I'm sad it's the last week, I've really been loving the challenge! (There's nothing that says I can't keep writing stories even after it's done though, 😉)

I was a child, then, and I did not truly understand the weight of consequences. The man offered me a cloak, and I was cold. Snow drifted around us, in the town square, and I believed him when he said he wished me no harm.
The cloak was warm, and I did not notice, then, the way it snaked around me, fitting perfectly to my small form despite the fact that it had appeared larger only a moment before.
It was only later that I realized that the cloak could not be removed.
And that while wearing it, I could not speak.
I wept for a time, soundlessly, and then I picked myself back up and went on, and as I did so I noticed the single thread undone from the base of the cloak. As I walked, it whispered along behind me, coming unraveled. As soon as I stopped, however, it slowly wound back in on itself, stitching back together.
I continued on, not daring to stop, until the soles of my shoes flapped and my breathing came shallow and harsh in my own ears.
It was a good thing that I had neither life nor family in the town where the man had been, for it soon came to me that I had no choice but to leave it behind forever.

~ Seventeen Years Later ~

Marev slips through the swinging door into the dimly lit in, taking a seat in the corner. A haggard looking woman comes up, smoothing wispy hair away from her thin face. "We have soup and bread. They're fresh. You want some?"
Marev nods curtly, and she departs. He can already feel the cloak coiling tighter around his knees, not so long as it once was, but maybe that's just because he's grown. He cannot run forever, after all. He still needs sleep and however long he walks during the day eventually he is forced to find a barn or an inn or a ditch to sleep in and then the cloak ravels around him, undoing the day's work. He does not want to find out what happens if he stops altogether.
A man slides into the seat across from him, lean and weathered. "You want information?" Northern accent, thick and harsh. The woman comes with bread and soup.
Marev scribbles on a scrap of parchment, spooning soup into his mouth all the while. Looking for a man. He would be old now. Last saw him in Edgavi.
The man eyes the paper. "That's not much of a description, son."
I have gold.
He laughs, suddenly interested. "I've worked with less."

~ Four Months Later ~

He comes in the night, and tells me he's found the man I'm looking for.
I bolt upright in the grass, heart pounding in my ears. He snuck up on me, which is troubling. After so long by myself, I've learned to watch my own back.
"He's in Virasol." The man says, "I'll take you there."
I fish in my pockets, and give him a pouch of coins, finding my paper and a pen, glad for the moonlight.
I'll go myself.

~ Two Hours Later ~

He is standing in the town, backlit by a window filled with a single lantern, and he turns at my approach.
He is older now, white haired and lined with age, but I still recognize him as the man who ruined my life by doing me a favor.
I have a thousand words prepared for him, but I cannot speak a single one. My dagger is cold against my spine.
He tilts his head, watching me. "You are the boy." His voice is silken.
When I pull out the paper I had written and hand it to him, my hand is shaking.
He reads it silently, and then laughs. "I didn't ruin your life, boy. I made it something more than you ever would have had before."
I start forward with protest, but he raises a hand to stop me.
"Think about it, boy. How many things have you experienced, on your wanderings? How many miracles have you seen? Without the ability to speak, you become an observer. A witness. You had nothing solid, and so it was a life of motion. A life of value. Without me, you would have been nothing. A common street urchin. The cloak, you see, becomes whatever the bearer most requires. I didn't cage you, Marev. I set you free."
My head is spinning. I do not understand.
"And now the time has come." He kneels to pick up the frayed string at the bottom of my cloak, and pulls.
I come unraveled, and the cloak--my cage, my freedom--falls to my feet. A sudden lightness buoys my soul.
"I am free." I whisper, and my voice fills the still air again after so long. I spin in a slow circle, dwelling on the old man's words. I didn't cage you, Marev. I set you free. I think of all the things I've seen, the glimpses of lives I've witnessed, and wonder who I would have been if not for my curse. And in that moment, for just a moment, I think I understand.
But when I turn to thank the man, he is gone.
And with him the cloak, leaving only a pile of unraveled string, borne away on silent winds.

~ One Minute Later ~

Snow starts to fall in dusky flakes, but this time, I am not cold.

I enjoyed this experience and apologize for not having anything last week. Major writer's block that I couldn't find my way out of. However, some thoughts led me to this week's story which I was glad went along with this prompt. Thank you!

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“Guess what?” My sister Jenna said as soon as I picked up the phone.

“What?” 

“Pioneer Valley is doing Anything Goes and the new theater teacher wants Romy to audition for Reno. She thinks she’s a sure thing!”

I nearly drop the phone from this shocking piece of news. This can’t be happening. My heart starts racing and my hands feel all sweaty.

“Mia? You there?”

I fumble the phone for a moment and then respond “Yes, I’m still here. How did you hear about this?”

“Romy told me when she got home from school today.” 

“Well, I’m….very happy for her.”

“You sure? You don’t sound too excited.”

“Sorry, you caught me in the middle of scheduling some open houses. Romy is very talented and I’m sure she’ll get the part without even having to try.”

“Awww. Thanks!” 

“Anyway, Jenna, I have to get going. I’ll see you at Mom’s birthday dinner this weekend.”

“Yep. See ya!” 

After hanging up with Jenna, I want to just pull my hair out and scream. Anything Goes was my show. I played Reno Sweeney when I went to Pioneer Valley in 1996. Mr. Quincy said after my performance, he wasn’t going to do the show anymore because no one else would ever be as amazing as I was. I even won a regional high school theater award for playing that role to perfection. I guess Mr. Quincy isn’t teaching there anymore? There’s no way this would have been a possibility otherwise!

I check the school’s website to see what’s going on with the theater department. I don’t see Mr. Quincy listed anywhere. In his place is a picture of a young woman with shoulder-length red hair and a smattering of freckles on her cheeks, who looks like she’s barely any older than my niece Romy. Below the picture is the name Monica McCreeley and an email address. Before I can talk myself out of it, I start composing an email to her. Before doing so, I cue up the 1987 cast album of Anything Goes, featuring my role model Patti LuPone, to get my mojo flowing.

Dear Ms. McCreeley,

I am writing to you today to share a concern I have regarding the spring musical at Pioneer Valley. I don’t know if Mr. Quincy informed you, but Anything Goes is sacred and was never supposed to be performed again after 1996. I know this because I played Reno Sweeney and I won a regional theater award for it. Mr. Quincy said he couldn’t imagine anyone else playing the part and retired it to the Pioneer Valley vault. 

Before you start getting auditions underway, I’d like you to consider other more modern musicals as alternate options. You could do Mamma Mia or Hadestown, or even Rent. 

Please consider keeping Anything Goes in the vault where it belongs. 

Thank you,

Mia Owens 

After sending it off, I keep my fingers crossed that Monica will read it before she starts the auditions. There are plenty of other roles that Romy could play. I wasn’t lying when I told Jenna that she doesn’t even have to try. 

I was once like Romy, but then life got in the way. I wanted to perform on Broadway instead of going to college, but after months of auditions that went nowhere and bills that were piling up too high to ignore, I came back home to work for my parents’ real estate firm. And here I am 28 years later, taking over for my parents now that they’re retired. So if I cherish the memory of being in Anything Goes, it’s because that’s all I have left of my dream. 

As it winds down to closing time in the office, I gather up my stuff and am about to power down my computer when I hear the chime of a new email coming in. Monica sure didn’t waste any time replying to me.

Dear Mia,

Thank you for reaching out to me with your concern. However, Mr. Quincy said that 30 years was a long enough time to keep Anything Goes in the vault. It’s my favorite show and I wanted it to be my musical directing debut at Pioneer Valley. However, you gave me a cool idea about having alumni perform in the show. Would you be interested in doing that? Hope to hear from you soon!

Best,

Monica 

I can’t even think straight after reading this response. Performing as alumni? Am I going to be one of the old people in the background of the ship? No. No way. I tried playing this nice, but clearly more drastic measures need to be taken. I’d have to figure out a way to get the master script from the vault so that Monica can’t get her hands on it. Except she may have already accessed it from the vault if she already knows what she wants to do for the show. I can’t do anything to mess up Romy’s audition or Jenna will never talk to me again. I could contact the people who license the show and tell them to pull the license for Pioneer Valley. But how would I get in touch with them? How about sneaking into the school with a mask on and being like the Phantom of the high school musical. I could disrupt the rehearsals and then they would never be ready to put on the show. And no one would have to know it was me so that Jenna couldn’t get mad. Maybe I could find a way to get Monica transferred to a different school where it wouldn’t matter if they performed Anything Goes. Or I could just get her fired. And that would show her not to put on a show that was promised never to be seen again at Pioneer Valley! 

I leave the office thinking of other subtle ways to sabotage the production while humming “You’re the Top” during my short drive home.

    I had been teaching 6^th grade for several years, having felt the Lord call me to teach when I was about sixteen. However, my heart had grown cold and I was teaching on autopilot. I didn’t care anymore.

    My wife and I had been told that we could not have children and I was angry at God. I knew it showed in my teaching and the way I treated my students. Looking at them, I was constantly reminded of the joy of parenting that would never be ours.

    There was one boy in particular in my class who bugged me even more than the others. He never seemed to be paying attention to what I was saying. He had a stutter, which was irritating, and I knew the other boys made fun of him. I sat him at the back of the class so I could ignore him.

    One day, I could see that he was drawing, so I asked him a question. He didn’t even raise his head when I said his name. I stormed back to his desk and reprimanded him for not paying attention. He looked at me and stuttered, “I’m s-s-s-orry s-s-sir, b-b-but I d-d-don’t hear so well.”

A crack formed in my hard heart, but to keep my composure I grabbed his pad to see what he was scribbling.

    When I looked at his ‘scribbles’ I saw, not only had he drawn all the major organs of the human body, but he had labelled them with their Latin names. I tossed his book on his desk and said rather gruffly, “Come and see my after school.” I could see the fear in his eyes, but I couldn’t say any more; not here, not now.

I heard some snickers from the other boys, but I ignored them, as I was only focussing on trying to breathe.

    After the class I headed to the men’s room and locked myself in a stall. I fell to my knees and cried out for mercy to the God who loved me and who loved every boy in my class. As a teenager, I had surrendered my life to the Lord and promised to serve Him with my whole heart. That day, I saw what I had become. A cold, hardhearted man, going through the motions of life with my eyes on myself and no longer on my Lord. In that stall, I fell apart like a knitted sweater snagged on a barbed wire fence, unraveling at great speed. Oh, what had I become? I was no longer the compassionate teacher of my early years, but I had become a person who was working a job for a pay-check, and I was no longer a servant of Christ.

     When Michael walked into my office after school, I stood and did something I had never done to another pupil. I walked around my desk and hugged him, and with tear-filled eyes, asked him for his forgiveness. I knew it was the last thing he expected, and he just stared at me.  After a few awkward moments he smiled and nodded his head.

     I asked him why he drew the pictures. “Sir, I w-w-want to be a d-d-doctor. I d-don’t think it will happen, b-but perhaps my mother will be able to afford to s-send me to a part-time n-n-nursing school and I c-can earn some m-money to help her with the fees.”

    That day changed my life. The Lord softened my heart and I became once again the teacher that I used to be, with a love for my students and a desire to see them all flourish. I often stayed after school, to walk around the classroom and pray for each student. The atmosphere in the classroom changed, and the students became kinder to Michael and to each other.

    I talked to Michael’s widowed mother, Judy, and soon my wife, Sally, and I became involved with Michael’s whole family. He was the eldest of five children and Judy worked two jobs to support them. We immediately arranged for Michael to see a speech therapist and his stutter improved dramatically. He was also fitted with hearing aids and never missed anything in class again.

     Sally and I became uncle and aunt to Michael and his brothers and sisters, and we often took the whole family on memorable, fun-filled holidays with us.

     Over the years, we have had the opportunity to make sure Judy’s gifted children could all enter the professions of their choice. We are now enjoying the privilege of being aunty and uncle to a heart specialist, a lawyer, two engineers and a physiotherapist. We are also Grandpa and Grandma to their thirteen delightful children.

     Soon after meeting Michael’s mother, we felt led to set up a charity, which we called, “Education Opportunities Foundation”, to help children like Michael and his brothers and sisters; gifted children, whose parents did not have the resources for tertiary education. Since setting it up, we have seen literally hundreds of talented children helped to enter various careers that would have been impossible for them without financial support.

      I will forever remain thankful to the Lord for putting Michael in my class, and extending His mercy to me. He firmly and kindly showed me, on the day of my unraveling, how far I had strayed from the path He had chosen for my life.

     The Lord blessed Sally and me beyond what we could ever have imagined, with the delight of being unexpectedly and supernaturally joined to Michael’s family, and with the joy of seeing many other children enter careers that otherwise would have been out of their reach.

I'm not 100% happy with how this fits in the theme, but I'm not realistically going to write another story for this prompt, so here it is.

~~~

I'm Frank Pepitone, from Accountability. Not Accounting. Accountability. Because someone needs to make sure the Preternatural Hero Force's initialism doesn't get pronounced "Ffffff."
I knocked on the door. Russo lived in a nice brownstone neighborhood.
Matty answered the door. He smiled. "Hey, Peperoni! Come on in. Shed your hat and coat. Aunt Georgie's got some pastries in the works."
I stepped in and hung up my hat and coat. "Thanks Matty. How's the old man?"
"Who's there?" Russo yelled from deeper in the house.
"It's Peperoni!" Matty shouted back.
"Well, don't leave him outside to freeze."
"Yeah, I got it!" He beckoned me in, chuckling. "You know Russo. Same old, same old."
I followed him into the kitchen. I steeled myself against the coming unpleasant conversation, and the disarming smell of buttery pastry. This was one duty where the values of the Force disagreed with my own.
Georgie stood at the counter, dropping jelly into unbaked pastry. The smell must be coming from another pan in the oven, then. "Hiya, Peperoni," she said.
I gave her a polite nod.
Russo sat at the table, watching a little girl color a picture with crayons. Was that Angel? It'd been too long since I visited.
Russo looked up at me. He wasn't old, but his hairline was retreating at the corners like it was trying to outrun the years. "Business or pleasure, Frank?"
"Jim!" Georgie scolded. "Won't you at least let him get comfortable?"
I ignored her. "Business this time, unfortunately. I imagine you want this one to be a private conversation."
He scoffed. "What part of 'family business' do you not understand?"
"It's about Enzo."
A pan clanged at the counter. I kept my eyes locked on Russo.
His mouth snapped shut and he scowled. "Matty, take care of your daughter. Frank and I have some business to discuss."
He stood, and I followed him to his office. He closed the door behind us. "What about Enzo?"
I followed him with my eyes as he walked around to grab a cigar out of his mahogany desk. He offered one to me. I declined with a simple open hand.
"I'm sure you know where he is right now."
"I thought you would be happy about that. What is it the commercials say? 'There's always room for another hero?'"
I sighed deep. "Look. If I had my way, I'd have sent him home straight off. But company policy is to ask for you to sign him off."
He fell into the leather chair behind his desk. "I hope you didn't expect me to bow to your whims, here. You know how I feel about the Supernatural Hero Force." He said the incorrect name with a hint of poison.
I sat opposite, deciding not to correct him. "He is fifteen. I know you think that's old enough for a man to make his own decisions. Won't you give him that dignity?"
"I told him when he left that my decision was final. He hasn't changed his mind, has he?"
"He's as stubborn as his old man." I smacked my hands on my knees and stood. "Well, if your decision is final, then my work here is done."
His brows knit together, and he twirled the unlit cigar in his fingers. "That's it? You're not going to make me any offers, or threats?"
"This part of the job is distasteful to me, but thankfully I still get to do it. Not many in Accountability share my values." I nodded, and touched my temple in an informal salute. "I can show myself out."
I barely took two steps before he spoke up again.
"Wait."
I turned and raised an eyebrow at him.
He had stood up, and seemed to be fishing for words. "What will you tell him?" he said, finally.
I didn't really like Russo. But we had grown up together, and we both held family in high regard, so I respected him even if we ended up on opposite sides of the law sometimes. He deserved the truth. "I'll tell him his father is a man of his word, and that he should have listened to him the first time."
He nodded, seemingly disarmed by the answer.
I paused, suddenly curious. "What will you tell him?"
He broke his reverie to scowl at me. "Mind your own business."