sold. The most powerful emotions were the ones that came from within, and no auction house could ever provide that.