feat: winter court

1 files changed, 417 insertions, 0 deletions

diff --git a/posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php b/posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..418ffa0
--- /dev/null
+++ b/posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php
@@ -0,0 +1,417 @@
+<h1 id="the-convertible">The Convertible</h1>
+<div class="description">
+
+<p>
+<a href="https://nat1publishing.com/wcwc/">Nat1's Winter Court</a> is a prompt-driven writing challenge! The goal is to write a short story with specific parameters once a week throughout January. This is my first submission. Get your copy of <em>Winter Court: Year One, 2026</em> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0GRGCJXL8?ie=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.P6OQNY7CnMVR1NvzlNriw55uoLAqWRgKV7YvnNSTlblycrsGvTmM1qr-W4MubFtYqZrLQlTiNcPsR3lrwwYhgQKvldz63JOVkJ3POEFphu3Kz8-FqWYsru2H2Q09Zt_980GMbqJ8caQYwac5YZw54nxAGdHSoxK6feTaJfu2WXfa6dM_Wen2eAwcXlbCY66hEGs8YChjKd9ARRXos6xPTgVM5piP1XNkQ2sn0gNJXm0.pK7Qt86-fJhop6akBeOXQ27ioBaO9IRTLun4nzj22BE&qid=1772932438&sr=8-1">here.</a>
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>Prompt</em>
+<br>
+
+A protagonist walks the same route every day; one day, they see a door that hadn’t been there before.
+</p>
+
+<p>
+<em>Required components</em>
+
+<ul>
+<li>The color verdigris</li>
+<li>The word "borrowed," used in dialogue</li>
+<li>A feather</li>
+</ul>
+</p>
+
+</div>
+
+<p>Brock trudged along the alley, paying little mind to the worn, faded
+red bricks except on the frequent occasion that he stumbled over one on
+his oversized feet. Pink, black, and yellow graffiti was splattered
+across sooty, cracked concrete and fogged windows. Iron door frames and
+braces added trails of rust, which leached out of the tired warehouses
+like tears.</p>
+<p>If he could help it, Brock ignored the bleak surroundings of the
+vacant lots and dilapidated buildings between his high school and his
+foster parents’ apartment. The first day of school was bleak enough
+without remembering where he lived, where he ate, or how he existed.
+Instead, he plunged all of his meager attention and mental effort into
+his phone. He scrolled through reel after reel on every social media he
+had an account on. Often, he let out a small exhalation of breath
+through his nose in place of a laugh if he saw something funny enough.
+Rarely did he invest the muscle capacity to upvote or downvote whatever
+he deemed worthy of the additional effort.</p>
+<p>His stomach lurched as his right foot caught thin air, his left toes
+curling under him as he tripped. His whole body was flung forward with
+momentum, aided by the jerk in his knees when he realized he was no
+longer on level ground. Before he could catch himself, he tumbled into
+the driveway, just barely putting his hands out in front of his face
+before he planted them roughly onto the pavement of the alley with a
+smack.</p>
+<p>Thin, red lines broke out across Brock’s fingers and knuckles on his
+left hand. His right hand clutched his phone, now with a seriously
+decimated screen. It resembled a haphazardly arranged spider web, and
+the facets that remained each showed small slivers of popular videos and
+curated ads.</p>
+<p>“Aw, man,” he hissed as he looked over his other hand. Brock huffed
+and stood up, bewildered. <em>Where’d this even come from?</em></p>
+<p>It was a freshly paved driveway, not gum-spotted like the rest of the
+street. It must have been laid down over summer break. His eyes followed
+it up into the old wall of the warehouse, one he’d passed by twice every
+single day throughout high school. Where there had been cracked brick
+and acrylic tags, there was now a freshly fabricated garage bay door.
+The rolling chain-link barrier was down, but the gaps were wide enough
+to see through and allowed air to circulate.</p>
+<p>Brock got up and, despite his aching knees and palms, half-stumbled
+up to the door to peer inside.</p>
+<p>“Whoa, dude!”</p>
+<p>The speckled gray concrete floor was swept clean and supported a herd
+of whitewall tires. Each set, in turn, supported a colorful antique
+automobile, each different from the last. There were reds, yellows, and
+blues, all the old-world subtle colors that nobody painted anything
+anymore because it wasn’t silver. Each car was curvy and heavily laden
+with thick chrome emblems, bumpers, and visors. Some had skirts on the
+rear, and a couple had their hoods up, exposing engine compartments that
+looked more like jewelry boxes full of silver and gold than dirty,
+mechanical necessities.</p>
+<p>Brock continued gawking at the shimmering display of rolling
+Americana. The sound of a toilet flushing preceded the opening of a door
+in the back corner. A short, hunched man stepped out, wiping his hands
+on his denim coveralls. His dark skin was dotted with shiny grease spots
+and patches of dirt. His palms looked leathery and well-used. His face
+was serious, the wrinkles and dull eyes unforgiving yet determined. His
+block-shaped, graying mustache flared and twitched as he nervously
+puckered his lips, thinking. Above his peppered-gray eyebrows sat a thin
+straw hat boasting an even thinner brown feather sticking out of the
+ribbon.</p>
+<p>He looked up, locking eyes with Brock for a brief moment before
+resuming his work. Brock pointed through the rails of the door at the
+nearest car and called out, “Yo, old man, what year’s that Chevy?”</p>
+<p>The man spun his head around from under the teal-green hood of the
+furthest car, screwing his eyes into a mean and penetrating gaze.</p>
+<p>“You git your finger out of that door befo’ I pull it off. Dat’s a
+Stude ya dumb-bass. Daym kids and dey big empty heads,” he trailed off
+into a string of discontented mutterings that filled only the cavernous
+engine bay.</p>
+<p>Brock quietly retracted his hand but didn’t move from his vantage
+point. Instead, he shuffled to the side and stood on tiptoes for a
+better look at what the old man was doing.</p>
+<p>His hands were busy fussing under the hood of that verdigris
+convertible. From his distant vantage point, Brock saw it was adorned
+with a regalia of fog lights, wire wheels, and a boatload of bright work
+trim. The white interior reflected the dim overhead lamps, giving off a
+soft glow that bounced back up onto the ceiling and provided more
+usable, soft light in the room. It gave the whole car a glowing, angelic
+effect. Between the wide white walls a small puddle of oil leeched
+across the concrete in search of new patches to set stains in.</p>
+<p>“What’s that one you got there? Whachu doin’ to it?”</p>
+<p>The engine bay emitted a grunt, and the man’s head emerged briefly to
+snap, “I’m fixin’ it what de hell does it look like I’m doin’ in here
+wid all dese tools ‘n’ shit?”</p>
+<p>“Yeah, but what is it?”</p>
+<p>The mechanic’s gaze softened, but only briefly, before he screwed his
+wrinkled face back up again.</p>
+<p>“A Packard, dat’s an orphan car. Now you git before I call da po-lice
+to come grab ya and send ya back to your parents,” he said while
+gesticulating with a tightly-gripped monkey wrench.</p>
+<p>Brock snickered at the hollow threat, but backed away from the door
+all the same. He had no interest in dealing with his foster parents
+tonight any more than he had to. Instead, he shouldered his backpack and
+finished the walk home from school, paying attention to the dotted
+bricks and uneven curbs as he did.</p>
+<p>His mind whirred all night with still images: vignettes of hood
+scoops and split windshields. His thoughts always returned to the
+teal-green Packard.</p>
+<hr>
+<p>As the school year progressed deeper into fall, Brock struggled
+harder and harder to concentrate in final period. He’d watch the
+electric clock up high at the front of the room in between long gazes
+out the leaky windows. Instead of focusing on lectures, he fantasized
+about the swoops and spokes of the old cars in that warehouse
+garage.</p>
+<p>Each day when the bell rang, he hustled out of class and half-walked,
+half-ran his route home. He always passed by the garage to see what the
+old geezer was working on. Brock’s foggy breath would puff out while he
+warmed his hands by the exhaust hoses pumping sweet-smelling fumes out
+from the engine of the convertible.</p>
+<p>Invariably, he’d get chased away by the old man after spending too
+much time lingering by the chain-link door. At the very least, they were
+now able to exchange a few phrases before the gentleman’s temper rose
+high enough to shoo Brock away.</p>
+<p>Brock knew enough now to know the Packard convertible had a flathead
+that needed quite a bit of work (he also now knew that <em>flathead</em>
+meant the valves were in the cylinder block). It no longer leaked oil,
+but it didn’t run or drive either. Occasionally, Brock felt brave enough
+to shout out ideas or diagnoses, only to be shooed away even more
+fervently than the previous night for tempting involvement.</p>
+<p>One particular fall afternoon, Brock swung by the shop, and the old
+convertible was up on jack stands. The old man lay beneath it, straining
+and swearing away. Brock sat down on his backpack as he watched. The
+sound of heavy breathing was truncated by the interjection of banging
+metal reverberating off the walls. Sockets clattered out from under the
+car, rolling away across the floor of the garage. One of them popped
+over the threshold and right up to Brock’s shoe. He surveyed it, noting
+the “1/2” markings and the patent stamp proudly declaring the tool was
+made in Toledo.</p>
+<p>A slam and a clunking sound jolted his eyes back up to the mustached
+mechanic’s plight.</p>
+<p>“You dumb-bass!” he cried out from under the car.</p>
+<p>What looked like the transmission had slumped off the wood blocks
+supporting it and tumbled onto the floor. It made a nice chip in the
+concrete when it landed.</p>
+<p>Brock was on his feet in an instant and shouted across the garage,
+“Dude! Watch out for that there.”</p>
+<p>The mechanic shot out from under the Packard, clutching his wrist and
+wincing. He flexed his arm, testing his muscles. All fingers appeared to
+work.</p>
+<p>With much effort, he got to his feet and forced his backbone to
+straighten out. Still rubbing his wrist, he noticed Brock, almost with a
+start as if he’d forgotten he’d been standing there. He eyed the socket
+Brock absent-mindedly turned over with his thumb and forefinger.</p>
+<p>“You give me dat back,” he growled through gritted teeth.</p>
+<p>He fixed his straw, feathered hat with one hand and reached for the
+socket through the steel links of the bay door with the other. Brock
+snatched it closer to his chest and took a step back.</p>
+<p>“No way, dude, you’re gonna get killed like that. You want it back,
+then you let me in, and I help you. You open the door and let me bench
+that up into the car with you so you don’t smash your dome in.”</p>
+<p>The old mechanic’s eyes lost that sheen of rage. For just a moment,
+Brock was sure he could see through them rather than right up against
+them.</p>
+<p>He continued, “Look old creep, I can help. You can’t lift that up
+there by yourself. And besides, if it crushes me, then I won’t be
+bothering you anymore, will I? Now let’s get to work and get it done
+already.”</p>
+<p>The mustached man turned up his sour lips again, curling his facial
+hair into his characteristic disappointed twist. He pointed his finger
+right at Brock’s chest through the door.</p>
+<p>“Don’ touch the paint, don’ touch the chrome, don’ touch a daym thang
+’cept what I tell you!”</p>
+<p>He reached down to his cracked leather belt and jangled loose a
+massive keyring, cursing as he did. Brass, nickel, and other assorted
+keys all shook and shimmered as he flitted through them for the door.
+Brock’s heart leapt. He scrambled to shoulder his bag as the man heaved
+the door up, clanging away as it rolled toward the ceiling.</p>
+<p>For the first time, Brock stepped over the threshold of the door that
+hadn’t existed last year. Just a few feet in it was already warmer than
+the curb. He had a better view of the cars now, too. He could see
+scalloped leather upholstery and massive steering wheels in black or
+white plastic. Shields and emblems adorned door cards, radios, and gauge
+clusters. He could smell them too: old lacquer paint, small drops of hot
+oil, and the kind of warm musty smell of aged rubber.</p>
+<p>The old man stomped straight back toward the verdigris convertible.
+He turned his back to Brock and started slamming open drawers on a tall,
+fire engine red toolbox. The clicking of ratcheting wrenches trickled
+back to Brock’s ears before the drawers were slammed shut again with
+even more ferocity.</p>
+<p>“Don’ just stand there gawkin’, come gimme a hand,” the mechanic
+admonished, his back still turned to the boy.</p>
+<p>Dropping his bag, Brock hustled over to the driver’s side of the
+convertible. His eyes slipped over its interior. The two-tone
+teal-and-black upholstery was broken up by polished stainless steel
+stripes. <em>Packard</em> was scrawled across the glove box in
+flourishing, underlined script.</p>
+<p>Outside, beneath the driver-side door was a jack handle and the bulky
+head of the transmission, which appeared at first to Brock to be
+bleeding sticky maroon blood out onto the concrete floor.</p>
+<p>The old man whipped around from the toolbox and set his sights on the
+teen. He stretched out his hand, his leathery palm opened up. It was
+hardened with calluses and wrinkles. Brock placed the socket into it,
+and the mechanic quickly snapped it onto an extension.</p>
+<p>He squinted his beady eyes at Brock, but his mustache relaxed
+slightly. “You ever worked on a car befo’?”</p>
+<p>Brock shook his head but kept his lips shut tight.</p>
+<p>“Alrigh’, then here’s what we gon’ do. You’re gon’ listen’ good and
+do everythin’ I tell you and nothin’ I don’. We’re gonna git dat tranny
+back up in there an’ bolt up the cross-member.”</p>
+<p>“Cross-what?” Brock interrupted.</p>
+<p>“Don’ interrupt me. Don’ interrupt me, daym didn’t your daddy ever
+teach you manners?”</p>
+<p>Brock’s eyes trailed the red pool and then held fast to a black paint
+stain.</p>
+<p>“I don’t know my dad. And my foster dad ain’t around much.”</p>
+<p>The old man just blinked and pocketed the wrench. “Lie down there on
+the flo’.”</p>
+<p>He did as instructed and stretched out under the convertible while
+the mechanic knelt and gave him a lesson. He pointed out all the braces,
+frame rails, and cross-member bolts. He walked Brock through hooking up
+the transmission to the flywheel and explained that they would need to
+stabilize the trans and move the jack into place. Then they set to
+work.</p>
+<p>Brock helped the old man lower the jack and roll the transmission
+back onto the block of wood it had been precariously perched on. He kept
+it from rolling as his aging companion jacked it back up again, roughly
+into position. Then, with two hands, Brock helped jostle and jimmy it
+forward. Up a little, forward a little. Up a little, forward a
+little.</p>
+<p>Once it was in place, he held it there while the old-timer rolled out
+from under the car and grabbed a squarish metal tube with boltholes in
+it. He quickly cinched down two bolts and slid the wrench over to Brock
+while he took a hold of the jack and transmission himself.</p>
+<p>Brock fumbled with the socket, which slipped off twice and even
+reversed direction on him once. Eventually, he was able to confidently
+snug up the bolts. The old man lowered the jack and rolled it out from
+under the car with a rattle.</p>
+<p>“Ah-hah, dat’s how you do it! Dat’s how you git dat dumb-bass in
+there!” His whiskers were turned up into a grin, old off-white teeth
+beaming out from under it. Brock met his grin, wiping his hands off on
+his shirt.</p>
+<p>“You got a name boy?”</p>
+<p>“Brock, sir.”</p>
+<p>“You can call me Ray.”</p>
+<hr>
+<p>Work on the Packard continued. For the first few weeks, Ray seemed to
+forget all about the transmission and Brock’s help. He would just stand
+outside and talk through the door until Ray ran into a job that was too
+frustrating to do alone. Then the old man would gripe and cuss and roll
+up the big door again.</p>
+<p>After a month, the door was already rolled up when Brock arrived
+after school let out. Every night was a lesson in how the parts of the
+car went together, which tools did what, and how they were supposed to
+be used.</p>
+<p>The hood stayed open on the Packard while Ray showed Brock how to
+tune up the old flathead, the sweet burning smell of the exhaust
+tingling their noses and eyes. The carb sucked in air, and the tailpipe
+burbled like nothing the teen had ever experienced. It had the soul of a
+boat in the skin of a car, the promise of crossing a sea of asphalt to
+fantastic, unexplored places.</p>
+<p>For his part, Brock grew to enjoy the old mechanic’s company. He was
+still grumpy and stern-looking most of the time, but there was a clear
+wisdom. Years of knowledge had been carefully curated by experience and
+distilled into simple lessons that he couldn’t forget if he wanted to.
+What Ray thought of Brock never came up.</p>
+<p>As winter waned and the first spots of spring began to warm up the
+city, Brock had to hustle through still-cold rain to get to the garage.
+Today was particularly stormy and, although the hours grew longer, the
+promise of later daylight was dashed by thunderheads and downpour. Every
+<em>plod, plod</em> of his footsteps dumped yet more water into his
+sneakers. Using his hoodie as an umbrella, he tried to keep at least his
+shirt dry. Ray would never let him near the car if he was soaking
+wet.</p>
+<p>He rounded the last corner and skipped up the curb to the garage. The
+chain-link door was already rolled up, and the warm incandescent glow of
+the lamps kept the dim gray at bay. He ducked in and threw down his
+backpack and hoodie against the wall.</p>
+<p>“Yo, Ray,” he called out, but got no answer.</p>
+<p>The shop was quiet, and the old man was nowhere to be seen. <em>Must
+be in the bathroom again,</em> Brock figured. He strode over to the tall
+red toolbox to see what he could get started on.</p>
+<p>Curiously, more than half of the drawers were cracked open or piled
+with a random assortment of tools such that they wouldn’t shut. Brock
+never knew a day when the meticulous and ornery Ray failed to slam shut
+every drawer or cabinet door with all the strength left in his arms.</p>
+<p>Upon closer inspection, some key tools were missing completely. Ray’s
+good Snap-On set, which Brock was seldom allowed to use, was gone, along
+with torque wrenches, tachometers, and a battery tender.</p>
+<p>“Ray, man where you at?” Brock called again.</p>
+<p>No answer came, not even a crotchety admonishment from the bathroom
+stall. The hood was still open on the Packard. He stepped quietly over
+to the convertible, the glossy verdigris paint shimmering under the
+overhead lights.</p>
+<p>Something crumpled under Brock’s sneaker. He stepped back and peered
+cautiously at the crushed straw hat, and what was left of its ruddy
+feather, the plumes mussed and destroyed.</p>
+<p>Brock knelt to examine the straw shrapnel. On the other side of the
+car, past the white walls he saw a slumped pile of coveralls and a dark,
+leathery hand.</p>
+<p>His throat went dry as he shrieked, “Ray! Dude!”</p>
+<p>He wheeled around the bumper to find the mechanic collapsed, his face
+down on the hard floor and his fingers balled into fists. Brock rolled
+him over and saw a huge gash in his forehead.</p>
+<p>“Oh, no. Oh, crap man.”</p>
+<p>Brock reached into his back pocket, yanking out his phone. His face
+burned as his heart pounded out of control. His fingers swiped furiously
+across the cracked screen, catching on the spider-glassed edges. He
+punched in 9-1-1, tapping on Ray’s chest with his other hand. Ray’s
+chest rose and fell, but otherwise he didn’t move.</p>
+<p>“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” the operator coolly answered.</p>
+<p>“Yo, hey, you gotta get an ambulance here right now, I’m at the auto
+shop by Pier 14, 301 West Brooke. Please you gotta hurry Mr. Ray got hit
+or something, he won’t wake up!”</p>
+<hr>
+<p>The responder stayed on with Brock while he tried to bring Ray
+around. The old man was still breathing but unconscious when the
+ambulance rolled over the driveway, and the EMTs unloaded their
+stretcher.</p>
+<p>At the hospital, the teen sat alone in the waiting room, shivering.
+The place felt air-conditioned despite the weather outside, and he was
+still mostly soaked through. After waiting around for almost an hour, a
+couple of cops walked in and asked him to make a statement. Wanted to
+know how Brock found Ray, how he knew him, and all that.</p>
+<p>Over and over he repeated, “Someone hit him, I just know it, there’s
+tools missing, and he usually locks the place up. You gotta find
+em!”</p>
+<p>“Son, settle down. We got em, we just wanna know how you found him so
+he can press charges,” the taller deputy said, scanning his notebook in
+between glances at the worried teen.</p>
+<p>“You mean you got em?”</p>
+<p>“Yeah, pawn shop two blocks down got a big drop of tools, battery
+charging kit, couple of gauges. Owner said he recognized the Snap-Ons
+and called it in. Sounds like the guy went in there a lot looking for
+old tools.”</p>
+<p>“Is he gonna be okay though? The old man, uh, Ray I mean.”</p>
+<p>“He was out when we saw him, but you’ll have to wait to talk to the
+doctor, son.”</p>
+<p>The electric clock up high at the front of the room seemed frozen,
+just ticking back and forth without making any progress. Another hour
+could have passed, maybe two, maybe none, before a woman with dark hair
+and tan skin approached Brock. She was wearing a white coat and blue
+scrubs and held a gray plastic clipboard in both hands.</p>
+<p>“Are you Brock?” she asked softly.</p>
+<p>Brock lifted his head up off his palm. He straightened up from his
+restless slouch.</p>
+<p>“Yes’m I’m Brock. Is it Ray, is he gonna be okay?” Brock coughed to
+settle his voice.</p>
+<p>“Yes, Mr. Perry is going to be just fine. And he’ll see you now if
+you’d like to visit.”</p>
+<p>She led Brock back through the hall of clean white exam rooms and
+gave a soft knock on the last door. The stainless steel panel gave way
+to a pinkish room with a large electric hospital bed. The curtain was
+drawn open, and under a blanket sat the grumpy old mechanic, his back
+and head resting elevated on a pillow. The doctor gave a small wave and
+stepped back out of the room.</p>
+<p>Ray rotated his head to look at the door and Brock. He had a large
+wad of clean cotton gauze taped across his forehead. A few wires ran
+from a finger clamp on his left hand. His eyes were as stern as ever,
+his mustache turned up in another one of his sour grimaces. Brock would
+have chuckled at the familiarity of the sight had the circumstances been
+less serious.</p>
+<p>“Take a seat, boy.”</p>
+<p>Brock did as he was instructed, drawing up a short rolling stool.</p>
+<p>“You find me lyin’ there? You call dat amblance?”</p>
+<p>His eyes were penetrating, and beady though they were, behind their
+usual intent and purpose, there was a gentle twinkle.</p>
+<p>Brock shifted in his seat, and words started tumbling out unfiltered,
+“Yessir, I came by after school and found you lying there. Cops said
+they jumped you and got away with your tools, but they got ’em–”</p>
+<p>“Don’t you hear good boy, I asked you one question and now you
+startin’ jabbin’ away like a daym fool again. Daym right they got dem
+dumb-basses, nobody stealin’ from me.”</p>
+<p>He heaved himself up higher in the reclined bed, as if he couldn’t
+contain himself from leaping out of it and whooping the first person he
+got his hands on. Instead, he cleared his throat and dropped his sour
+look.</p>
+<p>“Actually, you did good. You did real good, kid.”</p>
+<p>Ray rustled his right hand under the cover and, with a jangle,
+produced his large keyring. He sifted through it, flipping old tarnished
+keys over and over until he found the one he was looking for. He held
+the ring up by it and outstretched his arm toward Brock.</p>
+<p>“Now you take ‘em. And don’ go losin’ em or I’ll bust you up, you got
+dat?”</p>
+<p>Puzzled, the teen took the key ring and studied it. The one brass key
+stood apart from the rest, tarnished as it was, there was a shiny wear
+mark where a thumb regularly polished it. The teeth gleamed like they
+were brand new. He looked back up at Ray, whose face was calmer and
+older somehow. Without their usual ferocity, the wrinkles didn’t make
+him look scrunched up, just wrinkly.</p>
+<p>“Dat choke is stuck on da Packard. You go git dat fixed. And do a
+lube job on the Stude, den pick up parts at Waller’s. I’m gonna be in
+here ’nother day, so you git to work.”</p>
+<p>Brock grinned and wiped the nearly-dry hair from his eyes while he
+stood up.</p>
+<p>“Yessir, I will,” he nodded as he pocketed the key ring and made for
+the door.</p>
+<p>“And Brock! Dem keys is borrowed, you got dat? You go make a copy o’
+dat one cuz I ain’t leavin’ the door unlocked no mo’ like a daym
+fool.”</p>
+<p>Brock could have sworn he saw a smile under the old man’s
+mustache.</p>