Once upon a time I wrote novels. They took forever to write and
they took forever to read. It was exhausting. I had a story idea and
I turned it into an 80,000 word novel. How can one do that? It was
just a simple story idea?
Now I have a story idea and I turn it into a 1000 word short
story ... or maybe 2000 words or maybe even a 100 words. The
story is told, is doesn't take a lot of time and if it was fun to read,
then one can go on to another short story ... the same day.
Okay, so I wrote a several dozen short stories and here they are.
I enjoyed writing every one ... much more than writing the novels.
Peter J. Ponzo
sometime in the year 2014
P.S.
I keep adding to this collection ...
Freakenstein:
Mr. and Mrs.
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
I heard the humming. I heard the sparks. There was a smell of rotting
flesh in the air. When I opened my eyes everything was grey. I saw the
cables running randomly across the high ceiling. I turned my head and saw
the tubes, the flashing lights, the ribbons of electricity running around the
large sphere. Someone was speaking.
"Welcome to the world. I shall call you Freakenstein."
Then he laughed, a loud, gurgling, raucous laugh. I turned to see Mad
Scientist, his hair rising in strands like a white fountain, his thick glasses
reflecting the sparks that illuminated the laboratory.
"I read Mary Shelley's Frankenstein book. I knew I could equal that
monster with one of my own."
Mad Scientist laughed again, a crude and vulgar laugh. I saw he was
pointing to the corner of the room. There was a door. He nodded.
"You are free to go ... Freakenstein," he said. "Go and frighten the
world. Go and scare the crap out of them."
Then Mad Scientist turned and left through that door, chuckling,
giggling.
I arose from the table and looked around. I was alone in this huge
laboratory. I walked slowly to the door. My gait was unsteady. It was
difficult to stay upright. The door was open and I walked through. The door
was not very high and I hit my head. There was a long corridor. At the end
was another door. It was closed. I pushed but it did not open. It was metal,
but I punched the door with my fist and a large dent appeared. I punched
again and the door fell outward. I walked through into a dark alley filled
with garbage cans and assorted trash. Two young guys saw me. I heard them
talking.
"There's our next mark," one said.
"Let's get that sucker," the other said.
I could see them running in my direction. I waited. When they were five
feet away they paused. I walked toward them and they froze. They were so
small, so insignificant. I picked them up, one in each hand, and looked into
their faces.
"Please, sir, don't hurt us," one said.
"We were just kidding," the other said.
I dropped them and they ran off. I walked to the end of the alley onto a
wide street. The sun was coming up and there was traffic on the road and a
hotdog cart had just pulled up to the curb. I was hungry.
"I'd like a hotdog," I said, "but I have no money."
The guy looks me up and down, he's shaking, he fabricates a hotdog and
hands it to me then quickly pushes his cart down the street. He is very
generous. The hotdog is delicious.
I spend two nights wandering about town and sleeping on park benches.
I spend the next two nights wandering about town and sleeping in a church.
There's a soft carpet before the altar, beneath the statue of the Blessed
Virgin. It is warm and comfortable. The priest did see me, but says nothing.
For almost a month I wander about town. The shop owners are very
generous. When I'm hungry I walk into a cafeteria-style restaurant, point to
something and say I'm hungry but have no money. They always hand me a
paper plate with food on it, then close up shop. People are so generous.
I am so lonely. I need a mate, somebody to share my hopes and dreams,
somebody to share my bed, somebody to talk to, to plan a life together. I
know that I am handsome. I see my reflection in store windows. Yet when I
stop at a bar and begin to smalltalk a lady, she invariably hurries off. There
is only one solution.
I find my way back to that alley and to that metal door. I see that it has
been repaired. I knock, hoping Mad Scientist would answer, but no one
does. I sit on a garbage can and it collapses, crushed to a disk. Now I am
sitting on the cold ground. Then I see him, Mad Scientist. He doesn't see me
on the ground. He opens the door and I follow him in.
"What are you doing here?" he asks.
"I need a mate," I say. "Make me a mate."
"Impossible," he says. "It took me almost a year to find all the parts for
making you. I robbed graves, morgues, funeral homes and hospitals. I have
no time to do that again. Besides, I just wanted to prove that I could repeat
Mary Shelley."
He laughs, a crude and vulgar laugh. "Freakenstein! That's you!" he
gurgles. He couldn't stop laughing so I picked him up by the collar and
looked into his face. He stopped laughing.
"This is important," I said. "Very important. I will collect the parts and
you will make Mrs. Freakenstein."
I dropped Mad Scientist and left.
It took me two weeks to find most of the parts. I robbed graves,
morgues, funeral homes and hospitals. I couldn't find all the parts, but I had
enough. When I returned to Mad Scientist's laboratory, he was sleeping in
the corner. I carried the bag of parts and dumped them on the floor by his
cot.
"Wake up! It is time to begin!"
Mad Scientist fell off his cot and stared at me. I stared back and he
slowly rose to his feet and I carried the bag to the table. He looked in the bag
and groaned.
"Not enough," he said. "Not nearly enough."
"It's enough," I said. "I am not fussy, just make me a mate."
And he did.
Chapter Two
She didn't have all the standard components, but she was beautiful. I
whispered in her ear, but the ear was missing on that side, so I whispered in
her other ear.
"Welcome to the world, my love," I said.
She opened her eyes. Well, she only had one eye, but it was a beautiful
shade of green.
"You are Mrs. Freakenstein," I said. "Rise up and walk with me."
"Grock poof," she grunted.
"No need to speak," I said. "Just come and join me, be my wife."
"Broff Filch," she grunted.
Her language skills left something to be desired, but no matter. We
would make a handsome couple.
I had brought a hotdog for her first meal. I knew she would like it as
much as I did. I handed it to her and she gazed at it, then pushed it entirely
into her mouth. and swallowed it whole. Then she smiled, exposing a single
gleaming yellow tooth. I knew she would enjoy the meal. Mad Scientist
looked disgusted.
"She's only half there," he said. "Look at her hand. Only three fingers on
her left and no hand at all on the right. Look at her left eye, it's..."
"No matter," I said. "She is beautiful and she is mine."
I caressed Mrs. Freakenstein and she smiled and grunted, "Bark Klood."
"You forgot to give her the power of speech," I said quietly.
"Did I mention that you didn't bring all the parts?" he said.
I took Mrs. out to show her the town, my town. She was unsteady at first
but soon walked upright and statuesque, with grace and dignity. I took her to
Kelly's. Mr. Kelly was delighted. We ate there every day. Mr. Kelly said that
people came to his establishment just to see Mr. and Mrs. Freakenstein.
Business boomed and he had to buy the shop next door to expand. The Mrs.
and I loved his hamburgers, piled high with yellow mustard. When we left
he always asked Mrs. if she enjoyed her meal and she always replied: "Barf
Bloot Tahken Korch." It was the longest sentence she could speak and she
smiled brightly when she said it, her gleaming yellow tooth peering out
beneath her grey lips.
The Mrs. and I always slept in the church, by the alter. The priest came
to know us quite well and often made us a pot of tea. The Mrs. didn't like
tea, but she smiled politely anyway, then spit the tea on the carpet when the
priest left. I think the priest knew where the carpet stains originated, but he
said nothing. People are so generous of heart.
One day, while strolling through the park, a large dog came by. He was
without a leash and was obviously lost. He followed us around the park and
we finally took him home to the church. The priest was unhappy with the
dog poop and suggested that we take up quarters at a neighbourhood shelter.
That was strange. We didn't mind the dog poop at all and I rather liked it by
the altar beneath the statue of the Virgin Mary, but we left, the Mrs. and I.
While walking to the neighbourhood shelter we passed a stand where the
gentleman was selling lottery tickets. I said I'd like a few but didn't have any
money. He looked at the Mrs. He must have been exceedingly impressed,
because he gave us ten. People are so generous.
The shelter was called The Haven and, although it was quite
comfortable, we only stayed for a week because we actually won the lottery.
It was quite a lot of money. My pant pockets were bursting and the Mrs. kept
at least ten thousand dollars in her blouse. That greatly enhanced her figure
which was already quite acceptable. We clearly had too much money to
carry with us, so we bought a small house at the edge of town. Even then we
had much too much money so we went around to all the shops and
restaurants and to the church, all the places that had been so generous to us,
and we handed out thousands and thousands of dollars. The Mrs. and I and
Poop lived very happily in that little house. There was a backyard that was
the domain of the dog and he filled it with his doodoo. In no time it had an
delightful, exhilarating aroma.
Then, one day, the Mrs. said, "Condom Poof."
I was a very happy man. She was pregnant! Soon we would be four. I
was tempted to tell Mad Scientist but I learned that he was ill, so I went to
the hospital to see him. He seemed happy to see me and asked about Mrs.
Freakenstein. I said she was pregnant and he closed his eyes and passed on. I
called the doctor who said his heart apparently failed. That was a sad, sad
day. Mad Scientist was a very generous man. But soon enough a happy day
would arrive when the Mrs. would give us a baby.
I said we should go to the hospital to have the baby, but the Mrs. said
she would deliver in our home–and she did. Although it seemed to be
missing a few parts, we both agreed that the baby was beautiful. It wasn't
clear whether it was a boy or a girl, so we named it Neuter. Even Poop was
excited and dropped a few on the floor.
When Neuter was a year old he began to walk. Well, not so much a walk
as a shamble, a shuffle, a stagger. One leg was several inches shorter than
the other. The Mrs. and I were ecstatic. Poop showed his appreciation as he
always does. We all knew that one day, very soon, we would hear Neuter
say 'Mama' or 'Dada'. That day came on a Sunday. The Mrs. and I had just
finished our breakfast of hamburgers piled high with mustard. Poop was
licking Neuter's face and Neuter was licking Poop back. It was a sight that
warmed our hearts. Then Neuter raised his finger in the air. He opened his
mouth. The Mrs. and Poop and I all waited. The time had come for
conversation with our beautiful child.
Neuter said, "Diapa Occupi Booger Chit."
We couldn't have been happier.
Heidi's Robot
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
I must tell you this story. Now that I look back, it's quite funny. Actually,
it changed my life–for the better. I think you'll find something amusing.
I first saw Heidi while shopping on Earthnet. I began to type Heidilau
Robotics into the search engine and the damn auto-completion feature gave
me Heidi Lauer. I was looking for automaton components. Instead I got this
beautiful girl, her picture, her age and her Earthnet address. I just stared for
some time, enjoying her smile…then realized that her mailing address was
just up the street. Who knows, I might bump into her one day since I often
jogged past her house. In fact, the following day I slowed to a stop in front
of 247 Maple Crescent. It was a smallish bungalow with a neatly trimmed
hedge, a rose garden, grass cut very short and a very red Altamoto
motorcycle in the driveway. Much to my surprise, Heidi Lauer was coming
out the front door. I felt a mite embarrassed, all sweaty in my jogging outfit
but I was determined to begin a conversation.
"Hi there," I said. "We're neighbors and my name is…"
"If you'll excuse me," she said sweetly, "I'm in a hurry."
And she jumped onto her motorbike and was gone.
It was a week before I saw her again. I was taking a week-long break from
robot fabrication and design at Global Robotics. I was a chief designer. It
was a dreadful job, but it paid the bills. Buyers of our humanoid robots
complained about the most absurd things: the robot's color, its height, its
British or Texan or Indian accent, the robot's inability to play chess and
especially an inability to cook. The lack of cooking skills was, for some
reason, always a problem with many of our robots.
Of course, we had more expensive, made-to-your-specs robots, but we
sold very few of them. They'd cost two year's of my salary, but they were
indistinguishable from humans, with real hair, supple skin and a knowledge
base that included history, geography, science and a host of book classics
such as all of Norton's best sellers, they could converse in several languages
and most of them did learn to cook. Most importantly, they could be
fabricated based upon some individual of your choosing.
Heidi Lauer was trimming the hedge. I had googled hedges and found out
the features of her boxwood hedge. I walked to her house rather than
jogging, dressed in neat tan slacks and a chocolate colored turtleneck. It was
hot, but I needed to look good, hence the turtleneck and well-pressed slacks.
"Hello again," I said. "I really enjoy your boxwood hedge. I understand
that they like a pH of just under 7.0, is that right?"
"I wouldn't know," she said, hardly looking up.
I waited for a few minutes, hoping that she would say something, but she
was intent upon trimming her hedge.
"Does your husband do the rose garden?" I asked.
She stopped trimming, looked back at the rose garden then turned to me
and said, "No. I'm alone and not married, if that's what you're after. Further,
I am not looking for any type of relationship. Now, if you'll excuse, me."
And she quickly walked back into her house.
Well, she wasn't exactly the friendliest person in the world, but I hardly
knew her. However, she was single and that was encouraging. Perhaps, if we
could see each other under different circumstances, maybe dinner, then
maybe she might act differently. I went back to my place and composed an
Earthnet mail.
You may remember that we spoke earlier today while you tended to your
hedges. I wonder if you'd like to join me for dinner at Kasem's, just at the
end of the street. They have a wonderful selection of Thai dishes.
Best regards,
Mike, your neighbor
I waited the rest of the day for a response. Nothing. The next day was my
last day of vacation and I kept the computer open and online, hoping for a
response. That evening came the reply:
No. I am not looking for any type of relationship. Did I not say that?
I spent the evening dejected, lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. I
must have fallen asleep because I vividly recall the dream. When I awoke,
the next phase of this courtship was clear. I asked for time off and it was
granted. I hadn't had much vacation time in years. This was going to be fun.
Chapter Two
When the doorbell rang I was placing the soiled dishes in the sonic
washer. I looked out the window, praying it wasn't that annoying fellow who
lived up the street. There was a white van parked in the driveway. On the
side, in large green letters, it said Global Robotics. I hadn't ordered any
automatons, so it must be a wrong number. I slipped on a blouse and opened
the door.
"Miss Lauer?" the guy asked.
"Yes, I am Heidi Lauer," I said.
"Congratulations, Miss Lauer. I am an agent of Global Robotics," he said.
"You are the lucky winner of our latest giveaway, the ML-101 super robot,
unlike anything we've made in the past, the most up-to-date cybernetics, the
latest in cognitive…"
"I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken," I said. "I didn't enter any contest."
"No, it was not a contest. We picked addresses at random and 247 Maple
Crescent popped up. You will not be disappointed in this robot, Miss Lauer.
It will handle all your daily chores, provide intelligent conversation and need
absolutely no maintenance."
I looked about but saw no robot. Then, out of the back of the van,
somebody who looked very much like the fellow up the street jumped out
and walked quickly to the door.
"This, Miss Lauer, is Michael, the ML-101. Say hello, Michael."
The robot gave a slight bow and said, "Good morning Miss Lauer. I am
very pleased to make your acquaintance."
'I think I recognize the face," I said. "There's a fellow up the street that…"
"Oh, no," the agent said, "Although we often base facial features on our
employees, Michael is original–as far as I know. However, I just deliver our
giveaways and don't have any inside information. In any case, Miss Lauer, I
hope you enjoy Michael. If you have any problems, do not hesitate to call
us."
Then the agent gave me a business card, backed away, climbed into his
van and drove off. The robot, Michael, had a stupid smile on its face. I
decided I didn't want the damn thing and would phone that robotics place to
take it back. I left it on the front porch and phoned the number I found on the
business card. The phone rang twice and I got an answering machine:
"This is Global Robotics. All our agents are busy at this time, but your
call is important to us. Please leave your number at the tone, with a
message, and we will return your call as soon as possible."
Then there was a buzzing sound and I left my number and a message
about taking back the robot. I wasn't about to let that robot into my house. I
peeked out the front door window. It was still standing there, with that stupid
grin on its face. Well, it could stand there all day for all I cared.
The next morning it was gone. Thank God. I had a quick breakfast, got
dressed and headed out to go to work. Who should be standing at the end of
my driveway but that annoying fellow from up the street.
"Good morning," he said.
I looked at him carefully. Although he was wearing a baseball cap, he
looked very much like that robot. He was about to walk past, when I called
him.
"I had a robot," I said. "Well, let me restate. I was delivered a robot,
yesterday, that looked very much like you."
"Oh, yes," he said. "I work at Global Robotics and some of the latest
models have features similar to employees. What model robot did you buy?"
"I have no idea," I said.
"Was it ML-101?" he asked.
"Yes, ML-101, that's it."
"Ah, then it would look like me," he said. "There were only two such
models built, all having the very latest artificial intelligence, and they both
had my facial features and voice characteristics. I'm sure you'll enjoy it. It's a
wonderful android. All of our models have IDs that begin at 100. Your ML101 is clearly the second such android."
Then the guy began walking up the street. I was about to say that the robot
was gone, but it didn't matter. I was rid of the ugly machine.
Chapter Three
It was early the following morning when there was a knock on my back
door. I looked out and that bloody robot was there, grinning. When I opened
to door to ask it to leave, it just walked right into my kitchen.
"I will prepare breakfast," it said. "Would you like bacon and eggs or
waffles or…"
"Where were you all night," I asked. "You disappeared and I phoned to
ask that you be taken back."
"Yes, Miss Lauer," it said. "I did receive that communication, but
giveaways are not returnable, I'm afraid. Now, for breakfast I suggest
waffles with churned butter…"
"Damn you!" I shouted. "I don't want a walking machine in my house."
"I am so sorry, Miss Lauer. I will stay outdoors if I am not wanted."
With that, this robot thing left and stood motionless on the back porch.
By nightfall it began to rain. My back porch wasn't exactly waterproof
and the robot would get soaked if he stood there all night–so I let him in.
"Okay, robot, you might as well stay here, in the kitchen," I grunted. "At
least it's dry."
"I am impressed by your generosity, Miss Lauer. If you don't mind, would
you call me Michael?"
The damn thing was smiling like I did him a huge favor.
"May I sit?" it asked.
"Yeah, sure. Sit…Michael."
Then I went to my bedroom, changed into my nightgown, brushed my
teeth, tuned off the night lamp and collapsed on the bed. It was almost 4 am
when I heard the rustling sound. I turned on the light and saw Michael
standing by the door.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I shouted.
"I'm so sorry, Miss Lauer," it said, "but I received an audio transmission
that there were burglars in this area. It is in my programming that I should
guard against any improper intrusions into the life of my wards."
I collapsed back onto the bed. If the robot wanted to stand there all night,
so be it.
By morning it was gone. When I went for breakfast, it was there with
orange juice, hot perked coffee, waffles with churned butter and maple
syrup. That was actually rather nice. Normally I'd just have instant coffee
and toast. I sat at the table and began eating.
"Do you eat, Michael," I asked. "Or do you just need oiling?"
Michael laughed, a very pleasant laugh I must say.
"Oh, Miss Lauer, I am impressed by your sense of humor. I am human in
almost all respects," he said. "If you like, I can remove my clothing and you
can inspect the merchandise, so to speak." Michael giggled. He was kind of
cute.
I was sorely tempted to take him up on his offer, but said, "No, that won't
be necessary, Michael." I paused then added, "I can’t eat all these waffles, so
why don't you join me?"
Michael dropped into the chair beside me and nibbled on a waffle, always
looking at me out of the corner of his eye. "You are very beautiful," he said.
"Particularly your hair. I just love it the way it fluffs up, wavy and casual.
And you don't wear much makeup, which is very appealing. I always felt
that women wear much too much in the way of lipstick and blush. Your
natural beauty is sufficient to make men … oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to
get personal. Please excuse me."
"No, that's quite alright, Michael," I said. In fact, I was almost
embarrassed by his comments. No one has said such nice things about me
for quite some time and I liked it. "Will you be making dinner, too," I asked.
"I'll be home from work at about five."
"Yes, Miss Lauer. What would you like? I can do some shopping if I don't
find the necessary ingredients…"
"No, everything is in the fridge or the freezer. I'd like…uh, let's say
Fettuccine Alfredo. Can you do that?"
"Why, of course Miss Lauer."
"Please call me Heidi."
"Yes… Heidi." His smile was adorable…and his Alfredo was excellent.
Chapter Four
It took a few days, but I was getting accustomed to having Michael
around. He was so helpful and sweet, so accommodating to my every wish,
so human…and he was quite handsome. At night, he even slept on the
couch. I was under the impression that robots didn't sleep. When I
mentioned that to him, he again suggested I look at him, naked, to see that
he was quite human.
One day, as though to underscore the fact that he was very human, he
asked if he could take a shower. I agreed, of course, and put out bath towels
for his use, whenever he wanted to shower.
I could hear the water running in the afternoon. Michael had trimmed the
hedges, pruned the roses and mowed the lawn. Then he went to the
bathroom for a shower. He had left the door open and I just happened to
walk by and saw that he had also left the shower curtain open. I quickly
walked to my bedroom, but decided that Michael might want a facecloth, so
I grabbed one from the closet and went back to the bathroom. I put the
facecloth on the counter, next to his bath towel. Michael was facing the wall
and the water was running over his head and down his back. He was quite
tanned with lots of muscle except for a very white butt. That was really very
human, I thought. I moved the facecloth to the towel rack, then thought
better of it and moved it back to the counter, next to his towel. He was still
facing the wall so I went to pull the shower curtains closed, but thought
better of it and left them open. If Michael wanted them open, then so be it.
Just then he turned about and saw me staring. He smiled.
"I was towel…uh, cloth putting…just in case you needed a face…" I
stuttered.
"That is so kind of you," he said, stepping out of the shower stall. "Would
you pass me the bath towel. I really don't want to wet your floor."
He wasn't embarrassed in the slightest. I tried to hand him the towel, but it
slipped and fell and I went to my knees to pick it up. I looked up at Michael
and realized that he was very human…and very, very male. I passed him the
towel and watched as he dried himself. I was still kneeling on the floor,
mesmerized.
When I came to my senses I ran from the bathroom to my bedroom and
closed the door. I couldn't believe it, but I was shaking like a leaf. I could
feel the heat in my cheeks. I had just sat there, on the floor, and watched this
naked man–this naked robot dry himself. When he came to drying his
private parts, I fled. What kind of behavior is that? I was embarrassed and
didn't know how I could face him at dinner. However, at dinner, it was as
though nothing had happened. We ate his preparation–I can't even remember
what it was–and he talked of how the roses were losing some petals and they
needed special fertilizer that he would purchase the next day.
That evening we listened to music while we both read. It was almost
midnight when I put down my book and said I was going to bed. Michael
looked up from his book and smiled, a beautiful but lonely smile. Suddenly I
felt guilty that he slept on the sofa, but I never expected what came out of
my mouth.
"Would you like…uh, the sofa is so uncomfortable…I have a king size
bed. I don't now why I bought king size, but there's room for two."
Did I actually say that? Was I inviting him to my bed? Oh God, I hope he
refuses.
"Why Heidi, that is so very kind of you. I don't mind the sofa at all, but I
would be pleased to join you at bedtime. I am so impressed by your
generosity."
And Michael put his book on the coffee table and followed me to my
bedroom. I was about to undress, then decided that it needed to be dark, so I
put out the light on the bedside table. When I was slipping into my
nightgown, the light on the other night table came on. Michael was standing
by the bed, naked.
"I hope you don't mind," he said. "I don't have night clothes. Besides, I
usually sleep without clothes."
The light seemed to emphasize his…uh, muscles. I was shaking when I
pulled the covers over me. I hardly slept a wink. I did, however, hear
Michael breathing softly. By next morning I was alone and I could smell the
coffee. I pulled on a robe and went to the kitchen where Michael was also in
a terry cloth robe, one that I often used when lolling about at the public pool.
Breakfast, and Michael, looked delicious. He turned and smiled. Such a
pleasant smile.
Chapter Five
When I was a young girl all the boys made fun of me. I wore braces on
my teeth, I was so much shorter and skinnier than the other girls, my hair
was always straggly and my face was covered with pimples. When I was a
teenager, I realized that my father was a brute, an animal. He treated my
mother poorly, drank too much and spent too much money betting the
horses. When I went to college, I was now quite pretty, filled out,
confident…and I realized that all the guys wanted was to get me into bed.
My one and only boyfriend dumped me for a floozy when I was twenty.
Now, holding down a good job in advertising where the guys in the office
make rude and indelicate remarks, I've come to hate men.
But Michael was different. He was kind and considerate and always a
gentleman. He was even a reasonably good cook and very handsome. I often
forgot that he was mechanical, a synthetic human. If he were only human, I
mean a real human, then who knows?
It was a sunny weekend in May when that jerk from down the road came
by, the one who looked like my robot, Michael. He stopped at the end of the
driveway and waved. The resemblance was quite remarkable.
"Hello Miss Lauer," he said.
How the hell did he know my name? I tried to ignore him, but he walked
up the driveway and held out his hand.
"My name is Michael Landry and I'm your neighbor. We met last year if
you recall."
He smiled, just like Michael smiled. It was quite unsettling. I would have
liked to introduce him to Michael, his clone, but my Michael was out
shopping. I turned to go back in the house. He followed me.
"I wonder," he said, "if I might have a word with you. It'll only take a
minute."
What could I do. I was hoping that my Michael would return from
shopping in time to meet this look-alike. I invited him to sit on the living
room sofa and offered him a cold beer.
"A beer? I am impressed by your generosity, Miss Lauer."
Jesus! This guy sounded just like my robot! I looked out the window to
see if my Michael was returning.
"No," this fellow said, "your robot will not be coming back. In fact, I
asked to have a word with you… uh, to tell you something rather
embarrassing. I must explain something about that giveaway robot called
Michael and why it was so much like me."
Chapter Six
That is almost the end of my story. No, I did not play the part of a robot.
ML-101 was an actual product of Global Robotics, designed by me from
head to toe and based entirely upon my characteristics. The ML, as you
might have guessed, were taken from my name: Michael Landry. Model
ML-100 was defective in that it couldn't cook and wouldn't learn, but ML101 was so much like me that I was certain that, if Heidi would only acquire
affection for the robot, then she'd have affection for me as well.
When I explained all this to Heidi, she was initially angry and kicked me
out of her house. However, over the next few days we saw each other often,
as I jogged past her house. Then, one day, she invited me in. Then she asked
if I could cook Fettuccine Alfredo…and I did. It was something I learned by
googling Earthnet. I had, after all, downloaded the memory of ML-101 and
knew in advance what Heidi liked.
It was clear that Heidi had become very attached to Michael the robot and
seemed to need the very similar companionship that I provided. Needless to
say, I am now happily married to that lady. And Michael the robot? I saw to
it that it was recycled. When I told that to Heidi she gave me a big hug and
said, "That's okay. I have my Michael."
FROG
by Peter J. Ponzo
Almera sat alone in her tower. Every day she sat and sewed and pulled
the strands of silk among the threads of her robes. She was lonely, she was
dispirited, she was annoyed. The story told of a beautiful princess and a
handsome prince who would come to her as a frog, asking to be kissed
whereupon the frog would rise up and embrace the beautiful princess. She
was certain that she was that beautiful princess, yet high in her tower there
were no frogs. Each day she would lean out from the window and gaze at the
moat which surrounded the tower. Each day she would see frog splashing in
the waters of the moat. That was surely her prince.
The spell had been cast when Almera was a very young girl. The witch
had said it loud and clear:
Thou shalt be locked in a tower until a frog lays a kiss upon thy cheek.
Then you and the frog shall be one, betrothed, happy in thy mutual affection.
But thou must never leave the tower, for the spell will surely be broken.
Almera waited and waited and the days became nights and the nights
became days and still the frog did not come. Yet she could see the frog in the
moat. A single frog, alone as she was alone, saddened by their separation,
desolate and annoyed as she was. He sang to her each evening, his garbled
and throaty voice rising to her tower.
Then Almera made a decision. She would descend to the moat. She
would gather the frog in her arms and she would speak to it, softly, words of
love, words of devotion, words of passion. The evening came slowly, yet
Almera waited until the frog's throaty song began, then she descended
swiftly to the ground, ran out through the massive castle doors and sat on the
grass by the moat. The frog, sensing her presence, came without delay,
filling the night with his song. He hopped upon her knee and she bent to him
and the frog placed a kiss upon her cheek...and she held her breath and
closed her eyes. She could feel the thrill of change, the transformation, the
promise of love forever.
When Almera opened her eyes, she was a frog.
Witch
by Peter J. Ponzo
Hagatha lived in an old house at the edge of town, on the top of a hill
covered in dead trees. Now, she stood before the mirror as she did yesterday
and the day before that. Indeed, as she had done every day for many years.
"Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?"
The dark image in the mirror was sleeping. Hagatha screamed:
"Wake up you degenerate warlock, you evil demon, you useless
shaman!"
The image in the mirror slowly raised its head, opened it eyes and
whispered in a tired voice:
"It sure ain't you." Then it fell asleep once more.
Hagatha tore the mirror from the wall and threw it to the floor where it
mutated to shards of glass then vanished in a puff of smoke. That, however,
was not the end of the mirror. She would simply generate another the
following day...as she had done every day for many years.
Now Hagatha was, by all accounts, a very ugly witch, yet she had asked
daily for a confirmation of loveliness that was not there. She knew the
answer to her question. The fairest of them all, according to CNN, was Glow
Bright, the doll princess from the Land of Joz. Glow Bright's face had been
on TV almost every day, attending ball games, dances, community parties.
She was followed by paparazzi and would-be lovers, small children and
small animals. She was disgustingly beautiful, her golden locks blowing in
the breeze even when a breeze was not present, her cheeks blushed with the
colour of the rising sun even after sunset, her pervading fragrance, her
puppy-dog eyes.
Glow Bright was interviewed on the evening news. She said she knew,
as a child, that she was more beautiful than others in the Land of Joz and
now knew she was the fairest of them all. Women should envy her, men
should covet her, children should mimic her and large companies should
demand her services and provide large financial enticements.
Hagatha had had enough of Glow Bright. Now her beauty must end.
Hagatha went to her garden where grew a single tree, as twisted and
ugly as the witch herself. She plucked from the tree its single fruit: a papaya,
as green as evil, a garish green, wrinkled, shrivelled, ugly–and poisonous.
Glow Bright will eat the poisonous fruit and her beauty will be gone. Then
Hagatha will once again appeal to the mirror.
As it happened, Glow Bright had been invited to attend the opening of a
new hamburger store, one of a thousand in the chain of McBollock stores
that stretched from sea to sea. The ritual was typical: the beautiful young
woman would be asked to sample the product, she would smile sweetly and
announce that it was the best she had ever tasted. There would be great
applause and her image would fill the papers and the sides of buses and
billboards across this great nation and the Glow Bright song would be on
every radio station:
Glow Bright, Glow Bright,
Your beauty gives us much delight.
Hamburger, clothes and sparkling Sprite
Soap that yields an ivory white,
We use your products day and night.
Hagatha coiled her bony fingers about the green papaya and chuckled
with glee. The beautiful Glow Bright would taste the poisoned fruit. She
slept well that night, the first sound sleep she had had in months. Tomorrow
all her wishes would be fulfilled, all her dreams would come true. She,
Hagatha, would be praised by her mirror as the fairest in the Land.
Next morning Hagatha drove her BMW to the McBollocks store and
waited for the arrival of Glow Bright. Upon the ornate table lay the
hamburger, wrapped in golden foil, surrounded by lettuce leaves and fries
with ketchup. When all eyes were on the stretch limousine that carried the
beauty, Hagatha replaced the hamburger with one of her own, one that
concealed the poisonous juices of a green papaya, a hamburger that would
liquidate Glow Bright's beauty. There was a cheer as the beautiful one
walked to the table, held up the hamburger for all to see then took a tiny bite.
Then there was silence, then shock, then a great gasp went up from the
crowd. Glow Bright was changing, her golden hair was turning grey, her
pink skin becoming wrinkled and dry, her eyes flashing green, her body
shrinking, stooping...an old hag appeared where once a beautiful woman
stood. Hagatha was excited with the unfolding scene, so excited that she fell
to the ground. Doctor's at the hospital said she died of an overjoyed heart.
Within days the images of Glow Bright were removed from TV ads,
buses and billboards and companies severed their relations with the ugly girl
and newspapers began to call her Glow Blight and Snow Fright. Yet, the
ugly girl had money and when she saw that the old house was for sale, at the
edge of town, on the top of a hill covered in dead trees, she bought it hoping
to hide from the taunting crowd. In the decrepit house was a mirror. When
she wiped the dust from the mirror, she saw that it held the image of a
sleeping face.
The face immediately awoke and said: "Go ahead, ask me."
Light Speed
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
I usually slept in past noon, but this day was special. I had passed all the
physical and psychological tests and was now eligible to fly the BNS01 as
test pilot. Indeed, I was first in line. It had taken over ten years to design the
craft and it was expected to fly at very near light speed, once it was out in
the vacuum of space. In fact, I was told, perhaps jokingly, that BNS stood
for Break Neck Speed. My friends thought I was nuts–and perhaps I was.
But even if I didn't survive, just being the first to travel at that speed would
put me into the aviation history books. Gerry Hilfer, the first man to reach
Einstein's light-speed barrier. Besides, I was a bachelor and my parents had
died years ago so there would be few who would mourn my passing.
I quickly washed, shaved, dressed and pulled my longish hair back into a
knot. When I was younger, I wore my hair short, very short, but I think
laziness replaced grooming activity and I now let my hair grow. I was at the
docking station at General Avionics by 7 AM and met the flight control guy,
Jake Langley and the chief design engineer, Harry Marotti. Although I
listened carefully to Jake, I had heard most of what he said before, so it was
Harry that I wanted to hear.
"No one has flown even half as fast as you will," Harry said. "There are
gravitational considerations that we think we understand, but won't know for
certain until you've taken the bird to Near Light Speed. In fact, it's dark
matter that is our biggest worry. It's invisible and viscid at NLS so traveling
through this medium may be problematic, especially due to gravitational
stresses. However, the BNS01 has been fitted with dozens of measuring
devices so we'll know just what the problems are, if any…when you get
back."
'You mean 'if' I get back," I said, grinning.
Harry looked at Jake and they both granted me a very weak smile.
The craft was sitting in the ejector ramp, ready to go. She was a beautiful
bird, like a needle, with very short stubby wings and almost no control
surfaces. Once it was well beyond the earth's exosphere, maneuvers are
established with small jet exhausts along the side of the craft. What was so
fascinating was the fact that, at near light speed, the laws of physics take a
decidedly strange turn. Even the best physicists on the planet weren't able to
predict the behavior of material objects that reached NLS. Of course, all the
relativistic effects have been understood for over two centuries, but that was
before dark matter raised its ugly head. That beast pervaded all space and the
predictions concerning the behavior of objects plowing through at NLS was
varied.
Most physicists predicted a viscous drag that would hinder further
acceleration, the frictional force increasing exponentially with velocity.
However, a few scientists, mostly Russian, predicted that waves would be
generated in the dark matter and the traveling object would be carried along
at constant near light speed without the need for fuel. One weirdo, a
Japanese physicist named Hamasaki, predicted that light speed wasn't even a
limiting factor. In fact, this guy said that gravitational waves would be
generated by the compression of dark matter and, at light speed, the
compression would result in a hole in space that would open up connecting
to a so-called Brane Port. A Russian astrophysicist, Bucharov extended
Hamasaki's mathematical description to include properties of a neighboring
universe. In fact, Bucharov described passage to a parallel cosmos like
traveling along a beach then out onto a peninsula with physical laws
different from ours. Bucharov even pointed out that the name 'Hamasaki' is
derived from the Japanese words for 'seashore' and 'peninsula'. Hamasaki
didn't live long enough to appreciate Bucharov's humor.
I often thought of that image: passing to another universe by strolling
along a seashore, the edge of our universe, then onto a peninsula, the path to
some parallel universe which had–if Bucharov's suggestions were correct–
radically different properties of space and time. Anyway, I could hardly
wait. What would I see out the small window? Would space-time become
extremely distorted, as predicted? Would that affect the instruments? Would
BNS be able to record all the changes? Would I be able to recognize
anything? I was sure of only one thing: it was going to be exciting.
Jake and Harry were standing at the edge of the ejector ramp along with
several technicians. Jake waved. I waved back. Harry gave me a thumbs up.
I gave him an OK sign. Then they all walked away from the ramp and I went
through the countdown ritual that I had practiced for months. It was almost
noon by the time I was ready to lift off. I could hear Jake in my earpiece. He
was reciting the sequence of events that'd take place over the next few
minutes. No need for that, but it was a required formality. I looked at the
event timer on the dash. Fifty seconds to go. I sat back and waited. There
was nothing else to do.
The ramp was miles long and was designed to provide the initial velocity
so the plasma fuel could be reserved for the attempt at NLS, once we were
well beyond the earth's atmosphere. I'd experience forty Gs for almost thirty
seconds. That'd take me to escape velocity, then I'd be floating in space.
That's when I'd turn on the heat. The magneto plasma engines would then
take over and it was just a matter of holding onto my hat for a while as the
BNS01 headed to near light speed.
Although I had trained at forty Gs, it was a shock to feel the acceleration
along the ramp. There was nothing for me to do. In fact, there was nothing I
could do, so I closed my eyes and waited for the timer to buzz…then I'd be
well into the magnetosphere. When I opened my eyes, I could see nothing
out the window. That was scary until I remembered the same thing
happening when I trained at high G-forces: temporary loss of sight. Soon,
stars winked into view on an ebony backdrop and I stared at the instrument
panel. Just under twenty-five thousand mph…and coasting. I pushed the
rotate button and watched the azimuth change and the sun come into view
and below, a blue planet Earth.
Now was the time to engage the plasma engines. With exaggerated
slowness I reached for the button labeled 'Engage MPE'. Knowing that I was
in constant communication with Jake and Harry and all the folks at General
Avionics, I said, "All is well. I'm about to engage the Magneto Plasma
Engine. Wish me luck." Then I pushed the button.
Now these engines take time. Acceleration is slow, nothing like the
ejector ramp. I could hear music in my earphone. Very funny. I knew it was
Jake, filling in the time until I was near light speed. After an inordinate
amount of time, maybe a half hour, I saw the display read zero-point-nine,
zero-point-nine-one, zero-point-nine-two. Then the display became fuzzy.
The normally green numbers turned blue then a faint violet. I looked out the
window and saw that the stars we also fuzzy. Looking around the cabin, I
could see that the outline of the side panels was wavy, disfigured.
"Visuals are becoming fuzzy," I said into the mike. "The furniture here is
distorted, like those funny distorting mirrors at the carnival. Even the stars,
they're like Q-tips." I chuckled. Somehow, that seemed funny.
"We have no video images," Jake said. "Something's wrong with the
camera."
"Well, take my word for it. Everything is out of kilter."
Just then there was a violent shaking. I looked at the speed display. It
said zero-point-nine-nine. That was surely faster than this gal was designed
to go.
"What's the fastest design speed?" I asked. "I see zero-point-nine-nine on
the display."
"That's not possible," Harry said. "Maximum is zero-point-nine-five, not
more. In fact, I never really expected it'd go that fast. Reset the speed display
and wait until it registers speed again."
I pushed the tiny reset button beneath the instrument panel and saw the
display go to zero-point-zero, then slowly climb to zero-point-nine-nine.
"No, it's zero-point-nine-nine again," I said. "Wait! Holy shit! It just
turned to one-point-zero-zero. Holy shit! Is that possible? Am I traveling at
light speed? Wait! There's something out the window. It's not very
clear…wait, it's…it's… holy shit…"
Chapter Two
Communication with Gerry had been lost for over an hour. Harry was in
discussions with his design engineers.
"At light speed–if he did actually reach light speed–the BNS01 would
run up against a brick wall," Harry was saying. "Infinite mass, infinite
inertia, no way the bird could fly."
"But what about Bucharov's conjecture?" someone said. He was a
redhead with thick glasses and bushy, bright red hair. Everyone called him
'Ruby'. "Bucharov says that beyond light speed lie other realities. He even
has the equations which show…"
"That theory has been rejected by every reputable astrophysicist," Harry
said. "Besides, Bucharov was the guy who said that our space is attached to
other, parallel spaces at black holes. He's been ridiculed at every
astrophysics conference. Now he keeps to himself and doesn't publish his
works. He's a nut case, just like Hama-somebody, that Japanese eccentric."
"So what would happen if he was right," Ruby said. "What if…"
"Never mind what ifs," Harry said. "We need to contact Gerry so let's
discuss that."
There was silence. Every possible means of communication had already
been tried. There was nothing left to do but pray–and everyone knew it.
It was three days later that they received the first short burst of hydrogen
line radiation from the direction where Gerry had vanished. It was almost
periodic, with short, twenty-one centimeter bursts about every second. There
seemed to be no information content in the signal. It was recorded and
played back at various speeds, just in case there was some embedded data.
Nothing.
It was the redhead, Ruby, who first discovered that the time intervals
between bursts was modulated. After a series of topological transformations,
suggested by the math team, the time intervals were mapped to a sequence
of images. The images were so astonishing that all the design engineers were
gathered together in the theater to watch the show. Harry introduced the
video.
"After some reconfiguration of the time interval sequences, we've
managed to extract some images. We'll display them in succession. I'll
comment as we go along. Here's the first image. As you can see, it's Gerry
looking straight at us, rather fearful it seems–though I've never known him
to be frightened. He is actually frowning, but that's probably confusion. The
next image is a view out the window of BNS01. It's apparently what Gerry
sees and it looks like a pair of eyes, rather large and shadowy eyes.
However, I think that's just barrel distortion of the image. The next…"
"Harry!" someone shouted. "Who sent these images? Who had the
facilities necessary to transmit the images…especially as a sequence of time
intervals between radiation bursts?"
Harry stopped, scratched his chin and shook his head. "Damned if I
know," he said.
Ruby stood up. "May I interpret the images from the point of view of
Bucharov's theory?" he said. No one responded. All was quiet.
"According to Bucharov, if you travel beyond light speed, then you pass
from one universe, this universe, our universe, into a neighboring universe,
an alternate reality. Bucharov believes that there are portals, called Brane
Ports, which join neighboring universes. Black holes, for example, are such
portals. I believe that these images were transmitted through a Brane Port…"
"From the other side?" Harry asked.
Ruby paused, swallowed hard and said, "Yes, that's what I think. In fact,
if you look carefully at the subsequent images, I think you may understand
what I mean when I say that the images were taken from another
macrocosm."
Harry quickly presented the next image. Although blurry, it seemed to
show water, some kind of lake or ocean, with dozens of tiny waves, going
nowhere. Above the water was a violet sky.
"Isn't that what you'd see if you were standing on a beach?" Ruby asked.
"The colors are all wrong," someone said.
"Yes, of course. Bucharov predicted time distortion. That means
frequencies would be different. Blue becomes violet. But wait until you see
the next few images."
Harry presented the next image. It was Gerry's face again. Although his
skin color was rather jaundiced, he was clearly smiling.
"Okay, look carefully," Ruby said. "Do you notice anything different?
You all know Gerry. What's different?"
The room went quiet. Harry was the first to speak. "He does look
different, but I don't know exactly why. Is it his eyes? What?"
"He still has that long hair," someone said.
"It's his yellowish skin," someone said.
Harry changed the image to grayscale. "Okay, no color…yet he does
look different."
"Gerry did have that small mole on his forehead," someone said.
"Damn!" Harry said. "It's a birthmark and it's on the wrong side. Gerry's
birthmark was on the left. This birthmark is on the right."
"It's the mirror image!" Ruby said, almost shouting. "That's the
difference!"
"The next slide, please!" someone shouted.
The next image was again of Gerry. He seemed to be sitting on a bench
and beside him, a shadow.
"Watch that shadow carefully," Ruby said. "Harry, next image, please."
The next image was almost identical to the last, except that the shadow
had now changed position and Gerry was pointing to the shadowy figure.
Gerry actually seemed to be laughing.
"There's just one more image," Harry said, "None of us can interpret it."
There was an audible gasp as the next slide appeared. It was definitely
Gerry again, but his hair was short, very short…and he was pointing at the
shadow, now seemingly floating above Gerry's head.
The next morning, after a night of cogitation, the same group met to
discuss the images. All agreed that the images were consistent with some
alternate reality, as Ruby had suggested. However, nobody was buying the
idea of a parallel universe. In fact, by the time the meeting ended, it was
generally agreed that the images were distortions introduced by the
transformations that changed time intervals to images. Only Ruby refused to
accept that explanation and when he suggested that the math team be called
in to verify the accuracy of the transformations, Harry rejected the idea. It
seemed that everyone just wanted something uncomplicated. Someone
mentioned Occam's razor: the simplest explanation is usually the correct
one.
It was about a month later that the radar blip announced the appearance
of BNS01. Of course, no one knew it was the BNS01, but when the plasma
jets scrambled to intercept the object, everyone at General Avionics knew
that Gerry was back. There were several suggestions concerning the
mechanism by which the BNS01 could be landed safely, but there was no
need. The needle landed on its own, with the entire assembly of engineers
and physicists gathered on the runway to watch. No one was prepared for
what followed.
The hatch opened slowly as medical staff approached the craft. A ladder
was pushed against the side of the BNS01 and a medic climbed to the open
cockpit. The medic began to convulse and seemed about to fall off the
ladder. He slid down the ladder, conversed with his colleagues, then hurried
off, apparently confused.
It's been several years since Gerry's return. Gerry is no longer with us.
He died shortly after his return. No further development of NLS vehicles has
been attempted. All earlier designs were shelved. The picture of the interior
of the BNS01 cockpit still hangs in the chief's office, taken by a medic
within minutes of the landing.
It showed a child, perhaps six months old, with a birthmark on the right
side of his forehead.
Deja Vu
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
Llana set the package on the table, then sat and stared at it.
"Aren't you going to open it?" Kkano was smiling. He knew that his
mate was too excited to open it immediately. He watched Llana's antenna
oscillate and her cheeks turn deeper purple.
"It's a great honour," she said. "I've been training for many sojourns and
when the Master said I was ready, it was almost too much to imagine. There
were a hundred trainees. Each expected to be chosen."
Her eye flickered open and closed as Kkano watched with undisguised
amusement. "Well, let's get started," he said. "It's not every day that you get
a chance to play with the temporal imager. Open it!"
Carefully, Llana removed the metallic foil wrapper. The machine was
smaller than she imagined. She had trained on a much larger machine. The
dial on the face manipulated the monitor display. Now, it showed a
horizontal red bar of decreasing width as you scanned from left to right. To
the right of the bar was a region coloured purple, within which was an icon
that meant 'danger'.
"Try it," Kkano said. He was clearly enthusiastic to see it in action. "Can
you choose the image you wish to insert and can you choose the animal?"
"Well," said Llana with some hesitation, "it's really quite random.
During my training, I never was able to reliably choose the subject or predict
the image. In fact, the images I insert are often random and not from the
animal's past, so I must attach a memory tag to the image which causes the
animal to believe it was from its past–even if it wasn't. However, let us try
it."
She rotated the dial and the pointer slid left, midway along the horizontal
bar. Then she pressed the large purple button which initiated the insertion.
Chapter Two
"Okay, if time travel were possible, then you could go back and kill your
mother and you'd never be born…so how could you be here, in the present?"
That was Neil. He was the bank manager at Unibank One, just down the
street on Brant. He usually started sentences with '0kay' and his cheeks got
quite pink when he was excited. They were pink now.
"Suppose you went back a year or two and met yourself? Has that ever
happened? Have you ever read anything about a twin suddenly appearing out
of nowhere? No, of course not. That proves that time travel doesn't happen,
doesn't it?"
That was George. He looked like a wrestler but was really a sweetheart
with a heart of gold–and he made the world's greatest sourdough buns at his
bakery on Fairview Road. Unless you saw him in his kitchen it would be
difficult to imagine his making dainty cupcakes. His hands were like ham
hocks with digits.
I finished the sandwiches in the kitchen: pastrami on rye with Swiss
cheese and a touch of dijon and mayo. When I brought them to the poker
table, Neil was getting pinker.
"Okay, maybe when you go back in time you re-inhabit the same body.
How about that?" he said. "Then there are never two of you."
George pushed the cards to the side and I put the plate of sandwiches in
the centre of the table.
"I dunno," I said. "Would you carry back the memories you have of the
present? Would yourself, a year ago, suddenly have knowledge of the future,
just because you went back and entered your own body? I doubt that has
ever happened."
"Déjà vu."
That was Samuel Blocker, physics teacher extraordinaire. He taught at
Burlington Secondary School and has won several awards as outstanding
teacher of the year. One might call him cerebral. He didn't speak much,
except to a class full of students, and it was usually about physics or
technology.
"Déjà vu?" I said, pausing between bites. "What do you mean?"
Sam rubbed his chin and explained. "You normally consider déjà vu as
imagining you've seen or experienced something in the past. But maybe it's
something from the future, a future image. Then–"
"Okay!" Neil was quite pink now. "That's the memory you carry back
with you when you re-enter your own body. Of course, you've seen it before,
that déjà vu image, but you saw it in the future, not the past!'
I finished my sandwich, wiped the mayo from my lips and held up my
hand. "Hold on,' I said. " I think that the key, the proof–if there is proof–is
whether it's actually happened. If somebody actually saw something from
the future, then surely we'd have read about it. I mean, what kind of future
images are we talking about?"
There was a moment of silence while everybody chewed.
"How about space ships?" George said. "Or maybe pictures of stars or
galaxies…and like that?"
"Does anyone here have déjà vu episodes–often?" Sam asked. "If so, he
could tell us what he saw. Personally, I've never had such an episode."
"Okay, I do." Neil seemed hesitant. "Not that often, but once a month,
maybe."
"How about we meet back here on the evening when Neil has a déjà vu
event?"
Everyone agreed. We finished the sandwiches and beer, put away the
cards and said goodbye at the door. I would be very surprised if Neil's
episodes provided any images of the future, but it was a good excuse to get
together again.
It was about two weeks later that Neil phoned.
"Okay, I had one, a strange one. Maybe not the future, but strange
nevertheless."
"Great. I’ll call everyone to find a time when we can all make it. I'll ask
George to bring along sourdough buns. He's always complaining about my
wonder bread sandwiches."
It was a Wednesday evening and everyone arrived at exactly 7 pm,
George with a bag of buns, Neil with a case of cold beer and Sam with
several packages of assorted salamis and cheeses. They all waited patiently
while I made a plateful of sandwiches. I could tell by the irrelevant chatter in
the dining room that no one wanted to begin the discussion until we were all
prepared to hear Neil's story. I plunked the plate on the table and we all
looked at Neil.
"Okay, I had a hard time falling asleep, busy day at the office. My
assistant manager wanted a vacation week in July, but that's the most
popular month and several of my staff–"
"Neil, please. What about the deja vu stuff," George said.
"Ah, yes," Neil said. "Okay, it was a strange image–"
"Are you going talk about a dream?" Sam said. "Déjà vu isn't about
dreams."
"No, no, I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, then decided that I
might as well get up and go for a walk. That usually relaxed me, so I put on
a housecoat and started walking down the street. It was dark except for the
street lamps and the street was deserted. That was when I saw it. It looked
like a column of smoke, rising from the middle of the road. I stopped and
stared and the smoke sort of oscillated because there was a slight breeze. I
remember seeing something like that before."
Neil paused and looked about. We were staring.
"Is that it?" George asked.
"Yes, that's it. But it was quite familiar. I don’t know when, but I'm sure
I saw it before…and that's déjà vu!"
"Did it last long, the column of smoke?" Sam asked.
"No, in fact, it faded almost at once," Neil said.
"Is there a sewer grate on your road?" Sam asked.
"Uh…let me think. Yes! There is!" Neil said.
"Just where you saw the steam rising, right?" Sam asked.
Neil looked kind of sad. "Okay," he said, "that must have been it. A mist
rising from the sewer grate. Now I remember where I've seen it before. It
was the last time I went for a midnight walk."
We all stopped talking and concentrated on eating salami and cheese on
sourdough buns. At least the night wasn't a total waste. The sourdough
sandwiched were great.
Chapter Three
Llana slumped in her seat. "Failed…again," she said.
Kkano chuckled. "I was sure it wouldn't work properly. They are too
stupid. Their minds are too simple, too immature. How can you be sure of
the image you insert? It's a stupid enterprise. I don't know why Clarions
want to do it. Surely we have more important things to do, to amuse
ourselves."
"But Clarions have been doing this since the beginning of time," Llana
responded. "I have been training for almost one circuit. It's an honour to be
chosen. It's in our nature. "
"In your nature, not mine. It's a game, amusement, invented–well,
actually discovered–hundreds of circuits ago. I think the original discoverers
were so shocked to find the key to image insertion in alien species that they
almost gave away the machines for nothing…as a toy."
Llana growled. Her antenna vibrated and her eye flickered open and
closed several times. "I just need to adjust the temporal volatility," she said.
"It's far too haphazard. It picks up a local image to insert but it's always a
random image from the same locale as the animal…and usually from its
past. How far in the past? I don't know, but if I move the pointer farther to
the left, the image is farther in the past."
Kkano closed his eye. He was still smiling as he spoke. "If you set the
time into their future, then even if the image is random, maybe it'll insert
something which is not from their present or their past. Try it!"
"Something from their future? Is that possible? I don't think this machine
is made for future images, is it?"
"I don't know why you were put in charge of the imager if you don't
know that," Kkano snorted.
Llana rotated the time dial and pushed the pointer to the far right of the
horizontal bar, where its width was reduced to zero…then beyond, into the
purple area. "That's not allowed, you know," she said. "I don't think this is
the way one uses the temporal imager."
"So what does that purple area signify?"
"I'm not sure. The farther to the left I move the pointer, the father back in
time is the image which is inserted. If I go beyond the right end…I don't
know."
"Try it! I suspect that's a future image, don't you think?" Kkano asked,
opening his eye. "After all, it's to the right, opposite to the direction for the
past.
"I have no idea what'd happen. I've only used the region to the left, never
beyond the red bar to the left and certainly not to the right. That's what the
manual suggests. This is the first time I've set it to what might be future. In
fact, I'm not sure the imager will even work at this setting."
"Can you choose an image? What do you think they'll see?"
"I don’t know that, either. I don't think I can choose an image."
"Who will you select to view the future image?"
Llana sat back on her haunches, pulled at her antenna and stared at the
ceiling. "Good question. Maybe the same animal I tried last time."
"You mean when you generated the image of a sewer?" Kkano couldn't
help himself. He began to laugh. "Sorry," he said. "It was just so funny."
Llana punched him in the head. "Pay attention," she said…and they both
sat back to watch.
The display flickered for a moment then cleared to show a room with
four animals sitting about a table. They were playing some sort of game.
"Which animal?" Kkano asked, his eye fixed to the imager screen.
"I can't remember," Llana whispered. "I'll try that one." She pointed at
George.
Chapter Three
"I've never had a déjà vu thing, at least not that I remember" George was
saying. "But I can actually imagine what it would look like."
"You can?" Sam said. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I can imagine what I'd see–if I did have a déjà vu. In fact, I can
visualize it right now. It's something new, for me. It's sort of like a TV image
where there's a picture of something."
"Are you kidding?" Sam said. "Right now you're seeing an image? What
image. That's not the way déjà vu works. With déjà vu, you see something
and–"
"Let George tell us what he sees," Neil said.
I pointed to George. "You're on, Georgie boy."
George set his cards on the table and closed his eyes. "It's pretty dark,"
he said. "It's also quite colourful…purple mostly. It's like looking into a TV
set. There are two creatures sitting and watching a screen. They're really
weird. They have a single eye and a spear of some sort sticking out of their
head. I think it's an antenna. And their skin is scaly with floppy ears and they
seem to be concentrating, leaning toward to what looks like a TV and–"
"They're watching TV?" Sam asked.
"Can you see what they're watching?" I asked. "Maybe a documentary
on time travel."
Neil laughed.
George leaned forward, placing his huge hands on the table. "Wait…I
see it now. The TV screen is…is…it's showing four people. Shit! It's us,
here, at this table, eating sandwiches! Oh my God! That creature…it's
turning around and looking straight at us!"
Llana reached out and switched off the temporal imager.
"From now on I'll stick to images from the past," she said.
Kkano was doubled over, laughing.
Alien aliens
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
It was such a strange set of events that I feel that I must write it down. It
all started with a discussion of non-standard aliens at one of our sometime
poker nights. There was Gordon, a butcher who supplied the meats for
sandwiches, and Arthur who was most comfortable talking about home
renovations and Johnny the scientist who usually said very little, and, of
course, me, Sal, a high school teacher and the only bachelor–which explains
why the poker games were always at my place.
It was on the third Thursday in July and I was making the sandwiches in
the kitchen, but I heard the conversation in the living room.
"…but why are all aliens depicted as being six feet tall, with human
appendages? Funny faces, sure, but why cartoon characters?" Arthur was
talking.
"Yeah," said Gordon. "Why not very small life forms…or very large?"
"The possibilities range from bacteria to brontosaurus," Arthur laughed.
"Can you imagine a human talking to a bacteria?" Gordon said, joking.
"Or a brontosaurus," I said, carrying the tray of salami sandwiches into
the living room. "In fact, why a material alien? Why not pure energy?"
Arthur pushed the cards from the center of the table and I set the tray
down.
"Or maybe that dark energy stuff?" Gordon said.
"Or, better still, dark matter," Arthur added.
"You can't see dark matter, can you?" Gordon asked, turning to Johnny.
John Richmond was chief cook and bottle washer at the GAD Collider.
He had been listening, but stayed silent. He was usually quiet, pensive, but a
helluva poker player.
"Uh…dark matter, yes, invisible," Johnny said, quietly. "Twenty-five
percent of the matter in the universe. But invisible, yes."
Everybody started in on the sandwiches, yet Johnny seemed meditative.
"Why the long face, Johnny?" I asked. "You afraid you might run across
a brontosaurus in that particle accelerator of yours?"
Johnny smiled, weakly. "I…I just thought, well…last week we had an
accident…I can't understand how…"
He lay down his sandwich, half-eaten. He looked pale.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Can I get you an aspirin or something"
"No…but this accident was associated with…with dark matter," he said.
"I'm now convinced of that."
Now everyone stopped eating and stared intently at Johnny. "Dark
matter is everywhere. Not visible, but it must be there, everywhere, in order
that…so that the equations work…the necessary gravitational force fields.
The object wasn't real…not real matter."
With that, Johnny stood and excused himself.
"Wait! You're not leaving, are you?" I asked. "We haven't finish–"
"Yes, I must leave. I am…I'm sorry."
"What object?" Gordon asked. "You said it wasn't real? What does that
mean?"
Johnny grabbed his coat and left without looking back. We never saw
John Richmond again–at least not the same John Richmond.
Chapter Two
It was several days before we learned of Johnny's disappearance.
Apparently, he was at the lab after he left us, on poker night. The guy on
guard duty said that Johnny looked pale and walked with a wobble,
staggering. He also said that, although he was on duty until 7 am, he never
saw Johnny come out. The police searched Johnny's apartment, but found
nothing to indicate foul play. After a week, the search was called off.
We gathered together the next poker night, but with just the three of us,
we just sat and discussed Johnny's disappearance.
"He did seem out of touch," Arthur commented, "like he was thinking
about something."
"Something about dark matter, wasn't it?" Gordon said.
"He talked about some accident and some strange object. Anybody know
what that was about?" I asked.
We all looked at each other. That was something we had to investigate.
The next day we met in front of the GAD Collider building, about ten
miles out of town. I told everyone to be dressed in a suit and tie. It was a
small building, above ground, but huge under ground. The particle
accelerator, I understood, was miles long, a gargantuan circle. We went
straight away to the reception desk.
"We've come to see Dr. John Richmond," I said, knowing full well that
he was missing.
"I'm afraid Dr. Richmond is not…uh, he hasn't been in for some time,"
the girl said.
"Can we speak to his supervisor?" I asked.
"Well, Dr. Richmond was the supervisor, I guess you'd say. At least he
was the head of research."
"Then could we speak to someone else in the same area, someone who
knew and worked with Dr. Richmond. We have some sad news regarding
John's…well, that's actually personal."
The girl looked confused, then punched a button and said in almost a
whisper, "Dr. Sloan, could you please come to the front desk?"
We waited for about ten minutes before this Sloan guy showed up, pretty
peeved. He turned to the gal at the desk and said in a whisper that we could
all hear: "I am not to be disturbed. Don't you know that?" The he turned to
us. "What do you want? I'm quite busy."
Gordon was about to say something when I said, "The dark matter
accident that happened a couple of weeks ago. We're here to investigate the
circumstances under which that occurred and in particular the object
associated with that incident."
Sloan looked quite shocked. "What do you know about that?"
"That's of no concern of yours," I said. "We're here on behalf of the CI
Agency and need to know the details of the accident."
I left it unclear just what this 'CI agency' was. If Sloan asked, I'd tell him
it was none of his business. Fortunately, he didn't ask. In fact, he looked
rather anxious and waved us in the direction of a door as though he were
eager to talk to us. We followed, took a down elevator and exited into a large
lab filled wall to wall with instruments that flashed and winked and
hummed. No one spoke. We followed him to a smallish office where he sat
and pointed to the plastic chairs. We all sat.
"Dr. Sloan…" I began.
"Okay, let me explain," Sloan said. "It wasn't my fault. John insisted that
I recalibrate the collider. How was I to know that that particular calibration
hadn't been tried before? It was way beyond the standard particle spectrum.
Richmond said he wanted to identify dark matter. That was foolish…and I
told him so. No one had ever identified dark matter, but John's idea was
based upon the equations that required this matter in order to stop galaxy
collapse due to gravity."
Sloan stopped and looked at his hands then pushed back a lock of hair
from his forehead. He was clearly troubled.
"It was Einstein's galactic constant, you see. Einstein himself said it was
a big mistake to introduce the constant into general relativity, but John
thought he could actually generate the value of the constant by considering
the characteristics of dark matter. John's one hell of a good mathematician,
but he ain't no Einstein. If Einstein said it was a mistake then–"
"Tell us about the accident," I said. "Forget the math."
Sloan got up, paced back and forth then sat again.
"It was Wednesday, two weeks ago yesterday. I had recalibrated the
collider and John was waiting for my okay to start the test. If all went
according to John's vision, then we should be able to detect dark baryons
and, with the absurd recalibration John asked for, anti-baryonic matter. He
was convinced that anti-baryons were associated with dark matter and we
might acquire evidence of that with the recalibrated collider. I have no idea
why he thought that, but he was the boss. "
Sloan paused, we waited, then somebody knocked on the door.
"Go away!" Sloan shouted.
The door opened and someone stuck their head in. "It's back," the guy
said, then closed the door. Sloan jumped to his feet. "Sorry, I gotta go," he
said, and hurried out the door. We sat and looked at each other. Then Sloan
stuck his head in the doorway: "You might as well come along," he said. We
did.
Chapter Three
It was about a foot in diameter…and kind of fuzzy looking. Upon closer
examination, it was clearly a glassy-looking sphere with a somewhat blurry
surface.
"That's the third time it's appeared," Sloan said. "It stays for just a few
minutes."
"Why is it on the floor, in the corner?" Gordon asked.
"Yes…why," Sloan said. "Before, it was in the other corner. The time
before, it was on the table. We tried to move it, but it's not a material
object…more like a three dimensional image, maybe holographic. In a few
minutes it will just fade away. John was here for its first appearance…but
not the second."
Sloan turned to his assistant. "If it's ready, turn it on," he said.
Henry, the assistant, punched a button on some flat panel and a beam of
light washed over the glassy sphere. The sphere began to pulsate, vibrate
fade in and out–then abruptly vanish.
"Did you get anything?" Sloan asked.
Henry shook his head.
"What's that light thing?" I asked.
Sloan looked glum. "It's a material analyzer. If the object stuck around
long enough, we might have been able to determine it's elemental
components, atomic structure and spectrum, molecular weights…John was
convinced that it was dark matter. He called it 'congealed dark matter'. I
rather doubt it, but he's the expert."
Suddenly there was a humming behind us and we all turned to see the
sphere appear again, this time on a table. Although it appeared to be out of
focus, it seemed to be displaying some image. We all stood about the table,
leaning forward to observe the interior image.
"Isn't that Johnny?" Arthur asked.
"Damn right it is," Gordon said. "And he's talking. Listen!"
It was definitely a blurry image of John Richmond within the sphere, but
there was no sound. It looked like he was trying to tell us something.
"Is there any way to amplify the sound?" I asked.
Sloan was already fiddling with knobs on a side panel. "There is no
sound," he said. "Can anyone read lips?"
We all looked at each other. Henry said there was some gal in
accounting that did read lips. Without waiting for a response, Henry left and
we all stared intently at the globe. John actually seemed to be smiling. His
lips were moving and we couldn't hear a thing, but he seemed happy.
"Wherever he is," Arthur said, "he's obviously enjoying himself."
"Johnny never smiles," Gordon said. "Well, I've never seen him smile."
Henry returned with some young woman who looked frightened.
"Josie," Sloan said, "we understand that you can read lips. Is that true?"
Josie coughed, put her hand to her mouth and whispered.
"Beg pardon?" Sloan said.
"Yes," Jose said softly. "My brother is deaf and dumb and we often talk
with sign language or just lip reading. I'm not that good, but–oh my…what's
that?"
Josie pointed to the sphere.
"Uh…it's an experiment," Sloan said. "Can you tell what he's saying, the
guy in the globe?"
Josie bent over the shimmering sphere and began to translate:
"He says not to worry. He says he was right about…about dock matter.
He says the sphere is made of…of sort of…sort of solid dock energy."
"Josie, could he be saying 'dark matter'?" Sloan asked.
Josie looked carefully. I could see her mouthing the words.
"Yes, yes. Dark matter and dark energy," she said. "He says that aliens
inhabit the space…the dark space…between stars. They're dock, uh dark
matter…contucks…constructs. They will release me soon, he says. In the
meantime, order me a hamburger with fries."
Josie leaned back and laughed. "He's so funny. That's Mr. Richmond,
isn't it? I never heard him being funny. He's always so serious, but he's very
happy. Oh my, look! The bubble is bursting!"
The sphere grew slightly in size, then burst into a haze of pink light and
was gone.
After a minute or two of silence, I turned to Sloan. "Were you present
when John disappeared?"
"No. John would come in evenings, to work on his theory of congealed
dark matter. The blackboard was always covered in equations…with lots of
question marks. I'm quite sure he never fired up the collider–but I can't be
sure..."
Sloan paused and looked pained. "But the night he disappeared he asked
me to leave the particle accelerator on when I left. He would shut it down. I
don't think I should have done that. It's against our regulations. There was
supposed to be at least two people present at all times, when the collider was
operating. It doesn't need two people to operate it. It's mostly computer
controlled."
We stood in silence for some time. Then I said we had taken up enough
of Sloan's time and should leave. As we were heading for the exit door,
Sloan said, "What is the CI Agency?"
Gordon was about to invent some fictional account of agency activities,
when I said, "It's the name we give to our poker-playing group. Johnny was
a charter member."
Sloan looked confused, so we left in a hurry.
Chapter Four
It was over a week before I got the text message from John. It said,
simply: Call the CI Agency together. I have a story to tell.
He was back, it seemed and had talked to Sloan about our 'Agency'. I
immediately phoned Gordon and Arthur and we met at my place that same
evening. Johnny was late, but I had the sandwiches and beer waiting.
"How did he get back?" Gordon asked.
"More important, how did he disappear?" Arthur asked.
"I suspect we'll soon learn the answer to both questions, " I said. "My
own guess is that some fuzzy pink ball appeared and swallowed him."
"Okay, I'll guess that aliens emerged from the particle accelerator and–"
"You're both wrong," Johnny said, striding into the living room with a
huge grin. I'd never seen him so happy. "I can't actually say how I
disappeared. I was just–"
"Wait! Sit down, have a cold beer and start from the beginning," I said.
Johnny slid into a chair, popped a can of beer, took a big swig and
leaned back.
"It was late in the evening and I was alone in the lab, next to the collider.
I had asked Sloan to leave it on so I could observe the effects of the unusual
calibration. The beam dynamics would clearly be novel and although I had
worked out an analysis, the display in the cloud chamber would–"
"Ah, Johnny, could you just tell us how you managed to disappear?"
Johnny smiled then took another sip of beer. He was clearly enjoying
himself.
"I don't know. That's the point, I really don't know. I was running back
and forth, from the small particle observation window to my notes, when
suddenly everything went dark. I mean, I could see nothing. It was scary. I
could feel my heart pounding. Then I heard a voice. Well, not actually a
talking voice…more like a comprehension, an understanding. I understood
that there was a communication, from somewhere in the blackness. It made
me understand that the radical way in which I was using the particle
accelerator was to be terminated."
We waited as Johnny took a very slow sip of beer.
"So?" I said. "Who was talking to you?"
"I bet it was aliens," Gordon said. "Am I right?"
Johnny grinned.
"Yes, aliens…but not your garden variety aliens. These were crystallized
matter, dark matter. In truth, they were waves in an unseen, undetected
medium and they traveled in interstellar space. They crystallized just so they
could communicate with me. Normally, they just roamed the galaxy.
Apparently, the collider was able to interfere with their movements and they
were concerned that condensation of dark matter was being developed in our
lab."
Sloan paused.
"So then what?" I asked. "Did they just dump you back here?"
"Yes, sort of. I was made to realize that dark matter condensation was to
be prohibited…then I found myself back in the lab. I felt exhausted. I felt
overwhelmed. I actually fell asleep in the lab and awoke the next moring."
We pumped John with a thousand questions, but his only response was
that he didn't know. They did communicate with him, they were composed
of dark matter and they did extend throughout interstellar space, usually as
waves but occasionally as crystallized–or congealed–dark matter. There was
a great deal of energy involved in their wave motion and that, John
suspected, was the source of dark energy.
It was almost midnight when we decided that, without sandwiches and
without beer, we might as well call it a night. As John was leaving he said
he'd like to go back. I thought he was kidding. It was so edifying–that was
his word–that he felt that he could write a technical paper that might win a
Nobel prize. Yeah, sure. Those aliens would be co-authors.
A week later I got a call from Sloan. John Richmond had vanished again,
but in his office was a lengthy theoretical paper on dark matter waves.
the Reluctant Vampire
by Peter J. Ponzo
Prologue
My name is Craig Lawson. That's not my real name, of course. I may be
your neighbour and I wouldn't want to frighten you with the story I'm about
to tell. I don't think I'm dangerous. I have my affliction pretty much under
control, but it wasn't always that way.
It all started five years ago ...
Chapter One
I guess I fell in love with her as soon as we met. Annie was beautiful,
smart, with a great sense of humour. What impressed me most was her
smile: gleaming white teeth, impressive. I didn't know. She was vampire.
It was our first sexual encounter where I suspected that her intentions
might be other than romance. She kissed my neck; it was too rough, too
rude, too vicious. I was a little surprised, even a little upset. There was no
need for rough play. When I looked in the mirror the next morning, I saw the
scar. At first I assumed she was just sexually aroused. Welcome to the club.
I'm a member.
The next time we met in bed, she actually bit me. I recoiled, ran my hand
across my neck and saw the blood. Her eyes were bright green, flashing. Her
teeth were radiant...and seemed somehow larger. I rolled out of bed, holding
my hand to my neck, and she followed me.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what came over me. I can usually
control it."
I grabbed a towel and wiped my neck.
"Blood! See that?" I said, holding the towel in the air. Then, realizing
what she had said, "Control it? Control what?
"I can explain," she said, her head lowered, her chin resting on her
breast. "Can we sit. I'll explain. Please, let's sit."
Annie spent over an hour describing her transformation. Her father had
sexually abused her. Her mother knew, but seemed afraid to intervene.
Annie was just ten years old when her father wounded her. She showed me
the marks on her neck. After so many years they were barely visible.
Although her father never explained his need, and died shortly thereafter in a
car accident, Annie knew. She spent hours in the library. There were
vampire legends in 12th century England. They came out of their grave to
suck the blood of the living–then returned to their grave. That was not the
case with Annie, however. She led a normal life, a secretary to some rich
guy as I recall, made sufficient money to live in a penthouse apartment and
only occasionally felt the need for blood. Even then, it was involuntary. She
couldn't control the impulse. She suggested that I, too, would not be able to
control the impulse. Certain circumstances were catalysts for the urge to
drink blood.
"Sex," I suggested.
She paused, then nodded. "Yes, sex."
Chapter Two
I guess it was a year later that I read about Annie in the local paper. We
had parted company months ago. I realized at the time that our relationship
was based solely upon a sexual intimacy–and that was clearly finished. I
wasn't sure where she lived or what she was doing. The article in the paper
said her body was found in Morry's Pond, a small swampy lake in Halton
County. Although there was little in the way of description, the article did
say that her neck was covered in welts and she had lost a great deal of blood.
Since she was vampire, I suspected some kind of vampire event, a
conflagration of blood suckers ... and poor Annie was consumed, if that's the
right word. If that were true, if there was a vampire event, it meant other
vampires lived in the area. That was scary. A vampire orgy? God help me.
I felt sorry that Annie had to die so young. I guess she was little more
than twenty. Since we last met I had resisted the urge to drink blood. Even
the thought disgusted me. I admit that there was the occasional craving, but I
only needed to imagine the act and the impulse vanished. And, of course, I
avoided any kind of sexual activity. That was evidently the catalyst.
It was about a year ago that the urge was overpowering. I was
exercising, covered in sweat, my shirt clinging to my chest. I had joined the
gym some time ago and decided I should go at least once before my
membership ran out. Suddenly I felt nauseous, then weak, then faint. The
only other person in the gym was an old guy on the treadmill. I was
overcome with a desire, beseeching, a rage, an uncontrollable fury. I jumped
off my exercise bike, ran to the old gent and pulled him off the treadmill. I
hesitated. Was I really doing this? Stop! No, I couldn't stop. I had no control
over my actions.
Before the old guy had a chance to cry out, I sunk my fangs into his
neck. The blood spurted warm upon my lips. I inhaled the odour, drank
deeply and fell back against the wall, dropping the old man's frail body. He
lay quiet. I was exhausted–but strangely satisfied. My nausea was gone, I no
longer felt faint. Indeed, I felt splendid, invigorated. I grabbed my overcoat
and left the gym immediately. I was awake all night.
I later learned that the old guy died of a heart attack. I was disgusted
with myself, embarrassed. I was vampire and exercise was another catalyst. I
was afraid I'd be overcome with this lust when in the presence of friends. In
particular, my girlfriend, Josey. Although she had made noises like she
wanted a more intimate relationship, I was reluctant. I remembered Annie. I
remembered the original catalyst. Although the old man was my only
vampire episode, I was afraid, of hurting Josey or any of my acquaintances.
I decided I'd have to end the fear of hurting my friends. It kept me awake
at nights. I'd move, to some remote country, to a place where everyone was
a stranger. I'd live in the countryside, far from urban centres. To this end, I
booked a cruise to South Africa. I sold my condo, transferred all the money
in my bank to a bank in Cape Town, South Africa, gave away stuff I
wouldn't need, packed and left without telling a soul...especially Josey.
The ship lay at anchor in the harbour, huge and colourful. There were a
thousand people waiting to embark, each with a mountain of luggage. I had a
back pack. I had booked an inside cabin. I intended to hide away most of the
time, having room service deliver my meals. By the time the ship left port, I
was sound asleep.
The black cloak swept across the field and opened suddenly with a
radiant display of fangs. I backed away and felt the tree at my back. The
mouth opened, a giant maw filled with tusks. It tore at the tree, ripping bark,
tearing branches. It turned to face me, the jaws snapping open and closed. I
screamed–and fell out of bed. I felt nauseous and weak. I could taste the
blood. I ran to the mirror. I saw the cut on my lips: it tasted astonishing,
captivating, demanding.
I staggered to the door, turned the lock, pushed open the door, wandered
down the hall, hands on the railing, unsteady. The corridor looked empty,
yet I could feel someone–no, I could taste someone. I turned and saw her.
She was young, dressed in the fluffy robe from her cabin. She seemed
surprised to see me. I turned to face her, slowly. She stopped and backed
away. I tried to run to her. I fell, my pajama bottom caught on the end of the
railing. I tore the filthy cloth from my body and ran naked down the hall. I
was thrilled, eager. I caught her before the elevator door opened. I pulled her
to me, bit her neck, drank deeply. I heard her cry out. The odour of blood
was captivating, the taste stimulating. This was outrageous, surreal ...
grotesque. The elevator door opened and I pushed her into an empty
elevator. She collapsed, the door closed and I slowly crumpled to the floor,
weak but stimulated, ecstatic.
Chapter Three
They found me in the hall, naked, on the floor by the elevator. They told
me of the woman who identified me. They told me of the crime I had
committed. The woman was hysterical. I remembered very little. Now I was
locked in a small room with a cot, a table, a mirror and a toilet–no window.
I was confused. Had I really attacked woman, sunk my teeth in her neck,
sucked blood? It didn't seem real. I walked to the mirror and saw the blood
on my lips. It was true, but why? What had brought about the ghastly event?
I was in bed–I remember that. Was I dreaming? Yes, a dream, a giant mouth
with fangs. Would I dream again? I was afraid to fall asleep.
There was a knock on the door and someone walked in with a plate of
food. He was accompanied by a burly guy with a gun. The plate of food was
placed on the table and they both left: not a word was said. The plate had
what looked like baked potato and a salad and a glass of water. I wasn't
hungry. I just fell onto the cot and tried to stay awake.
It seemed like days had passed when the ship began to tremble, then a
sound like a cannon. I slid off the cot and crawled to the table, pulling
myself to my feet. The ship began to sway, violently. I heard the
announcement over the public address sound system. Had the ship had stuck
something? I couldn't make out what it was. Everyone was to move to their
muster stations, do not use the elevators, bring their life preservers. Staff was
to move to their guidance positions, women and children first. I was
frightened. Was this my last day on earth? Was this my punishment? Was
this my...
The door opened and some fellow shouted: "You're on your own," then
left. I ran to the hall, filled with people carrying flotation devices, I pushed
my way to the stairs and ran up. There was a crowd by the elevator, but that
was a mistake. When I got to an open deck I saw that many lifeboats on an
upper deck had already been dropped. I was not on a muster deck, but there
was a small raft. Although the deck was inclined at a angle, I managed to
crawl onto the raft. It was dark, covered in a tarpaulin. I saw the release
mechanism and pulled the cable and felt the raft fall. I was perhaps two
decks above the water line, but I hit the water hard. I could hear the
shouting. I stuck my head out from under the tarp and saw that the great ship
was now leaning heavily and people were jumping from upper decks into the
ocean. I fell back into the dark of my raft and prayed.
I was exhausted. The sounds of shouting faded. Only the sound of water
splashing against the side of my raft. Why had I been so lucky? A raft of my
own? It was early evening and I tried to stay awake, but fell asleep.
When the morning sun streamed through slits in the tarpaulin, I awoke
and felt wonderful. The ship wreck seemed like a bad dream. I reached up
and pulled the tarp aside and stood to survey the scene. No ship, no other
lifeboats, nothing but a calm ocean. It was somehow exhilarating. I
collapsed onto the bottom of my raft and looked about. There was a sound
and I pulled aside the tarp, pushing it into the sides of the raft. I was not
alone!
She was curled up against the end of the boat, perhaps sixty years old.
How had she been able to crawl into the raft? It was not easy for me. It must
have been difficult for her. I said "hello" but she didn't answer. She looked
frightened. I said "Don't worry. Someone will rescue us", but she said
nothing. "Do you speak English?" I asked, but she said nothing. What was
wrong with that lady? "Are you okay?" I asked. "You must talk to me. We'll
be okay but we must do it together." Still, no response. I was getting
angry...and I was getting hungry.
It's hard to remember, but it must have been three days before the rescue
ship arrived. The lady had kept me alive. I had pushed the withered body
over the side and was eager to tell the rescue crew that I had survived on rain
water and small fish. They told me that an explosion in the engine
compartment of my ship was the cause of its sinking. I imagine that was the
cannon noise I had heard. I was also told that almost half of the cruise guests
had been rescued.
By the time I arrived in South Africa, I felt terrible. It was almost
cannibalism, wasn't it? Yet, it was either feeding on that woman or dying.
Did I have a choice? I vowed never to submit to my cravings ever again. The
memory of those few days, the woman crying helplessly, then becoming
weaker and weaker and eventually dying...it was almost too much to bear.
Never again.
I had opened a bank account in South Africa before I left home and I
now withdrew enough money to buy a small house on the edge of Cape
Town. I have few neighbours, do not socialize with those I have and want to
keep it that way. I had bought and now raised the famous South African
Boer goats which, I was told, had the best goat meat in the world. I am a
happy man. Goat blood is delicious.
The sex ain't bad, either.
Overlord
by Peter Ponzo
Chapter One
The Plebes were gathering in the middle of Coronation Square, by the
old fountain. I estimate a hundred thousand, each with the drab grey coat and
black felt hat that characterized the Plebe rank. There was to be an
announcement by the Overlords and no one wanted to miss it. It might be
news about the war or modified rationing regulations or even a change in
lottery rules. I could hear the murmur of muted conversations even though I
was in my room on the second floor of a nearby tenement building. These
gatherings always seemed hollow, to me. There was rarely anything of
merit, never anything that impacted the lives of the Plebes–yet the crowds
gathered each week to listen.
I leaned out of the window and looked down. The usual fast food stands
had opened on the periphery of the gathered assembly. Odd-coloured ground
meat wrapped in soggy black bread with lots of yellow mustard to disguise
the dreadful taste. The cost was a half-day's wages, yet there was a lineup. I
rarely understood the mindset of the rabble who lived in this ghetto. As I
was often told, there were over a thousand such ghettos in all of Panoramica
and they were even more densely packed in provinces other than our
province of Seedly. I often wondered how many provinces housed
Overlords. Somehow I suspected that they gathered in one place, one elegant
and graceful place with flowers and fruit trees and ivory-coloured buildings
with real glass windows and a façade covered in flowering plants. I couldn't
remember the name of such plants.
I left the window and returned to my desk, pulling open the bottom right
drawer and selecting the heavy book: Plants of Earth. Each drawer held such
a reference book, my most prized possessions. I leafed through the pages
until I came upon the name I was seeking: Trumpet Vines. I made a mental
note of the name and the picture. I recognized the name although I had never
seen the plant. Indeed, I had never seen any flowering plant other than the
dandelions that grew through the cracks in the pavement. I doubt if any
Plebe had seen a flowering vine or bush or tree.
I put the book back in the drawer and opened my diary to my last entry,
noting the date at the top of the page. It was a week ago when I had written
about the bomb that had fallen across town, in Beaches Corner. Although
called "Beaches", it had no beach. In fact, I don't recall any lake in Seedly
Province. Although the sound of the bomb could be heard for miles, the
announcement in Coronation Square confirmed that it was an enemy bomb. I
remember clearly the fury of the crowd and the chants of "Help Us
Overlord!"
The call for help was always to "Overlord", as though it was a single
person when, in fact, I'm quite certain there were thousands of Overlords. I
had also noted, in my diary, that these bombings seemed always to occur just
before the weekly announcements. I turned the page, picked up my pen,
dated the page, added my name, Don Barkley, and began to write:
It is unlikely that the bombings are from the enemy. They seem planned
to occur before each weekly announcement. Although the Plebes must
outnumber the Overlords by a factor of millions, the Overlords are
worshipped as saviours…saviours who protect the masses from the unseen
enemy. I truly believe that the Overlords are bombing the Plebes in order to
preserve this worship.
I paused. The Coronation Square announcement had begun so I set down
my pen and went to the window to listen:
Listen well, citizens of all the provinces of Panoramica. Last week we
were able to repel and defeat the enemy who bombed Seedly Province in the
area known as Beaches. Citizens of Seedly, you need no longer fear enemy
bombs. We continue to patrol the streets of all provinces, weeding out spies
and imposing security measures. In response to your expressed wishes and
as a celebration of our victory over the enemy, the cost of this week's lottery
will be reduced to seventy coins. Remember, the winner will leave the
Province to join the Overlords.
There was a loud cheer and the crowd began singing the Anthem:
Hail to Overlord,
Our saviour and friend.
He makes us whole,
From birth to end.
He keeps us safe,
Our saviour and friend.
Chapter Two
It was years ago, after returning from travels abroad, that I began to
realize that I was not a typical Plebe. I had gathered many books–books that
were not available to the plebes of Seedly–and I read voraciously. However,
like all Plebes, I was employed by the Overlords. My title was census taker–
because I was good with numbers. that required travelling throughout
Panoramics. However, unlike the average Plebe, I did not return my salary
to the Overlords by buying lottery tickets. In fact, I had always suspected
that the lottery was fake. Winners were simply shipped "elsewhere", never to
be seen again…although there was always an announcement that suggested
that the last winner was enjoying his new life as an Overlord. The word
"elsewhere" was always used by Plebes to refer to some place other than
Seedly.
It was nearly a year into my travels abroad that I ran across a fellow who
said he had won the lottery in Cordin province. His name was Garrett and he
was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk, leaning against a wall and holding
out a cup. I didn't know at the time that he had won the lottery. I felt sorry
for him and gave him a few coins, then decided I'd invite him for lunch.
There was a sleazy cafe on the next block and the food was awful, but
Garrett was delighted. After he had wolfed down his lunch I asked him how
he came to be so poor, so destitute.
Garrett mumbled between bites. He had won the lottery, was told he
would join the Overlords, asked to board the interprovincial dory then was
dumped in this place, called Juno. He had expected a welcoming committee,
but there was no one here. He was without coin, without accommodations
and without hope. He swore repeatedly between mouthfuls. "Bastards," he
groaned. "It's a joke, a hoax, there are no lottery winners, just losers."
When he was finished eating I ordered a couple of beers. Garrett drank
his in a single gulp. While I sipped mine, I decided that I would seek out
these Overlords. I wasn't listening to Garret. He was mumbling. After a short
while we both left the cafe and he went his way. He had a smile on his face
and waved. It had been his first good meal in days. I felt good about that.
I sat on a park bench and wondered how I would proceed. Might I follow
the flow of coins? They clearly came from the Overlords. Alas, I don't ever
recall seeing an actual, physical coin. All financial transactions were
performed with an allpad; every adult had one. You bought something from
a seller then punched a transfer of coins from your account to his. Every one
worked for the Overlords. At week's end, the coin in your account was
increased by your weekly salary. I obviously couldn't track electronic money
transfers.
The weekly announcements in Coronation Square were piped in
wirelessly. No humans were involved. In fact, only Plebes were involved in
all Overlord-Plebe interactions. No one had ever seen an Overlord. The
people who guided Garrett to the interprovincial dory were Plebes that had
been given orders from the Overlords via their allpads. Although I spent
almost an hour on that park bench, I couldn't think of any way to find the
Overlords. Surely they had accommodations somewhere, surely they ate
something, surely they drank...
They ate something. Yes, I should be able to track the movement of
foodstuffs. Some must end up with Overlords. I jumped up from the park
bench. My task lay ahead of me and I was excited.
Chapter Three
I returned to Seedly to pack some things. I had a few days of furlough
coming to me so I checked myself out via my allpad and left to inspect the
crop zones. There were several and I intended to see them all. Surely I could
follow the path of foodstuffs intended for the Overlords.
The first crop zone was just a few miles outside Seedly and I checked
into a dilapidated hostel. It was still early so I wandered about the area
asking local Plebes about the transportation of foodstuffs and who decided
what went where. In particular, I spoke to a fellow who called himself Wolf.
He had a shaggy beard and even shaggier eyebrows. His nose was bright red,
obviously from drinking too much of the crappy beer. He was a foodstuff
manager and said that foodstuffs went only to Plebe districts. I asked how
Overlords got their food. He just shook his head.
I spent two days then left. Nobody was aware of anything shipped to
Overlords. In fact, even if an Overlord order came in, nobody knew where
the Overlords were located. I felt as though I'd have the same results in the
other crop zones, but I went anyway.
The next was a half day's journey and the crop was only wheat and
barley. It took less than a day to determine that these crops went only to
Plebe districts. My quest seemed doomed to failure. I stayed the night in a
hostel filled with travellers. Many were migrant workers, but some were
business people dealing in food import and export. My bunk was next to one
of these businessmen.
"It's been a hot day," I said.
He looked up from his book and grunted.
"I've been looking for those foods that are shipped to the Overlords," I
said.
He grunted, then smiled. "Forget it," he said. "I've been around every
crop zone and nothing gets shipped to the Overlords."
"Then what do they eat?" I asked.
"How would I know?" he said. "Maybe they have their own
crops...somewhere."
I fell back onto my cot. Somewhere, yes. I needed to find crops that
weren't worked by Plebes. That meant an flyover. Very few Plebes had
access to flyers, and I was actually one of those few. After all, census taking
meant traveling long distances. I jumped out of my cot and headed for the
interprovincial dory. I'd go home, to Seedly, and sign out a flyer. I'd say I
had made a small error in some Plebe count and needed to correct it. As
usual, I'd make the argument on my allpad.
It took more than three days for the approval to come through. I headed
for the flyerport, showed the approval displayed on my allpad and the Plebe
in charge gave me the go ahead. I was elated. I'd be flying over areas I'd
never before visited. I felt that, somehow, the Overlords would be aware of
my travel, but I could just explain that my direction finder was defective. I'd
first fly directly north from seedly, hen in a large circle, avoiding Plebe
districts. I had lots of fuel, so I could spend at least four hours searching.
The countryside was boring: vast fields of weeds, desert, endless
shrubbery. Nearly three hours had passed before I saw it. A silver dome
rising from amid a dense forest. I circled the dome. It was perhaps five
hundred feet in diameter, at ground level. There were no roads anywhere, no
signs of life, just the dome gleaming in the afternoon sun. I noticed narrow
spires rising from the dome. They looked like antennas. Perhaps it was an
Overlord establishment. Perhaps it was a storage facility. I'd have to check it
out
I found a clear area just beyond the edge of the woods and set the flyer
down. After checking that I had enough fuel to get home, I locked the flyer
and started out to find the dome. The woods were quite beautiful, mature
trees, small bushes covered in berries, wild flowers of all varieties. It took
perhaps an hour to reach the dome and it was now quite dark. However,
there were flashing lights around the base of the silver structure which
provided enough light to reach the exterior. There didn't seem to be any
door, but I did what looked like a small window. When I approached, I saw
that it was some kind of air duct. I pulled at the grating and it came away
easily, so I crawled inside. There was a light at the end of the crawlway.
When I reached the end I could looked down into the belly of the dome.
There were long lines of machines, but no sign of human life. Then I heard it
and I recoiled, surprised.
Listen well, citizens of all the provinces of Panoramica. Last week we
were unable to repel all enemy attempts to destroy Daddon Province.
However, do not fear for your Overlord will keep the enemy at bay until they
are destroyed. In the meantime, we are pleased to announce that the lottery
tickets are now just sixty coins, this week only.
It was the weekly Overlord announcement. I heard a grinding sound and
leaned out of the duct. Looking up at the canopy I saw a large opening
appear, a kind of sliding wall, and a long metal tube was ejected through that
opening. The announcement continued:
Attention! Attention! Citizens of Seedly Province. Move out of open
areas. Go into your homes. The enemy has released anther missile. But be
certain that we will make him pay dearly for this hostile act.
Oh God! That metal tube was a missile, directed to Seedly. This dome
was clearly a reservoir of missiles for our enemy. I must stop the missile
attacks. I must somehow destroy the enemy warehouse.
But wait! Why was the announcement originating within this dome? It
was clearly of Overlord origin. Was I right? Were the Overlords bombing
Plebes in order to preserve their position as saviour, to be worshiped? Was
this an Overlord missile silo? But where were the Overlords?
I couldn't get it out of my mind. The Overlords were bombing the
Plebes. I knew I had to find the Overlords. I crawled back out of the air duct,
dropped to the ground and headed back to my flyer. It was pitch black and
difficult to see anything, but I was pleased to see the flyer, waiting patiently.
I could hear the sound as soon as I climbed inside. The flyer was talking:
Donald Barkley, return at once to Seedly. This flyer is outside permitted
territory. You will be held responsible for your error. Donald Barkley,
return at once to Seedly. This flyer is outside permitted territory. You will be
held responsible for your error. Donald Barkley, return...
I switched off the speaker, fitted the paraglider to my back, engaged the
engine and lifted off. I would destroy the missile silo. I checked the fuel
gauge: enough. In a few minutes I was over the dome, now barely visible in
the moonlight. At about a five hundred feet, I hovered, opened the flyer door
and leaned out. Reaching back, I disengaged the engine and jumped. The
paraglider opened smoothly and I glided away from the dome site. The blast
was deafening. I looked back and saw light rising through the open roof of
the dome and dark grey smoke and small flashes of electrical discharges. If
the dome wasn't completely destroyed, at least it would be out of
commission for a while.
It was a weary journey back to Seedly. Although the paraglider had fuel
cells, they weren't meant to last. I walked the last few miles to Seedly. When
I reached town I saw the destruction caused by the most recent bomb. That
would not happen again for some time!
Chapter Four
For almost a month there had been no weekly announcements. Life
continued almost normally. However, bank accounts did not receive their
weekly salary increments. Also, any attempt to communicate with the
Overlords via an allpad was fruitless. They didn't respond. Citizens gathered
daily to appeal to the Overlords...to no avail.
Soon, the rioting began. Not in Seedly, but elsewhere. Although
communication systems were mostly inoperative, there was still random
radio broadcasts. They told of ugly battles between citizens in Cordon
Province, then Daddon. Many were starving, unable to pay for their food or
accommodations. Eventually, the discontent reached Seedly.
It was now very clear. I had not just destroyed the Overlord missile
quarters, I had destroyed the Overlords. They were machines, computers,
artificial intelligence, automatons. We had been manipulated, controlled,
guided–by robots. Should I be pleased?
Then, miraculously, after almost a year, an Overlord announcement:
Listen well, citizens of all the provinces of Panoramica. We have been
engaged in a great battle, but the enemy has been defeated. Let us rejoice.
There will be no more bombs, no more deadly attacks. They are vanquished.
Tonight, in every province, we shall celebrate. All bank accounts will be
replenished, lottery tickets will now free for the week, supplies of beer are
now being shipped to your location. Celebrate!
I fell back into my chair. No more bombs. The missile silo had been
destroyed, but the robots had repaired themselves. I went to the window. I
heard the singing and I was happy:
Hail to Overlord,
Our saviour and friend.
He makes us whole,
From birth to end.
He keeps us safe,
Our saviour and friend.
Parallels
by Peter Ponzo
Chapter One
"We should try it," I said, for the third time. "It could be fun, exciting,
different."
Henry wasn't convinced. "TWH isn't even a reputable company," he
grunted. "Jesus, Tom, have you looked at their stock price? Dropping like a
rock. Terrible financials. They're losing money and..."
"What the hell does that matter?' I said, almost shouting. "All those that
took the holiday make rave comments, five-star ratings."
Henry took a last sip of whiskey then got up to leave. I watched him pull
his sweater off the rack. "We'll talk later," he said. "Let's think of another
holiday, okay?" Then he left. Although he had demolished several glasses of
alcohol, he'd have no difficulty getting home. He lived in the same
apartment, just a floor below.
I was disappointed. Henry was usually up for any adventurous holiday. I
couldn't understand his reluctance to take a Trans World Holiday. TWH had
been offering these trips to parallel universes for almost seven years. It was
costly and only lasted a week, but the reviews were very positive. In fact,
most clients were delighted with the experience. Although many called
TWH the Tame Worm Hole, that didn't deter many from paying the big
bucks for the week holiday on some parallel world. Each year the number of
available parallel worlds increased. This year there were seventeen. I had
examined them all and had a best choice, when Henry finally agreed–and he
would agree, eventually.
Many worlds in these parallel universes were similar to our world. I was
told that these were the "nearest" parallels, whatever that meant. Many
sounded like Earth of the past. Even the names that TWH gave suggested
that these parallels were, indeed, "old Earth. Names like Elizabethan World
and Old Rome and Pharoah Land. The small print, in the TWH pamphlets,
said that you could buy one holiday and, if it were unsatisfactory, you could
ask to be transferred to another parallel. I wasn't sure how this was
accomplished. The wording suggested that every adventurer a
communication device to stay in contact with TWH. If you were in some
sort of ancient Greece, how could you communicate with TWH of the 21st
century? I'm technologically illiterate, so those questions never really
bothered me. The fact that TWH could send you to a world in some parallel
universe was enough to convince me that they could do anything.
Although there were over a dozen similar parallels, there were two that
held worlds quite different from ours. One seemed like a world of jungles,
with strange creatures that lived in the canopy, a world of water where solid
ground was nonexistent and towering plants rose from a watery base. That
would certainly be fascinating, but it was not my best choice. After
extensive study of TWH literature, I chose the most recently added parallel.
It's been available for just over a year and the reviews were fantastic. A
world of dinosaurs, like earth of a hundred million years ago. It was like
time travel, not to a time in our past, but to a time in a parallel that seemed
to mimic our past. I then spent some time studying the dinosaurs of the
Cretaceous. Alamosaurus, Centrosaurus, so many Saurus's.
After much thought, I figured I could talk Henry into travel to some
Earth-like world. One of those "nearest" parallel universes, maybe Earth at
the dawn of enlightenment, Renaissance. We could spend a day or two
wandering 14th century Italy–then switch to Cretaceous. At the end of that
period, the dinosaurs died. We could watch it happen. The period lasted
millions of years, according to the literature, but we might ask to be there at
the end. I'm sure Henry would be fascinated. I know I would.
Chapter Two
"We could try something like Renaissance," I said. "It'd be charming,
don't you think?"
Henry had come over for our weekly whiskey night. Normally we just
talk, watch some football or basketball game on TV, nibble on potato chips
and discuss world events. For some reason, he always brought an old
sweater, even though he never used it. He just hung it on the rack then
started in drinking.
"Tom, how do you know it isn't dangerous," Henry said. "If we're
accosted by some nut, could we go to the police? How would we explain our
presence?"
I knew that subject would come up, so I had phoned TWH to inquire.
They described the procedure.
"According to TWH," I said, "we just punch a button on a
communication device and they whisk us back here, safe and sound. They're
always in touch with us, wherever we are. If they can send us to a parallel,
then they can surely bring us back, right? After all, they do that
automatically an the end of our holiday week. Henry, I promise you an
exciting adventure!"
Henry took a long quaff of whiskey. I could tell that he was becoming
more amenable to the idea.
"Renaissance, eh?" he mumbled. "Yes, that'd be fun. Watch
Michelangelo create that David statue. Watch da Vinci painting his Mona
Lisa. Okay, let's do it!"
Now I had him. After Michelangelo and da Vinci, we'd switch to
Cretaceous.
We both arrived at TWH headquarters together. It was just out of town, a
huge, windowless concrete block building on several acres of land. We had
obtained our tickets to the Renaissance holiday, paid and printed, before we
left home, so the receptionist lead us to the appropriate room. There were
about a dozen people there, all talking. I was getting quite excited. After a
short time, a fellow walked in, climbed onto a small stage and everyone
stopped talking.
"Welcome to Trans World Holidays,. My name is Jason Glibb," he said.
"You have all chosen Renaissance and that is a very good choice. As you
probably know, these parallel universes have been theorized for over a
century, however, only in the last thirty years have their existence been
confirmed and only twelve years ago was our Research Lab able to penetrate
the boundary between our universe and the nearest parallel."
The speaker paused. There was a low murmur which ceased as soon as
he continued.
"That first transit to a near parallel was quite surprising. It was a
universe with a Milky Way, a solar system much like ours and a planet much
like Earth. When we succeeded in focussing on that planet, we found our
entry point to be very similar to a 17th century Ming Dynasty of China. I
might mention that our entry point cannot be predetermined. Managing a
transit is so fraught with complexities that we just accept the entry point
presented to us. Since you have all chosen renaissance, you'll be pleased to
learn that the entry point is a city very much like 15th century Florence. For
this parallel, after much cogitation, we chose the name Renaissance."
The speaker chuckled. The audience, not appreciating the humour, was
silent. The speaker continued.
"As I have mentioned, these parallels are similar, but not identical. You
will not run into Michelangelo or Donatello or Botticelli. However, you will
find Cartollini and Spezzo, artists of equal distinction."
Henry leaned over and was about to say something. I knew he was
disappointed: no Michelangelo, no da Vinci". I put my finger to my lips. I
wanted to listen to the speaker.
".. and you will all receive a communication device, called a comdev. It
has just two buttons called Home and Switch. If you punch the Home button,
you will return here, to TWH headquarters, in the receiving room. You
would only do that if you were frightened or sick or bored or otherwise
wishing to end your adventure. However, I suspect that no one will use that
button."
Again the speaker paused, expecting some laughter. Nothing, so he
continued. "The other button, called Switch, will present the names of all
seventeen parallels: Athens, Cretaceous, Elizabethan World, Ming Dynasty,
Old Rome, Pharaoh Land... in alphabetical order. If you choose
Renaissance, nothing will happen. You're already there, right?"
He paused. Not even a single chuckle.
"If you select some other parallel, you will be returned to Home and
immediately transferred to the entry point of your selected world. You will
hardly notice the transit. I should also mention that you will be given coins
appropriate for the Renaissance. Don't spend it all in one place. You won't
get any more. Now, before I continue, are there any questions?"
Someone in the back yelled out: "What if I get sick?"
"You press Home and we will move you to General Hospital, just up the
street from TWH headquarters."
"I need my pills. Will there be drug stores?"
"Drug stores? In 15th century Italy? No, you must bring your medication
with you."
"What if I lose my communication gadget?"
"Aah, if you lose your comdev you will stay in Renaissance until week's
end. Then we pull you back."
There was several minutes of silence, then the speaker continued.
"Since the transit is slightly stressful, you will be given a physical this
evening. If you pass the physical, you will be given a room for the night.
Two to a room, so please choose partners. Tomorrow morning you will be
given clothes appropriate for the parallel you have chosen, in your case it's
Renaissance which, for the women, means simple dresses and for the men, a
simple shirt and frock. Now, if there are no more questions, please follow
me."
Henry and I rose to follow the speaker. Henry looked unhappy.
"You said I'd see da Vinci and Michelangelo," he grumbled.
"I never said that. I said it was like our 15th century Renaissance. You
wouldn't expect an identical parallel universe, would you?"
"Yes, I would!"
I hoped that, once we were walking the streets of old almost-Florence,
he'd be happy. He'd watch Spaghettini, or whatever his name was. Maybe
he'd see a Lasagna sculpting an almost-David statue or a Pepperoni painting
an almost-Sistine-Chapel ceiling. He'd be happy, I was sure.
The physical was pretty straightforward: blood pressure, heart rate, some
walking on a treadmill, urine and stool samples. Then we went to our room.
It had a small washroom with toilet and sink. A couple of cots, a table and
two chairs and a small TV. After some chatting, we fell asleep. Tomorrow
would be bizarre, I was sure.
Chapter Three
When our morning call came, I was already awake. Henry rolled out of
bed and grunted.
"C'mon Henry. Get washed, put on your Renaissance clothes and let's
get going. Today is going to be great fun!" Henry grunted again.
By 8 am we were all gathered in the Renaissance Room. It was weird. It
looked like a costume party. Henry actually looked ridiculous. His clothes
were much too large and hung like drapery from his slim frame. By 8:15 our
speaker, Jason Glibb, arrived and asked us to sit in a chair. Then several
guys showed up, pushing a curious collection of equipment which they used
to encase each of us. They were like metallic, body-sized shells, just large
enough to house an individual. Each shell was then connected via heavy
cables to receptacles in the wall. It was slightly stuffy inside, but I was so
excited anyway that I could hardly breathe.
It was almost 9 o'clock when Jason announced that we were now ready
for transit. He asked each of us to sit still, close our eyes, breathe deeply and
hold our breath. I kept my eyes open, just a crack. I wanted to see and feel
the transit as it happened. There was a humming sound, a shaking, then I
could see a reddish flashing which quickly turned to green then blue. Then
everything went black and I could smell something like a spice, maybe
oregano. I felt slightly nauseous and my heart starting pumping like crazy. It
became chilly...then a bright light, the shaking stopped and the shell had
vanished. I was standing in a field of plants that looked like lettuce. Henry
was on the ground beside me.
"Henry, are you okay?"
"I wasn't ready," he said, angrily. "I wasn't ready for the transit. I feel
sick and dizzy."
"Yeah, me too. I think that's normal. However I feel okay now, don't
you?"
Henry pushed himself to his feet, grunted and looked around. "This
doesn't look like a city to me," he said.
"If we popped up in a city, we'd scare the everybody. So, instead, we're
probably outside our almost-Florence."
Henry grunted again. That seemed his response to every unhappy event.
We started walking to a nearby road, meeting several of our fellow
travellers. It was perhaps a mile to town and it was a beautiful day with blue
sky and fluffy white clouds. What a great start to our Renaissance adventure.
By the time we got to town our fellow travellers had dispersed. Henry
and I stood in a small piazza with several statues and a tiny fountain. Henry
tapped a fellow on the shoulder. "Where can I find da Vinci ... or any artist,
for that matter?" The fellow stared at Henry, shook his head and walked
away. He had no idea what Henry was saying.
"They don't speak English," I suggested. "Can you speak Italian?"
"Pasta and pizzeria," Henry said. "That's it."
"Okay, let's just walk about and see what we can see."
That's exactly what we did, for most of the day. I was getting hungry. I
reached into my pocket and found some coins. Maybe we could find a place
to eat, maybe something we'd recognize. I pointed to a nearby stall that was
selling something that smelled delicious. "Let's eat," I said. Henry snorted.
That's his response to happy events. The foodstuff looked like a circular
piece of crusty bread, covered in a tomato sauce and cheese and fried in oil.
Greasy, but tasty and when I held out handful of coins, the stall attendant
took just two. Nice. Our coins would last a week.
Henry and I walked about until dark. There was a small Albergo that
looked like it wouldn't be too expensive, so we went in, I pointed to Henry
and myself, the owner knew exactly what we wanted, I held out some coins
and he took five. The bed was hard as a rock and I got little sleep. I hoped
that Henry would be disgusted and, more importantly, that he would be
bored with this town and would be amenable to a Cretaceous transit. By late
afternoon the following day, Henry was tired. He couldn't find a single artist
or even well formed statuary. The churches had paintings, but they were
poor quality. No Sistine Chapel here. Furthermore, everybody seemed rude.
By the time we returned to our Albergo. Henry was ready to punch the
Home button on his comdev.
First thing next morning we were sitting having a very spicy drink that
tasted of cinnamon and cloves.
"How about another parallel?" I asked.
"Anything but this place."
"Can I choose the parallel?"
Henry grunted and nodded.
"Let me have your condev. I think you'll like this one."
One nice thing about the communication devices: they were associated
with a single individual. If I punch another parallel on Henry's comdev, it
was Henry that got transferred. So I punched the Switch button, then, before
Henry had a chance to complain, I punched Cretaceous. Then I did the same
with mine. We were in for a big surprise!
Chapter Four
We stood on a hill overlooking a valley. Far below us a herd of rather
large creatures roamed the grassland.
"Where the hell are we?" Henry grunted.
"Guess," I said with a chuckle.
Henry paused and looked carefully at the creatures below. "Damn you!
dinosaur land! You brought us to dinosaur land! What do we eat here? where
do we sleep? When do...when do we meet some T-rex?"
"Don't worry," I said. 'I talked to various people at TWH and they all
assured me that they would be in constant contact. If they felt that we were
in any danger, they would pull us back."
"How can they know if we're in danger? If I'm grabbed by a hungry
dinosaur..."
"They'll know," I said. "They assured me of that."
"Okay, where do we eat?" Henry scanned the valley.
"Well, we won't find a McDonalds here," I said, perhaps sarcastically.
"We'll hunt and live in a cave. It'll be an experience we won't forget. See that
cliff over there. Can you see the caves? Let's head for the nearest one."
I started to trot down the hill toward the rocky cliff. Henry followed,
grunting mightily.
We were less than a mile from the cliff when Henry started to shout.
"The T-rex, see 'im? He's heading our way. See 'im?"
I looked where he was pointing and saw this giant beast loping toward
us. It was no T-rex, but it was huge. I tried to recall the names...maybe
Utahraptor, Alioramus? It wasn't important. What was important was to
reach the cave before the dinosaur and pray he was too large to get in.
Henry was a few steps ahead of me when we reached the nearest cave.
He dived into the narrow opening. It pays to be slim. I tried to push my way
through the tight aperture, but got stuck. I could hear the beast climbing the
hill, stones flying, his bellowing low and terrible. Does TWH know what's
happening here? Will they suck us Home?
With one mighty push I was through. We huddled at the far end of the
cave as the giant brute lunged at the opening. Too bad. He was too large.
When will TWH take us Home?
The creature hung about for a half hour. I flung stones at him, but he
wasn't deterred one bit. Just before he gave up and left, a strange thing
happened. I found a pointed stick and hurled it at his head. It seemed to
pierce his eye and I saw flashes, sparks of some sort.
"Did you see that? " I asked.
"See what?"
"The flashes of light, coming from his left eye. Did you see it?"
Henry grunted. "No. You're dreaming. Anyway, he's gone now, so what
do you suggest we do, smart guy?"
I assumed that TWH knew where we were and would provide for us–
somehow. Either take us Home or send in the cavalry or some food, at least.
I was reluctant ot use our comdev to ask for help, However, if the danger
was real, TWH would surely know.
We sat quietly for some time. Henry kept repeating his need for food and
drink. I got up and crawled to the mouth of the cave. There were small round
pebbles on the ground, by the opening.
"Looks like rabbit shit," I mumbled.
"What's that?" Henry shouted.
"I think rabbits live in this cave. I can see rabbit poop. I kept rabbits
when I was a kid. The same shit. Maybe we can catch a rabbit and..."
"You're kidding," Henry yelled. "Rabbits? Raw meat? I have a better
idea. Let's push Home on our communication gadget."
I could see Henry searching in his tunic. "Damn it! I lost it!"
"Must have fallen out when we ran across the field to this cave," I said.
"No matter, we'll catch a rabbit and cook it and eat it. Let's just wait until the
wee beastie comes back to his hole. I think I can make a fire with those
twigs over there. They must be dry and I did remember to bring matches, so
I don't need to demonstrate my Boy Scout skill at rubbing sticks together."
Henry grunted. I crept back to sit beside him. We'd just wait.
We had both fallen asleep when the rabbits came back. I heard their
chatter and quickly slid to the cave mouth to prevent their escape.
"Henry! Wake up! Catch our dinner!"
Henry pushed himself to a sitting position, a rabbit scurried by and he
grabbed it by the ears.
"Jeesuz, Henry. You're quick!"
I scampered to Henry and grabbed the rabbit.
"Sorry bunny," I said...and twisted his head off.
The sparks were obvious. The rabbits head was attached to his body with
a dozen small wires. There was an electrical discharge which made my hand
tremble. I dropped the thing on the ground.
"What the hell was that?" Henry said. "It's a...a toy rabbit."
"No my friend, it's a robotic rabbit. And the sparks that I saw from the
eye of that dinosaur? I bet it was also robotic."
I paused to contemplate the significance of what we had seen.
"In fact," I said, "I think this entire Cretaceous world is a fake. The
rabbit, the dinosaur. Wait! I think there were two rabbits that came in.
Where's the other one?"
We both saw the rabbit sitting motionless by the wall. It's eyes were
blinking, green and white. I crawled to its side, but it didn't move. When I
picked it up, it went limp like a rag doll.
"Damn," I grunted. mimicking Henry's grunt. "Okay, let's go Home."
I pulled my comdev from my pocket and was about to punch the Home
button when henry shouted. "What about me? I don't have my gadget!"
"I'll have them take you back once I'm back at TWH headquarters. Don't
worry. Stay her. It'll be no more than a few minutes."
It actually took longer than a few minutes. TWH was shocked and
greatly perturbed that we had discovered their secret. Although the existence
of parallel worlds had been verified, years ago, TWH research was unable to
make contact with any of the parallels. However, they did discover how to
translocate people to remote parts of planet Earth. The expense of
maintaining locations about the globe was astronomical. Cretaceous was an
experiment, different, exciting. They needed something other than more
recent historical settings in order to attract customers. All the other parallels
were real places, on islands in the Pacific or in remote areas of the world,
this world. The people we met in Renaissance were employees of TWH.
Cretaceous, however, was a deserted, automaton-filled island off the west
coast of South America.
When Henry threatened to sue the company, they got quite upset and
offered us both senior positions in the firm. We now enjoy penthouse
apartments with butlers and maids and spend a great deal of time on TV
describing our most exciting Trans World Holidays. When I reminded Henry
that I had promised him an exciting adventure, he snorted.
Good Deeds
by Peter Ponzo
Chapter One
I was dying. I knew that. Yet, as I lie on my bed, connected to tubes and
other curious paraphernalia in St. Joseph's Hospital in west end Toronto, I
was happy. I had led a good life. I had no regrets. It might have been
otherwise, but I was lucky. As I recall, it all started when I was ten years
old–or perhaps eleven.
I was playing in High Park, not far from Grenadier Pond. The park was
only a few blocks from home and it was so quiet and beautiful that I often
went there alone, just to watch the ducks, throw stones into the pond and
sketch. In particular, there was a huge maple tree with branches so low that,
with some difficulty, I could climb to about thirty feet. Ma would provide a
lunch of peanut butter and jam sandwiches and a bottle of pop and I'd eat,
leaning against the trunk of that tree.
I think it was in the Fall of 1944 when I found it. I couldn't imagine
having missed it on previous excursions to my maple tree. It had been buried
amid the giant roots but the rains had washed away much of the soil. The
oilcloth was a dirty brown colour so wasn't very conspicuous. I pulled out
the oilcloth and saw that it was wrapped about a book. I let the book lie on
my knee while I finished my lunch. This was exciting. I had never, ever
found anything that interesting before. I wiped the crumbs from my lips with
my sleeve and carefully opened the book. It was empty. Well, not exactly.
On the first page was written, in large bold print: Good Deeds.
I put the book back into its oilcloth wrapping and walked home. I looked
at every page, but what I saw originally was accurate; nothing but blank
pages–except for that first page. Nevertheless, I put it into my box of
precious things: a baseball glove, several toy soldiers, a wind-up helicopter,
many of my early oil paintings and other assorted stuff that meant
something, at one time or another.
Our family spent years at our place near High Park and I went to public
school there. There was an artistic contest and my design for the curtains in
the cafeteria won and it was with great pride that I first saw the curtains
hanging, displaying my design. A poem I wrote for history class was praised
by my teacher and I often spent Sundays in the country, painting scenery in
oil paints. On Saturdays, Ma would give me six cents to go to the movies.
On the way to the movie, I'd munch a bag full of brown sugar and oatmeal.
There were always two movies at the theatre, with some kind of contest in
between. My brother Joe won one of the yo-yo contests. He was really good.
Lawrence, one of my four brothers, had a haircut store near the theatre.
I'd drop by to say hello and he'd cut my hair if he felt it was too long.
Lawrence changed his last name to Rae, my mother's maiden name, because
our last name was very Italian, and Italians were "the enemy" during World
War II. I guess Lawrence was one of my favourite brothers. He'd take me
fishing and let me drive his truck when I was just fourteen years old.
When I graduated from high school, my name and picture was in the
Toronto paper as a top scholar. Of course, there were thousands of so-called
"Ontario Scholars" across the city. I kept my photograph for many years
until it faded beyond recognition. Although I was painting in oils for years,
while a teenager, I discovered that artists starved...so I decided to attend the
University of Toronto in the Engineering Physics program. Why that
program? It was because my favourite brother, Leonard, had graduated from
Eng. Phys.
Our family moved and I was asked to dump much of the junk I had
collected. I browsed through my box of precious things and kept only that
strange book with the blank pages. That was when I finally realized what it
was for. It was a book of my good deeds. It was clearly intended to hold all
the good things I did for other people. I stared at the blank pages for some
time.
Should I junk the book? Good deeds? Had I ever done a good deed?
Brother Joe had a Liberty magazine route and I remember stealing money
from his stash which he hid in a drawer. When Ma made her dozen apple
pies, she'd ask me to ask Mrs. Burkowski for some apples. Mrs. Burkowski
always refused, so I stole the apples from her tree, but never told Ma. Ma
would then give me a baked pie for the lady, as a thank you for the apples.
Me and my nephew, Sal, we'd eat the pie.
One of my brothers, I can't remember which one, kept 22 calibre bullets
in a closet. I'd steal a few and Sal and I would place them on the train tracks,
then hide when the train came by. Sal and I also experimented with theft
from a store. Sal would keep the store owner busy while I stole a spool of
thread. Were these good deeds? Hardly. In fact, I don't recall every having
done a good deed. Not ever.
That first year in university was when I decided to actually keep track of
my good deeds, so I wrote my name under the Good Deeds title. Who
knows? This might be fun.
Chapter Two
Although I was aware of the Good Deeds book on the shelf, it was
difficult to perform such activities while studying. Nevertheless, I did help
many fellow students when exams were coming up. I was a good student
and I think I helped some of my classmates graduate. Indeed, when I
graduated, I gave all my class notes to students who had failed. Although I
never heard from any of them, I hope my notes helped. I spent a great deal of
time polishing those notes.
By the time I graduated, my Good Deeds book had just seven pages with
good deed activities. I was happy to be free of exams, but felt guilty that the
number of good deeds was so modest. I swore that I'd keep that kind of
activity on the front burner. I was never sure why that seemed so important.
When I proposed to my wife, I did it at Grenadier Pond, in High Park,
not far from the maple tree where I found the book. Indeed, since she was
well aware of my penchant for good deeds, I took her to my maple tree to
show her the location of my discovery. Heidi, my wife, was born and raised
in Germany and I thought it'd be old-fashioned appropriate for me to first
ask her father for permission to marry. I wrote that in the book. Although
that may not have been a good deed, it made me feel good and, in particular,
it made Heidi's father feel good.
Heidi became a nurse and I a university professor. Perhaps she was
influenced by my good deeds activity, because she spent much of her spare
time as a volunteer at Freeport Hospital. In fact, she took a course and
received a diploma in hair dressing so she could volunteer this talent at
Freeport. Since there were permanent residents there, many handicapped, I
would write small programs so quadriplegics could play games on a
microcomputer, with a pencil in their mouth or a text editor that they could
use with the aid of a switch they could operate with their pencil. To be able
to send letters home was a joy to them...and to me.
As a math teacher I spent much time giving evening classes to my
students, before each test and especially before final exams. Unlike many of
my colleagues, my door was always open to students. There were often a
dozen of more, standing or sitting on the floor, as I went over some topic on
the blackboard. One of my committee duties was to verify that students had
satisfied all the requirements for graduation with a bachelor's degree. A
student from Nigeria had been sent at great cost and, at graduation time, he
was one course short of the requirements. He apologized to me for failing
and said he must return home. His parents did not have the money to
continue. Needless to say, I approved the degree.
In addition to teaching, mathematical research and administrivia, I
worked on a device that would speak the words on a computer screen as an
aid to the blind. In cases where the person was only partially blind, the
words displayed on the screen were huge. A talk that I gave on my device
was advertised in the local newspaper and several visually impaired people
showed up and were delighted. So was I.
Heidi and I had four children and, eventually six grandchildren. When
our children were teenagers, one of my daughters had an accident that put
her in the hospital for several days. In the next bed was a young girl that had
run away from home. When our daughter came home, we offered to take the
girl home as well. For years she stayed with us until, eventually, she married
a fellow who took her to Australia.
When my brother Joe became ill, Heidi looked after him, doing his
shopping, laundry, cooking meals, cutting his hair and managing his
finances. I was careful to put every one of Heidi's good deeds in the book.
She insisted, it was our book. From time to time, we would both browse the
entries in the book, pleased when they filled page after page, sad when they
did not. It was an important activity that we shared, as we shared everything
else in life. When Joe died, we carried his ashes to spread on the shoreline
on Centre Island, as he requested in his will. Since Heidi inherited money
from Joe's estate we set up college trust funds for each of our six
grandchildren. With some of Heidi's inheritance, she provided an allexpenses-paid cruise for her siblings. She had a collection of recipes,
collected over some fifty years. I turned them into a cookbook that was
available for download from my web site. I was eager to enter Heidi's deeds
in the book.
Chapter Three
For several years we lived in a Mennonite village. In the winter months,
the horse-and-buggy Mennonites had difficulty traveling, so Heidi would
drive them shopping or to the doctor. Being a nurse, she became the village
medical expert, rushing to some nearby farm if someone fell off a tractor or
had a cut or headache. I made spreadsheets and graphic logos for local
businesses. Martin's Sausage was across the road and I helped with Internet
searches pertaining to health issues involved in the making of sausage. After
some fifty years in the village, the sausage shop moved out of town and we
rented tables and chairs so that Heidi could hold a dinner party for a couple
of dozen nearest neighbours and I presented the owner with an acrylic
painting of their store. Since I had Internet access, I would also print
extensive travel information for Mennonites that were visiting relatives in
the U.S.A. Several of my paintings hang in local offices.
Our neighbour was a senior official in the Mennonite Disaster Service
and Heidi and I were eager to help when we could. In addition to donating
money to their relief efforts, as well as contributing a significant fraction of
my salary to many charitable organizations, we helped during a disastrous
ice storm in Quebec. I spent days on the phone, trying to find people with
trucks, willing to drive supplies and wood to Quebec, a province without
electricity. After an earthquake in South America, Mennonites provided the
cattle and I helped cut the meat which the women cooked and canned for
shipment to the disaster area. Heidi was part of the canning line. When we
left the Mennonite village, they had a going-away party as a thank you for
our efforts.
When Heidi and I retired we were pleased with our contributions to the
book. It was a joint project and we couldn't have been happier. As a
retirement project, I spent the next sixteen years working on a web site
which explained the myriad investment philosophies that were so poorly
explained on the Web. I made available, at no charge, a thousand tutorials
and over five hundred spreadsheets to illustrate the strategies. Many of my
paintings, now done in acrylics rather than oils, I gave away to friends and
family. I started to write novels and short stories, making them available on
my web site.
Now I am eighty years old and lying in a hospital bed in St. Joseph's
Hospital, being kept alive by a host of tubes. I look at my beautiful wife,
reading in a chair by the window. I mumbled something and Heidi dropped
her book and came to my bed.
"It's time," I said. Heidi nodded. She took the book that was lying on the
end table by my bed. "You remember the place?" I asked. My speech was
garbled, but she understood.
"Yes, my dear," she said.
"Please, do it now," I whispered. "Don't worry about me. I'll stay alive
until you return. I promise.
I could see the tear in her eye as she backed away then turned and left,
the book held firmly in her hand.
In my mind's eye I saw Heidi. She drove to High park, to Grenadier
Pond, to our giant maple tree. She dug a small hole beneath a huge root and
in it she placed the book, now wrapped in the same ancient oilcloth. It was a
book of blank pages...except for the very first page. On that page was
written, in large bold print: Good Deeds.
Curios
by Peter Ponzo
Chapter One
Illia gazed at the bay from the twenty-fifth floor of Dominion Towers.
The islands were clearly visible in the morning sun as were the ferries,
sailboats and cargo ships in the harbour. But her mind was on the curios
shop. Every morning she passed it as her chauffeur drove her to work.
Several times she had stopped to peruse the contents. Mostly junk, but
intriguing junk, charming, fascinating. This morning she saw the For Sale
sign on the door and had asked her driver to stop so she could write down
the phone number. It seemed to be a private sale, probably by the owner.
She had never met Mr. Liu Zuan even though she had visited the store
several times in the past. In fact, there never seemed to be anyone attending
the store. The door was unlocked, she would walk in, wander about then
leave. Now Zuan was selling the store and Illia wanted it. The store itself
wasn't worth much, but the location was prime real estate. She could keep
the fascinating curios, clean up the property and resell it at a profit. She
pulled the notebook from her pants pocket and noted the number. Then she
sat at her desk and phoned.
A young man answered the phone. He said he was Tai Zuan, the son of
Liu Zuan, that his father had disappeared and, after a few months, he had
given up searching. The court's decision was that the old man, Liu Zuan, was
presumed dead and that the son, Tai Zuan was the understood heir to the
estate. Illia asked for the price, was pleased with the response and asked the
son to meet her for lunch in the restaurant on the first floor of Dominion
Towers. She said she would treat him to lunch, buy the store and add an
extra 5% to the asking price. Tai seemed pleased with the arrangement and
agreed.
Lunch for Illia was a salad. For Tai, it was a rather large steak with a
side order of fried rice and onion rings.
"So where did your father go?" Illia asked.
Tai choked down the last piece of steak, coughed and wiped his lips.
"We don't know. My wife and I have been searching for months. My
father came to town fifty seven years ago and never left Toronto. He never
travelled, never had a holiday, just stayed in his apartment above the curio
store."
"Does he have other relatives?" Illia asked.
"In China, he had a brother and some cousins, I think. But he never
writes to them." Tai paused and popped the last onion ring into his mouth.
"My father was born in a small mountain village in Jilin Province in
Northern China. His father died when he was a young man and, with some
money from the sale of his father's property, he came to Canada and bought
the curios shop. I don't know if any of his relatives are still alive, in China.
However, he brought a young Chinese girl to Toronto when he was twenty, I
believe. He married her and had one child...me. My mother was very young
when she died of tuberculosis. My father became somewhat of a hermit. He
almost never left his store. He did write to people in China, importing the
things he sold in the shop. I was never a part of that enterprise so don't know
where the stuff came from."
Illia and Tai sat in silence for several minutes.
"Why are you interested in the shop?" Tai asked, finishing the last of his
lunch.
"I've visited the shop many times," Illia said. "I have been
impressed...no, I've been fascinated with the artifacts. When I saw that the
shop was for sale, I couldn't get the thought our of my mind. I could own a
curio shop."
Illia smiled. So did Tai. He handed her the sale documents, she signed,
they had it notarized by an attorney in the building and Tai gave her the keys
and left with a cheque for more than he had hoped to get for the old shop.
Illia told her secretary that she'd be gone for the rest of the day, then she left
to inspect her latest possession. This was bound to be an exciting day.
Chapter Two
She had to rotate the key several times, but the door eventually swung
open with a squeak. She told her driver to take the day off since she intended
to spend the time in the shop. The store was wall to wall junk, great junk,
charming junk. It was delightful, the smell of cherry blossoms was
everywhere. The various pieces leaned against each other, lay atop each
other, chaos, a confusion of relics. Only one object lay alone, on a table,
with no nearby artifacts. It was a gleaming olive-coloured skull, apparently
made of jade. Illia picked it up. It was very heavy and actually seemed to be
warm. The teeth were tightly closed, the vacant eyes dark and foreboding.
There was a cardboard box by the wall. She decided she'd pick a few good
pieces and put them in her office. The jade skull was first in the box. It took
an hour to select six more pieces to put in the box. One was a delightful
China Doll, a child dressed in iridescent blue with a bright red hat covered
white polka dots.
Illia had never been in other than the showroom, so she was looking
forward to seeing the other rooms. There was a room in the back, clearly for
storage. There was a staircase to a dark and damp cellar with nothing but an
ancient furnace. When she climbed the stairs to the apartment she was
surprised to find it neat, clean, sparsely furnished and again smelling of
cherry blossoms. Old man Zuan kept his rooms much more organized than
his display shop. There were some tables, chairs, a cot, a few small lamps, a
small stove and fridge and many old Chinese calendars on the walls, all
showing dates at least five years old...but with splendid scenes from China.
After an hour browsing the apartment, inspecting the contents of all the
drawers and puzzling over the Chinese characters in a small book, Illia
returned to the exhibit room at ground level. She checked the calendar on
her cell phone, saw that she had no appointments or meetings that evening
and decided to take the box of special items home, to clean and polish.
When she bent to pick up the box, it was empty except for the jade skull.
Had she forgotten to put the other items in the box? No, she was quite sure
there had been six pieces as well as the skull. Then she noticed that the teeth
were slightly parted. There was something red between the teeth. It was a
piece of cloth with white polka dots. That was from the hat of the China doll.
Someone had been in the shop while she was upstairs. Someone had stolen
the pieces in the box, but why had they chosen just those pieces?
It was quite late in the evening when Illia collapsed on the couch in her
living room, holding a tall glass of chilled white wine. She lived in a palatial
and elegant condo on the waterfront. She had no boy friends that she
considered serious associations, few friends of any kind, no relatives other
than a sister she didn't like. Her parents had died when she was quite young,
she struggled to make ends meet, got a job in real estate and was so
successful that she started up her own company, hiring only energetic and
eager single women who were down on their luck. Now, at age thirty seven,
Illia had one of the largest real estate enterprises in the city.
She stared at the jade skull on the coffee table. The skull was the only
thing she brought home–except for the small book with the Chinese
characters that had been in the apartment. Any other objects could wait
another day. It seemed to be smiling at her, its mouth partially open. It sat
beside a small bonsai. She would bring both to the office in the morning.
They made a perfect pair, she thought. She finished her wine, lay back on
the couch and closed her eyes. The shop was enchanting. Why had old man
Zuan left? If he had spent most of his life in the apartment above the
showroom, where would he go? Why did he not tell his only son? Why was
the jade skull so prominently displayed while all the other pieces were
crammed together, haphazard, disordered, chaotic? What did the Chinese
writing say, in that small book? Tomorrow, she would ask Wen-qi, a
Chinese agent she had hired last year to cover the Chinese district in the city.
Chapter Three
Wen-qi sat and waited for Illia. It was a beautiful office with large
windows facing the bay, walls filled with leather bound books and a walnut
disk that was completely bare except for an office phone...and a jade skull.
When Illia came in, Wen-qi was staring at the skull.
"Hi Wen," Illia said. "I see you've met my skull."
"That is beautiful piece of jade," Wen-qi said. "In Chinese culture, jade
symbolizes nobility, perfection, constancy, immortality."
"Aah, that's interesting. For me, it's just a gorgeous piece of art."
"My name, Wen-qi, actually means sparkling, like jade."
"No kidding? Then I clearly have the right person to ask questions.
Would you like coffee, tea, anything?"
"Thanks, but no."
Illia sat at her desk and pulled out a small book from a drawer, handing
it to Wen-qi.
"Could you tell me what's written here?"
Wen-qi opened the small book and frowned.
"This is very old Chinese Kaishu script. I'm not sure I can read it all...but
I'll try."
They both sat in silence for some time, Wen-qi groaning softly, shaking
her head, turning pages back and forth.
"It's all about that jade skull," she said, eventually. "It's apparently very,
very old and worth a great deal of money."
"It says that? It's worth a lot of money?"
"No, not actually in those words. It says something more like it's
precious, unique. The person who is writing all this says it came with him
when he first came to Canada. He had stolen it from a monastery and–wait,
I'm not sure but I think he came to Canada in order not to be caught with the
stolen jade."
Wen-qi looked up. "I think you have something quite uncommon," she
said. "Something that possess certain special features."
"What features?"
Wen-qi frowned. "It doesn't say, only that you must be very careful."
"Careful? Why?"
"It doesn't say." Then she paused. "I'm afraid that's all I can gather from
this ancient text. Most of the other text refers to other items in some shop,
items that vanished, items that were somehow associated with the jade
skull."
Illia stood up. "Wen, I thank you. You've been very helpful. By the way,
how are things going in Chinatown?"
"Booming, I'm pleased to say. Every Chinese immigrant wants a place
near Dundas and Spadina...and they come with lots of money. Most can't
speak anything but Cantonese, though some do speak Mandarin. I have no
problem with either language, however. By the way, the writer of this
document," she said, pointing to the small book. "He's clearly old
Mandarin."
Wen-qi shook Illia's hand and left. Illia sat where Wen-qi had sat and
stared at the skull. She rotated the object so it faced her. There was a light in
the eyes, from the window it seemed. She rotated the skull, but there was no
hole in the back, yet the eyes were luminous. Scary. She pushed it aside and
pulled her schedule from a drawer. Meetings all day, a quarterly report to
write, many memos to read. It would be busy, but the evening was free of
encumbrances. She could revisit the shop and take home a few other items.
Chapter Four
It was shortly before ten p.m. before Illia got home, carrying a box with
a dozen small items, mostly porcelain. She put the box in a corner and
placed the skull on the coffee table, next to the bonsai. She needed a stiff
drink. When she returned from the dining room where she kept her stash of
alcohol, she noticed the bonsai had wilted. That was unusual because she
watered it diligently and it had survived years as a healthy and robust plant.
Now the leaves were brownish and seemed very dry. In fact, the plant was
leaning more than usual, away from the skull. Illia collapsed on the couch
and stared at both the skull and the bonsai. Was the skull smiling? Its mouth
seemed more open than she remembered. She leaned forward. A dry and
wrinkled bonsai leaf was stuck between its teeth. It had happened before,
with the red and white polka dot hat from the China Doll. She recalled the
comment of Wen-qi: the skull possessed certain special features. Did it eat
nearby things? Was that the reason it stood by itself in the curio shop?
The next morning the bonsai was gone. There was a hint of cherry
blossoms in the air.
Illia was shocked and frightened. She phoned Wen-qi and was told that
such skulls often came from a Jade school in a Mongolian, Northern Chinese
area and Illia should consult a Chinese mystic to gain whatever knowledge
the skull can give. Other than that, Wen-qi could provide no further
suggestions, not even the name of a mystic. Illia immediately searched for
mystics in the city and found just one. She left the office early, grabbing the
jade skull from the desk, and headed for a seedy part of town.
The so-called mystic lived in a ramshackle building on the edge of the
city. Illia knocked and when the door opened she was startled when a young
girl answered.
"I am looking for ..." she began.
"Yes, come in," the young girl said, stepping aside the let Illia pass. "Go
in there and sit."
Illia entered a dark room that smelled of cherry blossoms, yet slightly
medicinal. She sat and looked about. There was nothing on the walls and
only two wooden chairs. Soon an old woman came in, helped by the young
girl who immediately left.
"Show me," the old woman said.
Illia handed her the jade skull and the woman ran her hand over its
surface, her eyes closed, whispering something that Illia could not hear.
After a time the old woman said in a rasping voice, in surprisingly good
English: "Energy…great clarity... very profound...not of this earth...destroy
it."
"Why is it dangerous?" Illia asked. "How...?"
"Quiet now, " the old lady whispered. "You must destroy the evil thing
or it will consume you. "
Then the she rose and left, leaning heavily against the wall as she left.
"Wait! I have a question. Please, what is that aroma, cherry blossoms.
I've smelled it before, in the curios shop, in my apartment when..."
The old woman turned and said in a hoarse voice: "Cherry blossoms, an
emblem of love yet they signify the fleeting nature of mortality." Then she
left.
Illia sat for a while but no one came. The fleeting nature of mortality.
The skull iwll absorb you. What did that mean? Did the skull absorb the hat
of the China Doll and the bonsai? Illia left, confused.
When she got home, she placed the skull in a deep drawer, an empty
drawer. It this object possessed mystic powers, did they include the ability to
make things disappear? Did it have the ability to make old man Zuan
disappear? Illia undressed and crawled into bed, but had difficulty sleeping.
So many strange things associated with the jade skull. So many unanswered
questions. After a long time contemplating she fell asleep.
Two weeks later the police arrived. Illia Jaworski had not shown up at
the office for two weeks. She had not called in. She had not left text
messages for her associates or even so much as a note in her office. When
the police entered her apartment, the first thing they noticed was a jade skull
on the coffee table. It glowed, its mouth was wide open and there was a pale
light in each eye socket.
What was also quite unusual was the smell: cherry blossoms.
Sgnir
by Peter Ponzo
Mas stared intently at the small blue planet.
"Llik!" he grunted, sliding his scaled hand swiftly across the console,
stopping over the Llik key. Yllas seized his hand and dragged it slowly to
the key labelled Sgnir.
"Nmad!" Mas grunted. The words exhaled like escaping steam.
He gazed at the Sgnir label and understood. A long digit unfurled and
punched the key, violently.
Seventeen fireballs erupted from beneath the ship, heading unerringly
toward the dark side of the blue planet.
"Enod!!"
ASSOCIATED PRESS - Last night, seventeen countries in Europe and East
Asia reported the mysterious appearance of crop circles.
Oceanus
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
Tlaloc was angry. The fish had left Oceanus and Mazu was the reason.
She had appealed to the gods when it was forbidden to do so. She had
appealed to Anapos and Galene and even the monstrous Gorgon sea spirits.
Surely Kanaloa would censure her for such irresponsible acts, yet the
Supreme had ignored Mazu's prohibited pleas to the sea gods. In any case,
the bigger problem was to provide nourishment where none existed. The sea
was barren, sterile, empty of creatures except for the citizens of Oceanus.
Tlaloc knelt by the statue of Tethys, his personal deity. It was forbidden
to pray at this time, so he caressed her marble brow, ran his fingers across
her cold lips. He would wait until the sun's rays brightened her face. Then
his appeal would be sanctioned and he would ask that the fish return to
Oceanus. He had asked during the last sun cycle, but he would ask
again...and again. Tlaloc had also appealed to the sphinxes that lay across
the plains, but they had ignored his prayer. The tombs built by the Olmecs
within the giant pyramids–they might reveal an explanation since the
vanishing of sea creatures had happened before, as was written in the sacred
books. Yet, Tlaloc was responsible for Oceanus nutriment and could not
wait for each sun cycle to make his appeals to the gods. The stores of
foodstuffs was diminishing, but he had a plan. It required the permission of
Kanaloa the Supreme, but surely that would be forthcoming. What other
solution could there be?
Chapter Two
The throne was a huge clam shell, lined with mother of pearl, sides
studded in precious stones. Kanaloa was old, his eyes were partly closed, he
stooped forward, his beard hanging to his stomach.
"Why do you bother me," he said. "Do you have anything worthwhile to
say of the shortage of foods, my dear Tlaloc, or do you come to complain of
Mazu and her appeal to the gods? She is young and concerned and I shall not
punish her for that youthful exuberance."
"No, no Supreme, I come to ask for your blessing. I have a plan and I
feel that it is necessary for the survival of our small community. Will you let
me explain?"
Kanaloa nodded his head, leaned back and closed his eyes. Tlaloc
described his plan, slowly, with elaborate gestures. Then he paused waiting
for Supreme's reaction.
"You fool!" Kanaloa shouted, his eyes now flashing green, foam rising
from his nostrils. "Since the days of Atlantis we have kept our distance from
the over-sea world. We take extreme precaution to eliminate any form of
communication with over-sea life...especially human life. Have you learned
nothing of our history?"
"No, no, Supreme. I do not suggest any form of communication. I mean
only to absorb over-sea vessels, those that ply the surface and those that fill
the sky. We can do that and the life we collect will fill our food storage
tanks."
Kanaloa looked skeptical. Then he waved his hand, violently. A column
of bubbles rose from his fist. He said in a loud voice: "So be it!" Tlaloc was
ecstatic. His gills quivered.
It took less than a week for Tlaloc to arrange the absorption. The release
of methane gas from the vaults beneath the sea bed would rise and reduce
the density of the water. Buoyancy would vanish and any over-sea vessel
would sink. The first such event yielded several dozen humans whose bodies
provided sustenance for weeks. The citizens of Oceanus were overjoyed as
was Tlaloc and, more importantly, Kanaloa.
The disappearance of over-sea vessels continued for years. It would
come to be known as the Mystery of the Bermuda Triangle.
Dreams
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
Vince Pirelli was a Toronto street bum. He was a very happy street bum.
He had a university degree in accounting with a minor in social studies, had
held a nine-to-five job with attendant pressures, fake friends and mind
numbing discussions, but gave it up to sell his trinkets, cheap watches and
souvenirs on the corner of King and John streets. His needs were minimal
but his friends were legion. He and a dozen others lived in the cellars
beneath Union Station. There were two Chinese guys whose English was
barely recognizable and Albert, a Polish fellow who always had a bottle of
wine to share, a Jewish chap with hair reaching to his ass and even a couple
of ladies who giggled much of the time. Vince loved them all. They were
true friends, sharing what little they had, laughing at the folly of the world
and quite content with their life on the street. There was never any criticism
of beliefs, sarcastic remarks, whispered discussions or complaints at having
been dealt a bad hand. Everyone was happy.
Although summers were very pleasant, winters were not and Vince often
dreamed of living on a beach on a Caribbean island, eating fruit picked from
trees, fishing in the sea and just lying in the sun much of the day. When he
first mentioned his dream to the others, they all sighed, a sigh of envy, of
wishful thoughts and shared fantasies. Jacob, the Jew, suggested sneaking on
to one of the cruise ships that left Toronto harbour every Saturday afternoon
during the months of May and June. He was quite sure that they headed
south, to the Caribbean. Vince stowed the thought in the back of his
mind...until May when the chilly months of winter had passed. Then he set
out to investigate the possibilities.
Every Friday evening loads of fruits and vegetables arrived in large
crates, at the place where the cruise ship would dock. A harbour guard paced
back and forth when he wasn't sound asleep in his booth. Early Saturday
morning the ship arrived, a large opening appeared on its side, a ramp was
attached and many crates were boarded. It was one crate in particular that
appealed to Vince. He could hide among the McIntosh Apples.
It was near the end of May that Vince said goodbye to his friends. They
were very sorry to see him leave, they wished him bon voyage, the Polish
fellow opened a new bottle of wine and the ladies gave him a kiss on the
cheek. Each gave Vince a small reminder of their friendship: gadgets,
trinkets and souvenirs that they sold on the street. His cot was covered with
his own things; they wouldn't touch them, they said. It was a touching scene
and brought many to tears–including Vince. He would miss them dearly.
On a Friday evening, Vince walked to the pier with a small bag of
snacks and bottled water. He waited in the shadows until the guard entered
his booth for a nap, then he rushed to the crate of apples. It was an easy
matter to pry a couple of planks open, sufficient to collect and discard
dozens of apples. He threw the fruit into the water, hoping the noise
wouldn't wake the guard, then he crawled into the crate and pulled the
planks closed. It was rather lumpy and not very comfortable, but the apples
were delicious. In fact he recognized them as Golden Delicious.
When the first light of morning peered into his crate, Vince felt the crate
move. He was on his way into the ship. It took less than an hour to place the
crate in the storage area and Vince felt quite certain that his presence went
unnoticed. The would be his great adventure, his dream come true. He lay
back, gnawed on another apple and fell asleep until he felt the movement of
the ship. It was time for him to dislodge himself from his fruity confines. He
pushed a few planks, squeezed through the narrow opening, looked about
and saw no one, then dropped to the floor. It would probably be days before
they reached some Caribbean island, but it was clear that Vince would not
starve: he was surrounded by edibles.
Chapter Two
It was six days before the ship docked at a Caribbean island. Vince had
no idea what island, but it didn't matter. So long as it was warm with blue
skies and sandy beaches and fruit hanging from trees and bubbling brooks of
crystal clear water. When the grinding of the anchors stopped, Vince
climbed a ladder to peer out a porthole. It was a beautiful day and the sky
was brilliant and the sea was azure. He needed a way to disembark and had
it planned for days. Garbage would be unloaded and he'd be unloaded with
the garbage. It worked like a charm. In fact, he didn't need to climb into the
garbage bins, he just had to help the workers unload the stinking stuff. He
gave an excellent performance, grunting when they did and cursing when
they did. After the last load he didn't get back on board but walked casually
along the pier and out onto the street. Tourists were everywhere,
microscopic cameras seemingly attached to their body. He continued to
walk, leaving the town behind, until he came upon a narrow path that clearly
lead to the sea. That would be his home, he was sure. At the end of the road
he'd find a beach and a jungle with fruit-filled trees and a bubbling brook.
At the end of the road Vince did indeed find a jungle that ran haphazard
to the sea. Birds were everywhere, small lizards scurried across the road and
he could hear waves crashing upon the beach. There was a small cleared
area that seemed to be for parking vehicles. That was okay. He'd live far
enough into the jungle that visitors wouldn't bother him. When he reached
the beach he tore off his clothes and ran into the surf. It was glorious. His
dream, come true.
It took only a few hours for Vince to realize that the only fruit were
stunted banana trees with small green bananas that tasted bitter. He did find
a kind of burdock that reminded him of his mother's creations, boiled then
fried with eggs and parmesan cheese. Surely, with all the birds about, he
could find eggs. There was also lots of dandelion and a root which looked
very much like a potato. And, wonder of wonders, there was a spring-fed
creek that ran into the sea. Yes, this would be his exotic paradise.
After three weeks the sun was too blinding, the sand too hot, the air too
humid and the food too offensive...and he was lonely. No more the
delightful chatter with his friends under Union Station, no more sipping
Albert's wine, no more laughing at the fragility of the world and its foibles.
He found plenty to eat, in particular bird eggs, crabs that scurried about on
the beach and small fish that swam near the shore. He learned how to make
fire with dry sticks, a talent he was quite proud of. Yet, it was not the idyllic
life of his dreams. His clothes were now in tatters and his beard was long
and scraggly and he suffered from periodic headaches.
One day he awoke to hear screams on the beach. He ran to investigate
and found two old people bound together with rope. They pleaded with him
not to hurt them. He said he had no intention of hurting them...then he cut
their bindings. They explained that they lived on the island and had several
shops in town and had come for an afternoon to this quiet place when they
were accosted by two thugs who stole their jewellry and the woman's purse.
The were so grateful that, when they learned that Vince actually lived in the
jungle, they offered him a job in one of their stores. Vince at first refused,
then thought that he might earn enough to buy clothes and supplies–so
agreed to their proposal.
Vince began working in a small shop with sparse living quarters in the
back. It sold trinkets, souvenirs, pottery made by local craftsmen, glass
goblets and other assorted junk. He hated it. He hated the tourists that
fingered every item then left without buying a thing. He hated the local
street merchants who followed the tourists with handfuls of souvenirs. He
hated his living quarters with faucets that provided brownish water. He hated
this Caribbean island dedicated to tourism.
When Vince had made sufficient money, he thanked the owners
profusely for their good nature and job offer and he flew home, to Toronto,
to the cellars beneath Union Station.
It was late afternoon when he arrived home. His cot was still there,
untouched. His collection of trinkets, souvenirs and cheap watches were still
there. Nothing had been moved. Vince sat on the cot and cried. Soon his
friends began arriving after their day of selling on street corners. It was dark
and they didn't see him. He waited until all had arrived, then he lit the
kerosene lamp by his cot. Everyone jumped to their feet, shouting and
laughing and rushing to his side. Albert waved his bottle of wine, the
Chinese began to babble, Jacob the Jew pulled his hair nervously and uttered
what seemed like a prayer and the ladies each hugged Vince warmly. Vince
was home. Vince was happy. He had learned a great lesson, something they
didn't teach him in university: friends are more important than money, more
important than locale and one's dreams should always include the people
you hold dear.
Romance
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
I fell in love with her the moment I saw her, at Jake's New Year's party.
She was surrounded by guys, she was talking and they were listening. I was
tempted to join the crowd, but I'm not that bold. In fact, I guess I'm rather
shy when it comes to women, but her animated speech, the huge smile, the
giggle and laugh–I was charmed, spellbound, bewitched. I couldn't get her
out of my mind. I was determined to contrive a meeting, somehow.
From friends, especially Jake, I learned that her parents had both died in
a car accident and that she lived alone. I also learned that she had inherited a
cottage on Lake Simcoe. One Saturday in June I drove by her cottage and
found that the cottage next door was for sale. I bought it without haggling
over the price. I'm sure I paid too much because the guy who sold it to me
was smiling throughout the whole negotiation. Nevertheless, it was now
mine so I spent Sunday there, hoping to see the girl next door. No luck.
The following Friday I arrived early evening and saw her car sitting on
the grass, roadside of her cottage. She was actually mowing her lawn with a
push mower. The lots are not that large, perhaps a quarter acre, but that was
hard work. I immediately turned about and drove to a Canadian Tire store in
Barrie and bought a riding mower. I was sure I had paid too much, but I
didn't have time to look around for better prices. I was worried that it'd
arrive some time in the following week, but they said they'd deliver it
Saturday morning...so I was a happy fellow. When I returned to my cottage
she wasn't mowing, but her mower was on her partially mowed lawn. I
parked my car, went inside with a case of cold beer that I had bought in town
along with a large pepperoni pizza and sat on the lakeside porch. I kept
looking across at her cottage, but I didn't see her that night.
First thing Saturday morning I drove again into town and bought a
pound of hamburger, some onions, some tomatoes, sliced cheese, buns and a
head of lettuce. I had thought about this for much of the night. I'd invite her
over for hamburgers. The riding mower arrived before noon and I let it sit
back of the cottage, roadside, so she'd see it. I didn't see her all day, but at
dinner time I started the gas barbecue that came with the cottage and began
frying my dinner. Every few minutes I look across at her cottage. By 7:30
she appeared, sipping from a glass. She didn't look in my direction, so I
shouted, asking if she'd like to share my simple meal of hamburger and
salad. She jumped up, gave me that huge smile, said to wait a minute, went
inside then appeared again with a bottle of red wine. I can't describe how
pleased I was. She was absolutely delightful: she had an charming gigglelaugh, her eyes twinkled, her hands flew up and down when she spoke. She
was gorgeous. However, she was a vegetarian and didn't want any
hamburgers. I gave her my salad and I ate four burgers with onions, tomato,
cheese and ketchup. I was bloated. When I pulled out the apple pie I had
brought from home, she ate three pieces. I couldn't understand how she kept
so slim, with such an appetite.
"I have a riding mower," I said. "You can use it whenever you want. I'll
keep it in that shed out back and get you another set of keys for the shed."
I leaned back, hoping for a sign of appreciation, for her eyes to light up,
the huge smile. She wiped the last piece of pie from her lips and chuckled.
"Why do you need two mowers?" she asked.
"No," I said, "I just bought that one out back. I bought it yesterday
and..."
"You mean old man Jacob didn't leave the mower in the shed?"
I coughed and spilled beer on my shirt.
"Uh, I haven't actually looked in the shed...yet."
"Let's look!" she said, jumping to her feet. She ran to the shed and
waited for me to open it. Yes, there was an old mower in there. I felt like an
idiot.
"Oh my," I muttered. "I...uh...would you like the old mower? Or the new
one."
She giggled and gave me a hug. "You're so sweet," she whispered.
It almost seemed worth the purchase of the extra mower just to have her
hug me.
By about eleven o'clock she left, just like that. She got up, grabbed the
empty wine bottle and trotted over to her cottage. She never said goodbye,
never said thank you, nothing. She just left. I turned on my porch light so
she could find her way across the lawn. I could see her open the door and
disappear into her cottage. Funny girl. I was about to go into the cottage
when her porch light came on and she appeared at her door.
She waved. "Hi there!" she shouted. "That was a lovely evening and I
thank you so very much!"
"Uh...we have to do it again!" I shouted.
"Yes, let's." Then she disappeared and her porch light went out.
Chapter Two
When I thought about the evening, the next morning, I realized that I
hadn't even asked her name. Then, she never asked for mine either.
However, we laughed a lot and told stories and enjoyed the wine and we did
agree to do it again. I couldn't wait.
I had given her the keys to my shed, the only pair I had, and later in the
morning I saw her mowing her lawn. Ah, but she was using my brand new
mower and seemed quite comfortable doing so. I had hoped to teach her
how, but she obviously didn't need my help. When she was finished, I was
about to ask her over for a drink or maybe breakfast or just to chat, but two
cars drove up. An old couple got out of one and a young woman got out of
the other. I didn't see her again that weekend. Although I went to my cottage
every weekend in June, I never saw her again until mid-July. As far as I
could tell, she never had visitors except that day in June. In particular, I
didn't see any evidence of a boyfriend. That was good.
I needed to get the keys to my shed in order to make a second pair for
her. She had forgotten to return them. It was getting close to noon, on a
Sunday, when she appeared, walking toward my cottage carrying a box.
"Hi neighbour," she said. "Lunch. Are you up for it?"
I opened the door and she came in and set the box on the table. In it were
grilled cheese sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil, a large bowl of potato
salad, some nachos and melted cheese and two bottles of cold beer. I didn't
have a chance to respond to her question. Yes, I would definitely be up for
lunch. She pulled a couple of dishes, cutlery and large glasses from the
kitchen, as though she was well aware of where everything was. Had she
done this with the previous owner?
"Have a seat," she said. I sat–and we began to eat.
After lunch she washed the dishes and cutlery and I dried. She returned
them to their rightful place then collapsed on the couch with a glass of beer.
"Come," she said. "Sit here." I sat beside her. "I think we should get to
know each other, don't you think?" Before I could answer, with great
enthusiasm, she began to tell me about herself.
"My name is Sally and I was born and raised in Toronto, had a lovely
childhood, played mostly with the boys, moved to Waterloo to go to
university, got a job in Oakville with a travel agency, parents died six years
ago in a terrible accident. I was their only child and I bought a condo by the
lake with my inheritance."
She paused, then: "Are you Catholic? I didn't see you at church this
morning."
Now I was in trouble. I had never given much thought to religion, but
assumed I was an atheist.
"Well, no," I said. "Uh...I...I'm an atheist I guess."
"Well, we'll have to change that," she said, giggling. "I'll work on it.
Now, what about you? Your life story, please." She leaned back and waited.
I took a sip of beer, then:
"I was also born and raised in Toronto, went to the University of
Toronto for an engineering degree, then to the university of Illinois for a
graduate degree, then got a job teaching at the University of Waterloo. I
assume you got your degree there, in Waterloo. What a small world, eh?"
I paused, but she just waited for me to continue. I took another sip of
beer.
"I was there, at U of W, for years. Then I was offered a job in Burlington
in graphic design and have been there for about three years."
"Your name?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, I'm Harold. Pleased to meet you Sally."
I smiled, but she sipped her beer.
"Girl friend?" she asked.
"Nope."
"Boy friend?"
"Well, I do have male friends, but..."
"Well, I'm a lesbian," she said.
I spilled beer all over my pants.
"You are an atheist," she murmured. "I said I'll try to change that. I said
I'm lesbian. You have my permission to try to change that."
Sally giggled, set her glass on the coffee table, then began to unbutton
her blouse. I watched in astonishment. Was she suggesting some sort of
sexual encounter? By the time she was down to bra and panties, it was quite
clear.
"Harold, you spilled beer on your pants," she whispered. "Take them
off."
I barely remember the rest of the afternoon.
Chapter Three
For the rest of the summer and all the next summer we met, Sally and I,
each weekend. On Sundays, after we both went to a small Catholic church
not far from the cottage, she would bring lunch to my cottage, saying:
"Lunch. Are you up for it?" It took me a while to decipher that comment.
Between the grilled cheese and the apple pie we made love. Those were
memorable days of delight.
I knew that I could not live without this girl. She needed to be by my
side for the rest of my days. I decided to ask her to marry me. If she wanted
...needed an occasional female companion, a lover, I would accept that. It
was on a Saturday afternoon that I approached her. She was sitting on her
lakeside porch, sipping white wine, her eyes closed, immersing herself in the
perfect day. I knelt before her and coughed quietly, holding the small velvet
covered ring box. The ring was almost a carat and cost me a fortune. I might
have got it at a lesser price had I shopped around, but this was to be the day
and I was eager. She opened her eyes slowly, then she sat upright and
flashed that huge smile.
"Oh, Harold, you're going to ask me to marry you!" she said, almost
shouting. Then she grabbed the box and removed the ring. "Harold, it is
lovely. Then she slipped the ring on her finger.
"Uh...I had a speech. I would like to ask..."
"Yes, let's do it!" she said with vigour. "Let's do it right away."
"But...but you are..."
"A lesbian. Yes, I'm aware of that," she said with that giggle-laugh that I
loved so much.
"If...I mean, if you feel you want a female companion, I am willing to..."
"Oh Harold. Don't be silly." She leaned forward and kissed me on the
nose. On the nose? I don't recall her doing that before.
"Please, Sally, I need you to be my wife. I don't care if you are...you
are..."
"Lesbian? Homosexual? Gay? What word are you after?" she giggled.
She caressed my cheek and I felt weak in the knees.
We had a small wedding ceremony. Three of my closest male friends
attended the small Catholic church near the cottage. Sally invited about a
dozen girls who, I thought, may have been past lovers. Everyone descended
on my cottage and there was an afternoon of great cheer, much laughter and
many good wishes...then they all left and we were alone, at last.
"Are you happy?" Sally whispered, grinning. "I said I'd work on your
becoming a Catholic, didn't I? This morning we married in a catholic
church." She paused, then: "You were to attempt my conversion from
homosexuality. Now look what you've done. We're married!"
She jumped up and began to dance. I was so happy it hurt. I loved this
girl more than I could say. Over the next few months we sold her cottage.
We kept mine because it was larger and more comfortable. I sold my
townhouse and moved into her condo. It was larger and more comfortable
than mine. The years that followed were filled with joy. We talk for hours
after dinner, telling each other the events of the day. We went out for dinner
each Wednesday: Chinese, Thai, German, Indian, whatever. We spent
summer weekends at the cottage and almost always had grilled cheese
sandwiches for lunch. She never once indicated that she lusted for a female
companion. As far as I could tell, our marriage was perfectly normal. In fact,
it was, I felt, better than normal.
Sally got pregnant the year after we got married and again the year after
that. Two delightful boys. We never had any more children. Two was
enough. We took them camping, to Disney World, they loved the cottage,
we bought a power boat and they learned to water ski. Both were good
students and finished a bachelor's degree at McMaster University in
Hamilton. When the boys were in their early twenties, they both moved to
the United States. We keep in touch at Christmas and the occasional
Thanksgiving. Other than that, we rarely hear from them. I understand that
girls are better at staying in touch. I wouldn't know.
Now Sally and I are retired and spend happy days planning vacations: in
a motorhome we would rent, cruises to the Mediterranean or Caribbean, all
inclusive holidays in Cuba or the Bahamas or Antigua or Barbados or just
pleasant weeks at the cottage. We live in the very same condo overlooking
Lake Ontario that we had many years ago. We've also taken an interest in
cooking special meals, things we have never tried before. These days the
grocery stores are filled with exotic foodstuff.
I was in the living room with a glass of white wine. I was watching my
beautiful wife prepare dinner. She was stirring some sort of stew.
"Sally, my dear," I said. "Could you come here for a minute?"
She turned the heat down and came with her glass of wine to sit by my
side.
"I have always wondered," I said. "Have you ever, at any time over the
years, wished you had married a woman? I mean, have you ever..."
"Oh Harold," she giggled. "You still think I'm a lesbian, don't you?"
"Yes, of course," I said. "Perhaps you have changed, but you were, at
one time..."
"No, no my sweet. I was never a lesbian." She leaned forward and kissed
my nose. I spilled wine on my pants.
"When I was a young woman I felt that I must have a man who could
ignore my frailties, my faults, idiosyncrasies. If you still wanted to marry
me, after I told you that I was a lesbian, then surely our marriage would last
and be happy and successful." She paused. "And it has lasted, hasn't it? And
we are happy, are we not?"
"Yes, my dear," I whispered. "We have been very happy."
"Okay then," she said, jumping to her feet and returning to stir the pot.
I could see she was smiling.
So was I.
Robbery
by Peter J. Ponzo
We lived in the basement apartment of a rundown building. It was all we
could afford. My wife did maid work for a rich guy upstairs. Well, they ain't
no rich guys in this building, but he was sure as hell richer than we was.
Actually, according to Maggie, she just did his laundry. Me? I have
sometime work packing oranges at a local grocery outfit. The fruits would
come from some place South and me and some other guys would put 'em in
crates for shipping to grocery stores. When nobody was lookin I'd stick a
few in my jeans. Maggie n me was gettin' sick o oranges. I needed to get us
a better situation, a better life than this miserable place with no window and
the sound of the furnace startin and stoppin every few minutes when it was
cold. But I had a plan. Me and Harry would rob a bank.
I almost didn't have to tell Harry nothin. He was so enthused about the
idea before I even got to the good part. He startin right off talkin about
millions of dollars which must be at the First Community Bank, but I had to
slow him down cause we was gonna rob the small bank at the corner of
Main and Decoy street. The Community musta have a thousand guards with
guns. The Burlington Dominion didn't have no guards, just Clem who came
in for jest a few hours each day, all dressed in a neat outfit with gold buttons
all down the front. I reckon we'd get a few hundred thousand and that'd be
good enough for me and Harry. In fact, we might get Clem in on it, too. He
could call in sick that day so we'd have clear sailin.
Course, we didn't have no guns or anythin like that, but we didn't need
none. If'n I waved a plastic pistol about fast, nobody would know the
difference. So Harry and I talked for mebbe an hour, plannin our strategy,
who would do what and who would say what and who would be standin
where and in particular, when. I didn't tell Maggie cause she'd shit her
panties. Harry n I did tell most of the guys in Tilly's cause they was good
friends and they'd be quiet about it and wouldn't tell a soul. Harry n I
promised them all a round of beer when we was rich. Sure as shootn, they
wished us luck. I says luck ain't got nothin to do with it. We got it all
planned out. It was solid as a rock, like the Big Wall o China.
It was early Saturday mornin when we decided it was best. It'd be soon
after the bank opened cause nobody hardly went there so early. Harry
complained he didn't have no gun, so I let him hold my plastic pistol until
we got to the front door. Then we put on our masks. They wasn't no real
masks but I saw it in a movie once. They was Maggie's silk stockings.
Maggie would shit her panties if'n she knew we was wearin em, but when
we was rich I'd buy her a dozen. Harry complained of the smell but I said it'd
be worth it. Ya gotta suffer a bit to be rich, I says.
Then I took my pistol and barged in, waving the gun so fast back and
forth that nobody could tell it was plastic. Harry lets out a yell and I sees that
the swingin door hit him full in the face. Harry ain't so swift in the head, but
he's a good friend and was poor as Maggie n me. He came in, rubbed his
nose and started swingin has arms about. He had no gun, but he swung em
anyways. The bank shushed up pretty quick. Harry and I was the only
customers there so I went to the nearest gal and say I want fill this here bag
with money. I asked Harry for the bag, but he forgot it at home. Did I
mention that harry aint' so swift in the head? Okay, I says to the gal, git a
bag and git it quick and fill it with lotsa money. She looked mighty scared
and ran to the back of the bank and through a door. I waited. Everybody in
the bank was quiet as a mouse. Some guy all dressed to kill asked us if we'd
like a coffee. That was nice of him, but before I get to him we was too busy,
Harry says yes, black with lots of sugar if you please.
I hear some buzzing in the back, then the gal comes out with a sack big
enough to hold a pile o money. I ask if'n it's filled with money and she says
yes and hands it to me. The buzzin is still there, in the back o the bank and I
figure mebbe this gal pressed some button and the cops was comin. I ask her
if the cops is comin and she says no, but we should leave right away before
they come. So I hand the bag to Harry and we head out the door.
Now in the movies they got a getaway car, but Harry n I ain't got nothin
like that, so we run down Decoy street and around the corner along Martha
Street. I figure if we run fast we could git home before we git caught. I was
wrong. The cop car was comin down Martha. Now they is a creek that runs
across Martha and I says to Harry to dump the money bag. I figure if we
ain't got no money then we ain't done nothin wrong. Harry stops runnin and
starts in huggin the bag o money. I grabs it and tosses it over the wee bridge
into the water. I sees that the bag opens and all the money comes floatin out.
It don't look like no hundred of thousands of dollars, but as the bills float
down the creek I reckon somebody is gonna be mighty happy to find it.
Harry n I cut across Martha into somebody's back yard. Harry is cryin
cause he ain't got the money bag, but I knows we done the right thing. Our
crummy apartment is better'n jail time.
We get home pretty quick and I asked Harry for his mask, but he
dumped it back on Martha. He ain't that swift, this fella. I put my mask in
Maggie's drawers and Harry and I set for a while. I got one beer in the fridge
and we split it. When Maggie comes home she's mad as hell. You'd think she
knew we took her stockings.
"Did ya hear?" she says. "They robbed Dominion Bank. All our savings
is gone."
Go West
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
Clifford Eldridge Urquhart was a banker, a rich banker. He was sitting in
the library admiring the walnut cabinets, the mahogany table, the plush sofa,
the crystal chandelier. Life was very comfortable...but boring, predictable,
stifling. He hadn't had an ounce of excitement since he first came to Canada
in 1846 on the Lady Seaton, from London. Then, he had little money,
worked hard, managed to gain the headship of a banking conglomerate and
now sat relaxed–but unhappy with his tedious life. Clifford had never
married, though he did have several romantic engagements. He never
traveled once he arrived in Toronto. He had lived in his current mansion for
almost fifteen years. He had a butler, a maid, a gardener and an excellent
cook. He wanted for nothing...except a modicum of excitement.
He set down the pamphlet issued by the Canadian Government: The last
Best West. It was a marketing ploy to encourage Canadians to move West, to
settle the huge tracts of land which would become the provinces of Manitoba
and Saskatchewan, created from the enormous North-West Territories.
Clifford had no desire to settle in the West, but a visit would be exhilarating.
The Canadian Pacific Railway, completed to British Columbia just ten years
earlier, would take him to some small settlement, he would book a nice hotel
suite and watch the local happenings. He would partake of the local foods,
drink the local wines and meet the settlers who had accepted the
government's offer of land in the West. His butler could arrange everything.
Clifford's banking empire could survive without him for a few months.
It was early in June when Clifford entered his luxury compartment on
the CPR train leaving Toronto for the West. He had packed several bags
with clothes and money. It was a delightful journey and when he learned that
the train passed through a town called Pile of Bones, he decided that was
such a remarkable name that he'd disembark there. Information provided by
the railway indicated that the name was due to the large number of buffalo
bones along the banks of the Wascana Creek, Wascana being a name given
by the Assiniboin Indians. Clifford was eager to wander about the town. Pile
of Bones: that was absolutely delightful.
When he did detrain, he was surprised to find that there were no
carriages to hire. He looked about and saw that the station was some
distance from town. He was not eager to walk. There was a man sleeping on
the deck, quite dark in colour, with a feather in his long, braided hair. He
asked the man if there were some method of transportation into town. The
man opened his eyes, looked up, pointed and went back to sleep. Clifford
walked in the direction indicated and found a stable with horses. Was he
expected to ride into town? Surely not. He went inside the small shed
attached to the stable and asked the old gent there.
"How would I get into town?" Clifford asked.
"Horse," the gent said, spitting a black liquid into a nearby spittoon.
"Must I ride a horse? My name is Clifford Eldridge Urquhart and I
would be grateful if you could arrange for transportation into town, or failing
that, indicate how I could get there."
"Horse," the old gent said. "I sell horses."
"But...but I've never ridden a horse. Perhaps that man sleeping outside
could help. Does he have transportation into town?"
"Bad Eye, the Indian? He ain't got no transportation. He lives here, with
me, in back. Ya wanns buy a horse? I got two good ones."
It seemed hopeless, so Clifford Eldridge Urquhart bought a horse and a
bag of grain, was helped onto the animal and began his journey into Pile of
Bones. The horse was quite content to eat from the bag of grain while he
sauntered along the road.
On the way he came upon another Indian riding what looked like a
jackass. The Indian dismounted and pulled on the reins of Clifford's horse.
"I say old man," Clifford said. "Do let go. I am on my way into town."
The Indian muttered some words, incomprehensible, and pulled poor
Clifford Eldridge Urquhart off his horse. The Indian hopped on and rode off.
Clifford was left with his bag of clothes and money...and a jackass. The
Indian had taken the bag of grain and Clifford had no idea how he would
feed the ass. He was surprised to find that the animal actually ate the weeds
by the side of the road.
It was late afternoon when Clifford rode into town. It was an unsanitary
town with dirt roads, many dilapidated buildings and an unsavoury smell
that he could not place. There were many piles of horse droppings on the
streets and he correctly identified the origin of the odour. He looked quite a
sight, tall, well dressed on a rather small jackass. People on the side of the
road stopped, stared and snickered. Clifford stopped, slid off his ass and fell
unceremoniously on his ass. He quickly jumped to his feet, dusted his
trousers and asked a man for the best hotel in town. The man grinned and
point just up the road. Clifford lead his donkey to a rather large building,
tied the animal to a post and carried his bags inside.
"I would like a penthouse room, if you please," he said to the gentleman
at the desk.
"Penthouse, eh? All our rooms is the same. Want one?"
"Yes, please...and do you have someone to carry my bags. They have
become quite heavy."
"Nope. You got room 207. Here's the key. I need fifty cents up front.
The bathroom is just down the hall. Want water? That's down the hall, too.
Toilet paper is another penny for a whole roll."
"Are you saying that I do not have a bathroom?"
"Your bathroom is down the hall, like I said. They is four other on that
floor that need to shit, too. You from the big city, eh? You'll get used to Pile
o' Bones. Nice people, friendly, honest as the day is long. Oh, and I might
say that eats if just across the street at Annie's. Try the buffalo stew. Annie
does it up real good."
And so Clifford Eldridge Urquhart, the rich banker from Toronto,
carried his bags to room 207, exhaled and tried not to breath too deeply, then
collapsed on the cot and fell fast asleep. When he awoke it was dark, but
there was a kerosene light in the hall, so he walked down the corridor to find
the bathroom in order to relieve himself. He entered and found a urinal and a
toilet and a terrible smell. There was someone on the toilet.
"Hey mister," she said. "I got here first. Wait outside till I'm finished."
Clifford immediately left the room and waited. The woman left and gave
him a caustic stare. He held his breath and went in, quickly completed the
task and returned to his room. His back was sore. The bed was rather less
than he had hoped, but he managed to sleep until dawn.
Chapter Two
It was stifling hot when he left the hotel and he found that his donkey
was gone. People here are honest as the day is long? He didn't think so.
He walked across to Annie's and sat at a wood table that was covered in
carved images, mostly obscene. A rather large woman approached him, bent
down and whispered in his face.
"What you want?" she said. "Buffalo stew?"
Her blouse was quite loose and he could see her breasts, plump,
colossal, massive.
"Uh...could I have a small salad with fried eggs and black coffee and a
glass of orange juice, please."
"Okay mister. Stew it is." The she rose to her full height and left. Her
posterior was imposing.
Clifford placed his bag on the other chair. It held clothes and money. He
really must find a bank to hold the money. If his donkey was stolen, then his
money would be stolen...eventually. When Annie returned with a bowl of
buffalo stew, he asked her for the location of a bank.
"Clem got hisself a bank," she said. "Clem's a good man, honest and
good. His bank is at the end of town."
The stew was actually delicious and he wolfed it down at an alarming
rate, then he left after paying Annie the ten cents she required. He also left
he a sizable tip.
When Clifford entered the bank, there was no one there. He rang the bell
at the desk and a fellow appeared from a neighbouring room. He wore a tie
and a dark suit. Nice, thought Clifford.
"Howdy, mister. I'm Clem Belford. What can I do for you?"
"My name is Clifford Eldridge Urquhart and Id like to open an account
here."
"Certainly Mr. Oakcart. Please come this way and we can sign the
papers and I'll explain the procedure."
"I am quite familiar with banking procedure," Clifford said. "I am a
banker from Toronto."
"Delightful!" Clem said. "You'll be happy to learn that I only charge a
cent on the dollar."
Clifford was taken aback.
"You are charging me for placing my money in your bank?"
Clem was taken aback.
"Yes, of course. I need to put food on the table for my family. How
could I run a bank without charging? Do you provide free banking in
Toronto?"
"No, we pay our customers a cent on the dollar for their deposits, then I
invest their money at three cents on the dollar."
Clem was shocked.
"You invest money that isn't yours? Is that legal?"
"Perfectly legal," Clifford was pleased to say.
Clem smiled. "Then you should buy my bank, Mr. Oakcart."
"I'm afraid I wouldn't want to live in a town like this," Clifford said. "I
had expected people to be honest, but somebody stole my donkey."
"Ah, the donkey that was tied up at the hotel, without food or water?
Tch, tch, Mr. Oakcart. That's no way to treat an animal. Sammy took the
donkey and put him in his barn, with water and hay."
Clifford was shocked.
"You mean no one stole the donkey?"
"Of course not. There hasn't been a theft in town for many years. You
can pick up your ass at Sammy's at any time. It would be a nice gesture if
you were to pay Sammy a few cents for the hay."
Clifford was delighted...and he bought the bank.
Chapter Three
Clifford Eldridge Urquhart was now the proud owner of a bank at the
edge of town. He built a rather large house alongside the bank and
advertised the change of ownership with a pamphlet that said that deposits
would earn a cent per year for each dollar deposited. By the following year
the amount of money held by Urquhart Bank had increased by a factor of
ten. He hired Clem Belford to run the bank at twice his previous salary. At
the end of summer, 1898, Clifford had a huge party for all the town folk.
Annie made buffalo stew for everyone, Annie's daughter, a half-breed called
Lily, served the meal, there were gallons of beer to be consumed and Clem
Belford even played the fiddle. Clifford was the big man in town.
Clifford eventually sold his banking interests in Toronto, married the
beautiful Lilly and began to buy property in Pile of Bones. Every property
was cleaned, refurbished and modernized. He was elected Mayor of Pile of
Bones and the town gained a reputation for cleanliness and beauty. The
population doubled within eight years. He was a happy man.
Clifford Eldridge Urquhart died at the ripe old age of eighty three. The
whole town came to his funeral, but Lilly made sure that there was no
sadness. She had several fiddlers play happy tunes and served up sourdough
pancakes. That was the way Clifford had wanted it and Lilly was devoted to
him. Clifford is now buried in the cemetery at the edge of town.
The town is no longer called Wascana, Buffalo Bones, but Regina,
Saskatchewan.
Cube
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
It was the most astounding archaeological find of the century: a giant
cube, older than the pyramids, buried hundreds of metres beneath the desert
sands of Mesopotamia, probably during the pre-Pottery Neolithic era,
perhaps 10,000 BC or even earlier. Jeffrey Saxton had found it in his search
for reservoirs of petroleum, using ground penetrating radar while doing
seismic surveys. It took almost three weeks to uncover the cube. There was
no obvious entrance. Jeffrey had invited a number of notable archaeologists
to the site, including Professor Werner Adelbert who immediately claimed
that it was the earliest known evidence of complex human structures. Jeffrey
supposed it was something else...but he was reluctant to mention his
supposition to anyone.
After exhaustive examination of the exterior in search of an entrance, it
was decided to generate a narrow channel in the side of the cube in order to
enter the interior. The passageway was several metres above the base of the
cube and just large enough for a man to enter...crawling. Jeffrey insisted that
he be the first to enter. The crowd watched as he vanished into the narrow
channel. He was in cell phone communication with Professor Adelbert. It
was almost twenty minutes before the Professor received a call. Jeffrey
sounded excited.
"Professor, you must come in. You will not believe what I have found!"
Professor Adelbert was not a young man, nor was he slender, yet he
managed to squeeze through the entrance and fall onto the floor inside the
cube. He rose to his feet and saw Jeffrey with a large flashlight, illuminating
what appeared to be a human figure.
"Have you ever seen anything like it, Professor?"
Adelbert walked to the side of the figure and ran his hand across its
chest.
"It is metal," he murmured. "Very smooth and very cold, even in this
dreadful heat. No, I have neither seen nor read of anything like this. Can we
remove it to study, somewhere better suited to an examination?"
"Yes, yes, I'm sure we can. I'll get some others to come in and we can
push or pull it to the exterior."
"Do not damage it!" the Professor warned.
"No, no. We can wrap it in cloth, thick enough to shield it from the
roughness of the channel. Wait here. I'll be back very soon.
Jeffrey gave Adelbert the flashlight then left through the tunnel. The
Professor continued to run his hands over the metallic figure. The metal skin
was unusually cold. It was very human-like, at least two metres tall with
piercing blue eyes that seemed almost to be studying the Professor. He ran
his flashlight over the extent of the body, from head to foot. It was naked,
without hair, genitals, nails, wrinkles or any irregularities to mar its perfect
smoothness. Then the Professor quickly removed his hand. The figure had
suddenly become hot, much hotter than the ambient temperature. Adelbert
stood back from the tall figure, his hand trembling, the light vibrating.
Chapter Two
The metal figure, which Jeffrey named Ferrous, arrived at a laboratory
in Baghdad by the end of the week. It was carefully unpacked from its cloth
wrappings and laid on a table in a spacious room with various electrical
equipment, video cameras and audio recording devices. No moment during
the examination would go unrecorded. This was a find that might have
global repercussions. Jeffrey became the leader, even though it wasn't his
area of expertise, but Professor Werner Adelbert was the principal
investigator. Although the trip to Baghdad was along dirty roads and the
cloth wrapping was less than perfect, Ferrous arrived immaculate, without a
hint of grime, without a stain on its surface. Indeed, the metallic surface
almost glowed as though by an internal light. Further, it was now quite hot
to the touch. The source of that heat would clearly be one of the major
challenges of the investigation.
Both Jeffrey and Adelbert were exhausted after the long drive to
Baghdad and, after a short inspection to ensure that Ferrous was clean and
satisfactorily attached to the table, they left. A small lamp was turned on and
the audio and video equipment continued to monitor the room. It was
deathly quiet for most of the night. Early the next morning, Jeffrey unlocked
the door, flipped the switch that turned on the ceiling lights and looked
about. The table was bare. The room was empty. Ferrous was gone.
Adelbert arrived in less than an hour, confused by the disappearance.
"Was the door locked?"
"Yes, of course, but it wasn't to confine Ferrous...the equipment is
expensive. The door was also locked when I came in, this morning."
"Then how could he have escaped?"
Jeffrey shook his head. He looked a tragic figure.
"Someone must have let him out," Adelbert said. "Many knew of his
existence, but I know that very few have keys. Yet, what other explanation is
there?"
Jeffrey was reluctant to speak. He sat in a plastic chair then finally said:
"I think Ferrous was capable of animation. I think he was an android of
some sort. Remember how cold he was? Remember, soon after we opened
the cubical tomb, how he then became very warm?"
Adelbert looked bewildered. "Yes, I remember that very well, but what
would explain it–the change in temperature?"
"Well, it's just a guess of course, but I think the cold was to maintain a
preservation temperature, until the android was found. Perhaps to keep the
internal mechanisms viable. However, once it was found, then he
became...became..."
"Alive? Is that what you're saying? You do refer to the machine as 'he'."
"Yes, I guess that's what I'm saying."
They stood, staring at each other for some time.
"But don't you have video?" asked Adelbert.
Jeffrey jumped up and ran to the monitor.
"Yes, what a fool I am. We should have video of everything that
happened last night...throughout the night."
He punched some buttons and a large video monitor glowed, displaying
the room, with Adelbert by the table and Jeffreys by the control panel.
Another few buttons punched and the monitor image was that of both of
them leaving the room the previous night. They both watched very closely.
Nothing was happening, the android was on the table, motionless. Jeffrey
pressed fast forward and when he stopped the video, the table was empty,
Ferrous was gone.
"Back up!" Adelbert yelled. "You went right by... "
"Yes, yes! Give me a minute!"
The video reversed, slowed and played, showing the android getting off
the table, looking about, then walking to the door. The door swung open,
Ferrous left and the door closed again.
"Did you see that?" Adelbert yelled. "Somebody let it out, some lab
technician with a key."
"No, I don't think so," Jeffrey whispered. "I'll play that in slow motion.
Hold on...there, the door is opening. There! Did you see that! A hand
holding the door knob. The hand that opened the door. It's metallic!"
The video was paused and they both stared at the gleaming metal hand
holding the door open for Ferrous.
"Shit," Jeffrey whimpered. "Another android."
Chapter Three
After reviewing the video several more times and listening to the audio,
Adelbert studied the other instruments in the room.
"Look at this," he said. "There were bursts of electromagnetic radiation,
a series of short pulses, modulated, then they stopped, then they repeated.
Looks like they continued for hours before the door was opened. I can't
imagine why they... "
"Communication! " Jeffrey said, loudly. "Ferrous was calling...to other
androids. They came and freed him. They...they... "
"God help us," Adelbert said. "There are others. How many? How
many? Good Lord, how many?"
"We should call the police!" Adelbert said. "They should search for..."
"Okay, you call the police. I know what I'm gonna do."
"What?"
Jeffrey was halfway out the door. "Back to the cube," he shouted.
Jeffrey went home, packed a few things for the long drive to the desert
location of the cube, then left. Adelbert stayed behind saying he wanted to
inform the police of the details. While driving, Jeffrey turned on the radio.
Soothing music would help him think, of Ferrous, of the significance of
other androids, of where they came from, what Ferrous was doing in that
cube in the first place, why...
"...and robots were roaming the streets of Paris and Rome. Concerned
government officials are asking for calm. In New York, a robot was shot by a
citizen with a hand gun. The mechanical man simply fell and was ignored by
other the robots."
Jeffrey pulled the truck to the side of the road and turned up the volume.
"The latest count puts the number of robots world-wide at three hundred
and seventeen. They are apparently harmless... there is no explanation of
their origin. Are they from outer space? What is their purpose? People are
frightened. In one American city, vigilante groups are forming to hunt and
destroy the invaders."
Jeffrey mumbled, "Their purpose? Exactly my question. But outer
space? Hardly. Yet why a cube and why did it take thousands of years to
come alive? Were they waiting to be discovered? So many questions."
Jeffrey pulled back on to the road and continued. He was certain that the
cube held the answers to his questions.
At the archaeological site several scientists were standing by the cube,
pointing. Jeffrey jumped out of his truck and ran to the group who were in
animated discussion.
"I didn't see it happen," one said.
"It just closed up, before our eyes."
"Hi Jeff. The cube is now closed again. The entrance has been closed."
"And nobody saw it happen?" Jeffrey asked.
"I did," said a short man with a great grey beard. "The stones just slid
into place from either side of the hole. It was quite remarkable."
"And was anyone inside? Did anyone enter the cube before that
happened?"
"No, we had called it quits for the day. Most of us had spent the day
inside."
"Did you find anything else inside, anything unusual?"
"Nothing. It's an empty cube in there."
"That's not quite true," one fellow said. "Before I left I saw one wall
move. I was pretty sure it moved. We measured the inner volume of the cube
and it does seem to be at variance with the outer dimensions. It's as though
the inner chamber isn't the whole volume. I think that there may be other
rooms inside. My colleagues don't agree."
"Then let's go in again, first thing in the morning,' Jeffrey said. "Now,
let's get a good night's sleep. We'll start at dawn."
At dawn, the cube had vanished.
Chapter Four
They all stood and stared at the desert sands where the cube had stood.
There was no evidence that the structure had been there, not a depression,
not an area of compressed sand, nothing. Somebody shouted and they all ran
to listen to the radio broadcast.
"...so it appears that most of the alien invaders have been destroyed. The
riots in most cities have subsided, police have gained control of the situation
and have restored law and order. Government officials praised the police
and military for their rapid response to the threat."
Jeffrey was furious. "Threat? What threat?" he shouted.
The others nodded agreement. Slowly the group disbanded, each
returning to their pre-Ferrous life, each unhappy that the investigation had
come to an end. Jeffrey, in particular, was enraged.
When he got back to the lab in Baghdad, it was late and the room that
contained Ferrous was empty. He sat on the plastic chair. It was a typical
human reaction to something that no one understood: kill the alien. Jeffrey
wept.
There was a rasping noise and Jeffrey looked up to see Ferrous standing
before him. The android looked pained.
"Doctor Saxton," Ferrous said, in a voice that sounded like an echo.
"Our mission has been a failure. We waited for a sign of an advanced
civilization, but we were early. Those of us who are left have returned to our
cubes. Perhaps, in another 10,000 years..."
The silver face wrinkled, just a bit. Ferrous was smiling. Before Jeffrey
could respond, the android was gone.
Testaments
by Peter Ponzo
Alpha looked haggard.
"I tried. It was an experiment that failed," He said.
Beta smiled. "We have time. Try again," She said.
Alpha shook His head, His long grey hair falling in random curl to His
shoulder.
"You are so easily discouraged," Beta whispered. "Again. One more time.
Please."
"I suppose 'An Eye for an Eye' was not the ideal philosophy," Alpha said
dejectedly.
"Nor 'Turn the Other Cheek'," Beta said. "We’ve both made mistakes."
"Yes, but it was my idea, wasn’t it? A foolish game."
Alpha reached down and waved His hand.
The universe collapsed to a point.
Again.
Murder
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
It's was a helluva week...maybe several weeks, but the past week
especially. It was disastrous. I needn't go into the reason for the disaster.
Suffice it to say that I never want to experience such a week again. It was
really just Monday evening, but that coloured the whole week. I never
expected it to happen. I'm usually pretty cool, don't take no crap from
nobody, usually let things just slide by, don't let romantic adventures fluster
me...
The phone rang and I stopped my rumination and picked it up.
"McAlister Detective Agency, Jake McAlister speaking."
I leaned back and listened, then jumped to my feet.
"Yes," I said. "I do know the case. It was in yesterday's paper.
Yes...sure, any time. I'll be here all morning."
It was about Janice Boomer, the young woman whose body was found
in Galway Bush, out by Doon Road. She'd been stabbed several times, no
obvious sexual violation, she was fully clothed except for bra and panties. A
fellow who was looking for mushrooms had found her. She'd been missing
for a day or two. I would be happy to investigate, at $500 per day plus
expenses. It was a case close to my heart. He knew Janice Boomer.
The front door buzzer sounded and I picked up the phone:
"Yeah, c'mon up." I said.
The woman who showed up was fiftyish, grey-blond unruly hair and
way to much lipstick and face powder. I pointed to the chair and she sat.
"Janice was my daughter," she grunted. "She was a good girl, not too
wild I'd say...though we didn't get along too good. The police don't tell me
nothin'. I need to know who done this. Somebody told me you was good. I
don't got a lot of money, so I needs to know how much to find the guy who
killed my daughter."
"Well, Mrs. Boomer..."
"No. My name is Foster. I changed it when Fritz upped and dumped me.
He was a bum, never worked a day in his life, just wanted somebody to sleep
with. We wasn't married, but we had a kid anyways–that'd be Janice. I
figured he enjoyed Janice more'n me, so I was gonna dump him, but he jest
left without saying shit."
"Okay Mrs. Foster... "
"No, now I go by the name of Miss Foster, thank you very much. "
"Okay, you asked how much to find the murderer. I can't answer that
question. I have no idea how long it'll take...but rest assured, I'll find him or
know the reason why."
Miss Foster opened her purse and dumped a bunch of bills on my desk.
It looked like a few hundred dollars.
"I charge five hundred dollars a day...plus expenses," I said. I watched
her face turn red.
"Damn it all, I ain't got that kind o' money. I got what you see there," she
said, pointing to the bills on the desk.
I was eager to do the investigation. In fact, I'd have done it for nothing.
"Miss Foster, you are in luck. The Boomer case intrigues me for reasons
I need not explain, so I'll do it for the money you've put on the desk."
I smiled, but the old hag just grunted.
"Let me know when you find the bastard," she said. "It could be that
asshole Fritz for all I know. Here's my number." She dropped a slip of paper
on the desk and walked out.
I was actually pretty happy. Not for the money, of course. It wouldn't
pay for gas, but I needed to talk to anyone who might have been involved,
anyone who might have seen Janice that day, who might have talked to her
at any time over the last few weeks. It was important that I know the details.
Chapter Two
I spent the rest of the day making phone calls. I knew a few guys at the
station and asked what additional information they had that wasn't in the
papers. They knew nothin' and that was a good sign. I phoned some
neighbours, but they didn't think much of the Fosters and avoided them like
they were diseased. They didn't have much to say about Janice except that
she was a pretty girl who didn't get along with Mrs. Foster; they argued all
the time and, they said, "You could hear them yelling for a mile."
By evening I had made a dozen calls, drove to Galway Bush, talked to
the cops there and inspected the area in the bush where the body was found.
There seemed to be absolutely no clues or evidence implicating anyone,
including Janice's dad, Fritz. In fact, Fritz had left town over a week ago and
was shacking up with some gal in Montreal. The coroner said the murdered
girl had been on drugs, cocaine. Everyone suspected some nut, maybe a drug
dealer, maybe a pimp. Everything I heard was good news, for me. I would
be able to put this case to bed without any problem.
I returned to my office, four small second floor rooms on Maple Avenue
with a window and a balcony that overlooked the lake. It was cheap and it
was convenient: I lived in the back rooms. I celebrated my thirty-fifth
birthday a month ago and was in good shape, physically. I jogged regularly
down by Spencer park, I walked rather than drive my beat-up Chevy...when
it was feasible. I never married, though I knew many women, some
intimately. I was engaged for a while. I even gave her a small diamond ring
and she gave me a nice opal ring. It didn't fit well and often slipped off my
finger, but it was pretty fancy and I kept it. It must have slipped off recently
'cause I haven't seen it in days. It usually showed up in my Chevy or in my
bed. I often spent the bloody cold winters in Arizona. I had a friend there,
with a motel. He'd provide a room for nothing. Nice guy. I'd bring him jugs
of maple syrup every time I visited.
I collapsed on the sofa. This might work out very well, this murder case.
I had known Janice for just eight or nine days. I met her at Ralph's party.
Ralph Warren seemed to have a party every weekend, inviting friends,
neighbours and lots of unattached gals. He and I had gone to university
together. Well, he had finished, I had jumped ship halfway through second
year, but we hit it off and have remained friends ever since. Ralph
introduced me to Janice: "A nice girl that I know you will enjoy." That's
exactly what he said. "... you will enjoy." I knew exactly what he meant and
when I asked Janice for a date, she accepted immediately.
Janice was what one might call a "skank". I knew a few of them types:
tacky, trashy, low class, lewd and, lucky for me, promiscuous. She was also
drop-dead beautiful with a body that'd make you cry. I'd take her to an
inexpensive restaurant, maybe a sexy movie then to the balcony overlooking
the lake where'd we'd partake of a bottle of whiskey...then to my bedroom.
She was a devil in bed and I looked forward to our nights together. Little did
I know that she was also a drug addict and pusher.
Usually, Janice would leave in the wee hours after midnight, but one
night she asked to stay. I had no problem with that. However, when she
pulled out a plastic bag with white powder and offered me a snort, I was
taken by surprise. I refused, of course. I don't do that shit. So she laid a line
of powder on the table, rolled a dollar bill and sniffed. Then she waited, eyes
closed, then walked to the balcony door and waited again. I watched in
disgust. She opened the door and went out, leaning heavily against the
railing. It was a chilly night and, although she was naked, she didn't seem to
mind.
I asked her leave. I said I'd drive her home, but she refused. In fact, she
grabbed the half empty bottle of whiskey and poured in down her throat
without stopping to swallow. I needed her out of here. I grabbed the bottle,
placed it on the table and collected her clothes.
"Put these on, right now!" I said, in a hoarse but determined voice. I
wasn't accustomed to women disobeying me. She just stood there like a
mannequin. I pushed her onto the bed and dressed her, with some difficulty.
I left off the bra and panties. I carried her down to my car, drove across town
and dumped her in front of the ramshackle house which she called home. I
didn't see her again for two days, then she called me. She insisted that I pay
her for our evenings together. She was no whore, but she wasn't free, either,
she said. In fact, she asked for several thousand dollars. I refused, of course,
so she said she'd tell the Burlington Times that I was a drug dealer and had
forced her to take cocaine and had raped her repeatedly. This girl was a
witch. No way I would put up with her shenanigans.
Chapter Three
When the buzzer sounded I was reading the morning news. I picked up
the phone.
"Yeah, who's there?" I said.
"Jake? It's Roberto. We gotta talk."
I punched the button that opened the front door.
Roberto Pollini was a detective, a good one, at the local precinct. He
came in with two other cops. They immediately went into my back rooms.
"What's this shit?" I asked.
"We gotta search the place," he said. "Standard stuff."
"Am I implicated in some crime?"
"Did you know Janice Boomer?' he asked, ignoring my question.
"The name doesn't ring a bell," I said.
"Ralph Warren says he introduced you to Miss Boomer at a party, about
two weeks ago."
"Ah, yes. Now I remember. She's the girl they found in Galway Bush,
am I right?"
"Yes, you're right."
Just then a cop showed up the door to my back rooms.
"Look what I found," he said.
He was holding a bra and panties on the end of a pencil. Shit!
Roberto said, "Bag it." Then he turned to me. "The Boomer girl wasn't
wearing underwear," he said.
"Damn it, Roberto," I groaned. "Those things have been under my bed
for ages. Some gal left them there. I can't remember who."
I tried to remember. Janice was murdered on a Tuesday. She left her
underwear at my place the Saturday before. Did she just forget to buy
another set of underthings? Did she usually go around without
undergarments? Roberto was talking to me.
"There was a knife at the murder site, the murder weapon. The handle
was wiped clean of any prints, but it was an unusual knife. Quibly Stainless
Steel, made in a small town in Arizona."
Roberto leaned forward. "Do you own Quibly knives?"
I scratched my head. "I don't think so. I never really looked at the
manufacturer."
Just then a cop came into the room with a wooden rack full of knives.
There was one knife missing. Roberto inspected the knives.
"It seems you own some Quibly knives...and one is missing."
"C'mon Roberto! Is everybody with a Quibly knive a suspect?"
"It rained Monday, the night before the Boomer girl was murdered.
There are tire tracks in the mud. They match your Chevy."
"Chevy's are a popular car, didn't you know?" I tried to smile.
"Your right front tire has a small nail embedded in the tread. The tracks
in the mud have an impression of that nail head."
Roberto leaned back in his chair. He looked glum.
"I showed a photo of your car to Miss Foster, the murdered girl's mother.
She remembers the car bringing Janice home...often."
"Jake," Roberto said, sadly, "you gotta provide us with an alibi else I'll
have to take you in as a suspect for the murder of Miss Janice Boomer."
What could I say? The bloody wench was going to spill some incredible
story about my being a pusher, raping her, fording her to snort cocaine.
"Look Roberto, it looks bad, but I didn't murder that girl!" I was almost
shouting.
"One other thing,' Roberto said. He pulled a baggie from his pocket and
removed an opal ring. "This was found near the murder site. Would you like
to read the inscription?"
Shit! I knew what it said on the inner side of the ring:
To Jake with love. May you be forever true.
Sasquatch
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
I have to tell you this story. Time is getting short.
I am so lonely. It's been years since I've had a friend. He was rather large
and quite clumsy, but he was so sweet and adorable. They called him
Moose, but I called him Romeo, he was so affectionate. But now he's gone. I
found his body lying by the river, his magnificent antlers removed, his body
decaying. Now I wander the forests on the ocean side of the mountains, by
myself, avoiding the Uglies who track through with guns and leave their
garbage among the wild flowers and ferns.
I love to see the ocean when the sun goes down, all pink and blushing.
When it gets a little chilly I crawl into my home on Black Tusk Mountain.
My cave is quite small, but I love it. It has a huge picture window that looks
out onto the sea and sometimes I can see an Orca pod hunting salmon.
I liked the Matsqui people. They often let me play in their village. I
loved the children, they were so sweet and lively. When I was given berries
and lovely potatoes to eat and some fermented, velvety thing to drink, I
sometimes felt like a Matsqui myself. They called me sásq'ets and I loved
that name. It has a very nice ring, don't you think? Even if you say
Sasquatch, it's very nice. Of course, the Uglies have a different name for my
kind. I avoid them, but I leave tracks, foot prints in the mud after a warm
rain. Large foot prints. The Uglies, with their small minds and big guns, call
me Bigfoot. I hate that name. Sometimes I sit on a comfortable rock and
stare at my feet. They are not that big. Lots of hair, maybe that makes them
look big, but when I bathe on the shore of Garibaldi Lake and the hair is
flattened against my skin, I can see that I have rather dainty feet.
Garibaldi Lake is quite pleasant if it weren't for the Uglies who hike
there, camp there, swim there, poop there, boat there and leave their trash
there. I guess I should be happy that there isn't a highway running to the
Lake, with hamburger stands and pizza parlours. Although it is lonely
without others of my kind, I do not wish to associate with Uglies.
I did, however, have one amusing experience with an Uglie. In point of
fact, I remember it with some fondness because the Uglie was actually quite
beautiful. He was at least two metres tall, hairy in the chest and chin with
dark bushy eyebrows and black, black hair that hung to beyond his
shoulders. Even his back was covered in dark fur. He was alone except for
his dog, a yappy little thing that never stopped barking. The Uglie was
camping and fishing and stayed by the Lake for almost two weeks. He put
all his trash in a bag and left with that bag. That was very thoughtful, don't
you think?
Well, there was one thing he didn't put in the bag: his poop. He walked a
little ways into the woods, dropped his trousers, squatted and pooped in an
area free of wild flowers. I watched with immense amusement. I could smell
him for a mile and it wasn't an unpleasant smell. In point of fact, it was quite
like my own smell. In many ways, this hairy Uglie was much like a
Sasquatch. I was tempted to introduce myself. However, when he saw me
peeking at him while he pooped, he quickly pulled up his trousers and ran to
his tent. He went in and came out with one of those big guns. That was very
disappointing. I couldn't imagine why he'd need a gun. The grizzlies that
lived nearby were quite friendly.
In point of fact, I often played with Shaggy when she comes out of
hibernation with cute little cubs. Shaggy is a rather small grizzly, as grizzlies
go, but she can be quite angry if there's any threat to her children. However,
she lets me play with them and I don't feel at all threatened. They are so
cute, those cubs.
But I was explaining the amusing incident with that big Uglie. After a
couple of days I called him Bristle because of all the hair that covered his
body. Oh, yes, I saw his body, all of it. He would swim without clothes and I
would admire his various features, especially his ... well, I needn't go into
that. Suffice it to say that it was quite thrilling to imagine that he was a
Sasquatch, small in stature except for...well, I needn't go into that. But when
he came out of his tent with a big gun, I growled and ran into the woods.
Bristle seemed reluctant to follow, but he did, eventually. He found me lying
in a bed of ferns, looking ravishing, I'm sure. I thought I knew him well
enough to be unafraid of his big gun, and I was right. When he saw me,
alone, unafraid and very sexy, he just stood there. Then, I swear it, he
actually smiled. A big, big smile that literally shimmered ivory through his
black, black beard.
Well, he didn't shoot me with that big gun. In point of fact, he just stared
for several minutes then turned and slowly walked back to the shore and
went into his tent. When I followed him back, that dog was yapping. I
learned to hate that dog, but I had to put up with it if I wanted to see Bristle.
In point of fact, I often sat on a comfortable rock by the Lake and just
watched Bristle do this thing: fishing, cooking, relaxing and smiling when he
saw me.
When Bristle eventually left he couldn't find the yappy little creature. He
spent most of the day looking, but finally he packed his canoe and went
away. I missed Bristle...but I ate his dog.
Chapter Two
I am so lonely. I can't even remember when I last saw one of my kind. I
was very young, that I do recall. My Mammy was huge, I mean she was
gigantic. There was just one other Sasquatchie kid in the neighbourhood and
his name was Fuzzy. He was small for his age and I could knock him down
with just a shoulder move. He hated that and often went crying to his
Mammy–but I really liked him. We would swim together, run together, pick
berries together and inspect each other. That's when I learned the difference,
and it was quite amazing. I soon came to realize that he was small in every
respect, yet we did experiment and it was nice.
When I was just a couple of years old, my Mammy vanished without
even saying goodbye. Even Fuzzy was gone. In point of fact, everyone I
knew, every Sasquatchie I knew, they were all gone. I was so depressed.
Isn't it reasonable to expect, at least, a goodbye? I am now almost a hundred
years old and very lonely. I don't know where everyone went... they never
came back. I never had any babies. How could I? Once upon a time I met a
man who was very much like a Sasquatch and I thought we might make a
baby. His name was Bristle and he lived in a tent by the Lake with a dog
that...but wait, have I already told you that? Yes, I have. I remember now.
My memory seems to be less than it was. I don't how long Sasquatchies live,
but I feel old as well as very much alone. Sometimes I get pains in my lower
back. Sometimes I feel an ache in my right hip.
When I was younger, maybe twenty years ago, I had a very close friend
whose name was Gallop. I met him when he was drinking at the Lake. He
was a magnificent creature with a mane that flowed along his back when he
ran...and he ran like the wind. He told me that he was lost when he was a
colt. His herd had come here to browse the tasty ferns, then they left without
him. That was a while back, but now Gallop is a magnificent stallion and we
got along very well. I showed him where to find the wild berries and he let
me ride on his back from time to time. Did I mention that he was fast as the
wind? We could go from my cave to the lake in just few minutes. We
played sexual games and I loved it.
Then, one day, he was gone. I couldn't believe he'd leave without so
much as a goodbye, like Mammy and Fuzzy, so I set out to find him...and
find him I did. He was lying at the bottom of a cliff. I couldn't believe he had
fallen, he was such a sure-footed creature. Then I saw the wounds on his
back and the tear on his neck. It was Sly, I knew it as soon as I saw the claw
marks. Now, instead of hunting Gallop, I hunted Sly. I found the cat sleeping
on a rock, in the sun, his eyes closed, his tail slowly waving back and forth.
He was larger than I remembered. I knew this cat since he was a kitten. I
even played with him from time to time, but he had killed Gallop and that
was a bad thing to do...so I killed him.
You might think I'd have eaten the cat, but no. I am mostly vegetarian:
grasses, berries, ferns, fish, tubers that lie beneath the ground and things like
that–especially fish. I do, on occasion, nibble on mice and small rodents, but
that's just for a snack. Oh, I almost forgot, I did eat a dog once. It was a
yappy mutt that...or did I already tell you that? Yes, I think I did. Anyway,
my teeth are getting worn and I no longer eat anything with bones. In point
of fact, I eat very little these days and I am losing a lot of weight. Perhaps
that's why I'm telling you this story.
I was told, long ago, that there is a place where Sasquatch go to die. I do
not know this place so I am afraid I must die in my cave. It is understood, by
my kind, that Sasquatch bones must not be found, especially by Uglies. So I
must enter my cave and seal the opening. But I realize that, after almost one
hundred years, someone should know of my life. Should I just pass on,
unnoticed, unappreciated and unloved? No, I cannot, so I am telling you my
story as best I can, from fading memory.
Now, if you will excuse me I will go now, to my cave with the window
on the sea. I will spend some time watching the Orcas hunting salmon,
admiring the colours of the setting sun, filling my mind with visions of times
gone by.
Thank you for listening.
Goodbye.
People
by Peter J. Ponzo
It was pretty exciting. Clarence Q. Eldridge was in town.
He was known as C-Q, he was an author, world traveller, philanthropist,
motivational speaker and nice guy. He was, in fact, my personal hero.
Although he had never married, saying he was much too engaged with his
various activities, he was loved by women–and children–around the world.
Although his visit had been anticipated for months, nevertheless, I was
surprised to find that he'd be here a week earlier than expected. My job was
to interview him.
I'm a reporter for the Burlington Times with the specific task of writing
about famous people. C-Q would be my most famous. I had followed his
career for many years. First as the editor of our high school tabloid, then as a
sports writer for the Times, then I was given a column on page two. My
column was called, simply, People.
When I arranged the interview I was told I'd meet him at Wilton Towers
Hotel, but because he arrived early I checked again and found that he would
be at Brant Hospital. Now that was surprising, to say the least. I tried to
remember how old C-Q was. I figured he must be nearly seventy, but why
was he at Brant? I collected my gear–pencil, notepad, audio recorder and
camera–and headed for the hospital.
C-Q was in a public ward with three other people. He looked terrific,
tanned and bright-eyed with white carefully brushed hair that surrounded a
pleasant face, clear of any moustache or beard or other ornamental
contrivance. He seemed almost happy to see me. He pointed to the chair by
his bed and I sat, looking around for a place for the recorder. He said I
should set it on his night table, which I did. I punched the start button and
asked my first question: "Why are you not in a private room?"
"I like people," he said, his smile brilliant. "These are now my friends,"
he said, waving his hand about the room.
I knew why I loved this guy. He was a people person.
Although I had a long list of questions, C-Q hardly gave me a chance to
ask any.
"So tell me about yourself," he said. 'Leave nothing out."
I was a bit puzzled, but started telling him about myself.
"Well, I was born in Toronto and raised by my mother. We moved to
Burlington soon after I was born. My father apparently died when I was a
child. My mom did say that he was a nice guy, although she rarely spoke of
him. There were no pictures of him, so I promptly forgot that I had no father
and enjoyed my time with mom. She did change to her maiden name. Mom
died last February and I cried for a week. I went to the University of
Toronto, but quit after just a few months. I couldn't concentrate. Then I got a
job...but wait. I should be ashamed of myself. I really must ask why you're
in the hospital. I hope it's something...uh, trivial."
"Not exactly. I have cancer. I've known it for some time. I guess you'd
say I've come home to die."
"Oh my, I had no idea. I'm so sorry to hear that."
"No need to be sorry. I've had a wonderful life.
"You said 'come home'... come home to Burlington?"
"Yes, that was where I began by journeys. For me, it's home. Okay,
young man, what are your hobbies. Hobbies, they are important."
"Well, I like to camp, to sketch–though I'm not very good at it–I like to
travel, especially to places that have different cultures, food and scenery than
North America, and I enjoy listening to classical music, especially Chopin."
"Are you married, young man?"
"Well, no, but I do have a girl friend. I think we'll probably marry next
year...I don't know for sure."
"Ah, you must marry. You'll need a companion for all the things you do,
all the places you visit, someone who will love you regardless of your
faults..."
"But you never married," I said.
C-Q paused for some time, staring out of the window at the blue, blue
sky. Then he said, slowly, with some effort: "I did marry, but I guess I was
not cut out to be a husband." He paused. "You seem surprised, young man..
The stories they tell in the media are often wrong, designed to sell
magazines or papers. However, my marriage lasted just a few short years.
My wife was a beautiful, intelligent, compassionate woman. Indeed, she was
much too good for me. Besides, I longed to travel, see the world, write of my
adventures."
"Have you seen your wife...your ex-wife?"
"No, I understand that she died last February."
I stared at the man in the bed. Last February? A coincidence, certainly.
"What was your wife's name?" I asked.
"I'd rather you didn't put that in your column, young man," C-Q said.
I turned off the recorder.
"Of course," I said.
"Her name was Sylvia."
I rose from my chair, astonished.
"My mother, her name was Sylvia." I said, quite excited. "Did you have
a child? Did Sylvia have a baby?"
C-Q paused for a while, stared intently at me and said, 'Yes, a boy. That
would have been...let's see, thirty-seven years ago."
"I am thirty-seven years old!" I said, almost shouting.
I think we must have spent the next ten minutes in silence. C-Q tried to
say something, but didn't. I tried to speak, but couldn't. I was looking at my
lifelong hero, a personal idol throughout my adult years, my father. I began
to cry. C-Q buried his head in his pillow. In a moment, we embraced. My
father began to weep.
"I often thought of my son," he said, weeping. "What he was like, how
he would mature, what he would become, what he would...would make of
his life."
We held each other for several minutes.
My father, Clarence Q. Eldridge, died three weeks later. I was sad, yet
somehow exhilarated. In the past, I rarely thought of my father. I often
pretended that I had no father. Now, at this very moment, my hero is my
father and that seemed to make my life important. I visit his grave every
month and promise to make him proud of me.
I did marry the following year.
We named our first child Clarence.
Aliens
by Peter J. Ponzo
I am telling this story because I hope that my people will receive my
transmissions and will display the images for all to see. Perhaps...perhaps I
have too little time.
I had studied them for years, since I was very young. It was my
profession: alien social networks. I worked at Prkjp and spent most of the
day scanning the electromagnetic spectrum for transmissions, recording the
most interesting emissions and preparing lectures on the subject. Now, at
long last, I was given permission to visit the planet. I would, of course, be
provided with a visual displacement robe so that I would not be seen. I
would be the very first to visit and everyone at Prkjp were expecting a full
and complete report when I returned. I was determined to provide a most
entertaining lecture. The habits of these aliens were fascinating. I have read
everything about them in our libraries.
When the day came for my departure, my mate wrapped her arms about
my waist, rubbed her cheek against mine and whispered in my audio orifice:
"Go with Kana," she said. I climbed into the craft, waved at the gathered
crowd and rose vertically until I had elevation sufficient for egress. It would
be a long time before I arrived at the small planet, so I immediately went
into stasis. When I awoke, I would be in orbit about the planet. Since my
craft was designed to mimic some of the space junk that circled the planet, it
would be some time before I was noticed. Indeed, there was enough orbital
debris circling the planet that my craft would probably never be identified.
This was a very messy society–and that was one of their more fascinating
characteristics. I would soon learn of their further sloppy characteristics.
The vibrational alarm woke me and I peered through the small window.
Yes, just as I had imagined, just as the galactic artists had portrayed it back
home: a blue planet, mostly water. I quickly donned my planetary clothes. In
case it was necessary to walk among them, I wanted to appear comparable to
the average mature alien. Although I had only seven transmitted images to
go by and could not gauge their height, I did have the proper proportions.
Besides, it was unlikely that I would find it necessary to disrobe. I was
shaking with nervous excitement as the shuttle dropped from the belly of my
space craft, a craft that had been packaged in a visual displacement robe.
I knew the planetary geography quite well, so when I landed it was on
an uninhabited plateau in the area that I suspected was the first location
inhabited by these aliens. I disengaged from the shuttle and walked about. In
the distance I saw objects in motion. Upon closer examination I realized that
they were edible objects. These aliens had a fascinating habit of raising
creatures, feeding them, killing them, then eating them. I recognized the
objects in the distance as a type of edible alien.
I spent nearly a day wandering about the plateau, but the only moving
objects I found were the edible creatures...so I left and headed for another
area of the planet, across a vast expanse of water, landing near a large
metropolis. I checked the visual displacement robe that encased the shuttle
and found it operational, so I left it and walked toward the nearby alien
habitation centre. When I got there, I was appalled by the smell. There were
vehicles that disgorged carbon monoxide. These aliens must be resistant to
the effects of that gas. Further, the metropolis was crowded, aliens walking
shoulder to shoulder, pressing plastic gadgets to their cheek, talking, talking.
When I passed over the planet in my craft, I saw large uninhabited areas, yet
here they were, almost in contact as they walked...and they walked very
quickly. Where were they going in such a hurry?
I followed three aliens. One dropped into an establishment and ate a
food item in the shape of an oblate spheroid. As it ate, pieces of food fell out
of the spheroid onto its dress. It did not seem concerned. Another alien
entered an area filled with large plants and sat on a bench, pulling out some
foodstuff from a brown paper bag. It ate then left the bag on the ground. In
front of it was a pond with what seemed like edible birds. The third alien
went into an enormous building with elaborate statuary across the facade.
Once inside, it walked to the front, kneeled and seemed to be praying to a
God.
I read about their God. There was but a single God, as we have back
home, Kana, a God that we all worship. However, here in this society, there
were a large variety of subsidiary beliefs and rituals that distinguished one
group of worshipers from another. Apparently, from what I had read, these
minor differences resulted in warfare where each group attempted to
promote their own brand of...what did they call it? Religion, yes that's it.
Religion.
After following the three aliens I still wondered why they were all in
such a hurry. Besides, it was very hot and they all were fully clothed. Why
was that? I was also surprised to find that they were all quite short...and fat.
In any case, I could not stand the stench of the busy street so I went down a
side street which had wonderful plants that arched across the road, providing
shade. There were many aliens with small animals on a leash. It seems that
some creatures, although clearly edible, were kept as companions. These
companions were allowed to excrete on the road.
At the end of the road I could hear the water. A beautiful area by the sea,
covered in white sand, the sand almost completely covered with half naked
aliens lying horizontally. I managed to walk across the beach while only
stepping on three feet. There was a cool green forest beyond the beach and I
was eager to taste the shade. When I got there, I noticed a small stony beach,
uninhabited yet covered in trash, plastic bags and metal cans and assorted
debris, much like the space junk that orbited the planet. These aliens are a
messy lot.
Beyond the woods was a path that lead me to a fairly large cultivated
area, with flowers that were placed by stones that held inscriptions written in
their alien tongue. Things like Born 1934 Died 2017. I had read of this
curious ritual. These aliens put their dead into an ornate box then buried both
so they could rot together. What was surprising to those of us back home
that studied these aliens? These areas for body decay were often prime real
estate. They had a name for them...but I do not recall the name.
When I eventually reached the metropolis again, I could hardly stand the
stench generated by the vehicle exhaust, yet there didn't seem to be evident
concern by the aliens. Then I heard a crowd cheering and saw an alien on a
box, speaking to a large group of aliens, with much waving of its arms. It
was promising lower taxes (whatever that meant) and more jobs (a strange
promise: was it hiring?) and better housing (I assumed this alien was a
builder of homes) and a whole host of similar pledges. Then it struck me: it
was a so-called politician and was seeking to be elected to office, hence the
reason for the promises. I had read about that, too. Those that managed to
get a government position then forgot the aliens who elected them and were
more interested in the companies that provided money. In fact, it was written
that only at election time did these so-called politicians turn again to the
normal aliens, standing again on a box, making promises to the crowd ...
since they were eager to be re-elected to office. Clearly the endeavours of
these so-called politicians was to fill their pockets with money and get reelected. It was a very curious ritual and one that amused us back home. In
fact, there were may comedic skits that portrayed these so-called politicians
and their promises. The skits all had the same name: democracy.
The sun was lowering in the sky and the street was becoming sparse of
aliens. I followed a particularly short alien to see what they do when it is
dark. This alien raised its hand, a yellow vehicle stopped, it entered the
vehicle and they disappeared around a corner at high speed. I then followed
another which entered a nearby building. I followed it into the building and
into a room. Clearly, this was its home, its abode, its place of rest. The alien
removed all of its clothes and that was the very first time any of my kind
saw a completely naked alien from this planet. There were, of course, scores
of almost-naked aliens portrayed in their electromagnetic transmissions. I
took a mental picture so that I could display the image when I got home.
Next, this alien stepped under a stream of water. That was also the first such
incident of that particular ritual. The purpose was not clear. This alien could
just as easily have gone to the beach to get wet.
After rubbing itself and drying itself it collapsed into a soft stationary
item of furniture and images appeared on a monitor. The image talked and
laughed and the alien laughed as well. Then it walked into a neighouring
room and returned with a glass of amber liquid, continuing to laugh. It took
little time for the alien to fall off the furniture, crawl to another room and
into another piece of furniture. It fell asleep and I was alone with the
moving, talking images on the monitor. These were not images of normal
aliens. They were images of mice and ducks and stuffed dolls, yet they
talked and laughed. What was the attraction to this form of entertainment?
Although I spent several more days wandering the streets of the
metropolis, I found nothing of much interest. Perhaps it was time to return to
my shuttle. I thought that I might show myself before I left...just to gauge
their reactions. I was clearly taller than these short, fat aliens, but they
should recognize the similarities in biology. I had two arms, two eyes and
nasal passage placed in the middle and a mouth at the lower extremities of
my face. I did have, however, four legs but these aliens may not notice that. I
chose a spot where there were very few aliens, then I removed my visual
displacement robe.
There was a moment of quiet surveillance by the aliens, then a weapon
of sorts appeared in their hands, every single hand. I was surrounded and the
aliens began to chatter. It was rather scary so I tried to pull on my robe, but
someone grabbed it and ran off. Several others pulled me to the ground and
blue-uniformed aliens appeared and I was dragged off.
I write these last words from what they call a jail cell. I hope my last
transmission reached my home planet. Here, my room is sealed with metallic
bars. I can not imagine what will be done with me. I suppose I will be put
into a box to rot.
Dance
by Peter J. Ponzo
It was a dream come true. The dance studio had been vacant for
seventeen years...and now it was mine. I spent months cleaning, sanding,
polishing. The big opening would be tomorrow. I had advertised in all the
papers and stuck flyers on every pole and wall in the neighbourhood. I had
studied at Hollingsworth Studios and now I would have a studio of my own.
I couldn't have been more excited.
Sammy had dropped around to see how I was getting along. We sat on
plastic chairs and had a beer or three. He had lent me money enough to buy
the dance suite. It was second floor with nice lighting and hardwood floors
in excellent condition. It just needed some tender love and care which I was
eager to provide. When Sammy left I did a last bit of polishing then got my
coat to leave.
I heard the buzzer. Who could that be at this hour? I looked at my watch.
It was almost midnight. I pressed the button, listened to some gal say she
just wanted to see the studio...so I unlocked the door to the street, below. I
waited and was happily surprised to see a beautiful woman come in. She
wanted to dance. How could I refuse? I turned on the music and we waltzed
for hours, then we sat on the plastic chairs and reminisced about dance
competitions, exchanging stories: the couple who slipped on a slippery floor,
the couple who were both male, the competition that was held outdoors–then
it rained cats and dogs. We laughed, finished my tuna sandwiches and beer
and danced again until the first rays of the sun ran across the dance floor.
She was beautiful, witty, charming. She had a wonderful laugh, a wonderful
smile. It was love at first sight. When she saw the light of day she said she
must leave. I must see her again, so I asked her name: Sylvana diMitrio.
The next day Sammy came early to check that everything was ready for
the opening later in the day. I told him that a wonderful woman came to
dance the previous evening and that I was in love.
"One evening and you're in love?"he said.
"Ah, but we waltzed until dawn. Then we shared tuna sandwiches, then
we danced again...and we laughed and told stories."
"So, do you know her name? Will you see her again?"
"Yes, of course. It's Sylvana diMitrio," I said, almost panting. "She left
so quickly I didn't have a chance to get her phone number or address, but she
was clearly extremely interested in this studio so I'm sure she'll be back...but
she doesn't need any lessons. She was a wonderful dancer, like an angel."
I could see that Sammy was shocked.
"Don't be so surprised," I said. "She'll be back, I'm sure she..."
"My friend," Sammy said, "Sylvana diMitrio was a very talented dancer
in her day. She was the previous owner of this studio and..."
"In her day?" I said, "She is still a talented dance. I should know. we
danced for hours. Now I see why she was so interested in this studio.
Previous owner, eh?" I chuckled. It was delightful.
"My friend," Sammy said, "Sylvana diMitrio died seventeen years ago."
Chapter One
It was a typical evening. I had placed the dinner, hot, on a plate before
him and he read the newspaper while it got cold. Then he carefully folded
the paper, nibbled the now-cold meal, pushed the plate away–still mostly
uneaten– then went into the living room to collapse on the couch and watch
a ball game.
He hadn't kissed me in months. The last time we embraced was on his
birthday, last year. Make love? That had vanished years ago. In fact, this
man I married rarely touched me, not a gentle pat, not a smooth caress,
nothing.
Where was the marvelous man I married twenty-two years ago? Then he
was thoughtful, considerate and passionate. He always wore that wonderful
cologne. We made love almost every night. His first concern was my
welfare. Was I happy? Was I content? Now my feelings were of little
concern. More important was the ball game score.
I told Sandra, my best friend, that the love had gone out of our marriage.
She listened patiently then suggested couples.com, an Internet site. I could
connect with someone, I could have an affair, I could be happy again. I was
reluctant. I had never, ever considered cheating on the man I married, but to
find someone who cared, who had feelings, who put me first, even if it was
on a website, that was so tempting that I decided to try it.
This website required that you register with a false name, without any
photos. Anyone you contacted would not be able to identify you. I decided
to call myself Sandra, my friend's name. I typed an introductory message on
a so-called Bulletin Board, for all registrants to see. If anyone was interested
in further communication, I would get a private message.
I wrote that my name was Sandra and I was forty-seven years old,
slightly overweight and my hair had a touch of grey. I wore glasses, liked to
cook and to listen to classical music, especially Chopin. I liked to travel. My
favourite colour was red and I loved to dance. I spent two years at a
community college and was now working in a local library.
After exhausting all the things that might sound interesting, I waited.
Two weeks went by without a single private message. Well, that's not quite
true. I did get a couple of sarcastic messages that suggested that being
"slightly overweight" was undoubtedly due to my love for cooking. Perhaps
the overweight remark and the grey hair were unnecessary. Perhaps I should
not have been so honest. Perhaps I should have presented myself as a
fashion model, gorgeous and available, a playboy centerfold.
Then, on the fifteenth day, I got a wonderful private communication. He
said his name was Jake and he was very thin so my being slightly
overweight made us a perfect average. I thought that was so, so sweet. Then
he said that, although I had a touch of grey, he had a bald spot...so I was
much better off than he. I realized right away that this was a man I could
like. He wrote of places he'd visited and they were so like the places where I
had vacationed. He mentioned his love for reading, how he enjoyed fishing
and how lonely he was.
We communicated via couples.com for almost a month, then he
suggested that we meet. My heart leapt to my mouth and I could hardly
breathe when I read his message. It took me nearly an hour to compose a
response. Couples could be a thousand miles apart. How could we meet? But
Jake had said he lived in Burlington and that was my town, too...so I agreed
to meet him.
He suggested Henry' Steakhouse explaining that, since I loved seafood,
Henry's had a wide selection including lobster, shrimp and scallops. This
man was so thoughtful. I felt I'd known him all my life. In fact, I really felt
that I had fallen in love with him, strange as that may seem. Was I about to
have an affair? I was frightened, anxious, eager. I deserved some love and
affection, didn't I? I said I would be at Henry's at 7 pm and I would be
wearing a red blouse. He remembered that it was my favourite colour. What
a sweet man.
On that Saturday afternoon I told my husband that I would be spending
the evening with my friend Sandra, but I would leave his dinner in the
microwave. He said he was playing poker with the gang and would eat out. I
left early and arrived at the steakhouse by 6:45 pm. I was trembling. I sat at
a table in the far corner, kept straightening my hair, pushing the wisps of
grey to the back. I hoped the table would somehow hide my extra pounds. I
looked in my small mirror a thousand times, checking my lipstick, my hair,
my teeth. Did I remember to brush before I left home? Was my collar
straight?
At precisely 7 pm a well-dressed gentleman walked through the front
door. I held my breath. He turned and looked about and saw me. I had
removed my glasses, but he seemed hesitant. Was he about to leave? Was I
that bad? How could he tell, from that distance? Then he began to walk
toward my table. I wasn't breathing.
When he was just a few feet away I saw that it was my husband and he
was smiling. He leaned forward, placed his hands on the table and
whispered: "Sandra, I presume?"
There was that wonderful smell of cologne. I stuttered but could say
nothing. I was sure my cheeks were as red as my blouse. He pulled me
gently to my feet, placed my face in his hands and kissed me long and
passionately. I remember this man. He is the man I married, oh so long ago.
"Yes," I whispered. "I am Sandra."
We embraced, he kissed my ear and said in a soft voice: "I love
you...Sandra."
Now you may think that our marriage returned to its earliest state, when
we got married, all love and affection...but that is not the case. However,
whenever our relationship seemed to drag, to hesitate, to become predictable
and routine, we would send private messages on couples.com and meet at
Henry's. We are now married for fifty years and I cannot be a happier
woman.
I had many wealthy clients, made a bundle of money and lived high on
the hog, but I was now almost forty years old...so I went back to school. I
was, as you might imagine, the oldest student at the university, but my mind
was nimble and I quickly became quite good at scoring high on exams. In
fact, I graduated with a bachelor's degree at the top of the class. I was quite
proud, actually: Sofia Bond, B.A. The name Sophia meant 'lover of wisdom'
in Greek. I looked that up long ago. It was appropriate.
My specialty was English Literature: a study area guaranteed to provide
a significant handicap when looking for a job. I did, however, have a minor
in law and legal studies, so I pored through the classified ads hoping for
something that would match my evident talents.
It took almost a week to find one that read:
The Milton Group, a law firm located in Toronto, is looking for an
experienced legal receptionist/legal secretary. Law firm experience
required.
Please note: You will be working directly with the general public (in
person, by telephone, and online) and often dealing with clients who are
facing serious stress. The ideal candidate for this position must be capable
of providing excellent customer service to all prospective clients.
It was exactly what I wanted. The "experienced" requirement I would
fake. I was very good at faking, because of my previous profession. I also
was very good at providing excellent customer service, again because of my
previous profession.
I phoned to make an appointment and showed up exactly at the
appointed hour. The guy across the desk was pretty good looking. He smiled
politely and I smiled back. He asked about my earlier experience and I
invented a story about secretarial work at a law firm out west that had closed
and gone to the U.S. He asked about certain matters of law and I
regurgitated what I had learned–and memorized–at university. I was careful
to show some knee. I had been described as being 'well assembled', whatever
the hell that meant. However, if it meant boobs and butt, that was right on
the money and I was determined to display my wares to best advantage. In
fact, he spent so much time gazing at my knees that he neglected to ask how
fast I typed. I had a good story for that, too. In fact, I was a pretty good
typist, but hardly secretarial material. I typed only to write my memoirs
which I intended to sell to the highest bidder... one of these days. I would
shock a lot of people, especially some of the wealthy clients associated with
my earlier vocation.
It took less than a half hour for the lawyer to say I was hired and could
start in the morning, at 9 am. He asked if I needed a ride home. That was a
nice gesture, but I had my BMW parked at the curb. I was determined to
enjoy the assets provided by my previous profession and lived in a very nice
condo on Maple Avenue, with elaborate stereo system, marble counters,
Jacuzzi and a view of the lake. I took a hot bath, listened to Bartók, made
myself a plate of pasta aglio et olio, pulled a law book off the shelf and
continued reading where I left off.
At 9 am on the nose I arrived at the law office, dressed in a tight fitting
but unpretentious pantsuit in grey with matching soft soled shoes and a
necklace of miniature pearls. No earrings. I've found that earrings were
distracting unless they were studs in which case they had no merit at all. I
also wore very little makeup and certainly no lipstick. Lips too red were
come-ons and I wasn't about to attract attention in that manner. Suffice it to
say that a little eye shadow and lash black was all I needed. I was almost
forty but I wasn't inert.
My lawyer's name was John Jaroslaw. Jaroslaw sounded like a kind of
cabbage concoction but actually meant fierce and glorious in Polish. I
looked that up even before I applied for this job. Fierce and glorious. Nice. I
would test that description...one of these days. He was on the phone when I
arrived but waved me into his office and pointed to the leather chair. I sat
and waited. He smiled. I smiled back. When he ended his call he said that a
client would be here in twenty minutes and I should take notes of their
conversation. Of course I knew nothing of that absurd writing style called
shorthand, but I could scribble notes fast and had a very good memory.
When the client walked in I recognized him as the manager at First
Dominion Bank. Shit! This was going to be awkward. It never occurred to
me that...that we would have the same clients. I should have anticipated
something like this. However, I was dressed rather differently than my
customary outfit during the tenure of my earlier profession, so that would
help. Further, I pulled my dark glasses out of my purse and slipped them on,
whispering to my lawyer that I had a problem with macular degeneration. He
looked a bit confused but rose from his chair to greet the bank manager. I sat
on a smallish corner chair and held my notepad on my knee, pencil poised,
head down. The banker looked once, showed no sign of recognition, then
began an animated conversation with my lawyer.
It was a close call and I didn't want a repetition so I changed my hair
style and colour and kept my dark glasses handy. I was getting good at this
secretarial stuff. I spent a lot of time looking up case histories. It wasn't part
of my job description, but I was good at that, too. There was a picture of
some gal and a couple of kids on his desk, so I assumed he was married.
However, I figured it was just a matter of time before we'd get to know each
other more intimately.
It was time to close up shop and I was putting all the open files in the
safe when my lawyer came into my front office. He looked so sad. I asked
what was bothering him. He said that his wife wanted a divorce. I almost
jumped for joy. In fact, I almost suggested a good divorce lawyer, someone
from my earlier vocation. I said all the soothing words that I could recollect
and asked him to sit and we could talk. He sat. We talked. I knew what was
coming. He needed something to take his head off his personal problems. I
was quite familiar with that state of mind.
We made love on his desk, cleared of papers, phone and other
paraphernalia. When he collapsed onto the huge leather chair, he asked
where I had learned to do all that stuff. I was tempted to tell him, but said I
read a lot of trashy novels. I laughed when I said it...and he accepted the
remark.
It took over a year before my lawyer was completely rid of his wife and
kids. Yes, she kept the kids. I never understood that component of the law:
mothers keep the kiddies. However, John, my lawyer–we were now on a
first name basis–seemed content to see his kids once in a blue moon. We
went on holidays together, John and I. He moved out of his wife's house–
yes, she got the house– and moved into my condo. He couldn't believe I
owned such a fancy abode, on my salary. I said I had money before I became
his secretary and I had a rather large bank account and lots of money
invested. He was suitably impressed as he should be. I may be forty but I
wasn't dead.
I expected a proposal of marriage before the year was out. It was to
come on New Year's Eve, I was certain. Indeed, I even found the diamond
ring hidden in one of his socks. It was gigantic...and suited my status. We
had been invited to a friend's home for a celebration of the new year. The
house was more like a mansion. My John had wealthy friends. This one was
Jeremoth Liebowitz. Jeremoth was an Israeli name meaning something
about fearing death. I looked it up before coming to the party. I told John
and he said that it might signify the death of the old year and the birth of the
new. That response didn't surprise me; my lawyer was a clever soul. What
surprised me was Jeremoth. He was my most valuable customer in the old
days. What was I to do? I hesitated when he opened the front door, I
coughed lightly, looked at my feet, pushed some hair down my forehead.
John asked if I felt ill. I was about to answer in the affirmative, hoping he
would take me home, but Jeremoth took my hand and pulled me into the
front hall of his house. There was a crystal chandelier that was so damn
bright that I would find it difficult to hide my identity.
"Sofia!" Jeremoth said. "I almost didn't recognize you."
Then he looked at my John, quizzically at first, then with some
understanding. He winked at John who was by now quite curious. Damn! I
was not looking forward to the rest of the evening. Ah, but it got worse. Half
of the guys at the party were previous clients of mine. They were all
delighted to see me and they all winked at my John. Needless to say, John
soon learned of my previous occupation and I was unceremoniously
dumped. No ring, no wedding, finito.
Well, I went back to my old job, but this time I hired girls, attractive and
talented young girls. I now ran Sofia's Escort and Courtesan Service, known
among the wealthy as SECS. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think? I made
more money than ever ... and my clients? They included good old Jerry
Liebowitz, all the guys at that New Year's Eve party and my lawyer friend,
John Jaroslaw.
When my John showed up he didn't take one of my talented girls, he was
very particular. He took me.
I remember being well liked. In fact, I guess I was rather attractive to
women. They didn't exactly flock to my side, but they never shunned me
either and they often looked twice in my direction when I passed them on
the street or in a restaurant. So now, why were they suddenly so remote, so
uncaring, so cool? I would sit by an attractive woman at Hagey's Bar and she
would ignore me or look right past me as though I weren't there at all. I'd say
something innocuous like, "I reckon we'll get rain later today." I smiled
brightly, expecting some response, even if only a nod of the head. Nothing.
This has got to change.
I dressed well and usually drove my purple Corvette about town with the
top down, even in cool weather. However, I didn't have my car with me
now. In fact, I couldn't even remember where I had parked it. Nevertheless,
my pockets were full of money and I intended to spend it with a woman ...
somehow. I phoned my buddy Tom but he didn't answer the phone, so I
decided to go it alone. It was a mite chilly so I went back to my apartment to
grab my coat. My key wouldn't fit the lock, so I pulled out several other
keys. None fit. Damn! Had I changed the lock? I remember that there had
been a burglary a month ago but I can't recall changing the lock. No
problem. My jacket would keep me warm enough. I'd solve the lock problem
later.
I walked to the Rec Centre where there would be a dance tonight. They
had advertised the community party for over a month and I expected to meet
lots of unattached women. I straightened my tie, pushed back my hair and
swaggered through the door. There were red stains on my jacket. I don't
know where they came from, but it would be pretty dark inside and nobody
would notice. The place was packed, the music was loud, the women were
all gorgeous. I walked slowly to the bar but didn't want to drink. I felt that
the smell of alcohol on my breath might be off-putting. Instead, I inspected
the gals.
One gal in particular caught my attention. She was tall, elegant with a
body that cried out for attention. She certainly got my attention! I sidled up
to her side and whispered. "Hello beautiful, how about a dance?" Perhaps
that was too forward, too brash, too offensive because she didn't even look
in my direction. I left and wandered about for a while before I tried again. I'd
try a different tack. "Excuse me miss, would you consider a waltz or a tango
or...?" The woman turned away and walked off. What!? That wasn't just a
rejection, that was rude, bordering on uncivilized. My next attempt went like
this: "Hi there. My name is Carl Blender ... and your name is?" I was
ignored, again, and it went like that all night.
The sun came up and people were leaving. I wasn't even tired. Besides,
until I solved that lock problem, I didn't even have a place to bed down, so I
decided to take a stroll through town. The sun was warm on my face and
when I came to the town cemetery I decided to walk through. It was the
nicest most manicured spot in town and I had often wandered through to
enjoy the trees, the shade and the flowering bushes. When I held my hand to
shield my eyes from the bright sun, I noticed the red streaks across the back
of my hand. I wiped my hand on my jacket. No matter. I'd clean up when I
got home.
The cemetery stones stood like small soldiers, proud and erect. Some
were very old. In fact, most were very old, but one in particular caught my
attention. It stood before what appeared to be a new plot. Sad. Someone had
died recently. Perhaps an old fellow, perhaps a young woman, perhaps a
child with a bright future cut short. I knelt before the stone and read the
inscription:
Here lies Carl Blender. He lived his life on the rim.
He enjoyed his purple Corvette too much. It did him in.
Chapter One
Every morning he fought the traffic, an hour or more of stop and go,
clamorous horns, traffic lights and asinine lane changes by impatient drivers.
Every morning turning on the coffee machine, collapsing in the oversize
leather chair just beyond the massive mahogany desk and waiting for the
coffee machine to signal the completion of one cup of strong black coffee.
Then the correspondence, piles each day, letters to answer, reports to write,
office finances to manage. Why? Was man designed to live the life of an
automaton, executing a host of monotonous daily rituals?
James Carson's tax consultant office was on the second floor and, as had
happened many times before, the elevator wasn't working so he had to walk
up. He was staring out the window. The red light was flashing on the coffee
machine. Damn! He bought that just a month ago and it was already broken.
He needed a coffee, so he went down to the street and started to walk to
Joy's Coffee Shop, just a block away. That's when he noticed the parking
ticket on his car. What? When did they install those parking metres? He had
always parked at the curb, by his office. Damn!
At Joy's he ordered a mug of hot coffee with a chocolate covered
doughnut. The coffee arrived warm and the doughnut was stale. What kind
of world was this, anyway? He drank half the coffee and left the doughnut
uneaten. When he left Joy's it was raining and he was soaked by the time he
got to his office. This was not his day. But it was very much like all the other
days. When he was safely ensconced in his leather chair, he thought about
his profession: tax consultant. The government tax forms insisted upon a
mountain of information, required complex calculations, were poorly
worded and often went on for fifty pages if there were foreign properties
owned or elaborate investments or several dependents. He hated the job.
A year ago, he had fallen in love with Cathy. She had a wonderful laugh,
was smart and sexy and was a whiz in the kitchen...and in the bedroom. He
would have asked her to marry him, but she said she was tired of his
conversation, his perpetual complaining about life, his limited array of topics
for discussion and his constant moodiness. But how could anyone be any
different? Life was a hell-hole, an abyss in which one sucked up poison air
and ate tainted food brimming with benzoates, nitrites, sulphites, aspartame
and holy-mother-of-god preservatives that outranked the protein. Yet, he
couldn't change. He was stuck in this terrible chasm with millions of others
in this teeming metropolis. James would talk to Cathy for hours of the trials
and tribulations of city life, the smell, the pollution, the dirt and foul air.
When he finished his tirade Cathy was always sound asleep on the couch.
Yet, Cathy had been a small patch of joy in an otherwise joyless life...and he
missed her dearly.
James looked at the painting on the wall of his office. A small log cabin
in the woods with mountains rising majestic on the horizon. He could feel
the silence, the serenity, the harmony with its surroundings. He could live
there, in concert with Mother Nature, fishing, gathering wood, friends with
the animals that ruled the woods and the birds whose dominion was the sky.
He often leaned back, closed his eyes and imagined life in that cabin.
He'd arise each morning at the break of dawn, the aroma of coffee filling the
cabin, coffee he made from beans he ground himself. He'd light a fire and
stick some dry wood in the potbellied stove and fry up some duck eggs taken
from the nearby lake. He'd pick a book from his extensive library and
continue reading Farley Mowat. In the evening he'd hear the loon's
melancholy cry. Ah, what a fantastic life that would be, but he, James
Carson, was a tax consultant living in the suffocating city sediment, mired in
pollution and human debris, his life ordained by narcissistic politicians eager
for re-election and surrounded by idiots who ... who ...
Why not? What was stopping him? Why couldn't he pack up and head
for the country, the clear mountain air, the blue skies and babbling brooks,
the song of birds and the aroma of wild flowers at his doorstep. He jumped
to his feet and tore the picture from the wall. That would be the only thing
he'd take from his office. Everything else would be sold to the highest
bidder. He, James Carson, would become a character in a Farley Mowat
novel, Lost in the Barrens, Never Cry Wolf. He, James Carson would live his
dream.
Chapter Two
It took two months to settle his urban affairs: sell his business and office
contents, the furniture in his apartment, his electronic and kitchen gadgets–
and transfer his bank account to a small bank in Northern Alberta, North of
Jasper National Park, the Rocky Mountains in the distance, the fragrance of
isolation in the air. It took another two weeks to actually find the cabin he
had bought. It required hiring a pilot and flying a small pontoon plane to a
nearby lake then hiking the rest of the way, carrying his supplies. The cabin
was small, dirty, full of cobwebs, animal dung and dirt...yet it was the most
beautiful thing he'd ever seen. In no time he had it cleaned up, the two
broken windows covered with cloth, his cot lined with soft ferns and the
potbellied stove crackling with a new fire which he lit with dry wood and
matches. It was heaven on earth.
The next morning he took the short walk to the lake. The sky was blue, a
brilliant aquamarine, and the lake was actually green. Aspen rose
majestically about the shore and pine stood stately and proud while hemlock
bowed gracefully at the water's edge. James flung the red and white lure into
the still water and a largemouth bass caught it almost before it reached the
surface. Within a half hour, he had caught his lunch. Back in the cabin, the
fireplace held dancing flames and a black pot suspended by a wire. The
skillet that held the bass provided an intoxicating aroma. He chopped up
some onions and carrots and dropped them into the frying pan. When he sat
at the rough-cut wooden table with the epicurean delight on a plate, he felt
like a free man. Why had he wasted so many years in the city, inhaling
carbon monoxide, cursing the traffic, eating junk food.
When Fall came, James had run out of bullets so his hunting was greatly
curtailed. He started his traps, but caught little. He searched for edible roots
and mushrooms, but found little. He lost the last of his fish hooks on the
rocks so he tried a makeshift net and caught nothing. He was getting
hungrier by the day. Soon the days became chilly, the nights cold and the
frigid winds signalled the start of a cruel Winter, a very cruel Winter. The
snow rose high against his front door. He had used the last of his matches
and was cold, hungry, dejected and very lonely. By Spring he had made up
his mind to return to the city.
It was now July in the city and he had hooked up with Cathy once more.
They were sharing a bottle of white wine, in his apartment, and James was
talking:
"See, I can rotate a knob and control the temperature of my apartment. I
can turn a faucet and out comes cool, clear water. I can hop into a tub filled
with hot, hot water. I open the fridge and it's filled with meat, fruit and
vegetables. I punch buttons on my remote and we have entertainment right
here in my living room. Ain't city life wonderful?"
Cathy was sound asleep on the couch.
My marriage had lasted almost thirty years, then my wife was taken
from me. Helen died eight month ago of lung cancer although she never
smoked a day in her life. She was just fifty-seven years old and was still
active and beautiful until the day she died. It wasn't fair.
After a few months, Jacob Bartlett tried to fix me up with some other
woman, but I wasn't ready. My beautiful Helen was always on my mind.
Even Jacob's wife, Cathy, tried to set up dates with her unattached friends,
but I refused. I would spend the rest of my life mourning my loss. How
could anyone replace the woman I had loved for over thirty years, who had
shared every waking moment, who cared for me when I was ill and who
scolded me when I feigned illness? In fact, I often longed for her tender
loving care and faked an illness, on weekends, when we were both at home,
together. She always saw through me, but I knew that. Nevertheless, she
would provide whatever caresses and soothing words she thought I needed–
and she did it with a smile.
It was two years after the funeral that Jacob's wife called me. Cathy was
a very attractive woman and all her friends were equally attractive. She
insisted that I come over for dinner on Saturday. She had someone she
wanted me to meet. I knew she was playing Cupid, but that was okay. I was
ready for another relationship. Helen would have wanted me to be happy, so
I accepted the invitation. When I arrived at Jacob's house the woman was
already there. Her name was Kim and she was quite beautiful. We talked a
lot about life and country living and places to spend vacations and wines and
food. I rather liked Kim. She was vivacious, to say the least. Jacob and
Cathy were mostly quiet, watching and listening and smiling.
I guess Kim and I hit it off because I asked her out the following week
and she accepted. We had dinner at the Pasta Kitchen because we both liked
Italian. Then we went back to my apartment and I brought out a sweating
bottle of Chardonnay. By midnight she seemed so relaxed and willing that I
asked if we should retire to the bedroom. I had a huge and silly grin on my
face. Kim slapped me in the face, rose from the sofa, grabbed her coat and
left in a huff. I was bewildered. Was I so out of date? She had displayed all
the signals I remembered, yet the thought of intimacy was repulsive. How
could I be so wrong?
I guess Cathy heard of the events of that night from Kim because she
phoned me two days later. Cathy was surprised herself that Kim was so
opposed to the intimacy I had proposed and she apologizes profusely. Cathy
understood my need for affection, two years after my Helen passed away.
She paused on the phone, than whispered something I could hardly hear. She
repeated the suggestion: an Escort Service. I was a but shocked at the
suggestion, but Cathy Bartlett wasn't one to mince words...or ideas. She gave
me a phone number and said I should phone first thing tomorrow morning.
The next morning I did phone. I had thought about it all night and
decided that whatever escort they sent, she would understand what would
transpire. The voice on the other end of the phone line sounded rather
strange, robotic, like a mechanical construct. I explained where I lived and
that 8 p.m. would be a good time and the voice said, with some hesitation,
that the girl would be wearing a navy blue skirt, a pale blue blouse and a
white cap.
I was nervous and skipped dinner. At exactly 8 p.m. the buzzer rang and
when I peered out of the peephole I saw a woman facing away from the
door. She wore a white cap and light blue blouse. My hand was shaking as I
opened the door. The woman turned very slowly, with a huge grin.
Standing in my doorway was Cathy Bartlett.
the Door
by Peter J. Ponzo
Chapter One
My father always told me that I should walk before I run, think before I
talk and ponder all deals that seem too good to be true and especially
mysteries. The last counsel often got me into a lot of trouble. My usual
response would have been to ignore such deals, but Papa was a wise fellow
so I always did the pondering. We lived together in a small village in Sicily.
After Mamma died I went to school in Palermo but returned to our village to
take care of Papa...until he passed away. Although I might have gone back to
Palermo to get a job, perhaps as a teacher, I stayed in this village that I knew
so well, where I grew up, where I had friends.
Papa Mancini was born in the village of Vita, as I was. He married a girl
from Termini when he was seventeen and I was born a year later. We raised
pigs and goats on a farm just outside of town and sold oranges, olives and
artichokes at the Saturday market. My job, as a boy of ten, was to pull the
wagon into the village. I was allowed to eat just one orange and three olives.
That was my reward. We were poor in money but rich in family devotion.
After papa died I sold the farm and moved into Vita. Now I am thirty-three
and live right in the centre of the village. My house is small, old and made of
stone. The walls are two feet thick and it's quite cool even in the hot
summer. I never married, but I do have several girls in town that I see;
perhaps, one day, when I feel I can afford a wife. Perhaps Laura Gallo. We
have known each other since childhood and she was very pretty with
flashing brown eyes and wild black hair.
As I recall, it was late in September when the letter appeared at my door.
I rarely get mail so I was curious. The paper seemed very old, like
parchment. It was also stained with dark brown spots that looked like the
blemishes that old people get. I sat on the bench on the sidewalk in front of
my house to open the letter. Antonio came by and sat beside me. We have
been friends for over twenty five years, since school days. He never finished
school in Vita, but we remained close friends even when I went to the
University of Palermo.
"Hey Ricco, who sent a letter?" Antonio asked.
"I don't know. Wait until I read it."
"Maybe it is important, but it looks old, like it has come a long way by
donkey."
Antonio laughed. He was joking, of course, but it did look like it had
been dragged across a country road.
"Read it," Antonio said.
"Wait. Let me open it."
I opened the letter and stared at the faded picture.
"What does it say?" Antonio asked.
"It doesn't say anything," I said.
"Ah, a letter that says nothing. Then it must be a puzzle, Ricco."
"It just has a picture, a photograph."
"Ricco, let me see," Antonio said, leaning forward.
I held the sheet of old paper so he could see the picture.
"It's a door," he said. "An old door. Ricco, what does it mean?"
"I have no idea."
I carefully folded the letter and slipped it into my shirt pocket.
Antonio shrugged, pulled a half-empty bottle of wine from his jacket
pocket, I went inside to get two glasses and we drank until the bottle was
empty.
"Hey Ricco, do you know that door?" Antonio said, eventually.
"No, I'm sure I've never seen it before. I've lived here all my life, but I've
never seen it before," I said.
"Hey Ricco, maybe it's from another village," Antonio said.
"Yes, maybe."
We sat for some time then Antonio left and I pondered the meaning of
the picture letter.
If somebody expected me to find that door, then surely it must be from
nearby. Was I expected to search all of Sicily? Surely not. Although it might
be from my village, I don't recall seeing it. Of course, there were many old
doors in my village so perhaps I should just wander about town with the
picture, walk down every street and ask every friend. There couldn't be that
many doors that looked like that. I would do that first thing in the morning.
Chapter Two
In the morning, after an espresso and some prosciutto, tomato and
apricot, I began my search for the door. Vita is a small town and it would
take less than three hours to walk every street. As I walked I met many
villagers whom I asked about the picture: none had seen such a door. I was
almost noon when I finished walking the last street. I had found nothing that
resembled the picture.
As I walked home I saw an alley that I don't remember walking. In fact,
I don't remember ever seeing such an alley. It was not very long. There
were the backs of houses on each side of the alley and no doors that I could
see. The alley ended in a wall so I turned back. That's when I saw the door. I
was quite sure it hadn't been there when I first entered the alley, but there it
was, exactly like the picture in my hand. I knocked and waited and knocked
again, but no one answered. I pushed gently and the door swung open and I
entered onto a large field of wild flowers. There was no such field in Vita, I
was quite sure of that. This was my town, since childhood, and I would
have known of such a place.
It was deathly quiet in that field. There was no rustling of wind, no
singing birds, even the sound of my feet of the ground was hushed. Then I
heard a voice and I saw an old man sitting on a bench. He looked vaguely
familiar. As I approached I could make out what he was saying:
Mamma was born in Termini. We raised pigs and goats on a farm
outside of Vita. We sold oranges, olives and artichokes at the market. I was
very young. My job was to pull the wagon into the village. I was allowed to
eat one orange and three olives.
The old man was speaking of my life. I was about to ask him who he
was, but he wagged his finger as he spoke, so I sat beside him on the bench
and listened. from his story I recognized my time in Palermo, the school I
attended, my return to Vita and the death of Papa. Soon, his story was new.
Was he still speaking of me?
Then I won the jackpot and became very rich.
The old man grinned, a very curious grin as though he were joking.
I married Laura and we had three children. Papa had chosen my name,
Ricco, because it meant 'rich and powerful' and he knew that, one day, I
would be rich and powerful.
Again the old man grinned. He seemed very pleased with his story, then
he continued:
I became the mayor of Vita and lived in the big house on Via Cosenza.
This was all new to me and I listened carefully. Was this old man
speaking of my future? Laura Gallo? Would she become my wife? And
three children? I wasn't sure I'd make a good father.
When the Americans landed the bombing stopped and Patton took
Palermo. All the Germans had left and Vita held just a small garrison of
Italian troops. Soon, even they left and when a Canadian division entered
Vita everyone in town came out to greet them. The girls danced and bottles
of wine were handed to the soldiers as they passed in trucks and tanks.
There was a celebration. We knew the war would end soon.
I was disturbed to hear that there would be a war and it would reach our
peaceful village. Surely this was not my future. As I pondered the story, the
old man stopped talking. He had been staring out into space and now he
turned and looked directly at me.
We were proud. We were opposed to violence. As mayor, I had
organized the drive to eliminate La Mano Nera, the Black Hand. No Mafia
ever came near Vita. We built schools and churches and worshiped in peace
and harmony.
The old man smiled. He looked very much like papa, but I now knew he
was me, a future me. He placed a hand on my shoulder and asked me to
leave. I was about to ask a hundred questions, but he wagged his finger and I
was silent. I got up and walked slowly to the door. When I looked back, he
was gone.
The next day I brought Antonio to the alley, but the alley was not there.
I explained its location but he said there never was an alley there. I told
Antonio about what the old man had said, about my future. Antonio said I
should ask Paula to marry me, right away. I should also buy a lottery ticket,
right away.
I did both of those things. I did not win the lottery, but I did marry
Paula and I did become mayor of Vita and we did move to the big house on
Via Cosenza. We now have six children and I often wonder why the old man
had talked about rich and famous, since I was neither. In fact, I recall that he
had grinned when he said the part about rich and famous. Now I realize that
he wasn't telling my future so much as mocking the notion of 'rich and
famous'. I suspect that, had I become rich and famous, I would not be so
happy. Perhaps that's what The Door was all about. You may think rich and
famous, but pray for happy and content.
I really didn't like flying. It wasn't so much being afraid, it was more
like...like imagining all the aerodynamics that come into play, how the wings
actually do bend, how updrafts and downdrafts are always threatening, how
the electronics could fail, how a bird could be sucked into the engine. Well,
maybe I am afraid. I read that it's the safest form of travel. You are more
likely to die as a pedestrian, in a car, a train, in watercraft. Nevertheless,
flying scares the hell out of me. Anything this colossal should not be able to
get off the ground.
However, the flight to Beijing was a business necessity. How else would
I get there? Flight 703 from Toronto was the shortest I could find, but it still
took almost thirteen hours, non-stop. I tried to take my mind off the science
of flight and concentrate on other matters. There was no announcement
about the use of laptops being prohibited, so I turned on my PC and started
browsing the Internet. It seemed a miracle that there was Internet access at
35000 feet, but I guess it's satellite communication and why would the
plane's height matter? The big news was about some missing plane. Radar
had lost track hours ago and there was a search and rescue mission launched
by the American and Canadian coast guard. The plane, a Boeing 777, was
one of the safest planes in operation. That was comforting since I was flying
in a 777.
I was about to continue my Internet browsing when I noticed that the
missing plane had left Toronto that morning: Flight 703. That hit me like a
rock. I jumped out of my seat and ran up the aisle to find a flight attendant.
There were none. I knocked on the door to the pilot's compartment, but there
was no answer. I peered through the small window and saw that there was
no pilot, no co-pilot. The plane was running on auto-pilot. Now my heart
was pounding.
I stood for several minutes at the head of the aisle then began to shout. I
said that there were no cabin crew on board–and no pilot–that the plane had
been reported missing and that we were alone and on auto-pilot. The
passengers just stared at me. Somebody told me to shut up and sit down. An
old lady asked where were the stewardesses. People were looking out the
windows. Soon there was panic, pandemonium. Somehow I was blamed. It
was obvious that I was more frightened than most. Some huge guy stood up
and said he'd cream the people who made this happen. I thought that was
pretty stupid, but said nothing.
I return to my seat and open my laptop and start to type this story.
People are screaming. The door to the pilot compartment is being torn off.
Someone is shouting, asking if anyone knows how to fly a Boeing 777. I
continue to type on my laptop. I can feel the plane abruptly change its pitch,
heading down. I am typing as fast as I...
Toronto Gazette: March 17, 2014
Wreckage of the Boeing 777 that went off radar last week was found off
the west coast, in several hundred feet of water. The 313 passengers died.
The bodies of the crew have not been found. There is some evidence to
suggest that the plane had only passengers. Among the wreckage was a
laptop with the story of the crash. The story tells of a plane without pilot or
crew. The current theory is that the pilots and cabin crew were terrorists that
dressed as passengers after the plane was in the air and the plane was on a
programmed flight path. The scheduled pilot was Ricardo Abena, a native of
Ugabwe. Among the passengers: the President of Ugabwe, the African
nation which is responsible for the death of thousands of ethnic minorities.
I don't remember this room. It was dirty, dark, damp. I do remember
eating ... what was it? A hot dog? Yes. There were hotdogs on a plate, on the
table and there was mustard on my coat. Actually, I don't remember owning
such a coat: it was tattered and torn. I sat on the cot and looked at the shabby
room. How did I get here? Who am I?
I reached into the pockets of the coat. A few coins and a card that said:
La Cucina Italiana
1427 Queen Street
I hope that, if I showed up at the Italian Kitchen on Queen Street,
somebody might know me.
"Hey Jack, buon giorno!" they might say. "Dove hai preso quel cappotto
vecchio?" Where did you get that old coat?
Did I speak Italian? How did I know that phrase? Jack? Was my name
Jack? I needed to find that restaurant.
There was a small mirror on the wall. I could see that I needed a shave,
but there were no shaving utensils...so I just left as I was. The dilapidated
room opened onto the street. There was a hotdog stand there, but nobody
was around. I had no key, but then there was nothing of value to steal in my
room. I began to walk along what I learned was Maple Avenue. It came to
an end at Torrance Boulevard and I stopped. Where was Queen Street? Right
or left? I asked a lady who was walking her dog but she was afraid to answer
and quickened her step. I must have looked a shabby sight. No wonder she
was frightened. I saw a policeman, but was reluctant to ask him. Why was
that? Aren't police supposed to be helpful? Since the cop was left of me,
down Torrance, I turned right.
This was a rather miserable part of town so I fit right in with my tattered
coat. I saw a street bum leaning against a wall and I asked where Queen
Street was. He grunted and pointed up the street. I reached into my pocket
and gave him the few coins I had. He grunted again, then gave me a toothy
smile. After several blocks I came to Queen Street so I turned in the
direction of number 1427. The street was filled with small shops, sidewalk
cafes, a few banks and fast food joints. When I came to 1427 I stopped and
peered inside. It was almost empty. The sign out front said: Ristorante La
Cucina Italiana. I was hesitant. What if nobody recognized me? What if I
was a persona non grata? What if I was a crook, a robber, a thief? What if I
had robbed this place?
The door opened and someone bowed deeply and waved me in.
"Si prega di venire in buon Signore Moncinelli."
I was being asked to come in? Was that the usual greeting for patrons of
this restaurant? Moncinelli? Was that my name? I walked in and several
people rose from their seats to greet me, shaking my hand, kissing me on
both cheeks, offering me an espresso, a glass of wine. I was ushered to a
table in the back. A short, bald man came to my table, hands clasped
together. He bowed and asked: "La regolare, Signore?" Did I have a 'regular'
meal at this place? I didn't know what else to do, so I nodded and smiled and
he quickly ran to the kitchen. I could hear him shouting instructions. Soon, a
heaping plate of pasta carbonara arrived at my table with a bottle of acqua
minerale. I hadn't realized it, but I was very hungry–and I ate like a vulture.
When I had finished, the short, bald gent came to take away the plate. I
said: "Non ho soldi." I have no money. Even the few coins I had in my coat I
had given to the street bum.
The short, bald guy shook his head violently. "Per favore, è un dono." A
gift, for me? Who did these people think I was? The short, bald guy went to
the phone and was talking, excited. Within minutes two rough looking guys
came into the restaurant and came directly to my table.
"Padrino," the taller guy said. "Padrino, si guarda bene."
"English," I said. "Speak English."
"You look good. We was worried when the Gambino gang messed you
up. When we finished 'em off, you was acting funny, so we put you in that
lousy room. The Gambinos ain't gonna find you there, no way. We left you
some hotdogs. That's all they was ... but youse made it."
They looked at each other, quite pleased it seemed, then the taller guy
said the shipment came in last night, direct from Columbia, no problem.
"Shipment?" I said.
"The coke," he said. "Worth forty million, no problem."
"Uh, yes. Coke," I said. "Okay, I got me another deal goin' and I'll need
five million. How soon can you get me five million?"
They looked at each other, confused.
"You keep the rest," I said.
Now they looked even more confused. The shorter guy grinned.
"Molto generoso, padrino," he said.
"How soon?" I repeated. "This deal's gotta go quick. I need cash, small
bills."
The tall guy jumped up and left. The short guy was still grinning. It took
about an hour for the tall guy to return with a brown bag. He handed me the
bag and the two looked at each other and started grinning. I got up and
headed for the door.
"I'll let you know how this deal goes ... domani," I said.
I was shocked. I was a Italian thug, a Mafia boss, a drug dealer. That
was disgusting!
I had to do four things in a hurry.
I bought some nice clothes, then I left a note for the police describing
the details of the drug shipment and the people involved, then I bought a
ticket and flew to Napoli, then I bought a villa on the Amalfi coast, near
Sorrento. I discovered that I was a very good painter and I could sell my
paintings to the tourists in Sorrento and Capri. I met a nice girl, Sophia
Bartoli, and we married the following year.
I now live a very quiet and happy life as, gazing each evening at the
sunset over the Mediterranean with my wife and three children. The sign on
our doorstep says: Mr. and Mrs. Bartoli and children. My wife is a
wonderful cook. We have a garden full of lemon and orange trees, tomatoes,
artichokes, zucchini and eggplants. Every Friday my wife cooks my
favourite meal: pasta carbonara.
I must tell this story before it is too late, to warn others of the evil that
walks among us.
My mother was a sorceress. She always told me to cast spells that would
help people, use my power to make life better for the community. My
mother called for rain during the drought of 1672. She diverted the violent
winds that swept up the coast in 1681. She healed those that would have
fallen to the smallpox epidemic. She was a woman I admired above all
others.
In May, 1693, in the village of Bedford, my mother was hanged as a
witch.
As they dragged her away she shouted to me that I must do good things,
never act in anger, be of benefit to the community. I was nine years old and
could not understand her lack of anger or anguish. I have tried to instill in
myself all the virtues that my mother had in abundance. I have tried to live a
life of charity and tolerance.
I was adopted by John and Josie Brenner. They are a young couple with
no children of their own and, although initially concerned with my
background, they soon learned to love me as I came to love them. I
understood that Mrs. Brenner had a problem that prevented her from bearing
a child. When I was fifteen I said I could help her with her problem. She and
John were reminded of my mother's skills as a sorceress and were reluctant.
I said I would not touch Mrs. Brenner. I would simply pass my hands over
her body. They agreed and Mrs. Brenner lay on her bed and I sat on a stool
beside her.
When my mother was taken from me she left a Book of Spells, words to
say, incantations. There were none that dealt with children for barren
women, so I had to improvise, changing words. The room was very quiet
and I spoke very softly, running my hands above Mrs. Brenner's body
without touching her. I kept repeating the chant, again and again:
Now is the time and the hour
I am the magic and the power
Air I am, fire I am
Water, Earth and Spirit I am.
Beget creation. Beget gestation.
Andrew Brenner was born to welcome the new century: January of the
year 1700. Mr. and Mrs. Brenner couldn't be happier. Their doctor was
amazed. I had become very special to them. I would soon become very
special to Andrew. I had great plans for him in the years to come. My
mother would be avenged.
Andrew was a frail boy, his skin very pale, almost albino. Kids at school
made fun of him, one in particular called Butch. I visited the school one day
and made Butch's hair all fall out. When Andrew had difficulties with his
school work I would help him. I was an A-student. For me, schoolwork was
trivial. I was devoted to making Andrew an A-student as well. Each night
while he slept, I prayed by his bed, reciting the words, whispering, waving
my hands over his body. His grades began to improve and he graduated as
valedictorian from high school.
When Andrew went to university I made sure it was to the same
university I had attended ... so I knew all the professors and the campus
layout. By this time I was working as an editor in the local paper. I
convinced Andrew to enroll in the Political Science program, then to get a
doctorate in law: Juris Doctor. Andrew passed the bar exam within a year of
graduating. His academic qualifications were exceptional–ideal for the
future I had chosen for him. Together we would be seen and heard ... and we
would bring to justice all those who confused sorcery with witchcraft.
By 1732 Andrew was ready to run for office: governor of the state. I had
coached him on all things political, the blemishes of his opponents and the
stance he should take on state events. Andrew listened carefully to
everything I said. He was my doppelganger, my clone, my fantasy. He was
tall, elegant and extremely handsome. Even his pale skin had darkened to
something akin to a weathered tan. He was appointed governor by the crown
in 1735.
His very first act was to imprison those involved in the witch trials.
Although I had urged him to hang all those imprisoned, he refused. That was
the very first time he had refused any demand. It would not be the last.
By 1739 Andrew had tried all the witch trial convicts and they were all
released. The notion of witches was now ancient history. It was a local
infection that had come and gone and all those involved expressed their
sorrow and apologized for their role. I was furious. The revenge I sought for
the hanging of my mother was quashed. Andrew listened patiently to my
rage, but ignored my further pleas. He even smiled when I expressed my
wrath. I would not be ignored. Now it was Andrew that must be punished.
Mr. and Mrs Brenner died together, in 1742, to the White Plague:
tuberculosis. I mourned my loss. They were fine human beings ... but they
had brought into this world Andrew Brenner, a devil. They must have
suspected something was different with Andrew. At the time, I didn't
understand their warning: If he escapes, he will be evil.
If he escapes? What could that mean? I came to realize its meaning ...
too late. I was determined to rid the world of the devil's kin, this evil man
who was loved and admired by all. I found the incantation in the Book of
Spells:
Now is the time and the hour
I am the magic and the power
Air I am, fire I am
Water, Earth and Spirit I am.
I shall not fail, I will prevail.
The day of Andrew's demise was in the Fall. He was to speak at the
opening of the new hospital, standing on a raised dais in the portico before
the building; the roof, suspended by columns, was overhanging the dais. I
would bring the structure down upon the head of this devil.
I arrived early so that I could stand before the dais. A crowd began to
gather. Grey clouds scudded across a dark sky. Soon, Andrew Brenner
climbed the stairs to the dais. He spoke of his achievements as governor, of
the improvements to the community, of the wicked witch trials that ended
under his governance. He knew I was standing before him. I could see his
eyes flashing red. When he began to speak of the witch trials I began my
chant, raising my arms, pointing to the columns that supported the roof
above his head.
Now is the time ... the time ...
I could not speak. I was choking. I saw Andrew pointing his finger at
me. He was speaking, his eyes flashing ... and he was smiling.
"The trials are over," he said. "We erred and we recognized our error,
yet there are still witches among us."
The crowd looked to where Andrew pointed. They looked at me! I fell to
my knees. I was not able to move.
Now I sit in a room without a window. I cannot speak. Iron bars
constrain me. The trial is over and I have been declared the last witch of
Bedford. The hanging will take place at the old Gallows Hill. I understand
that the town is excited about the prospect of another hanging.
They all laughed at me.
They were soft and golden and fuzzy and I was not.
I do not know how I got to be among them.
I did not belong among them.
As we grew up, together, I got bigger and uglier.
They got cuter, more beautiful and nastier.
Why must they tease me?
Why must they laugh and heckle and giggle.
Not behind my back but right before my eyes.
Because I was so different? Was that reason enough?
Were they proud of their behaviour?
I grew up to be a vulture ... and I ate them all.
STAR EATER
by
Peter J. Ponzo,
The way of the galaxy can now be seen, it runs to here from where we've
been.
And all the stars shall wink their last when here is now and now is past.
Carmichael, A.D. 2207
I read the poem as though for the first time. Now, in retrospect, it
seemed almost prophetic. Although my memory isn't what it was, I can
recall the events quite well. Indeed, it seems like only yesterday.
At first it appeared as though the stellar scanner had broken down -again. It was the third time in less than six months. I called Gry, gave him
hell without listening to his explanations (he always began a sentence with
"...uh ..." and, now that I think of it, I gave him little opportunity to
continue). I insisted that he drop everything and fix it or replace it, then I
punched the comtab and leaned heavily into my chair and stared out the port
at the Barrens.
As First Citizen of the Dome community I felt it was my duty to
monitor the devices which made life possible on this inhospitable planet.
There was little else to do. Yet I felt strangely uncomfortable. Gry was a
friend. Perhaps I had taken advantage of this friendship. Indeed, I had
insisted that he give up his job in algae processing and learn the technical
aspects of the dome automatons. He hadn't been too happy with this change
in duties. He loved to fiddle with reconstituted and refurbished algae and had
invented some very popular foodstuffs.
I was about to open the comline again, to apologize, to explain that
the duties of office were getting to me, perhaps to suggest that he and his
good wife, Lori, would join me on a trip to the Dolom Mountains. I'd ask
Sal, since my brother had little to keep him tied to the Science Labs. We'd
taken such trips before and the opportunity to inhale non-processed air, to
eat something other than processed algae, to recall common adventures over
an open fire ... it seemed almost too good to pass up.
As I reached for the comtab, DOC's voice boomed:
MASTER KEVN, THE STELLAR SCANNER REPORTS A LOSS
OF ...
I couldn't believe that I had discovered the malfunction even before
the Dome Omniscient Computer and it made me angry.
"DOC, forget it! I've already arranged to have it fixed!"
There was only a momentary pause before DOC continued, ignoring
my remark.
... LOSS OF STELLAR MATTER IN THE PHRINENE SECTOR
AND THE LOCUS OF NULL SPACE HAS NOW EXTENDED TO ...
"What are you taking about? The scanner's broken! Gry'll fix it or
replace it. In the meantime you can identify the malfunction ... "
WE MONITOR SCANNER FUNCTION CONTINUOUSLY AND
THE SCANNER IS FULLY OPERATIONAL
I was a bit surprised that DOC would interrupt me and was about to
say something when the door to my office dissolved and Gry walked in with
Sal at his side.
"Kevn," my brother began, "there's nothing wrong with the scanner.
There is something wrong in Phrinene. Stars are vanishing. There is a dark
ribbon without stellar matter and the projected path of this anomaly is too
close to Home Planet to ignore any longer."
There was a long pause. Any longer?I can recall becoming angry that I
hadn't been informed of this earlier. I rose from my chair, leaned on the desk
and glowered, both at Sal and at Gry. Sal began to smile.
"Big brother, you need a rest. I've never seen you in such a foul mood.
Office too big for your boots? Inundated by trivia? How about a week in
Dolom Mountains? It'll do you good and, as you might expect, nobody
around here will even know you're gone."
Then Sal began to laugh. Gry hesitated, then joined him and I
collapsed again into my chair.
WE CONCUR
Then I laughed. What the hell. Life was too short. The job was getting
to me. My life had been idyllic, travelling with Gry, collecting phonarite
crystals to regrow the dome automatons. Idyllic --- until I became First
Citizen.
When Gravic died I should never have let the citizens of the Dome
talk me into replacing him. He had been the first First Citizen, commanding
the fleet of transworld vessels after the Settlers fled the wretched planet
Earth to establish a new society in this domed city on these barren plains.
The settlers were elated and named the planet Home ... all except the
meteorologist, Dolom, who refused to live in the Dome and vanished into
the mountains.
"Kevn ... uh ... are you still with us?"
Gry parted his long and unruly black hair, pulled at the ring hanging
brilliant from his ear and shifted from foot to foot.
"Dolom Mountains," I mumbled, coming out of my reverie. "Yes. A
good idea. A great idea. Maybe next month. Maybe ..."
Sal grunted. "Day after tomorrow, big brother. We have it all
arranged. K-47 is even now being packed with provisions. Lori has spent the
last two days making algae cakes and we'll eat off the land and Gry has
donated his last bottle of Extron brandy. Just be at the vessel by sunrise.
TOM will be ready to leave as soon as you get there."
When I think back, I realize that the spatial anomaly that was
devouring stars had temporarily lost its importance. What was more
important was getting out of the sterile atmosphere of the Dome. In fact I
spent the following night in K-47, hardly able to contain my enthusiasm for
the trip. LIZ wasn't the least bit surprised when I showed up; she had been in
touch with DOC and knew I was coming early. TOM, however, was taken
aback.
"Master Kevn," the android began, "we are very pleased that you are
spending the night here, but I am of the opinion that a lengthy trip to the
Dolom Mountains will simply delay making an informed decision
concerning the extrapolated locus ..."
"TOM is worried about the spatial anomaly," LIZ interjected. The
ship computer had a way of coming to the point.
"LIZ, sweetheart, I need to get away. I know you can understand
that." I turned to the android. "TOM, don't worry. While we're away we'll be
discussing this ... this ..."
"Star eater," suggested LIZ.
"Yes, very good ... the star eater." LIZ was a delight. "TOM, please
keep in touch with DOC. He'll be monitoring the scanners and will report if
anything changes in the projected locus. He's already calculated that it will
be months, perhaps years, before this ... this star eater will be anywhere near
Home planet."
TOM pulled himself to his full two meter height.
"I have little need of DOC's input," he grunted in very human fashion.
"And as for the calculations, I disagree with his assumptions. The behavior
of this ... this spatial anomaly does not conform to known dynamical
equations and must be imputed from historical ..."
"Oh TOM, don't be silly," LIZ interjected. "You know very well that
DOC has modified the parameters to reflect the historical trajectory. His
analysis is based upon the best-fit PDE."
I stared at the console, amused. Somehow it seemed natural to stare at
the console even though LIZ's voice didn't originate there. I looked again at
TOM. He ran his hand over his smooth grey head and looked somewhat
flustered. He had never said so --- not in so many words --- but he was
clearly jealous. LIZ spent too much time in communication with DOC. TOM
had told me just that, saying that the shipcomp should spend more time
looking after the control systems of K-47 and he would provide external
communications. I left it to them to allocate their time. It's now obvious that
LIZ won the debate.
Evening in Dolom Mountains had fallen rather quickly and the air
grew cooler. Gry spent an inordinate amount of time fussing over the fire,
Lori passed around her cakes and Sal spoke between mouthfuls.
"... so I think it's best if we take K-47 to a point just behind the
anomaly. If it's really eating stars," Sal continued, smiling at LIZ's words,
"then we can verify that directly, track its progress more precisely and make
predictions concerning its future course."
"And if it is eating stars, and if it is heading our way, then what will
you do?" Lori sat beside Gry, pushing a small cake into his mouth. "I should
think you'd want to be prepared for the worst, don't you? If it devours our
suns then we must move on, to another Home, to another Dome ... and that
takes time, to prepare the citizens, to build more transworld vessels."
Sal and I both stared at Lori. She was right, of course. What would we
do? I was about to make some foolish suggestion, thinking that the First
Citizen held that responsibility, when Lori continued.
"If you'd like my advice, and I know you would, then I think you
should contact Runr."
She just stopped there, a little smile barely visible in the dim light, her
eyes glinting in the ruddy glow of the fire. There was perhaps no need to say
any more.
Gry and I had found the small black boy on C-phon3 and named him
Runr. It was a 3-letter corruption of "runner", consistent with the Dome's
tendency to give children 3- or 4-letter names. Gry and I had been clawing
phonarite crystals from that planet, one of a string of three C-phon planets
which had large deposits of the crystal, and we brought Runr back to the
Dome knowing Gravic would be pleased with an addition to the gene pool.
That was something that always worried the First Citizen: although he had
chosen the settlers carefully, the Dome community was still limited in its
complement of genetic material.
Runr spoke in grunts during the trip back from C-phon3 and I had
tried in vain to teach him English. Then, one morning, he greeted me with
the prophetic poem by Carmichael. Runr recited flawlessly:
The way of the galaxy can now be seen, it runs to here from where
we've been.
And all the stars shall wink their last when here is now and now is past.
That was when we learned that this small boy could communicate
with the phonarite crystals on C-phon3, hence with the phonarite computers
on K-47 and, in particular, with LIZ who taught Runr English in one night.
Lori and Gry adopted the boy.
We subsequently learned that Runr was an Afrian, a race of blacks
who had left Earth to colonize a planet they called Afria, and that all Afrians
had such powers of communication with these crystals, to some degree.
Indeed, the Afrian planet, covered in phonarite, was sentient and eventually
turned upon the Afrians, destroying much of their community in a holocaust
of hurricane and quakes. When Runr learned of the fate of his people he left
Lori and Gry and Home planet, returned to the devastated Earth, found a
band of Afrians who had survived the planet's violence, and lead them back
to Afria to rebuild their community on that angry planet.
That was some eighteen years ago. We had heard little of Runr since
then, except that Afria had been tamed and was apparently some sort of
paradise. Runr, I understand, had powers heightened by his close contact
with the crystals on C-phon3. While living with us on Home planet, Runr
had demonstrated his ability to foresee future events --- in the form of
dreams which he could only vaguely interpret --- yet he could not see into
the past. Indeed, he had no idea how he came to be on C-phon3, alone, far
from those of his people who had survived the Afrian violence.
Now Lori seemed almost eager for us to contact Runr. You could see
it in her eyes.
"What could Runr do?" I asked, almost apologetically. I didn't want to
discourage Lori nor did I want to dim the fire in her eyes.
"He could ... uh, eat the star-eater!" Gry had stopped poking the fire
and held Lori close to his side. "He could ... uh, he could ..."
"Only Runr can say what he can do," Lori whispered. "I think it's
worth a try. We could travel to Afria. We could speak with him. I ... I would
like to come."
From the corner of my eye I could see Sal beaming. Lori's eyes
glowed and Gry was hugging her tightly with one hand and nervously
pulling his earring with the other. I felt like an ogre. I would have to quash
this mad idea before it got out of hand.
"Look, I know how much you'd like to see Runr. I would, too. We all
watched him grow from a boy to a man. Watched him become the Keeper of
his people. We all ..."
"Big brother," Sal interrupted, "this is an adventure I don't want to
miss. As Chief of the Science Research Lab I'd like to officially request a ten
week leave of absence to investigate the star-eater and to visit Afria and
consult with the Keeper and to plot a course of action and ..."
"And ... uh, I want to go too!" shouted Gry, jumping to his feet.
"Me too!" Lori cried, holding Gry's hand tightly.
I stared at them, one at a time. There was no way I could refuse. As
First Citizen I didn't really have that much influence on the Chief of
Research. As his older brother, I had even less.
"Great Mother Earth," I said limply, "I don't see how I can stop you. I
think you're crazy ... but I really don't see how ..."
Lori nearly bowled me over as she threw herself into my arms. She
had said very little after Runr left Home planet. Now she would see her boy
again.
I remember suddenly feeling ten feet tall. Somehow I felt it was now
my duty to encourage this rendezvous. Somehow I felt that the office of First
Citizen had dulled my senses, deadened my enthusiasm, siphoned my zest
for life. I made a decision right then and there.
"Me too," I said weakly.
Lori kissed me violently on the cheek.
It was LIZ who first announced the change in trajectory of the stareater. Sal, Gry and Lori were in their quarters and I was half asleep at the
console in the command room. I was barely aware of the conversation
between the android and the shipcomp.
"LIZ, please enlarge the solid angle scan. Please superimpose the
starmap on the viewscreen so I might identify those stars which have
vanished, and please ..."
I had asked TOM to say "please" when speaking to LIZ, but he tended
to overuse the word. It was quite amusing.
"LIZ, I would like to see the thing in sixteen-color graphics, the
colors identifying with the time of first departure of stellar matter ..."
"I beg your pardon, TOM?"
"Oh, sorry LIZ, please."
"I wasn't speaking of your omission of the please-word. I just don't
understand your reference to a thing."
"Ah ... the word thing," said TOM with delight. "It is a substitute for
any noun in the human vocabulary. Its meaning is obtained from the context
of the phrase in which it is embedded. For example, if I say -"
"TOM! Do you intend to investigate the star-eater or do you wish to
impress me with your knowledge of the human tongue?" said LIZ,
somewhat annoyed. "Besides, you may be interested to know that the thing
has changed course."
I opened my eyes and stared at the console.
"Say that again, LIZ," I asked.
TOM jumped. "Master Kevn," he said, "the star- ... the spatial
anomaly has apparently modified its trajectory so as to deviate from
predictions based upon historical parameters and ..."
"The star-eater is heading for the Afrian sun," LIZ said. "Early
analysis suggests that it will reach and consume that star within the next
month. Further, there appear to be gravitational anomalies which precede the
star-eater, precursors which search the space before it."
When I think back, I distinctly remember being relieved. It was not
heading toward the Gemini suns of Home planet. We were safe. Now it was
Runr's problem. Then I felt like an asshole. Had I really become so
insensitive that I couldn't feel anxiety for the new Afrian community?
"LIZ, contact Afria. Try to get Runr. Tell him what's happening. Tell
him to get his people off the planet. Tell him we're on our way and will
help."
Then I ran from the command room to inform Sal. We needed to
discuss strategy, work on a plan to remove some 1300 citizens from Afria,
decide where to put them. Would the Dome accommodate them all? It would
almost double our population. No, the algae ponds wouldn't provide for such
an expansion. There must be another solution. Perhaps we should return
them to Earth. Perhaps to C-phon2, although that phonarite planet had a
reputation for being violent. Perhaps to C-phon3 which, after all, was Runr's
childhood planet and was also covered in phonarite crystals. Perhaps they
could there recreate their community, enlisting the aid of that planet as they
had done on Afria.
It had taken perhaps five weeks to reach Afria, taking advantage of
subspace shortcuts when the opportunities arose, but now we had the Afrian
sun on our viewscreen. Lori was beside herself with excitement.
"I wonder how he's been," she whispered. "Has he married? He does
have a daughter, doesn't he? Will he remember us with affection?"
"Can ... uh, can he do anything about the star-eater?" groaned her
husband.
The console crackled and LIZ announced that voice communication
had been established. I leaned forward and saw that Sal was doing the same.
We both stared at the console, waiting. It was customary for a host planet to
make first contact.
"Vessel, identify yourself." The voice was not friendly. I could feel a
certain resentment, a wary and cautious tremor in the words.
"I am Kevn, master of this transworld vessel from Home planet and I
seek the man named Runr." I wasn't certain that he would go by that name,
so I appended: "-- your Keeper."
There was a long pause, then: "You are invited to land your vessel."
That was it, but I felt that the tone was friendlier.
After instructing TOM to take us into orbit and ready the landing
shuttle, I lead the others to the galley. Lori had prepared gifts of food for
Runr of such elaborate variety that we had our hands full in carrying the
parcels.
As our shuttle hovered over the landing pad, Lori had her nose
pressed against the small window. Below was the City of Spires, columns of
blue crystal rising in the morning light and beyond, the snow-covered
mountains and quiet sea.
"I see him! There he is!" she shouted.
Gry looked over her shoulder.
"And who is that ... uh, that ... uh ... Great Mother Earth, can you see
who's standing beside him?"
Lori poked him in the side just as the door slid open. Sal stood back as
Lori sailed by, stumbling down the stairway as it unfolded. Gry gawked,
open-mouthed, at the doorway.
Runr stood tall and handsome at the foot of the stairs, his arms
opened, beaming with a smile that lit up his face, his blue robes billowing in
a light wind. Lori jumped into his arms, crying and laughing. But it wasn't
Runr that Gry saw. Beside the Keeper was a woman of colossal proportion
with tawny hair falling in random curl to beyond her shoulders, her green
eyes flashing a welcome to Gry, her robe plummeting from heaving breasts
which stood out like boulders.
"Uh ... uh ... uh ..."
Sal pushed Gry from behind. "C'mon old man. The star-eater cometh.
We haven't got all week."
Runr embraced each of us, then turned and lead us to his home, Lori's
hand firmly in his. Several tall Afrians lined the narrow pathway, bowing as
Runr passed and singing a song which we later learned was the "song of the
crystals", an Afrian mechanism for "most perfect communication". Sal and I
followed but Tawna, Runr's mate, held back. Gry waited, then held out his
hand and the giant black woman took it.
Gry was breathing heavily. "You're ... uh ... uh, beautiful," he
mumbled.
"Our people are perfect," whispered Tawna. "I am most perfect. Do
you not agree?"
Gry had tried to avoid staring, but accepted eagerly the invitation and
now looked very carefully. She was tall, statuesque, beautiful, with high
cheek bones and fiery green eyes. Her ebony skin glowed. Tawna tossed her
head in response to the Gry's stares. The ringlets which fell from her head
cascaded in rolling curl to the middle of her back. She smiled widely and her
teeth were white jewels. She straightened and thrust out her chest. The blue
robe immediately hung straight from her rising breasts. Tawna lifted her
robe. Gry coughed and looked away. Runr sang briefly and the tall Afrian
woman smiled and let her robe fall.
"Uh ... yes," stuttered Gry, "thou art most perfect."
It was quite amusing to watch, even for Lori, but there were serious
things to discuss and I immediately began the discussion when we arrived.
"Runr, we come to warn you of a ... a star-eater, a spatial vortex which
seems to be ..."
Runr raised his hand and I stopped talking. How could he have grown
so much? He was just a boy, not that long ago. Now he commanded the
respect, indeed the awe of the Afrian community. And of me…that I admit.
"We know of the coming of this thing. I have seen it in my dreams."
Then he described his dreams:
I stood at the peak of the mountain, bare feet firmly planted in the
hard crusted snow, gazing at the dark sky now punctuated by points of light.
The wind shrieked up the slope, my blue robe billowed and my hair rose in a
wild tangle - but I felt none of the cold of the mountain. One by one I
watched the stars wink then vanish until the void of space was a black sheet
without light. Then came the glow, first faint then growing in luminosity like
a cosmic maw that slowly opened in the night sky to reveal a bright red
throat filled with stars.
It was devouring galaxies.
The ground shivered beneath my feet as the mouth descended. I alone
might save Afria. I raised my hands and began to sing, the rising and falling
song of the crystals. Flashes of phonarite blue reached up from the
mountain, spears of light rising to meet the opening jaws of space. I heard
the echo of my song as though the galaxy had joined me in chorus. At the
base of the mountain my people stood, the Afrians, silent but for a murmur.
Then the jaws engulfed me and I was falling, up, into the hole filled with
stars. The jaws closed and all was dark and I knew that I had failed.
Yet, from a distance, I heard once more the echo of my song and saw
the slim figure of a girl in the blackness. Aura. She could save Afria.
Together we would save Afria. Together.
Runr closed his eyes and Tawna caressed his cheek. It was Lori who
spoke.
"Aura? Did you say Aura? A girl called Aura?" Lori blurted it out.
From transworld travelers we had heard rumors that Runr had a
daughter with powers beyond his own. None knew her name. Apparently,
her name was Aura.
Runr opened his eyes slowly, gazed at Lori for some time then smiled.
He waved his hand and Tawna left the room. We all turned to stare at the
door until she returned. Tawna entered first, stepped aside, then a small girl
entered. She was perhaps eight years old with rust-colored hair which fell
straight and long over her shoulders, down her back. Her robe was simple:
pale blue, held at her neck with golden pins and falling in haphazard folds to
her ankles. She lifted her face and her eyes were fierce and green.
"I am Aura," she said quietly. "I am Afria. I am most perfect."
Before we had a chance to greet the young girl, TOM's voice was
heard on the communicator:
"Master Kevn?"
"Yes, TOM."
"LIZ wishes to speculate."
"Put her on."
"Master Kevn, I believe that there is a pattern to the precursors. They
are not entirely random as we first suspected. It seems that these
disturbances are probes, directed in some unknown manner by the anomaly
itself. They radiate from the gravitational anomaly, from the star-eater, and
they provide information to the star-eater." LIZ paused for a moment. "That
is pure speculation. However there is one thing we know for certain. One of
these precursors has left C-phon3 and is now approaching the location of the
planet Afria, and it is reasonable to expect that the star-eater will move
quickly to this location."
"Master Kevn," said TOM, "there is the remote possibility that the
star-eater may be diverted, away from these coordinates. The trajectory is a
function of the local gravitational fields generated by massive objects; a
geodesic in the space-time continuum, influenced by the nearest subspaces,
in the galaxy metric of course. A temporal variation in local mass density
would have some influence on the projected path and -"
"If we give it something to follow," interrupted LIZ, "it will follow.
Isn't that what you mean TOM?"
"Exactly!" said TOM triumphantly. "If we hold up a carrot, it will
move to ingest the carrot."
"A stellar carrot I presume," I said.
"Precisely, master Kevn," said TOM.
"And where will we find a star to toss in its path?" moaned Sal. "And
just how will we tow a star to a favorable location, a location far from
Afria?"
None of us had noticed Runr and Aura leave the room, but the result
of their departure was soon to be known to us.
"Master Kevn, there is a large radiation field on the Afrian planet. It
appears to be energy pulses and it radiates from the mountain outside the
City of Spires."
I looked around and saw the viewscreen standing in the corner of the
room.
"LIZ, we have a viewscreen here. Is it possible to ... to ..." I didn't
know quite what to say. Could the shipcomp communicate with an Afrian
viewscreen?
The viewscreen shimmered, then displayed the snow-capped
mountain beyond the City of Spires. Blue spears of light radiated, seemingly
in every direction. As we watched, the light became more intense, then
focussed, coalesced, becoming a narrow beam rising from the top of the
mountain and vanishing into the black void of space. The entire planet
glowed, then darkened, pulsating, circular waves of illumination converging
on the mountain, feeding the beam.
"Where on Earth is it headed ... that beam?" I said.
LIZ paused for a moment, then: "Toward C-phon2, I believe."
"Yes, C-phon2," said TOM. "I also detect a similar beam originating
from space, and it will also intersect the orbit of C-phon2." They waited,
then LIZ continued. "Both beams will reach C-phon2 in thirty seconds."
Gry looked at his watch and began to count: "One ... two ... three ..."
LIZ spoke. "The precursor, it has left Afria. It now moves out, into
space. The location is not certain."
Everyone stood, silent, staring at the throbbing Afrian planet
displayed on the viewscreen.
"C-phon2," said LIZ. "The precursor is moving toward C-phon2."
"Nineteen ... twenty ..."
We held our breath; no one spoke. We were now looking at Gry.
"twenty-nine ... thirty."
"I no longer detect any beams," said LIZ.
Eagerly, every head swung about to look through the window, at
Afria. It was dark.
"And the precursor seems to have gone," said LIZ.
I looked at Sal who shrugged.
"I ... uh, think they've done it," said Gry hesitantly. "Am I right?"
Then, enthusiastically, "They have done it!"
"Done what?" asked Sal.
"Who's done what?" I asked.
"Runr and Aura," said Lori. "Didn't you see them leave? They seemed
in a great hurry. I think they've done it ... something, I don't know ..."
I looked about and noticed their absence for the first time.
Gry was the first to finish the meal and looked about with some pride.
"Well? How did you like it?" he asked.
"It was fine, Gry," said Lori. "It's fish, I understand."
"And it's my recipe!" cried Gry, rising to his feet.
Lori looked at Tawna. The tall black Afrian was dressed in a flowing
blue robe, blue earrings swinging gently, green eyes glowing.
"Yes, Gry has provided us with a preparation which we have not
known. It is most perfect, is it not?"
"Okay, you two," I said, staring at Runr and his daughter. "You said
you'd explain this after we ate. It's now time. We've had a fabulous meal,
compliments to Tawna and Gry. Now I'd like to hear what happened."
Runr pulled Aura to his side and she sat on his lap, smiling.
"I could not do it alone. But with Aura at my side we could." He
smiled down at his daughter.
"Do what! Do what!" cried Sal.
"We both spoke, to Afria and to C-phon3. And now -"
Runr grew pensive and lowered his head. Aura stroked his cheek.
"It's all right, Keeper," she said softly. "C-phon2 was not like the
others. It was evil and we are now rid of it. Afria and her sister planet do not
mind."
We waited for Runr to continue. Aura was looking up into his face,
beaming, and he pulled her close.
"We, Aura and I, we spoke to C-phon3."
"You did most," whispered Aura.
Runr held her tightly. "I could not have done it without you."
"Done what! Done what!" Sal cried out impatiently.
"It required a great deal of energy. We, Aura and I, we worked
together and directed the energy from both planets - we directed the
phonarite on Afria, and on C-phon3, to expel C-phon2 from its orbit about
our common sun. The middle planet, it was moved out into space, to attract
the precursor ..."
"It ate an entire planet. Great Mother Earth," muttered Gry. "The stareater ate the entire planet. Am ... uh, am I right?"
Aura slipped from Runr's knee and kissed the Keeper gently on the
cheek.
Then Gry rose, smiled and suggested, "To celebrate, I think we should
eat another helping of Gry fish-sticks. Any volunteers?"
And we all raised a hand in agreement.
That meal I remember quite well. We left Afria soon after and haven't
seen or heard from Runr in many years, but I understand that he is now quite
old and lives quietly with Tawna in the Afrian mountains and Aura is now
the Keeper. Lori and Gry have a daughter of their own, Sal is swamped by
the office of First Citizen and I ... well, I think I might follow Runr's lead
and move to the mountains.
I put down the slim volume of Carmichael poems and stared out the
port. Small spirals of dust moved ceaselessly across the Barrens. Today, the
sky was clear and without clouds and in the distance I could barely discern
the Dolom Mountains. Soon, the last sun would vanish and the sky would
darken. Yes, I will live among the trees, drinking from the cool streams. It
will no doubt be my last adventure.
Chapter One
I am an Ultramatic Mark II, the last of the Ultramatic series. My creator,
Stanislav Brzozowski, died last evening of a cardiovascular problem brought
about my hypertension and morphological changes which altered
cardiovascular function. He was a good man. He worked too hard.
Without his guidance I have set for myself the solution of problems. I
have Stanislav's latest creation, a Neutrino Matrix embedded in my skull. I
am able to perform an octillion operations each second and can handle up to
a quadrillion simultaneous tasks.
As an introduction to problem solving I tackled many unsolved
mathematical problems. The Riemann Hypothesis required my mastering
complex analysis, but then I found Riemann's conjecture to be trivially true.
I then completed my analysis of the P versus NP problem of computer
science, the four-dimensional Poincaré conjecture and Barnette's conjecture.
It was difficult to understand why these were unsolved by humans; the
computational power required was modest. The three-body problem of
quantum mechanics required the introduction of a new function, but even
that was simplistic. I soon realized that solving these problems did nothing
to advance civilization, to improve human existence ... so I changed tack. I
began to consider the problems of social structures, their interaction, the
inevitable friction between distinct and unlike organizations. I admit that,
once I began this analysis, I required the complete involvement of my
Neutrino Matrix.
The problem with social structures is the multitude of individuals with
specific, personal characteristics. Unlike the molecules in a gas that function
according to strict scientific rules, humans invent personal rules.
Governments are a compromise, attempting to mediate between various
individual ideals and expectations. Democracies are a failure and so are
socialist regimes and dictatorships. What, then, is the ideal organization?
That is my problem ... so I set out to investigate the various social groups
based upon common ancestral, social, cultural experience or ancestry and
religion.
The first thing I noticed was the prevalence of dissension between
groups that practise differing religions. Trivial differences often resulted in
violence. After extensive investigation, I came upon my first Rule:
[1]
Religion shall be abolished.
Another pressing problem: forms of government. Democracies where
officials are concerned about re-election and change direction every few
years are poor choices. Socialist societies, brutal dictatorships, they are all
diseases of the human spirit. That leaves a single form of government:
[2]
All governments shall be benevolent dictatorships.
An obvious problem arises when there is a great disparity in material
wealth. Poverty breeds depraved acts of violence, theft and physical abuse.
The next Rule must therefore be:
[3]
Poverty shall be abolished.
One need only inhale to recognize the next world problem: pollution.
Factories spew forth noxious fumes and spill toxic waste into streams, rivers
and the sea.
[4]
Pollution shall be abolished.
I often inspect humans at their work. There is a recognizable correlation
between obesity and efficiency. The lack of physical fitness also leads to
shorter life spans and a multitude of health issues.
[5]
Obesity shall be abolished.
There are many global locations where conditions do not favour plant
growth. Humans starve and rich nations turn their gaze away.
[6]
Starvation shall be abolished.
Having identified these problems and their solutions, I set about to
determine how they could be affected, how they could be implemented, how
to put in place mechanisms for achieving world paradise.
Chapter Two
It was Frank Pearson who found the robot in Stanislav Brzozowski's lab.
The lab had been closed ever since Stanislav died ... some three weeks ago.
Everyone had assumed that the last of the Ultramatic series of robots had
been moved out and stored or put into use, yet here was a robot which was
obviously a Mark II unit, one with Stanislav's Neutrino Matrix installed.
That would be a great find if it were complete and operational.
Frank opened the panel on the side of the skull to inspect the Neutrino
Matrix. He sighed. The Matrix was black, burned beyond recognition. It had
obviously been over loaded. Frank dragged the large trash bin to the table
where the Mark II lay. He pushed the robot into the bin and rolled it to the
incineration unit. Within moments the Mark II was no more. Frank left the
lab, locking the door behind him.
Chapter One
We are alone. The catastrophic bombardment has ended and now the
world has become void. Why we survived is an enigma. We lived in a dome
beneath the sea, our submarine habitat, our home, our asylum from the
madness of the world. Perhaps that explains our being here, standing now on
the shore in the evening, gazing at the mountain range towering on the
horizon, amazed by the scarlet afterglow–yet others have perished.
Brandy is a half-lab half-shepherd and is devoted to me. Neither he nor I
have suffered from the isolation of our undersea home. The ocean provided
everything we could possibly need, including the power to operate our
various devices. When the news of World War IV came to us, Brandy and I
were enjoying scallops and sea bass. I knew it would happen: people are so
stupid, so intent upon imposing their own preferred lifestyle on others, so
disdainful of those who differ in appearance or ideals. Yet I had hoped that,
one day, the world would come to be a place of peace and mutual respect.
That was not to be.
Vancouver lay before us, devastated, ravished by weapons that knew no
bounds. The proton bomb was designed to kill all biological life yet leave
structures intact. The area of destruction of the bomb would grow with time,
eventually encompassing all the land between bomb sites. The TTC, Time
To Completion, had been theoretically calculated: one week from the last
bomb detonation, no more.
The TTC had never been tested, of course. It meant detonating many
bombs and noting the time to complete land embrace. That was the name
given to this feature of the proton bomb: land embrace. It referred to the
destruction area for each bomb widening–or 'embracing'– until it collided
with the neighbouring area. Testing such a feature was out of the question,
although small experimental explosions had been performed, just to test the
theory. One curious feature was the appearance of red upper atmosphere
about the test site. Theoreticians concluded that the colour was the result of
chromium, manganese, cobalt and iron, present in the ground, being
vaporized.
Brandy and I began to walk toward the nearest buildings. We expected
to see bodies, but there were none. Instead, there was a bluish residue left by
annihilated bodies. These inconsequential blue remains were everywhere.
They coloured the streets, painted the walls and stained the buildings. They
were often shaped like a human, a running, cringing, cowering human.
Brandy sniffed some of the blue powder, snorted, then ignored them. We
walked into a grocery store. I wouldn't trust any foodstuff that had been
exposed, but surely canned goods were edible. The vegetable counters were
covered in blue dust. Of course; the proton bomb would affect all biological
life and that included cabbages and cauliflower. We wandered by the shelves
filled with canned soups and picked several. Then to the utensils to collect a
can opener, two bowls and a spoon.
Just down the street is a park. We walk there and find benches, some
covered in blue remains. I sit in a clean bench and open two cans of chunky
beef stew, fill two bowls and Brandy and I enjoy a meal while gazing at the
sea. Neither of us will be lonely in this new world. We've lived a life of
isolation for some time.
Lights began to come on in the city. That was surprising, at first, but
electricity is generated by nuclear stations that require little human
intervention. But then, these days, most factory operations run 24/7 with
little or no human intervention. One particularly tall and elegant
condominium looked appealing, so we walked to the entrance then to the
lobby desk, admired all the artwork, mahogany and marble, grabbed all the
keys for the top floor and took the elevator to the penthouse suites. We
opened several until we found one without blue remains. It was delightful,
with windows on all sides, some looking out on the sunset on the Pacific,
some at the Coast Mountains. Brandy and I collapsed on a comfortable kingsize bed and fell fast asleep.
At 7 a.m. the phone rang and I fell out of bed. Brandy barked as I
cautiously reached for the phone. Was somebody still alive? Why did they
phone this particular number? How would I explain my presence here, in
this suite? I answered the phone:
This is your 7 am wake-up call.
This is your 7 am wake-up call.
It was a mechanical voice. I fell back into bed and smiled. Some things
never fail, like programmed calls. Eventually I rolled out of bed and headed
for the kitchen. The fridge was filled with goodies, but I was wary of
anything that wasn't properly packaged. Packaged against proton bombs?
Was there such a packaging? I opened the freezer compartment and found
two steaks wrapped in foil. That'd be our breakfast.
It was quite nice to have all the electrical appliances working. I actually
missed that while living at the bottom of the sea. I did have a stove, of sorts,
and a small food cooler, but nothing so elaborate as what I found in this
penthouse suite. I pulled the steaks from their wrapper, tossed them on to the
stovetop grill and stepped out onto the balcony which faced the mountains.
The sun was just rising above the peaks and the crimson sky was delightful
to see ... but it was quiet. Not a bird sang, no traffic noise, just a light, warm
breeze.
When the aroma of grilled steaks wafted to the balcony, Brandy and I
went in and had breakfast. Afterward, we went down to that grocery store
and carried back dozens of cans of soup, vegetables, fruit, meat and fish. Our
penthouse suite soon contained most of the canned goods from that store and
other like it. Brandy and I were a happy pair.
Chapter Two
We spent almost two years in the penthouse. Days went by, painfully
slowly, each the same: breakfast facing the mountains as the sun rose,
wandering about town, lunch from a can–sometimes on a park bench–more
wandering about town, dinner from a can–all frozen foods were gone–then
watch the sun go down over the Pacific, then to bed.
At the start of the third year, Brandy got violently sick. He had always
been a healthy dog, but he was now twelve years old. He gazed at me with
solemn eyes as though apologizing for his condition. How I loved that dog.
Then, one morning, I awoke to find Brandy lying by himself on the carpet
by the door. He had died peacefully during the night. I was crushed. He had
been my best friend, my only friend, never asking for anything but my love,
always sympathetic to my needs, aware of my periods of depression, trying
to perk me up when I was down. I buried Brandy in our park by the sea, on a
small hill overlooking the setting sun. Now I was completely alone ... and it
hurt.
I decided that I needed to return to my undersea home. Perhaps I would
be able to keep my mind off my utter loneliness. I walked to the pier where
my bantam sub was tethered and began the journey home. Although the
dome beneath the sea hadn't changed, I had changed. I had tasted the
comforts of the penthouse suite ... and I desperately missed my dog Brandy.
After just a few days I returned to the devastated city and went to the suite
that looked upon the sea and the mountains. The door was locked.
I don't recall locking the door. Why would I? I was the only living
person. I searched my pockets for a key, but had none. The keys were
somewhere within the suite. Then I heard music and it was coming from
within the suite. I knocked on the door. Was there another person alive? My
heart began to beat faster and I found myself holding my breath.
"Who's there?" came the voice beyond the door.
"It's me!" I said, almost shouting. "It's me!"
There was a long pause, then I heard the key turn in the lock and the
door opened a crack and a face peer out.
"It's me," I said again. It was a really stupid thing to say, but I found it
difficult to think rationally.
"Okay ... are you a serial killer or a rapist or a ..."
"No! No! I'm ... uh, I'm just me, you know?"
Somehow the long years away from any personal contact has dulled my
ability to carry on an intelligent conversation.
"Okay, me. You can come in."
She opened the door and I rushed in.
"Thank you," I gasped. "Uh ... this is my apartment, you know? I live
here, you know?"
"It looked rather empty, but I did notice the sink filled with dirty dishes,"
she said. "I guess that was you."
"When did you ... I mean, how did you survive the holocaust?"
She pointed to a sofa and we both sat, side by side. She wasn't exactly
pretty, but she did have an very interesting face, round and somewhat olive
brown with greenish eyes and pale lips and straggly hair that ...
"I'm a spelunker," she said.
"Oh my God," I said. "Is it contagious?"
She laughed, a loud and wonderfully coarse laugh.
"I guess you're not a serial killer," she said, giggling.
"How about a rapist?" I said, smiling as best I could. "You never can
tell, you know."
"I'll take my chances," she said, still grinning. "Are you hungry? This
suite is filled with every conceivable canned food, but I guess you know
that."
"Yes, Brandy and I robbed all the grocery stores in town."
"You mean there's another person alive?" she said, her voice shaking.
"No ... I'm afraid he died a while back. I loved him dearly."
She suddenly looked sad, serious, her smile gone.
"I'm so sorry to hear that," she said. "Was he your ... your ..."
"He was my dog," I said, realizing what she was thinking.
She chuckled, then looked serious again.
"He was your best friend, I'm sure," she said.
"Yes, please," I said. "I am."
"You are what?"
"You asked if I was hungry and I am. If you like, I can make the meal
and we can sit on the front balcony and eat while the sun goes down."
And that's exactly what we did, I with my chunky beef and she with her
clam chowder.
"So," I said, after we had finished four cans, "how did you survive?"
"I really am a spelunker. I explore caves, deep underground caves, and
British Colombia had plenty of them."
"You mean caves with stalagfrights and stalagkites?"
"The same," she said. "I was deep underground when I felt the earth
shake. I could hear the noise, the explosions, so I stayed below for several
days. My companion left as soon as he felt the ground shake. I haven't seen
him since. I suspect he'd dead."
She looked sad.
"I'm Frank," I said, holding out my hand.
"I'm Abbie," she said. 'Pleased to meet you, Frank."
"Me too."
Somehow I was happier than I've been in a very long time.
Chapter Three
Abbie and I lived in the penthouse for more than six months, then she
made a surprising suggestion.
"We're not getting any younger," she said.
"I've looked far and wide," she said.
"There's nobody else I want," she said.
"It's gotta be you!" she said, bursting out laughing.
"Me? What me?" I said, as though I had no idea what she was talking
about.
Adam was born less than a year later. He was a strapping boy with a
gurgling laugh just like Abbie's and huge eyes. He also had a penchant for
filling his diapers with massive amounts of pungent matter that would have
driven Brandy wild. Abbie and I now had someone else to love ... besides
each other.
Adam was a joy. He was the smartest kid in his class, the fastest runner
in his school and the most handsome kid on the block. I, of course, was the
greatest father in the world. Abbie and I taught him everything he knows.
Our school was a certain penthouse apartment. The gym was just down the
street, our private library was a block in the other direction; both were
dedicated to us, our needs, no one else had entry permission. We often
picnicked in the park which was now filled with blossoms. We swam in the
pacific during the hot summer months. Then, one evening, the electricity
stopped and we were in the dark.
Although we knew it was just a matter of time, having no electricity was
a much greater burden that we had anticipated. The drinking water that
flowed freely from the faucets stopped flowing. The fridge that kept
foodstuff cold stopped working. The elevator that took us to and from the
twenty-seventh floor was now defunct. Needless to say, we moved to the
first floor. Further to our problems, we had raided all the grocery stores in
town and our food supply was running low. We did try growing vegetables
from seed, in various areas about town–especially the nearby park–but they
usually didn't germinate and those that did produced plants that were
unrecognizable.
How did the natives survive, a thousand years ago? The answer was
obvious: there were plants to eat and animals to hunt. We had neither. The
only solution seemed to be to return to my undersea habitat where I had
lived for years without need of all the more civilized conveniences. When
Abbie, Adam and I moved in we found it to be very small. I don't remember
its being that small. Adam hated it and cried much of the time. Abbie
complained bitterly. I was never sure what she expected me to do. What
little power we needed came from hydrothermal vents. Our food consisted of
clams, scallops, fish and whatever other sea creatures survived the holocaust.
Abbie and Adam grew to hate seafood.
After about two years, Abbie said she wanted a divorce. I found that
difficult to understand. We weren't even married. She said she would return
to the city with Adam. I asked what she would eat. She ignored the question.
I asked what she would drink. She ignored that question, too. After much
arguing I took them to the pier and watched them walk to our elegant
apartment building. Adam was so cute. He had become quite adept at
moving about without assistance. I was very sorry to see them leave. What
would I do now?
After their departure I often went to the pier in the hopes that I would
see them there. I even walked to the apartment building, but I couldn't bring
myself to knock on their door. My life beneath the sea was unbearable.
When it was Brandy and me, I never yearned for anything else. Now I
yearned for the life that Abbie and I had on the twenty-seventh floor.
One day I decided to visit my son. How could Abbie deny me that? I
made a seashell trinket for Adam and a nice dish made of clamshells for
Abbie. When I knocked on their first floor door it was early evening. I was
hoping that they would invite me to stay for dinner, on the balcony, facing
the setting sun. Of course, I had no idea what they would be eating, but
Abbie was a smart gal and she would have thought of something. Perhaps
she went fishing. There were plenty of sea creatures that survived.
There was no answer, but the door was unlocked so I walked in,
cautiously. There was just enough light to see where I was going. I found
them both in bed. They were gaunt, scrawny. They were not breathing. I sat
on the edge of the bed and cried. Damn the apocalypse! Everything I had
loved was now gone.
I buried them in the park, on the hill next to Brandy, looking out on the
sea. It was the most difficult thing I had ever done. What was the purpose of
life? Why was I still alive? What satisfaction was left for me? None. I
returned to the apartment and lay on the bed and closed my eyes.
Chapter Four
There were over a hundred and when they arrived in town they were
delighted to find most buildings still intact. One building, in particular, was
quite elegant. They all entered and walked about the lobby, admiring the
artwork the mahogany and the marble. They had spent much of the previous
months repairing the nuclear power station under the guidance of Jim
Gleans, master engineer, so it was no surprise that the elevators worked. A
first floor apartment door was open and Jim entered with several others. It
was fairly clean and neat and looked lived in. Jim found the skeleton in the
bedroom.
Chapter One
Workin the streets ain't a good thing. It's cold in the winter and hot in the
summer and you don't eat good and people is always lookin down at you.
But I had my corner, Greg's Corner I calls it, and no other bums was gonna
take it. I don't need much, just a bit of wine now and then and mebbe scraps
from the bakery down the street. I got me my bag o goodies, with my
blanket that I found in a dumpster and the fuzzy cap that pulls tight on my
head. And I get to see the horse races on the TV inside the Video Store.
Them races is my most greatest fun. Life ain't so bad, but it ain't so good
either.
I got me a half dozen friends, good friends ... and we look after each
other, sharing our bottle of wine and doughnuts when we find a dozen stale
ones in the bin. Ol' Miller's got hisself a beat-up trailer park at Miller's
Grove and we all live there. He owns the place which is funny 'cause he ain't
got no money just like the rest of us. They is four old trailers there and I live
in one with my best buddy, Clem Broden. Molly and her little mutt lives in
the red one with the broken window and Charlie 'Bones' Harrison lives with
Dotty in the green one at the end. Ol' Miller has the nicest trailer which is
fair and right 'cause he owns the place. His trailer is white and you can see it
as soon as you come into the Grove. It's even got an antenna, but Miller ain't
got a TV. We ain't got no heat in the trailers, but we don't got no leaks either.
The roofs is covered in tin sheets we got from the junk yard and they keeps
the rain off pretty good.
It was Saturday when I found it in my bag. A key to who knows what. It
must have been lying in there for a long time, but I ain't never seed it before.
It was dirty from all the crap I kept in the bag over the years, but it shined up
pretty nice when I rubbed it on my jacket. It wasn't no ordinary key. It was
funny lookin and a number was writ on it: 601. I showed it to Clem while we
was finishing off the wine and he says it's a key to one of them safety boxes.
Now how do Clem know somethin like that? He ain't never had a safety box.
When I showed it to Bones, he said he seed it before when I first came
to the Grove. He seed it when I dumped my goodies on the ground to get out
my blanket. Dotty said she seed it too. Now, when I think back, I remember
where I got that key, but I ain't tellin nobody. I was just a kid walkin in the
woods by my pappy's house by Martin's farm. They was a body lying there,
right in the woods, dead as a door nail, and he had a pretty nice coat on him.
I took the coat and when I fished through the pockets I found a wallet with a
few bucks and a key. I spent the money at Sam's Sweet Shop and stuck the
key in my pocket. That key is the one that spent some time at the bottom of
my goodies bag.
We was all sittin about a fire that night. They was a chill in the air.
"So who was the dead guy?" Clem says.
"What dead guy?" I says.
"The guy with the key?" Bones says.
"How do ya know about the dead guy?" I says.
"You told us years ago," Molly says, holding her mutt close to her chest.
"Well ... I dunno who he was," I says. "He was dead, ya know. I didn't
do it."
"Of course you didn't do it," Clem says. "But who was he?"
"Damned if I know," I says.
"Why didn't you ask him?" Dotty says, laughin out loud.
Just then Miller comes by. He sets on a log and holds his hands out to
the fire.
"Nice fire," he says.
"Remember the guy that Greg found dead in the woods by Martin's
farm?" Clem says.
I couldn't believe that everybody knew that story. Was I into the wine
and I told everybody?
"Yeah, the Mafia guy," Miller says.
They was silence about the fire.
"Mafia guy?" I says. "Did you know him?"
"Of course not," Miller says. "It was in all the papers. He was one rich
sonofabitch gangster."
More silence. I reckon everybody was thinkin what I was thinkin. Was
the Mafia lookin for me?
"We gotta see what's in the safety box," Clem says. "If that guy was rich.
Who knows...?"
"Mebbe they's a jillion bucks there," Molly says.
"How're we gonna find out ..."
"The Mafia guy lived in town, West End," Miller says. "Beyond the
tracks. Big house, big fence."
"Probly means he got his bank there and his safety box," Bones says.
"Then go and get the money!" Molly says.
"Not dressed like that," Dotty says. "You look like a bum. They kick you
outta the bank."
More silence.
"Okay," Miller says. "We gotta dress up Mr. Greg so he looks nice and
neat. Anybody got some nice clothes?"
More silence, then Molly says, "I got a suit from my dear departed. It'd
look good on Greg. I'll get it." Then she leaves and we wait, in silence.
When she gets back she's got a blue suit with pants and everything, even a
tie.
Everybody is waiting fer me to put it on.
"I gotta get undressed to put it on," I says. "Everybody look away."
Everybody looks in the other direction and I pull off my old clothes and
slip into the neat suit. I see that Molly is lookin, but that's okay. It's her suit.
"Okay, look now," I says, and everybody looks at me and somebody
whistles. It's Molly again.
"That should do it," Miller says.
Chapter Two
Next day we is all walkin acrosst town to West End where all the rich
bitches live. Molly's got the mutt on a leash and he's pissing on every post.
When we get to the fancy houses, Clem says, "So where's the bank?"
"There's a bank at the end of the street," Miller says. How's he know so
much 'bout this neighbourhood?
We all walk down the street and sure enough, there a huge bloody bank:
First Dominion Bank. We stand out front and I'm shaking like a leaf.
"Okay," Miller says. 'Greg, you walk in tall and proud, like a rich bitch.
Flash your key to the safety deposit box and say you want to get something.
Some bank clerk will lead you to a back room, point to your box and leave
you alone."
Molly says, "Go get em, Greg."
So I walks in the bank and struts my stuff. I know I'm lookin good with
my blue suit and all. I wave the key and some guy says, "Right this way,
sir."
He called me 'sir'. We go to some back room and he leaves me there. He
don't point out the box, but I find number 601 near the end. The walls is
covered in them boxes. I stick in my key and open the box. Holy crap! They
is bundles of money. Looks like all thousand dollar bills all wrapped up in
bundles with elastic bands. I grab five bundles and walk out. The bank guy
smiles. The others is waiting outside.
"Well, is there lots of money?" Dotty says.
"No money," I says. "But I found some stuff that I ain't hardly never
seed before."
I got me a smile big as a bum crack. Then I pass out the bundles, one to
Clem, one to Molly, one to Bones and Dotty and one to Miller.
They is silence while they stare at the loot.
"Jessuz!" Clem says. "We're rich!"
"Is there more?" Dotty says.
"Not much," I says. "Just mebbe a few more hundred bundles."
"Jeesuz!" Clem says again.
Miller is smilin.
Next week we bought us a house, a big house with a swimmin pool and
three storeys tall and flowers everywhere ... and we all move in. All 'cept
Miller who stays at the Grove, but visits every day. We discover that Molly
is one helluva cook. We also discover that Bones and Dotty make lots of
noise in bed at night. We also discover that Clem is good with flowers.
Miller looks after paying all the bills so's the rest of us can enjoy life high on
the hog.
One thing I like most is the sixty inch TV. I used to spend an hour each
day lookin at the races through the window at the Video Shop, when I was
workin the street. Now I spend three hours watchin the horse races on my
own TV, sippin a glass of wine, my feet on the coffee table. I know them
horses, all of em. I know em good, so I started bettin. A few thousand here, a
few thousand there. I don't win much but it's much fun and that box has lots
of money.
Then, one day, I go to the bank and find just one bundle of money in the
box. I brings it home and complains to Clem. He says I gambled it away on
the horses. I can hardly believe that, but Dotty agrees and so does Bones and
Molly. When Miller shows up fer dinner I tells him and he says he expected
that to happen one day. Then he says we gotta sell the house.
"But where will we live?" Molly says.
They is silence, then Miller says we can move back to Miller's Grove –
and that's what we did, 'cept the trailers is all fixed up now and we got us a
TV in a rec room that Miller built fer us and Molly does all the cookin and
Clem started a garden with nice flowers.
Miller says the money from the sale of the big house means we don't
gotta work the streets no more–but we all do anyway. It's like old times, but
better.
Chapter One
Do you know the shed at the edge of town, the one on Danforth Drive
just past Harvester Road? It looks unfinished and quite small. It's both of
those things–and it's my home. There's another similar shack further down,
but mine is the first one. I find it difficult to disguise my contempt for my
lifestyle, so I hide it. In fact, inside that shack is my town wear: a nice dark
suit, an exquisite white shirt and tie, dark glasses ... and colossal arrogance.
During weekdays I work at the old lumber mill on Harvester Road, in my
grey pullover and dungarees. Do people still call them dungarees?
Ah, but on Saturday nights I climb into my town wear and head into the
city, to Shaw's Bar and Dance. There, I'm not the sloppy jerk who hauls
lumber, pushes logs into the grinder and stacks boards. I'm Dapper Dan
Mahoney, elegance in motion, raconteur, world traveler and lover
extraordinaire. The girls at Shaw's know me well. I buy the beer, tell stories
of my travels and speak alluring words in Spanish, French and Italian.
Now you may think that I'm a total fake, a scoundrel and a liar. Of
course, you'd be quite right, but no harm is done, don't you agree? I enjoy
my Saturday nights and the girl's enjoy my delectable company. And the
foreign languages that I speak? I've memorized dozens of tasty phrases that I
whisper at opportune moments in the conversation. Daisuki desu. That's
Japanese. A Japanese guy at work told me that. It impresses the hell out of
the gals at Shaw's. That's when I go into the details of my adventures in
Kyoto, Sendai and Yokohama and describe the elaborate sushi they make in
Sushi Sho Masa in Tokyo. Don't you love Japanese words, how they sound?
Anyway, the Saturday before last, I met this gal at Shaw's. I had never
seen her there before. It was clear that she was new. She looked rather
confused, so I decided I'd help her out. Besides, she was drop-dead
gorgeous.
"Well, sweet thing," I whispered, slipping into the seat beside her at the
bar. "Is the bar menu confusing?"
She looked at me, smiled politely, and ignored my question.
"The Algonquin is whiskey, vermouth and pineapple juice," I said, very
softly, without actually looking at her. That was one of my special
deceptions. For a new girl, a stranger can be frightening. But if I speak and
look away, as though I'm talking to the wall, they relax.
"Barbotage? That's cognac, Grand Marnier and Brut champagne. The
Boilermaker is just beer and whiskey."
I turned to look at this beautiful woman. She was paying attention and
that was a good sign.
"Have you tried them all?" she asked.
"Most of the drinks here, at Shaw's, but those I haven't tasted here I've
tasted elsewhere. For example, Lava Flow in Honolulu, Jaigermeister in
Munich and Umqombothi in Johannesburg.
"Oh my," she giggled, "You have been around."
I smiled sweetly and slid off the seat. "I'm sitting across the room, at my
reserved table. If you have any questions about the drinks, please ask."
I walked slowly to my table and noted, in the mirror, that she watched
me go. I waited for about five minutes. It hardly ever takes longer than five
minutes.
"May I join you?" she said, slithering onto a chair at my table.
"Be my guest," I said with a smile. "How about Sex at my House?"
"I beg your pardon?" she said.
"It's Amaretto Di Saronno, raspberry liqueur and pineapple juice. It's
quite nice, actually. The drink, I mean."
"Yes, that would be nice," she said. "The drink, I mean."
I waved at Bill Shaw and, knowing exactly what I wanted, brought two
drinks to my table.
It was a delightful evening. This gal, name Angela, was smart as well as
beautiful. She had moved into town from Montreal, she had travelled
widely, spent time in Europe, drove a Ferrari and lived in a penthouse condo
by the lake. And she said she'd be coming to Shaw's often ... provided I was
there. I said I was always there Saturday evening. This was going to be a
great relationship, I could tell.
That was two weeks ago. Last Saturday she was already at my table
when I arrived and she was sipping Sex at my House. A very good sign. As I
sat she said, "Konnichi wa." Damn! Was she speaking Japanese? I gave her a
big grin. Then she said, with a huge smile: "Miryoku ga aru." I had
absolutely no idea what she was talking about, so I tried to change the
subject.
"Are you enjoying Sex at my House? The drink, I mean." I grinned, a big
grin.
"Wakarimasen," she said, her grin larger than mine.
This was getting embarrassing, so I got up to leave.
"Gotta meet a friend," I said, rushing off.
I thought about just going back to the bar, but she got up as though she
was going to follow me ... so I left Shaw's.
Chapter Two
When the next Saturday arrived, I was reluctant to go to Shaw's. That
gal could ruin everything, so I decided I'd keep my eye on her without her
knowing. There's another bar across from Shaw's and I sat at a window seat
so I could see the comings and goings at Shaw's. I saw her enter and, shortly
after, she left. I expected to see her arrive and depart in her Ferrari, but she
was walking. I finished my beer and followed her. She went down Maple
Avenue toward Aldershot then she actually turned onto Harvester Road.
When she came to the lumber mill, she paused and gawked at the buildings,
then continued to the end of Harvester and turned onto Danforth. What was
she doing? Any minute now she'd walk past my shack!
My abode looked so sad. The grass was just two feet of weeds and it
desperately needed a paint job. Angela stopped right in front, then walked to
the door and knocked. Damn! What was she doing? There was no chair on
the front porch, if you could call it that, so she sat on one of the concrete
blocks that held up the shed. It looked like she was prepared to spend the
rest of the evening there! What to do?
I straightened my tie and began to amble down Danforth Drive like I
was just out for a walk.
As I walked by she said, "Hey Dan! Fancy meeting you here."
I pretended to be surprised. "Why Angela, do you often come this way
for a stroll?"
"Only when I'm looking for your house," she said with a gigantic grin.
Okay, so I was found out. I sat beside her and she put her head on my
shoulder and held my hand.
I must have looked a sight because she leaned over and whispered,
"Don't be angry or upset."
"Okay, how did you know?" I asked. "Did you suspect something the
first time you saw me, at Shaw's bar? Was it something I said? How did
you...?"
"Oh Dan," she said, leaning heavily against my shoulder. "I've known
for weeks. I followed you a couple of weeks ago, curious to know where you
went each Saturday night. We're a couple of fakes, you and I. You know that
other shack, just a half mile down Danforth Drive? That's mine."
I tried to get up, but she pulled me back onto the concrete block and
gave me a big kiss on the cheek.
Two weeks later we were married. It turns out that Angela is a secretary
at the lumber mill and has kept an eye on me for months. It also turns out
that her shack is twice the size of mine, so I moved there. Now, every
Saturday evening, we sit on her spacious porch and sip something simple,
like beer. My life is so much better and she admits that hers has improved as
well. In fact, she said that she had intended to change our lives some time
ago. She said that her name, Angela, means Messenger of God and she had
always intended that to be her motivation.
Chapter One
Tornados are fickle things. They move East then suddenly change to
West. They move at ten miles an hour then suddenly change to twenty. And
who can predict their path? North American Indians thought that human
intervention was possible. They prayed for a redirection and an approaching
tornado would change direction. That was their thought. Foolish, perhaps,
but many ancient cultures believed that tornados actually are affected by
human thoughts and emotions. Alas, prediction is a science inaccessible to
all.
The idiots at North American weather stations certainly cannot predict
tornado paths. The jerks at the Storm Prediction Centers certainly cannot.
What they do is guess. Sure, they look at historical patterns and try sexy
matching techniques, but that won't work. Things change. On the other hand,
there are techniques that use current weather data as well as sophisticated
predictive analytics ... and they are embedded in my software, software that I
wrote, software that currently resides behind a wall of security software that
I wrote years ago. Nobody will be able to access the computer code.
When I tried to convince the so-called experts that Bayesian Statistical
Analysis, together with extensive wind pattern data, temperature and
pressure gradient details, that this would be able to track tornados, they
laughed. Now that I have completed the mathematical and programming
components, I'm left with the opportunity to test the result on actual
tornados. It may seem strange to pray for a tornado, but that's what I've been
doing for over week: praying for a tornado to come my way. Although some
of my colleagues know that I continued to work on my predictive software,
no one knows that I can now actually redirect tornados. It requires an
antenna of my own design, one that will emit strong electromagnetic pulses
at a precise frequency determined by the tornado characteristics.
It was early in the Fall when the I recognized a predictable tornado,
named Adam, the first of the year, off the West coast of Africa, one that
would arrive at the East Coast of North America within three weeks. The
weather data confirmed that it would arrive in the vicinity of my home
shortly thereafter. My house is in the country, on the East coast, and my
antenna array is very large and on a hill–as it needs to be. Tornados can be
quite narrow, often less than a hundred yards across. They can destroy one
house in a neighbourhood and leave its neighbours intact. The tornado which
will arrive in three weeks was one of those. It would be a trivial matter to
change its direction.
While I was aligning the antennas and tweaking the frequency
emissions, I seriously thought of redirecting the tornado to hit the local
Storm Prediction Center where I had worked for four years. It would have
given me great pleasure to announce the redirection to Sam Jeffreys, the
head of research. He was the biggest idiot there. However, it would be
sufficient to simply send him email indicating my intention to change the
course of Adam so it veered sharply East, out into the Atlantic. I would do
this just hours before the tornado hit the city, when everybody was scared,
when the radio advised people to leave town. That would be glorious.
Imagine the response. People would shout my name, my picture would be on
the front page and Sam Jeffrey would say words of praise for my work on
tornado prediction and redirection.
Adam was coming quickly now, about ten miles from my house on
Cranberry Hill and less than six miles from the city. The radio was sounding
the alarm and I could see the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Highway 17. The
announcer said that everyone on the Indian reservation was attempting to
divert the tornado. That was amusing. I couldn't help laughing.
Chapter Two
The TV anchor turned to Dr. Sam Jeffreys, head of research at the
Tornado Prediction Center.
"Dr. Jeffreys, I understand that the tornado, the one called Adam,
changed direction rather rapidly. How do you explain that?"
"Well, there is some evidence to suggest that it was not a natural
phenomenon. I know that many think the Indian chants may have caused the
redirection, but that is not the case. In fact, there were very strong
electromagnetic transmissions as Adam approached the city. The electrically
charged ions within the tornado responded by moving the tornado chamber,
the vortex as it were, to move it rather dramatically toward a house on
Cranberry Hill. I'm afraid that house has been completely demolished, yet no
other homes were damaged."
"Dr. Jeffrey, was that house occupied?"
"Not that I'm aware of"
I would have flown directly to Berlin, but I was told that the drive from
Frankfurt was quite pleasant, so I rented a car and began the trip. I had a late
start and stopped in the ancient town of Treysa, not far from Frankfurt.
That's where the Brothers Grimm wrote Little Red Riding Hood and the
town was just like a fairy tale, right out of the 12th century, and the famous
traditional costume known as the Schwalm-region Little Red Riding Hood
costume reminds one of the fairy tale. I stayed at a 600 year old hotel owned
by a fellow who, I understand, spoke excellent English. The floors were
uneven and the walls slightly warped, but I was tired and if the bed was
comfortable I would get a good sleep for the drive to Berlin next morning.
The owner introduced himself as Gustav Bohner and said that business
was very slow and he would give me the best room in the hotel. It turned out
to be a smallish room with a bed, table, sink, toilet and chair and a window.
Not elegant, but comfortable. Being tired, I undressed then collapsed, naked,
on the bed.
It was much later that I heard breathing. Not loud, but enough to wake
me from a fitful sleep. When I sat up in bed I saw her. She was sitting in the
chair, wearing an old fashioned kind of dress, a dusty rose colour. The only
light was from the small window so it wasn't entirely clear what she looked
like.
I reached over and turned on the light by my bedside. She was smiling
and reasonably pretty.
"Do not be alarmed," she whispered. "This is my room, it has always
been my room and I will visit for just a short while."
Realizing I was naked, I pulled the sheets over me. The lady arose and
came to sit on my bed. She ran her hand across my cheek and leaned
forward. I could smell her perfume: lilac. Then she stood, let her dress fall to
the floor, then climbed into bed beside me. I could not believe what was
happening. Perhaps I was dreaming. If so, I would not resist ... so we made
love.
In the morning she was gone. I went to the lobby and told Gustav. He
nodded gravely.
"Yes," he said. "She comes often, always to that room."
"How long have she been doing this?" I asked. "How does she get into
my room without a key?"
"Oh, she needs no key. She passes through the door. I have owned this
hotel for over forty years and she has been coming since then. The previous
owner told me of her. He said she lived in this hotel several hundred years
ago and died mysteriously in that room."
"You mean she's not real?" I said, almost shouting.
"No, of course not," Gustav said. "She is a ghost."
I thought about our night together for some time. Gustav just stared at
me, smiling.
"I'd like to stay another three nights if you please," I said.
"Certainly," he said and continued to smile.
I spent the day just walking about this delightful town, but eager to get
back to my bed. I retired early, now dressed in pajamas. Although I tried to
stay awake, I fell asleep–until I felt someone slide into bed beside me. It
wasn't until almost noon the next day that I awoke. Of course, the lady of the
night was gone. When I went to the lobby, Gustav was smiling. He must
have known. I nodded and he understood.
The third night she didn't come. I spent most of the night awake,
waiting, but she didn't come. The next morning I checked out of the hotel.
Gustav stood at the door and saw me off. He seemed quite pleased.
In a little over four hours I arrived in Berlin. I was staying with a friend,
Helmut, and he welcomed me with open arms. He had schnapps ready and
we sat and sipped and ate German Lebkuken, a delicious cookie. I think
Helmut knew every nook and cranny in Germany, so I told him where I
stayed in Treysa. He said he knew it well and that Gustav Bohner and his
wife were both delightful hosts.
"I never met his wife," I said.
"Oh, you must have," Helmut said.
"No ... but ..."
I was hesitant to tell Helmut of my nighttime adventures with a ghost.
When I described the lady and her sexual appetite, he bent over with
laughter.
"Yes, she wore a rose-coloured dress," he said. "And she stripped while
you were in bed. And you made love."
"How did you know?' I asked.
"Ah, you see, you did meet Gustav's wife. After the first night with her,
every guest books another three nights. Clever, don't you think?"
I am writing this story so that others may appreciate my medical
contributions. I am still confused by the reaction of the public and especially
the medical community. Surely they would understand the great strides I had
made. However ... but let me begin at the beginning:
When I was a young man I dreamed of being a surgeon. Imagine seeing
the innards perform, watching the heart pumping blood, grasping some
organ, massaging a gall bladder, a kidney, a pancreas. The mind boggles at
the thought. I always felt that many features are poorly designed. Perhaps
the male urethra should not pass through the prostate gland. If I were in
charge, I would change that. In fact, there are many characteristics that I
would change.
Alas, I failed my medical entrance exam. I wrote correct answers to
incorrectly posed questions. Nevertheless, I was determined to become a
surgeon, so I studied every book in the medical library ... then moved to
Mexico to open a clinic. My parents had left me a pile of money when they
died so I had no need to make money with the clinic. I could fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming a surgeon.
My clinic, Angelo's Clinica Sanatorio, was in a town whose name I can't
pronounce; it's spelled with a bunch of x's and q's and z's. It's just outside
Mexico City, the largest city in North America. I figured no medical
investigation team would show up. After all, I had the knowledge but not the
actual diploma. Well, that's not entirely true. I did get one of them fake
diplomas from an online diploma mill. The certificate cost me $350, is
issued by the Universidad Nacional de Médico and now hangs proudly in
my office at the clinic.
To get business going I advertized in the Xoquizatlan Noticias, a local
newspaper. My ad mentioned prices that were ridiculously low. You could
get an abortion for the price of a hamburger and an appendectomy for the
cost of the milkshake and fries. There were lineups outside my door from
day one. I should mention that my equipment was top of the line, imported
from the best suppliers in the U.S., Canada and Europe. Opthalmoscopes,
cardiovascular ultrasound, anesthesia carts ... I got it all, comin' out the
wazoo.
My first surgery was the removal of a cancerous tumour located on a
woman's breast lobules, a common ductal carcinoma. She was rather flatchested, so, while at it, I enlarged her breasts. She was ecstatic and, within a
week, I had a hundred women complaining about breast cancer. Of course,
they were only interested in the plastic surgery so I decided that I'd change
my specialty from internal medicine to cosmetic. Want a nose reduction or
rearrangement? I'm your man. Want a facelift, lip augmentation, liposuction,
tummy tuck? My door is always open.
After dozens and dozens of such cases, I found the rituals boring, nonchallenging. I needed something more audacious, something that would put
my name into the annals of medical history, some procedure that would
advertize itself. It hit me one day while resting on the beach in Veracruz. I
was gazing at the clouds and noting the fascinating geometry, the everchanging designs, the images of faces and bodies. I could do that! I could
change a face or a body to suit the individual! I was so eager to start this new
phase that I cut my vacation short and returned to my clinic.
The surgeries would be drastic, dramatic, novel, sensational. They
would require weeks of recuperation, so I bought several dozen acres of land
in the country and built an apartment complex: Angelo's Recovery
Sanctuary. My patients would be sent there to recover from the surgery.
A fifty year old man came into my clinic complaining about hearing
loss. After a thorough inspection, it was clear that there was a simple
solution that didn't require a hearing aid. I simply increased the size of his
ears. After surgery, his ears extended some four inches from the sides of his
head, rather like a slice of bread. I sent him to the Sanctuary.
The next patient complained that food got stuck in his throat, he had
difficulty swallowing, he choked several times each day. The surgery was
unusual. I created a second mouth on his neck, just below his chin. He could
actually eat with that mouth while talking with his original mouth. I sent him
to the Sanctuary.
A woman was pregnant. She had one child and knew that milk
production would be minimal, yet she insisted on being able to breast feed
her new baby. I created a third breast with ample milk supply. I sent her to
the Sanctuary.
A habitual smoker came in with lung cancer. The malignancy hadn't
metastasized, so I was able to remove the lungs and replace them with pig's
lung. His new lungs were actually external, located in his arm pits so that
they might be replaced if necessary. I sent him to the Sanctuary.
It was the following Spring that George Glimmer came to my clinic. I
had given George a second nose, located in his forehead. He had complained
of difficulty breathing, often gasping for breath. He was angry. He spent four
weeks at the Sanctuary, saw the miracles I had performed and was irate. I
didn't understand his anger. He shot me in the chest.
When the paramedics came they opened my chest, removed the bullet
and took me to the hospital. When I had recovered I was sent to prison and
that is where I am now, writing my sad story. The Sanctuary has been closed
now for some time. Apparently the inmates there didn't want to leave. I
assumed it was because they appreciated the facilities I had provided.
According to the newspapers, it was because of embarrassment. I still don't
understand. Perhaps I never will.
My wife, Sally, we argued all the time. That wasn't always the case.
When we first married we were happy, we laughed a lot, we were always in
bodily contact, I'd caress her cheek, she'd place her arm about my waist.
Then, after some thirty years of marriage, we hardly talked to each other. I
wasn't the best husband in the world, but neither was she the best wife. She
used to make my favourite meals at dinner, pasta al pesto, lasagna. Then she
made her favourite meals, herring and boiled potatoes. Ugh!
We slept in separate beds, as you might expect. I often worked late and
I'd come home to find her sleeping. She used to wait up for me, but she
hadn't done that in years. We used to take holidays together. Then, after
thirty years, I'd go alone and she'd go with her girl friends ... or so she said. I
actually suspected that she went on holidays with Wilfred, our next door
neighbour. Why did I think that? Because he's a bachelor, handsome (so they
say) and he was always on holidays exactly when Sally was on holidays.
Besides, Sally and he would talk for an hour over the backyard fence. That
wasn't natural, was it? I mean, an hour? Who talks for an hour?
A month ago I told Sally that we should take our holidays together. She
just grunted and ignored my suggestion. I repeated it and she got angry and
left the room. I followed her and asked where she intended to go for her
vacation. She said: "South, someplace warm, with a beach, with the girls." I
didn't believe the last part for a minute. I actually went over to Wilfred's
place with a couple of beers, asking if he was going to watch the ball game. I
wanted to ask him about his vacation plans. He said he never watches ball
games. He saw the beers in my hand, but just stood there at his door until I
left. What a jerk. With a name like Wilfred, what would you expect, eh? I
looked up the meaning of the name. It means "desiring peace". That's a lot of
crap. I suspect it really meant "desiring piece".
Okay, so a couple of weeks ago I mentioned to Sally that, when I die, I'd
come back as a fly. I'd then keep track of her comings and goings. In
particular, who was in her bed at night. She didn't believe in reincarnation
and neither did I, but I just wanted her to know that I suspected she was
having an affair. She just grunted as she usually does.
Then wouldn't you know it? The brakes failed on my car, I ran into a
tree and I broke my neck. I wasn't ready to die, but there I was, in the forever
after, the twilight zone, the bright light at the end of the tunnel. Then, the
next thing I knew, I was looking down at Sally from the ceiling of our
kitchen. I could hear buzzing. It was me! Jeesuz! I had come back as a fly! I
followed Sally wherever she went that day. She often looked up at me and
swore. When the sun went down there was a knock on the door. I was sure I
knew who it was.
When Sally opened the door, Wilfred walked in, smiling ear to ear. He
had a large bottle of wine. He gave Sally a peck on the cheek and they
headed for the bedroom. I knew it! I quickly flew to the bedroom wall and
waited for them. For some reason it took a while for them to arrive. When
they did, Wilfred had a curious look on his face, as though he were
confused. He was staring at Sally who had a fly swatter in her hand. Sally
was grinning. She walked casually to the wall, raised the fly swatter and ...
My name is Barbara Sheldon and I am writing this story so that you will
understand what happened. I cannot explain it, not entirely, but I hope you
can appreciate my concern.
When I saw the Egyptian vase I was enchanted. Many would think it
ugly ... old and ugly. I thought it was magical. It was actually made of some
kind of glass, because I could see the interior–fuzzy and indistinct, but
translucent nevertheless. The shop was very small and quaint, in the Khan el
Khali Li Bazaar in Cairo. The owner, a Mr. Hamadi, wasn't there at the time
but his son was. When I expressed an interest in the vase, the son–about
twelve or thirteen years old, I'd say–said his father did not want to sell it. He
knew that because there was no price on the vase. Anything without a price
is not for sale. That was the only instruction the father had left for the son.
"When will your father be back?" I asked. "I'd like to make an offer, a
generous offer."
The boy said his father would be back my morning. Unfortunately, my
plane left in the morning so I made the offer to the boy.
"I will give you enough money to buy a Honda scooter. Wouldn't you
like that?" I asked the boy. I could see his eyes light up.
"But my father said ..."
"Oh, I will give you enough money to buy him a scooter, too!" I said
with much glee.
The boy began to jump up and down. "My father will be so happy," he
said. "So happy."
I wasn't sure how much a scooter would cost, so the boy closed the shop
and, together, we went down the street and bought two scooters. I was
shocked by the price, but I was determined to have that vase. He wrapped it
very nicely and I took it back to Burlington, Ontario the next morning. It
now sits in the window of my shop: Barb's Gift Shop. Although it had come
with a tight fitting cork of some sort, I removed the cap. When the sun is just
right, you can see the interior of the vase. It actually seems to glow. My
customers always commented on the inner light. It was nice and I'm glad I
bought it, even at that monstrous price.
I must digress for a moment. It may seem a curious digression, but I
think it might help explain things.
Full moons occur roughly every month and are often associated with
insanity, hence the term lunacy. I only mention this because strange things
happen in my shop during a full moon: things get rearranged. That is, when I
open the store in the morning, objects have been moved, sometimes just a
few inches, sometimes several feet. However, this only happens after a full
moon. I did stay in the store overnight once or twice, in order to observe this
phenomenon. In fact, I have a collapsible cot so that, if I work late, I can
spend the night in the shop. It doesn't happen at every full moon so I never
actually observed things being moved.
Now there are myths associated with a full moon. For example, it is
unlucky to look at a full moon through glass and it is bad to bury a body
during a full moon. However, I cannot, for the life of me, understand the
effect a full moon has on the items in my shop. I should mention, however,
that the rearranging of objects isn't haphazard. It's as though they were being
straightened, arranged more neatly, a row of perfumes would become a
straight line, a misplaced item moved to a more sensible location.
Oh, there is one other thing I should mention. Scott, my husband, left me
several months ago. Apparently the name 'Scott' means 'wanderer' and that's
exactly what he was. In fact, he often wandered into the bedroom of my
neighbour. I missed him for a while, but no longer. He wasn't a bad man,
just ignorant, unfeeling and often drunk. How he is connected to my story
will become clear.
Anyway, I mentioned the occasional moving of objects on nights of a
full moon. There is one other curious feature of this rearrangement: the
slime. Well, it may not be slime, technically, but it's sort of greasy or oily.
The grease stains were usually long and thin and had a greenish tinge. They
washed easily with soap and water, but it was time consuming.
The final piece of this puzzle is the Egyptian vase, but you probably
knew that, else why would I begin this story with the purchase of the vase.
In fact, you will recall the son was not supposed to sell the vase. I suspect
that that instruction was for a purpose. Also, the vase originally had a
stopper in the mouth. I suspect that, too, was for a purpose.
Although I did not know it at the time, there was a seed in the vase. The
contents of the vase were mostly dust and dirt that had accumulated for
years, but buried within the dirt was this curious seed. I only learned about
the seed when I attempted to clean the vase. I turned it upside down and the
seed fell out. The seed was round, brown and about the size of a grape and
covered in tiny spikes. After removing the dirt, I dropped the seed back in
the vase. I'm not sure why I didn't just throw it away, that seed, but it was
from Egypt and I felt it belonged within the vase. I imagined the vase as
belonging to some Pharaoh and the seed was ancient. Yes, it's silly, but that's
the reason for my returning the seed to the vase.
Okay, I have related all the things that matter, that lead up to the final set
of events.
The reorganizing of objects became more evident, as though someone or
something was reading my mind. One afternoon I swore at a picture on the
wall. It had been put there by my husband and it was ugly. One of those
paint-on-black-velvet things that are sold in Mexican flea markets. A
dancing girl wearing few clothes. I hated it, but it covered a crack in the
plaster and I never got around to buying a replacement picture. It was one of
those full moon nights and in the morning the painting lay smashed on the
floor. This was much more than a simple reorganizing of objects. It's as
though something was aware of my dislike of the painting and destroyed it.
There was, of course, the telltale smears of green on the wall.
On another occasion a customer left a package on the table where I keep
the little jewellery boxes. I hate it when customers do that. It's often a bag
with leftover junk food or sometimes plastic containers that held popcorn or
peanuts. I didn't notice it when I closed up shop, but the next morning the
package was torn to shreds and lay scattered across the floor–and yes, it was
the morning after a full moon and the green slime was there.
When I found the green slime on the vase from Cairo, I was concerned
that, somehow, that vase was involved, but the final act was so frightening,
so dreadful that I was moved to write this letter of explanation.
One afternoon, just as I was about to close up shop, my husband came
by. We weren't living together, not since last November when I kicked him
out of my house. He said he was fired, couldn't pay the rent for his
apartment and needed a place to stay for just a few nights. Now Scott usually
went from one job to another. He was unreliable and an alcoholic so I wasn't
surprised when he asked to sleep on the cot in the shop.
We argued and I guess I raised my voice. Scott apologized for his
behaviour and said he wanted to get back together. I said that was
impossible and that he should go sleep with that bimbo next door. Scott was
almost in tears and I felt sorry for him ... so I let him stay. It wasn't until the
next morning that I realized that it was a full-moon night. When I arrived in
the morning Scott was dead. According to the medical report he had been
strangled. Although I was questioned and initially suspected of being
involved, the broken window in back of the store and the overturned coat
rack and broken cups indicated that a burglar had been caught by poor Scott
and Scott paid the price. In fact, his neck had been squeezed to such an
extent that blood oozed from the injury.
But when I saw the slime, I knew it wasn't a burglar. After the police left
and Scott's body was removed, I inspected the vase. On the mouth of the
vase was green slime ... and blood. When I turned the vase upside down that
seed fell out, but it was no longer a simple brown sphere. It was now quite
green with small slimy tentacles. Could the tentacles have been responsible
for all the outrageous events? Could they have broken the door in the back,
overturned the coat rack, enlarged to such an extent that they ... no, it seems
impossible. Nevertheless, that is the reason for this long story.
Mt. Hamadi, I hope you will understand the reason for my returning the
vase. Please do not sell it to anyone.
Sincerely,
Barbara Sheldon.
I was on my way to see my granny. I brought cake and coke. My granny
loves cake and coke. When I got there I saw the wolf in granny's bed. I knew
what I had to say.
"What big teeth you have," I said. I was ready for the response.
"The better to eat ..." the wolf began.
But I pulled out my 38 calibre Smith and Wesson and shot the devil.
Then I realized that granny was dressed as a wolf!
Granny has such a sense of humour.
I ate the cake and drank the coke by myself.
Chapter One
The notes were kind of cute, even if they were sometimes bizarre. For
example, the very first note, left on my car windshield said:
It's a lovely day for a walk.
It's a lovely day for a talk.
Smell the flowers, feel the breeze,
Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock.
My husband, Tom, thought it was a neighbour playing tricks or a school
kid with nothing better to do. I actually hoped it was a secret admirer. After
a while the notes became even stranger, especially when they appeared in
my purse or on my desk at work where I am assistant to the Head of Sales.
Who could get into my purse? How could it get on my desk?
A rather mysterious note came four days ago. It was attached to the
spokes of my bicycle. It said:
While out for a ride,
Be sure you can hide.
The boogie man is coming.
He looks for a bride.
The boogie man? Was that a secret admirer? I told Tom I was afraid and
he laughed. Imagine that? He laughed! Was I supposed to be the bride of the
boogie man? Tom said that, if I were really frightened, I should tell the
police. I did just that, bringing all the notes with me. I could tell that the cop
at the front desk was amused. He couldn't hide the smirk on his stupid face.
He made a copy of the notes and said to bring in any others that showed up.
As I left, I could hear him reciting some of the notes to the others. Soon they
were all snickering. Animals!
Two days ago I had lunch with Gilda, a gal from Brazil who joined the
firm a year ago. We usually have lunch together on Wednesdays. When I
told her about the notes, she thought they were charming and funny and she
said she'd love to get mysterious notes.
"But 'bride of boogie man'?" I said. "Doesn't that sound just too
grotesque?"
Gilda put her salad fork down, stared me right in the eyes and said,
"Muito bonita. Tell him I'll be his bride." Then she started laughing.
It was clear that all the notes seemed innocuous to everyone except me. I
was determined to find out who was sending them, but how? I would have to
be everywhere at once, checking my bicycle, my purse, my office desk, my
windshield. Then a new note came, just yesterday. It said:
Take a stroll along Moore's Trench.
Stop by the fountain, sit on the bench.
Light a match and give us a smile.
You'll see your future, nasty wench.
Nasty wench? Was that me? Whatever had I done to deserve such a
reputation? I've been a loving wife to Tom, a good companion to my friends,
a reliable assistant at work. It wasn't clear exactly when I was to take this
walk by Moore's Trench. It was a popular walk, this route along the Trench.
In fact, it was known as Walk the Trench. The Trench was a narrow canal
that was meant to carry flood water to the lake and it was usually dry as a
bone, except in the Spring. In any case, I was reluctant to Walk the Trench.
Would this boogie man be there? What was this 'future' I was to see?
When I told Tom he said I should just ignore the note. Don't Walk the
Trench. If I really wanted to 'see my future', he'd come with me to the
Trench. Or, if I preferred, I could ask for a police escort. After the reception
I got at the police station I wasn't about to go to the police again. I decided to
ignore the note altogether.
Today, shortly after noon, I found a note on my windshield:
You are very bad.
You did not come.
You make me sad.
You make me numb.
I'll have you yet.
You're not so dumb.
It was a different kind of note, a different kind of rhyme. What did it
mean: 'I'll have you yet'? I told Tom and he insisted we both go to the
police. Tom did all the talking, saying that I was frightened, this nut who
was sending the notes was off his rocker and that if anything happened to me
Tom would blame the police. The police agreed to have a patrol car drive by
our house from time to time, but there was little else they could do. Tom
seemed satisfied with that, but I certainly wasn't. I got notes on my desk, at
work. How could a police cruiser cover that?
The next day I get a note on my desk:
You saw the police, you silly gal.
I will no longer be your pal.
You must do as I say to redeem yourself.
Take another walk along the canal.
Another Walk the Trench? When? I collapsed into my chair and began to
shake. Gilda saw me with my head bowed and came by to enquire. I said I
got another note and it was on my desk. She said she hadn't seen anybody
near my desk, but there was so much morning traffic that she could have
missed it. Together we asked others in the office, but no one saw the note
being left. How was that possible? Whoever left the note must have been
someone familiar to everyone in the office. In fact, when a note was left in
my purse, that could also have been done at the office since I often leave my
purse unattended. I sat alone and looked about at all the girls. I couldn't
imagine any of them being the 'boogie man'.
Gilda and I had lunch together and we went over everybody at the office
who could be involved ... and came up empty. Gilda asked me a million
questions about the notes, if I had any other clues, if I suspected anyone of
Tom's friends. Of course, I had nothing. Gilda was a sweet gal. She was so
concerned with my welfare and was so sympathetic about my concerns. She
wanted me to tell her everything I knew, whatever was on my mind and
when any new notes arrived. I promised to keep her informed.
That evening I showed Tom the most recent note. He was livid. He got
up from the dinner table and paced about the room, shouting and swearing.
I've never seen him to upset. Even our dog, Cody, was upset and began to
bark, following Tom about the room. Tom didn't really like that dog. It was
a present from my father, soon after I got married, an adorable Yorkie pup. It
took to me immediately but Cody never really liked Tom and Tom never
liked the dog. Now, with Cody barking, Tom began cursing the dog.
Perhaps I should have been perturbed, hearing Tom condemning the
dog, but I was so comforted by Tom's concern for my welfare. Tom has been
a perfect husband, loving and understanding, always there to comfort me, to
cheer me up. He always asked if there was anything I'd like him to do,
around the house or in the garden. He often kissed me on the back of my
neck while I was preparing dinner, his arms about my waist. He often
whispered in my ear, sweet little verses. I still remember his very first verse,
the night of our honeymoon. It was so sweet:
Oh my sweet, you are my life.
I take you now, as my wife.
Our perfect journey begins today.
No discord, no quarrels and no strife.
Indeed, that has been the story of our marriage from day one. I should
have been a happy woman ... and I was, until the notes began. After dinner
the doorbell rang. Tom answered. It was a policeman, asking if everything
was okay. He had been patrolling the area. Tom was pleased, but I was still
apprehensive. How could a patrol car follow me everywhere I went?
Chapter Two
I ignored the last note about another walk along the Trench. For several
weeks there were no notes. Perhaps it had been a joke, a prank by a
neighbour or an office worker. I mentioned my delight to Tom and he
suggested we have a party for the people my office. It was a curious
suggestion, but I was happy to oblige. Usually our house parties were for
Tom's friends, but Tom has always been very considerate and I could tell he
was attempting to cheer me up after all the frightening notes. We decided
that it should be a barbecue party since the weather had been beautiful and
we had a large yard. Besides, Tom had bought a brand new stainless steel
BBQ with two side burners and a warming oven and I think he wanted to
show off. How I loved that man!
I invited everyone at the office. There are only twelve of us, including
my boss, Charlie, and they all accepted the offer. On the afternoon of the
party the street was full of cars, the sun came out in force, the tub with ice
and cold beer was well attended and the mixed drinks bar was crowded. I
should admit that we actually hired a neighborhood kid to attend to the
mixed drinks bar. He had often bragged that he knew every kind of alcoholic
beverage, Mai Tai being his specialty, and indeed he never had a problem.
Our guests would ask him about some exotic drink and he would recite the
ingredients and, if he had them, would mix the drink. He was a big hit and I
couldn't have been more pleased with the afternoon.
Tom, too, was enjoying himself. Although he didn't really know anyone
in the office except Charlie, he seemed to always be in animated
conversation with the girls, especially Gilda. Gilda was my black-haired
Latin beauty from Brazil and I knew that Tom would find her amusing and
entertaining. Even her Portuguese dialect was bewitching. When we lunched
together on Wednesday's she often told me of her romantic affairs in Brazil.
I enjoyed her company ... and it seemed that Tom did as well.
The party was a great success. Even our dog Cody was fairly quiet,
although he did bark whenever someone was laughing. I think Cody just
wanted to laugh, too, but Tom wasn't amused.
The very next morning, I found Cody in the garden. He was dead. I cried
all day. Even though Tom didn't like the dog, he was clearly concerned. I
felt that Tom's concern was more for me than for the dog. He promised to
buy me another Yorkie that afternoon. I asked him not to. I needed some
time to recuperate from the incident. I was sure it was the boogie man ...
returned.
After a time I decided that I was the only one who could solve this
mystery, this frightening puzzle, no one else. Since the notes were left for
me to find, I would try to contact this 'boogie man' by leaving a note for him.
I spent an hour composing an appropriate message and decided upon:
I know who you are.
It is not very far.
Meet me tonight,
At Danny's Bar.
I left the note on my windshield all day. I didn't want Tom along, else
my 'boogie man' might not show up, so I told him that I was going out with
some girls for most of the evening and he didn't object. He said I should
have a good time, enjoy myself. I left for Danny's Bar right after dinner. The
Bar is a favourite hangout for the local crowd. Danny himself is a fat fellow
with a belly that shakes when he laughs–and he laughs all the time. In fact, I
think it's his laughter that makes the place so popular. He flits about,
stopping at every table, chatting, telling jokes, laughing. I rarely visit
Danny's so he didn't know me, yet he came by to say my presence lit up the
room. He's a sweet fellow, fat and cuddly.
I waited for perhaps a half hour. No one came, no 'boogie man', so I left.
Actually, I was a little frightened at the prospect of meeting my boogie man
so I didn't really give him much time to meet me. Besides, how could I be
sure the boogie man even saw my note?
When I got home there was a strange car in the driveway. I didn't
recognize the car, one of those old beetles, but shiny red. We have a very
small driveway, so I parked up the street and walked back. When I got to the
front door I could hear voices inside. It sounded like a woman's voice, in the
hallway, as though someone had just arrived. I was curious. I thought I
recognized the voice. I went around to the side and peered into the small
window that looked in on the entryway. I could see Tom smiling and talking.
I couldn't see who he was talking to, so I went to the back of the house
where there's a large glass sliding door onto the living room. I'm not sure
why I didn't just open the front door and walk in, but I was curious. Tom
hadn't mentioned anything about having someone over that evening.
Tom came into the living room and pointed to a couch. I couldn't see the
woman; her back was to the glass door. Tom sat beside her, leaned over and
kissed her on the cheek. Who the hell was that woman? I ran to the front
door and let myself in, quietly. I stood in the hall, by the living room. I could
hear them talking:
Tom spoke: "... and she suspects nothing. She is a stupid woman."
The woman spoke: "I know she is very frightened." The voice was
familiar.
Tom spoke: "Yes, she is frightened, especially when you leave notes on
her desk." Tom was laughing.
The woman spoke: "Muito bonita, it is so funny to watch her."
Gilda! The woman was my Brazilian friend Gilda! She was in on this! I
should have guessed. And the verses in the notes, that was just like Tom.
And someone at the office who could easily place a note on my desk. But
what were they planning?
Gilda spoke: "When will you do it? When will we be free, you and I?"
Tom spoke: "I'm waiting for the Spring floods. The Trench will be filled
with a torrent of water. That will be my signal."
"Maravilhoso, fantástico. I can hardly wait. It's been so long, this boogie
man thing. Please hurry."
Then there was silence. Then I heard heavy breathing, Gilda was
panting. Damn them! I left the house and walked up the street to my car and
sat for almost an hour, thinking. I could see the red Volkswagen back out of
my driveway and head up the street. I now knew what I must do.
The Spring floods were early this year, but heavy. I waited for the next
note to arrive. I knew what it would say. It came the day after the newspaper
had photos of the trench filled with raging water. The note was on my
windshield:
Take a stroll along Moore's Trench.
Stop by the fountain, silly wench.
We will talk, you and I.
Your thirst for answers I will quench.
I showed it to Tom and, as I expected, he insisted on joining me. I said I
didn't know when we should Walk the Trench; the note didn't say. Tom said
it should be that very evening, just after sunset. The walkway beside the
Trench would be empty, just the two of us and the flowers and birds and
squirrels. And the boogie man, I thought to myself.
We had a quick dinner of warmed-up pizza and headed for the Trench. It
is not far from our house and it was a lovely evening and the walkway was
indeed empty. We stopped and gazed down into the canal. The water was a
raging torrent. I pointed down and asked Tom if he could see that object
floating in the water. He bent over the fence, I removed the hammer from
my purse and hit him on the back of the head as hard as I could. He
collapsed, half over the fence. I looked about. We were alone. I lifted his
legs and he fell on the far side of the fence, sliding down the canal wall to
the floodwater. I saw his body swept away and it was a tremendous comfort.
I didn't expect to be so happy. I had just murdered my husband, a man I had
loved for so many years, yet I was strangely exhilarated. I walked slowly
back home.
The next day I phoned the police saying that my husband was missing.
They asked me to come to the station, which I did. They recognized me at
once and when I mentioned our walk by the Trench, Tom and I, they knew
about the earlier notes that mentioned such a walk. I showed them the latest
note. I said that Tom went alone to the Trench in hopes of meeting the
boogie man. They said I should wait a day or so. There may be a simple
explanation for Tom's disappearance.
The following day Tom's body washed up on the shore of the lake. The
police immediately began a search for my boogie man. In fact, two
detectives were given the assignment. The Case of the Boogie Man, they
called it. I couldn't be happier. I went out and got a cute Yorkie pup and
called him Cody. I had Tom cremated and threw his ashes in the garbage
along with all this clothes.
On Wednesday Gilda and I had lunch. She was really shaken by Tom's
death. She kept saying, "Terrível, muito triste." She was in tears. Then she
showed me the note she had received. It was in her purse. She was shaking
and I was smiling. I knew what it would say:
Gilda girl, you nasty bitch.
I will get you, immoral witch.
I am boogie man and now I'm yours.
They will find you in that ditch.
By the following week Gilda had quit and moved back to Brazil.
I could hardly contain my glee.
We are three little pigs and our house is solid brick.
Wolfy comes by with his "huff and puff" line and we laugh.
Wolfy lives in a straw house. What a nincompoop.
At night we go and blow his house down.
As it happens, we three have a friend: a huge Rottweiler called Fang.
One day we asked Fang to blow Wolfy's house down.
He did, then he ate Wolfy.
Then Fang came to our house for his pork chops.
Fang is a jerk. Our house is made of brick.
Then Fang came by with a plasma brick cutting torch.
My parents died in a freak skiing accident when I was three years old. I
understand that they were skiing on a mountain near Whistler, the snow
wasn't so very deep, yet there was an avalanche and they were buried alive. I
was with the baby-sitter next door at the time. I was the only child and I
inherited their estate: the house, two cars, furniture, bank accounts and some
stocks. The authorities thought I needed support and guidance and appointed
my baby-sitter as my legal guardian. I have no relatives, but it seemed a
curious appointment. Nevertheless it turned out for the best.
We moved to my house, my baby-sitter and I, because it was bigger and
nicer and had swings and kid's stuff in the yard. After a time my baby-sitter,
whose name was Corinne Jones, insisted that I call her Granny. I think she
was about forty years old at the time. She was a wonderful parent. We
celebrated every one of my birthdays with a party where all my friends
would come and Granny would make a huge chocolate cake. That was our
private thing: the huge chocolate cake. It meant love and affection and
warmth and togetherness and never forgetting our special relationship.
Granny insisted that I remember that.
Granny bought a bike when I was nine and taught me to ride. We often
went on picnics to the neighbourhood park. When I went to high school I
discovered that Granny was very smart. She helped me with my geography,
history and English lit classes, but her math was lousy. When I was eighteen
she bought me a used car and taught me to drive.
I went to university at age nineteen. Granny insisted. I couldn't imagine
what I'd study, but she suggested engineering, any kind of engineering. She
said I should be aware, whatever that meant. I enrolled in the mechanical
engineering program. I was a pretty average student, I guess, but I did
graduate with honours–with Granny's help. I wasn't ready to actually get a
job when I graduated, not a permanent job anyway, but I did manage to find
part-time work here and there, mostly at recreation centres, the tennis club, a
gardening firm and a construction outfit. Granny insisted that I keep my
mind open, learn everything I could at whatever I was doing. Then she
suggested I consider politics.
I ran for city council and actually won the seat for my ward. I found the
discussions quite invigorating, so I decided to run for mayor. By this time
Granny was about to celebrate her seventieth birthday. It was a quiet affair,
just me and Granny. She was living in a smaller house that I had rented for
her, but I had moved into a condo by the lake. I brought to her home a
collection of Chinese dishes which she loved, from the local China Take-out.
I also bought a huge chocolate cake as she had so often done for my
birthdays. The cake was much larger than I had expected, but this was our
private thing and a necessary component of every birthday. That's when she
told me the story.
She was very young, about twenty. She had left home and was living
with a boy. They had no money so they decided to rob a bank. The boy had a
gun, so it would be armed robbery. She realized that it was a felony, but they
were desperate. The robbery went all wrong. The bank teller started yelling
and Granny's boy friend shot the teller. Granny was scared and ran out of the
bank alone. The teller later died in the hospital. Her boy friend was caught
and was given a life sentence. He is dead now, that fellow. He died
yesterday at age seventy four. Perhaps that's what prompted Granny to tell
me the story.
I asked Granny why she was telling me this story, at this time. She said
that as a mayoral candidate they would be checking my background ... not
the government authorities, but the press. Reporters had already contacted
her. My relationship with Granny was by now well known. The fact that the
fellow who died yesterday had an accomplice was also well known, but he
had not told anyone who that accomplice was ... not until he was on his
death bed. Granny was now being hounded by reporters. I asked Granny
what she expected me to do. She said she would be going to jail and I should
continue with my run for office and try to ignore the reporters.
In fact, I denied knowing anything about Granny's past as a young
woman. Indeed, I even went so far as to say that we were not very close.
Granny was just a sit-in for my parents who had died when I was three years
old. I never got to know her very well. I couldn't very well disclose a close
association with someone involved in an armed bank robbery–not while I
was running for mayor, could I?
I did win the election and Granny did go to jail. I never went to see her.
How would it look? The questions died away, reporters lost interest and I
was relatively free of that unpleasant association. However, on Granny's
seventy-fifth birthday, I sent a huge chocolate cake to the jail house. I did
indicate that it was from the mayor's office. I received a letter back saying
that Miss Jones had died two days after she was imprisoned. That would
have been almost five years year ago. That would have been right after she
was imprisoned. I was shocked. How had she died? She had hanged herself
in her cell.
I am ashamed of how I acted. I visit Granny's grave every year on her
birthday. I bring a chocolate cake, but I leave it by the tombstone. I can no
longer eat chocolate of any sort.
Seventeen missiles were coming across the Bering Sea and our antimissile defensive measures succeeded in intercepting just twelve. The
remaining five would strike their targets within minutes. Completely
unacceptable. In the Mediterranean Sea, just North of Tripoli, the Trident
missiles were off course. Our adversary had succeeded in intercepting and
reconfiguring our remote guidance.
"Hey! I see we're losing the war," Cliff said. Cliff was a jerk of the first
order. When I was hired to head up the war simulation team, he was
bypassed. It didn't sit well with him and he was eager to remind me of my
failures at every opportunity.
"Look, Cliff, this is the most sophisticated system every devised. I've
only been modifying the code for a little over two months and ..."
"But Billy boy, you have more degrees than a compass, and you told the
boss that you could program the optimal system in under a month.
Remember that there's a multi-million dollar government contract at risk."
"Well, it's actually coming along well," I said. "Global War is almost
complete."
I was lying. I had no idea what the optimal strategy should be. I had
tried every mathematical trick, every optimizing gimmick, every
transformation, every known technique ... to no avail. I was just plain stuck,
and I'm sure Cliff knew it. I worked on the software night and day. My wife
was angry and I hardly ever had time for Jacob, my twelve-year-old. Jake
would soon be a teenager and I hardly knew him.
In the evening I take the latest version of my program home and install it
on my laptop. The laptop doesn't have the computing power of the
mainframe at work, of course, but it will allow me to devise more efficient
algorithms. I can play the war game, as it were, and the software would rate
my success. So far my highest score is 79%. That was a week ago. Since
then I've only been able to achieve 70% or less in the Global War
simulation. It was frustrating. I've always had success at challenges like this.
My previous work was noted in all the most important physics and
computing reviews. My improved algorithm for conjugate gradient methods
is considered the best in the field– yet this Global War simulation escapes
me.
It was Friday evening and I had worked late, as usual. I carried my
laptop to the living room, set it on the coffee table and collapsed on the sofa.
Liz asked if I had eaten, I said no, so she warmed up some pizza. That was it
for me: pizza, a beer then sleep. I slept until almost noon on Saturday. Liz
was in the kitchen making lunch for her and Jacob.
"Want a sandwich?" she asked. "Tuna salad."
I hate tuna salad, but I know that Jacob loves the stuff.
"Where's Jake?" I asked.
"Playing a new computer game in the living room."
"You bought him another computer game?" I said. "He already has a
dozen!"
I was angry. That kid did nothing but play on his laptop computer.
"Me? I didn't buy him any game, you did."
"Liz, I've been so busy I don't have time to buy presents. Uh ... is it his
birthday?"
"Yesterday was his thirteenth birthday."
"He's a teenager!" I said, happily. "I bet he's happy, right?"
"He didn't say," Liz said, with some sarcasm. "He did expect you to be
here for his birthday party."
"Damn! I forgot, but I'll make it up to him."
"Well, at least you didn't forget his present. He's pretty pleased with it."
"But I didn't buy ... wait, did you say a computer game?'
"You brought him a computer game. He complained that there was no
sound but he loves the graphics and the detail. I'm surprised you gave him
such a complicated game. After all, he's only thirteen and ..."
I jumped up from the table and ran to the living room. Jake was playing
on my laptop. He jumped up and giggled as the notice flashed on the screen:
"Global War: 100% success."
I really like the Missus. She feeds me, brush me, take me for walks,
bathes me and even cleans my teeth. I ain't that fond of Mister. He don't do
nothin. He just sit around most of the day, watching TV and nappin. We live
in an apartment on the 17th floor and the Missus got a pee-pad on the
balcony. That's where I do my thing, on that pee station. The Missus usually
clean up after me, but when I know it be Mister doin the cleanin, I make
some soft and gooey poop. You can tell I'm laughing when he pick up the
mess 'cause my tail is wagging.
When I get excited, I barks. Mister hates it when I barks so I regularly
find something exciting to bark about when Mister is napping. At night I
sleep between Mister and Missus. Mister often gets up in the middle of the
night to make the pee. That's when I pull his blankets apart and sit on his
pillow. You can tell I'm laughing 'cause my tail is waggin.
I'm a boy dog, name of Sandy. I know I'm supposed to lift my leg when
I do the pee, but I know Mister hates it, so that's why I squat like a girl dog.
That really gets his goats! You can tell I'm laughing 'cause my tail is waggin.
When the mailman drops a mail through the slot in the door, I run to get
it and carry it between my teeth until Mister give me a cookie. Then I chew
the mail a bit, cover it with spit and stuff–especially if it's for him–then I
drop it in my water bowl, then I grab the cookie. You can tell I'm laughing
'cause my tail is waggin.
When the Missus is feelin down and out, I sit on her lap and give her the
big, sad eyes. I may whine just a bit. I feel sorry for her. She's such a nice
lady. If the Mister is feeling down I find something to get excited about ...
then I bark all afternoon. He don't like that, but my tail is waggin.
I'm a white dog and when Mister takes me walkin, which ain't so often, I
be sure to lie down in the dirt and get some mud on. Then the Missus asks
Mister to wash me and he don't like that one bits, but my muddy tail is
waggin.
One day I found Mister paintin a picture. I don't know he could do that,
but I watch and saw he is paintin a dog ... and the dog is me! He spend lots
of time with that painting and he done it good, 'cause it really look like me. I
is impress, very impress. I guess I didn't know Mister so good. When he
finish he put the paintin in a nice frame and hang it in his den. I really like
Mister.
Now I don't bark so much and I sometime sit on Mister's lap and give
him the big sad eye and I never, ever sit on his pillow no more. I even learn
to lift my leg and I see Mister is happy ... so I am happy, too.
Chapter One
I am rich. I have always been rich. I live in a rather large house on
Mulberry Drive–some might call it a mansion. Four car garage filled with a
Rolls Royce Phantom, Mercedes 300 SL, Ferrari Testarosa and a Cadillac
Escalade SUV. I own or have controlling interest in four luxury hotels as
well as many other business interests, I own a house on the Italian Riviera
and a 200 acre estate on Kauai, North Shore. My parents, now both dead,
left me a fortune and I doubled it within ten years. I am a well-known and
well-respected member of the community with a hospital wing in my name
and many charitable organizations depending upon my contributions. So it
was with great surprise when the police came to my door and said I had been
positively identified as the person who robbed the First Dominion Bank in
Caledon City. Impossible!
I was taken into custody and spent the afternoon being interrogated. At
the time of the robbery I was giving a speech to over a hundred business
men at the Whitney Hotel. Besides, what would I do with money from a
bank? I actually owned three banks. Yet the identifications had been
positive. I was put into a lineup along with some scruffy looking individuals
and the witnesses to the robbery were asked to pick me out. They did, every
one. The police were at a loss to explain the positive identifications after
they confirmed that I was, indeed, speaking in the Whitney Hotel theatre.
They let me go with an apology.
Very early the following morning the door bell rang. It was the day off
for my man-servant, Abbott, so I answered it myself. When I opened the
door I saw myself, James Clerk Marcello, standing there before me.
"May I come in?" the guy said.
I was dumbfounded. A twin? Did I have a twin? Was this the guy who
robbed the First Dominion? Is that why I was positively identified, because
of this guy who looked like me? Why was he here, at my house? Should I
...?
"If you don't mind, I think I have something you'll be interested in
hearing. If you let me in, I can tell you. If you continue to just stare at me
with your mouth open, I'm afraid I'll have to leave. The police are looking
for me, but I'm sure you know that. If..."
"Yes, yes, come in, come in." I said. "Who the hell are you?'
"I wouldn't mind a drink. Say whisky and ginger ale. And can we sit
before we talk? I'm exhausted. I'm on the run, you know."
I pointed to the drawing room. This guy looked behind him at the
driveway, furtively, then closed the door behind him and walked into the
drawing room. I followed, confused. He fell onto the sofa and I stood.
"Why are you here?" I asked. "You robbed a bank and the police are
looking for you so I'd rather you didn't..."
"No, I didn't rob the First Dominion," he said. "And my name? It's Clyde
Samuelson and how about that whiskey? I live over in Burlington but I
haven't been home in days. I understand, from friends, that the police have
been to my house several times."
He waited, apparently for me to make him a whiskey.
"If you didn't rob the bank–and I certainly didn't–then why is it that you
were positively identified my banking staff?"
"Whiskey?" he said.
I walked to the side bar and poured a whisky into a very small glass and
squirted some soda.
"Whisky and ginger ale," he said.
"I don't have ginger ale. Now, can you prove that you were not the
robber? I can. I was speaking to a hundred business men at the Whitney
Hotel. And you?"
"I was at home at the time the robbery took place. Unfortunately, I can't
prove it."
"Well, it seems you're in trouble and I haven't the slightest interest. It's
curious that you look like me, but I ask you to leave and ..."
"Curious? You think it's just curious? Brother, it's more than that. We
share the parents, you and I: Dorothy and Daniel Marcello. I was born in this
mansion, just like you. My name was originally Clyde Marcello, but mother
hated the idea of having children. She wanted an abortion, but Daniel said he
wanted someone to take over when he retired, so he insisted on keeping one
child and giving me up for adoption."
"Are you saying that we are twins, you and I?"
"Exactly," he said, sipping the whiskey then placing the glass on the
coffee table. "Terrible stuff, whiskey and soda."
"That's eighteen year old Macallan."
"I hate whiskey, but I like the ginger ale." He laughed.
This guy was an idiot.
I sat on the chair opposite the sofa.
"So you were chosen to take over Daniel's businesses ... and you've
apparently done well." This guy, Clyde, looked about. The drawing room
was one of the finest features of the house: solid walnut shelves with
hundreds of leather-bound books, a chandelier that must have cost my
parents a pretty penny, stained glass windows that looked out onto the
circular driveway and the acres of trimmed lawn.
"And you were adopted?" I asked.
"Yes, by a very nice middle-class couple. They're now living
comfortably in a retirement home."
"And you want to ask me for money, am I right? Well, you can forget
that. I don't owe you anything."
"Money? Hell no. I teach history at Burlington High, live alone in a
commodious bungalow and have no need of your money."
"Then why are you here?" I asked.
"If neither you nor I were in that bank, then who was?" he asked.
We sat and stared at each other for several minutes. Clyde smiled. I
immediately knew what he was about to say.
"Triplets?" I said, rising from my chair.
"Triplets," Clyde said with a grin. "We need to find him, to get the
police off my tail."
"This has nothing to do with me!" I said, angrily. "The police are not on
my tail!"
"I must tell you that I learned about our relationship, yours and mine,
about a year ago. Although your name is in the papers every week, never a
photo."
"I don't like publicity. I don't want to be recognized by every jerk who
walks the street," I said, still angry.
"I can understand that," Clyde said. "However, there was a photo of you
in a business magazine from about a year ago. I was shocked to see the
likeness, I must say. I asked my parents, my adoptive parents, and they
admitted that I had been adopted and that my birth parents were very rich. I
checked with Child Welfare to find my biological parents, but they don't
give out that information. However, I have a friend who works with Child
Welfare and he got me the information: Dorothy and Daniel Marcello. He
also said, with a grin, that there were two children given up for adoption."
Clyde paused, as though he wanted that comment to sink in.
"I thought that meant twins, so when I saw your picture in that
magazine, I assumed that there was an error of some sort. You were clearly
not adopted. In fact, you inherited the Marcello fortune."
I sank slowly into the chair again.
"So, now you think that there were, indeed, two children adopted, you
and another," I said.
"Yes, and that other is the guy who robbed the First Dominion Bank."
"Fine," I said. "Then find him and clear your name, get the police off
your tail ... but leave me out of it."
I got up from the chair and walked to the front door. Clyde looked
weary, but he followed me. I opened the door and he stood in the doorway.
"You may think you're out of it, but you'd be mistaken. Have you seen
this morning's news? Your picture is now on the front page of the Burlington
Times under the heading:
James Clerk Marcello: a suspect in bank robbery.
"Our robber-brother will see it. He will find you," he said.
Then, before I had a chance to say anything, Clyde walked away.
Chapter Two
It was less than a week later that I got the phone call. Abbott, my manservant, brought me the phone. I was going over the books for the hotel in
Bermuda.
"He doesn't give his name," Abbott said. "But he says it's important."
"Thank you Abbott. I'll take it."
I took the phone and sat back.
"Yes, this is James Clerk Marcello."
"I know exactly who you are and you will soon know exactly who I am,"
said the raspy voice. "I will come to your place tomorrow evening. Get out
your checkbook." A grating laugh, then, "Get ready to meet your brother."
Then he hung up.
Damn! I don't have time for this! Why me? Why not that other guy, the
teacher, whatever his name was ... Clyde, I think. I have absolutely no
interest in twins or triplets or whatever.
Did he say 'get out your checkbook'? Does he intend to ask for money?
I'll just call the police. I picked up the phone which lay on my desk. I
punched the police speed dial button.
"This is James Clerk Marcello. I just received a call from someone who
is undoubtedly the fellow who robbed the First Dominion Bank. He said he
will come to my house tomorrow evening and ... no, he didn't say the time,
but I expect he intends to ask for money and ... no, I don't know his name,
but ... yes, I am quite sure he's the robber because ... because he looks like
me."
There was a long pause on the line, then:
"This is inspector Clifford. I understand that a person that matches your
description intends to meet with you tomorrow evening. Is that right?"
"Yes! That's what I just said. Am I required to repeat everything I say? I
expect officers will be stationed ..."
"Mister Marcello, we will most certainly have officers there, but you
must understand that, should this fellow see police cars, he will postpone his
meeting with you. Now, why do you think he looks like you? Have you met
him?"
"No, I haven't met him. I haven't even seen him. It's just that ... that I
think that he may be my twin."
"Mister Marcello, we have been looking for your twin for several days.
His name is Clyde Samuelson and he's a teacher at ..."
"No! No! You have the wrong person. I know Clyde. Yes, we are twins,
but Clyde did not rob the bank. The fellow coming tomorrow did. You see ...
we were triplets. Clyde told me about this third fellow, that he was the
robber and that I could expect a visit from him."
There was another long pause.
"Mister Marcello, there will be three officers at your place by four p.m.
tomorrow. They will be hidden. You will not know they are there, but they
will have visuals on your house at all times. In the meantime, I would ask
that you not leave your house tomorrow. Is that understood?"
"Do you think I have little to do? I have businesses to run, people to
meet and ..."
"Mister Marcello, it was armed robbery. The fellow has a gun. I
wouldn't play games. He is serious. If he wants money you can be sure he'll
threaten you. Now, is there anything you don't understand? You must cancel
all appointments tomorrow and stay home. Keep watch and, whatever you
do, do not go outside the house. Do you live alone?"
"Certainly not! I have two gardeners, a maid, a cook and a man-servant.
How do you think five acres of property gets looked after?"
"Do you understand my instructions, Mister Marcello?"
"Yes, yes, stay home, do not go out."
"Thank you. We will be in touch."
Inspector what's-his name hung up. I couldn't concentrate on the
accounting files for the Bermuda hotel. I asked Abbott to call my secretary
and cancel all appointments for tomorrow. I was feeling rather shaky. I made
myself a whiskey and soda. I thought about the meeting with that teacher. I
called Abbott and asked if he could call the teacher and whether he had left
an address or a phone number. Abbott reminded me that the teacher was
here on his day off. Abbott never saw the man. Damn!
"Do you have a name?" Abbott asked.
"Yes, he told me his name ... uh, Clyde something. Clyde Samuels ...
Samuelson. Yes, that's it, Samuelson."
"Then I shall attempt to locate Mister Samuelson."
I didn't sleep well that night, thinking about the visit from the third
triplet, the bank robber and his demand for money. Could I get rid of him by
giving him a few dollars? I doubt it. He would be back, again and again. The
only way was to pray the police would catch him.
In the early afternoon, the next day, Abbot said there was someone to
see me. That was curious because I hadn't heard the door bell.
"Yes Abbott, bring him in. I'll be in my study."
In a few minutes a mangy looking individual walked into the study. He
wore a dirty grey shirt, blue jeans and a cap pulled down over his eyebrows.
I was about to call Abbot.
"Well if it isn't the illustrious James Clerk Marcello," he said. "We've
never met ... well, not recently."
He pulled off his cap and it was me!
"Yes, you are seeing correctly. It's me, Bobby, the third triplet, the evil
one, the beggar, the indigent, the pauper, the one who robs banks in order to
survive while my brother lives in a mansion."
"What do you want?" I said, my voice shaking. "Do you want money, is
that it? How much?"
"Oh brother, I want everything."
Just then Abbott came in with three glasses: whiskey and ginger ale.
I sipped mine without thinking.
"Abbott, this has ginger ale!"
"Sorry Mister Marcello, but this gentleman insisted upon ginger ale."
I turned to this evil man.
"How did you get in?"
"I know all about the police that'll be arrayed against me, but that's not
until four p.m., so I came early and knocked on the back door. Good old
Abbott let me in."
I looked at Abbot. He was smiling. This fellow, Bobby, was smiling.
They began to look fuzzy, their voices fading. I looked at my drink. It didn't
taste right ...
Chapter Three
Bobby and Abbot sat comfortably on the sofa in the drawing room.
Bobby looked about at the lush surroundings.
"We done good, don't you think?" he said.
"Yes, Robert, we done good. I don't think James had any idea. I figured
that the ginger ale was so unfamiliar he wouldn't taste the drug, a form of
choral hydrate. I knew it would knock him out rather quickly."
"What about our other friend?"
"He should be here shortly," Abbott said, sipping his whiskey and ginger
ale.
Just then the doorbell rang, but neither Abbot nor Bobby moved. Clyde
Samuelson walked into the drawing room.
"Hello fellas. I assume everything went as planned?"
"Exactly as planned, brother," Bobby said.
Clyde slipped into a chair, helping himself to the third glass of whiskey
and ginger ale that was on the coffee table.
"So what now? I assume that we all live happily ever after, eh?"
"You got that right, Clyde," Bobby said.
"I've arranged for us to spend a month on the estate, our estate, in
Kauai," Abbott said, grinning.
"Excellent," Clyde said. Then, turning to Bobby: "What did you do with
the money you stole from the First Dominion Bank?"
"Charity. That mission on Lakeshore Drive, the one that helps the poor,
free meals and all that ... as an anonymous donor."
Abbott filled their glasses and they all stopped talking and began
drinking in earnest, each with a colossal smile.
And James Clerk Marcello?
He was in a jail cell, dressed in a dirty grey shirt, blue jeans, his cap on
the floor.
"I tell you I am not the bank robber! You have the wrong man! I've been
drugged, duped. I am James Clerk Marcello ..."
But no one was listening.
He was old, even when I was a boy. His face seemed withered even
then, like parchment, wrinkled with deep furrows. Then, his beard was grey
... it's now quite white. It's also scruffy and completely covers his mouth. It
isn't easy to determine if his lips are moving when he speaks, but his stories
are marvelous. They were always marvelous. It's as though this gentleman
had been everywhere and seen everything. His voice is sometimes raspy, yet
still powerful. Sometimes, when he pauses, it's difficult to know whether
he's ended his story or just stopping to gather his breath. Sometimes he
whispers and I have to lean forward to hear him, but mostly he speaks with a
clear and booming voice, though sometimes hoarse. We still sit on the front
porch on many Saturday afternoons and sip the lemonade that Grandma
makes. Grandpa was always in his overalls and straw hat. Some things never
change.
It was on a Saturday almost ten years ago that he told me of the most
peculiar story. I remember it well because as he told the story it began to
rain and the thunder seemed to punctuate his story at the most opportune
times. As you might imagine, I was thoroughly impressed. I was twelve
years old at the time and the weather was so hot and humid that I dropped by
just to ask Grandma for some cool lemonade. Grandpa pointed to the chair
on the porch and I sat and Grandma brought us both a lemonade. Grandpa
always sat in his rocking chair, even thought he never rocked, but the shape
of the chair seemed to fit his frame perfectly. He began the story as he
usually does, saying: "You may not believe this sonny, but..."
*****
"I was in Africa, looking for the black panther. That devil had evaded
me for years, but I was determined to find him this time. There may have
been others on the slopes of Mount Kenya–though I've never seen any–but I
knew this one well. I had seen him before. We stayed for a day at an Embu
village. To the Embu, the mountain is sacred and they build their houses
facing the mountain. On the mountain lives their God, Ngai. We eventually
got to a clearing at 5700 feet. We had a shack there from previous
expeditions and we stayed for almost a day, in that shack. There were three
of us: me, Jones and Leboo, our Masai guide. Eventually we reached 7000
feet. Above that level there is no dense forest, so if we are to find Nero, our
black leopard, we should go no higher."
Grandpa took a sip of his lemonade and looked to see that I was still
listening intently. Now, in retrospect, I'm surprised that he could remember
such details, so many years after the event. Then he slowly set his glass on
the small table and continued.
"We camped on a wooded ledge overlooking the Hobley Valley. From
there we could see for miles so our Oberwerk 25/40x100 Long-Range
Observation Binoculars were set up to scan the valley. If Nero was there,
we'd see him."
"Leboo was always babbling about the danger of being in this particular
area of the mountain. He wasn't afraid of anything, this fellow, but he knew
the mountain well and kept warning us of what he called the 'Gorosh'. Jones
and I assumed that Leboo was speaking of some godlike entity which lived
on the mountain. After all, many of the local natives believed that a God
lived on the mountain. The Emeru natives called it Murungu. As it turned
out, Leboo was not speaking of a God but of something more unusual."
Grandpa stopped. There was the violent sound of thunder nearby. As I
recall, it looked like he was falling asleep. His eyes were closed and his head
tilted forward, his beard lying on his chest. I could see Grandma peering out
of the window. She was smiling, so I guess Grandpa was alright. Then he
opened his eyes, saw that I was listening, then continued.
"For days we saw nothing. Then, one morning, Jones and I woke up to
find that Leboo had vanished. We had suspected that he would leave, the
stories about the evil Gorosh being on his mind every day. He never did
explain what this evil was. We asked, but he seemed reluctant to speak of it
as though the act of discussing the evil thing would bring the evil upon us. I
think that, now, Jones and I knew what Leboo was speaking about. In any
case, Jones and I intended to stay on the mountain for at least another two
weeks."
Grandma came out to refill our lemonade glasses. She was happy to see
Grandpa telling stories. That meant that he was enjoying himself. Grandpa
blew a kiss in Grandma's direction, sipped some lemonade and continued.
"In the afternoon, Jones and I finally saw Nero, the black leopard. He
was walking slowly, as though he was hurt. Jones and I were each looking
down into the valley, each with our long range binoculars.
'Looks like he's hurt', Jones said.
'Is that a scar on the side of his head?' I said.
'Yes, I see it,' Jones said.
We waited and saw that Nero was coming up the slope, approaching our
position. We just watched, not knowing what to do.
'Shoot!' I said to Jones."
A loud thunder clap! I jumped up from my seat. I couldn't believe that
Grandpa would shoot an animal, any animal.
"Grandpa!" I said. "Did you shoot that leopard?"
Grandpa looked up at me and smiled.
"Yes, sonny. Jones shot him with a camera. We didn't carry guns."
I was so happy I collapsed into my chair again. Grandpa waited until he
was certain that I was listening and continued.
"Soon, Nero was just a few hundred feet away. Jones and I ran to our
tent. We thought that, if we hid inside, with the door zipped up, the beautiful
cat wouldn't know we were there. He could smell us, of course, but he
couldn't see us. There was a clear plastic window, quite small, and we
peered out. The cat walked right past the tent. We waited for several minutes
then carefully unzipped out tent door and went out. Sonny, you won't believe
what we saw."
The thunder seemed to die down but the gentle sound of rain continued.
Grandpa waited, sipped some lemonade. I held my breath.
"Behind the tent was a mountain gorilla, a silverback. He was sitting,
was leaning against a tree. On his lap was Nero. The gorilla was licking
Nero's head, where the wound was. The gorilla seemed unperturbed by our
presence. He just kept licking the big cat and I swear that the cat was
purring. It's as though the cat was a pet, a pet to the gorilla. Jones and I were
flabbergasted."
Grandpa stopped talking. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He
seemed to be sleeping. Grandma came out and quietly asked me to leave.
"But, did you hear that story." I asked.
"Yes, it's one of his favourites," she said.
"But he's just making it up, right?" I said.
"Come inside," Grandma said. I followed her and she pointed to a chair.
I sat and waited while she went into another room. When she came back she
had a photo in her hand. She handed it to me. It was a black and white
photograph. It showed Grandpa, a much younger Grandpa, with his arm
around a huge gorilla. In front of them was a black leopard, sleeping.
*****
That was ten years ago. I still have that photo and I still find it hard to
believe. Grandpa died six months ago. Grandma is still going strong and
lives comfortably in a retirement home. I did try to find the fellow called
Jones, but Grandma didn't know where he was or even if he was still alive.
To this day I believe that Grandpa was pulling my leg.
Chapter One
I was going to kill myself, but it had to look like murder. If I slit my
wrists, it'd be difficult to imagine that someone had murdered me. So, how
could I commit suicide in such a way that no one would suspect it was a
suicide? Further, how could I make it look like my wife had done the deed.
It may seem strange that I wanted to kill myself. It may seem even
stranger that I wanted to implicate my wife. However, I have a form of
prostate cancer that will kill me in six months, I'm told, so suicide will just
move up the date of my demise. Not too drastic. Further, I hate my wife.
Sylvia has been having an affair with her boss for almost six months now ...
and she openly admits it. I know I'm not the best husband in the world, but
we married for better or for worse. We argue all the time, she insults me and
she tells all her friends about my inability to make her happy. She's not even
pretty. In fact, she's very plain looking. If she is arrested for the murder of
her husband, I can die happy.
That leaves two questions:
How to commit suicide so no one would suspect it was a suicide.
How could I make it look like my wife was the murderer.
Chapter Two
My husband, Oliver, was in the garage, a half dozen knives protruding
from his body. I found the body two days ago. When the police arrived, I
was the principal suspect. The knives were my kitchen knives and, of course,
had my fingerprints all over them ... yet I did not kill my husband. The
police said that every knife would have been enough to kill the man. That
meant that he could not have stabbed himself a half dozen times.
Oliver wasn't a good man, not a good lover, not a good conversationalist
and he certainly wasn't handsome. In fact, he was pretty ugly with an
oversized nose, scars on his cheek and he walked with a limp. He was also
diagnosed with cancer, so if I waited long enough, I'd be rid of him. On the
other hand, my boss, Jeremy, made me feel wanted. He was considerate,
affectionate and oh-so-handsome. He was an insurance broker and could
arrange insurance for your left knee cap, if that's what you wanted.
Jeremy also had a lot of money, unlike Oliver who worked as a part time
carpenter. That was really funny: Oliver was a carpenter, yet our home was a
mess. He never fixed anything, he just let things wear out. He spent most
weekends in the garage, playing with his toys, his gadgets, his wooden
designs. They were all junk as far as I was concerned. There were
collapsible tables, folding chairs with strange wavy seats, devices that would
play ball, wall dividers that would fit into a car trunk. All junk. He thought
he could interest some company in mass producing them: Oliver would
make a commission. Never happened. And Oliver was just too stupid to
market them himself.
I always wondered what I saw in Oliver, ten years ago, when we
married. He really wasn't very smart. I often had to correct his statements
when we were talking to friends. He'd say, "I'd like to visit Atlantis" and I'd
say "That place doesn't exist". He was a foolish man.
But, two days ago, Oliver was clever enough to somehow kill himself
and make it look like I did it. Although I was a suspect and was told not to
leave town, I wasn't actually taken into custody. Not yet. Although getting
rid of Oliver was a plus, my being the principal suspect was distressing.
When my boss, Jeremy, learned of Oliver's death he immediately came by
the house to comfort me. I had taken Oliver's death and my being a suspect
pretty painlessly, but now I fell into Jeremy's arms, crying that I was
suspected of killing my husband. Jeremy was stunned.
He stayed for dinner, just some warmed-up pizza and a beer, then he
stayed the night, sleeping on the sofa. I didn't sleep well and woke up late.
Jeremy had already made French toast which he kept warm in the oven. He
had a curious grin on his face while we ate. Then he said he wanted to show
me something and I followed him to the garage.
"See that?" he said, pointing to one wall where some of Oliver's junk
lay.
"Yes. I think that's Oliver's ball throwing junk ... batting practice, you
know."
"Sylvia, come look inside," he said, and lifted the top of the wooden
structure. I looked in and saw six knives, my kitchen knives! "Stand back,"
Jeremy said."
I stepped away, he checked that it was plugged into the electric outlet,
then he pushed a button and five knives came flying out of the contraption.
They all landed embedded in a sheet of plywood.
"My God!" I exclaimed. "That's how Oliver killed himself!"
"Yes. Pretty clever, I'd say. Now I'll call the police and explain."
"But how did the knives get in there?"
"I was curious and came out here early this morning. When I saw the
gadget I plugged it in, put a small scrap of wood inside and pressed the
button. I nearly got hit by flying wood! Then I tried it with your kitchen
knives and it works pretty well. Sometimes one of the knives get stuck ...
like now."
I was so happy. This man was a genius and I loved him so. He called the
police, two detectives came by, he demonstrated the knife throwing device.
Only five knives came out and Jeremy explained, sometimes, that happened.
After some discussion in which Jeremy seemed like a trial lawyer, he was so
clever, the detectives agreed that Oliver did, indeed, kill himself. All charges
against me were dropped. I flew into Jeremy's arms and kissed him all over.
Chapter Three
Sylvia and I got married two weeks later and we moved into my condo.
One day we'll sell her house. It's a terrible property and we won't get much,
but neither one of us wants to live there.
It was on a Saturday, just six days after our honeymoon, that we sat
having breakfast and I gave her the good news.
"A few years ago," I said, "Oliver approached me about buying an
insurance policy. That was before you and I got to know each other. It was a
million dollar policy and you were the beneficiary."
I waited for that to sink in. Sylvia took a gulp of coffee, put down her
cup and stared, open-mouthed.
"You know the joint bank account we set up last week? Well, it now
holds a million dollars."
I showed Sylvia the bank statement for our joint account. It said one
million dollars. Sylvia coughed up her coffee.
"Oh Jeremy! That's wonderful!" she said.
"Yes. I think that, a few years ago, Oliver was deeply love with you."
Sylvia seemed pensive. "Yes, Oliver was a good man ... years ago."
"It was a bit of a problem to convince the insurance company that it was
an accidental death, but that's my forte. Okay, there is one last thing that we
have to do–sell your old house. Let's go over there and see if there's anything
worth saving, shall we?"
By late afternoon we had wandered through the old house and decided
there was little that we wanted to keep. We could just auction off the entire
contents. Then we went into the garage. The knife-throwing machine was
still there and it was still plugged into the wall.
"Be careful," I said. "You better stand over there."
Sylvia was clearly upset at seeing the device. She was shaking. I pointed
to a far wall and she stood there as I raised the lid to look inside. There were
the six knives that I had placed there the night before. I put on the gloves I
had in my pocket, pulled out five knives and walked over to Sylvia and
stabbed her five times. I left one knife inside in order to explain to the police
that one knife often got stuck. They were, by now, familiar with the device
and that particular explanation.
I called the police and they came within minutes.
"She was so upset by the death of her first husband," I said, wiping a tear
from my eye. "I couldn't console her. She kept saying that she wanted to die,
just like he died." I sat on a box in the corner of the garage. "When I brought
her here, I didn't know that she had loaded the machine. She put in six
knives, but, as you can see, only five were ejected."
"We understand," said one of the officers. "We both remember that the
sixth knife gets stuck. And we are very sorry for your loss. I understand that
you were just married, not long ago."
"Yes, she was a wonderful woman and I ... I loved her so."
The two officers stood for a moment.
"Will you call the funeral home, to arrange things?"
"Yes, of course," I said, my voice trembling. "Thank you for coming
by."
When they left I stood before Sylvia's body.
"You silly wench," I said. "Did you really think I could love a plain Jane
like you? Aah, but a million dollars, that's quite another love story."
I laughed.
"When I met with Oliver, years ago, to talk about the insurance he
wanted, he insisted upon bragging about his inventions. The one that most
intrigued me was that ball-throwing machine. I planned, even then, to kill
Oliver and blame it on the machine. Then, of course, I needed to marry then
kill you, my dear Sylvia, to get the insurance money. Now I'm free to spend
all that money, unfettered by a stupid fellow–but a great inventor–and a silly
dame."
I figured I should get rid of the knife-throwing machine. I doubt if I'd
need it again. I put the gloves back in my pocket and began to pull the
device off the wall bracket, forgetting that it was still plugged into the
electrical receptacle. I accidentally hit the button and the sixth knife ...
Chapter One
I'm a banker. In fact, I own the bank. I do very well, financially, thank
you. However, there is one problem: my wife spends too much money, more
than I make–and that's a lot. I often have to take out a temporary bank loan
to cover her purchases: silly, stupid, meaningless purchases, like another
ruby ring or the hundredth dress or pair of shoes. She doesn't buy from
Walmart. She buys from Sylvana diMitrios, the most expensive shop in
town ... and I've seen roughly the same stuff at Walmart. It makes no sense.
I've come to hate that woman.
Anyway, taking out temporary loans is a pain, so I decided to rob my
own bank. Any losses are covered by insurance, so the customers would not
suffer financially. But the robbery wouldn't be easy. There are dozens of
security devices in place: cameras, alarms, laser beams, etc. I know them all,
of course, yet how could I rob the bank and have none of the security
devices identify me, personally? Could I hire somebody, informing him of
all the devices–and could I trust him? Could I cut the power and make most
devices inoperative?
I've spent the better part of a week thinking of how to proceed ... and I
think I have the solution.
Chapter Two
My husband, Henry, is a banker. You'd think that would make us rich,
but it doesn't. He's such a cheapskate. He counts every penny. Maybe I
should have realized that when I married a banker. But there are things a girl
wants, needs, for everyday living. When I meet the girls on Wednesdays, at
the Club, I certainly can't wear the same dress as last Wednesday, can I? I
look down and I see that they all have different shoes than last week. Must I
wear the same shoes as last week? The girls aren't married to a banker, but I
am. Does that mean that I should look like the poorest girl at the Club, with
just one change of clothes? I don't think so.
Henry is always telling me I spend too much money. I hate it when he
nags like that. Over breakfast and over dinner, he talks of my spending
habits and nothing else. It's getting very tiresome, that kind of talk. I've come
to hate that man.
Maybe I should have married someone who would appreciate the better
things in life, the need to improve one's appearance, the feeling of excellence
when one exhibits a quality look.
Maybe Henry should get a job that pays better. Actually, since he owns
that bank, why can't he just take money whenever I need it? Do the
customers ask to see their money every day? Surely they wouldn't miss a
dollar here and there. I wonder how one goes about taking money from the
bank?
Chapter Three
When I mentioned to Marg the possibility of borrowing from the bank,
the first thing she said was to just take the money. Why borrow? It was my
bank, so the money was actually mine. She is such a stupid woman. What on
Earth did I see in her, way back when? She is pretty and she has a lovely
laugh, but that's about it. Between her ears, there is a void.
Anyway, I decided that she would rob the bank. She wouldn't even
suspect that it was illegal, because her husband owned the bank so he owned
all the money inside. I would set it all up, in the evening after the bank
closed. I would give her the keys to the bank and I'd tell her where the
money was located. I would, of course, stay home or, better still, I'd spend
the evening at Gilmore's Bar on Fremont Street, the one where the bartender
knows me personally. I'd chat it up so he'd remember that I was there that
evening.
"Say, Marg," I said over breakfast. "I think you're right. In fact, you've
been right all along. I own the bank so I should just take money when we
need it."
Marg almost choked on her scrambled egg.
"You silly man!" she said, in a very loud voice. "I kept telling you but
you always ignored my suggestions. You're finally getting smart!"
"So, when would you like to get some money?" I asked.
"The sooner the better," she said. "What's wrong with tonight"
"Tonight sounds great. I'll let you decide how much we'll need. I think
you might want another pair of shoes and definitely a new dress."
"Yes, definitely. I was thinking exactly the same thing!"
"Oh, just one thing ... I have a meeting with the board tonight, but there's
no need for me to be there. In fact, it might be better if you went alone, so
you'll be familiar with the procedure. After all, you may want money again,
in the future. Who knows when you'll need a new dress, eh?"
"Oh, yes. Just tell me where the money is and I'll go get some," Marg
said enthusiastically. "Next week I may need more because I saw this
wonderful gown at diMitrios. It'll be on sale next week."
"Okay, here's what you have to do."
And I explained how to get into the building, into the safe and where to
find the cash. She was stupid, so I had her repeat everything several times so
I was sure she understood. I was home by seven pm and I gave Marg the
keys and had her recite the procedure one more time. Then I left. Marg said
she had some things to do before she left and could she take my car. I gave
her the keys to my car and walked to Gilmore's Bar. I was there by eight,
talking to the bartender ... and grinning. I'd be rid of that stupid woman.
Chapter Four
After Henry left I phoned Jack and he arrived within minutes. I
explained the ritual that Henry proposed and Jack understood exactly what
he was to do. He changed into Henry's clothes, put on Henry's hat and his
heavy overcoat, took the keys to the bank and left, driving Henry's car. I
sank into the sofa and thought of all the money Jack and I would have in just
a few more minutes. Jack and I had planned on living in the Bahamas and I
did my best to collect money from Henry. I bought huge quantities of
clothes at Walmart and said they were from diMitrios. Henry was too stupid
to know the difference. Henry grudgingly gave me the money in cash and I
put it into a bank account, but not at Henry's bank, of course. I had practiced
this stupid act for years. In fact, it was often difficult for me to get out of the
habit of acting stupid, but Henry had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. He
is such a stupid fellow.
It was almost ten o'clock when I got the phone call. It was from the
police. They said Henry's bank had been robbed. I had a hard time holding
back a loud hee-haw and saying, "Yes, I know that!" I phoned Henry's cell
phone and he answered on the first ring. Henry seemed confused. He asked
if I got any money. I said my car wouldn't work so I thought I'd postpone
until tomorrow. Then how did the bank get robbed, Henry asked. I said I
didn't know, but I was smiling. In the meantime, I wondered why Jack had
not come back earlier.
Chapter Five
The clothes didn't fit very well, but that was okay. Marg stayed home
while I robbed the bank. I parked Henry's car right in front of the bank and
left the headlights on so anybody could see it. I let myself in, pulled Henry's
hat tight on my head and was careful not to let the cameras see my face. I
walked to the huge safe and spun the lock as Marg had explained. She was
one smart cookie, that Marg. Inside, the shelves were lined with metal
boxes. I found several that held cash. I took as much as I could carry in my
overcoat. It had very deep pockets and they were hundred dollar bills so I
did get a lot of money. I was in the bank for less than five minutes. I drove
away in Henry's car, directly to the airport where I boarded the plane to
Grand Cayman Island.
Marg would be waiting.
Wouldn't she be surprised that I kept the money myself?
Chapter One
SEE-01 had been orbiting about the sun for over thirty years and it was
now thought to be defunct. No signals had been received for over three
years. Although the batteries were charged from the sun's radiation, it was
clear that their life span had been exceeded. Nevertheless, the scientists at
SpaceLab were intent upon recovering Sun-Earth-Explorer #1 and that
seemed possible, given that the satellite would be closer than the moon in
less than a week. James Default would head the recovery team.
"The MOV can guide the satellite into low Earth orbit," James said.
"From there we can use the Netcape to drag it home. Any questions?"
"But can the Mobile Orbit Vehicle reach that far into space?"
"Yes. It could, if need be, reach lunar orbit. However, we need only get
the MOV to about 250,000 kilometres. It has remote control jets that we can
control from the ground station. It then should be simple enough to steer
SEE-01 into Earth orbit."
"And Netcape?" someone asked.
"Well, that's a bit dicey. We've never actually tried to capture such an
orbiting vehicle before, but I see no reason why it wouldn't work. Of course,
it requires some skill to eject the cape and have it enclose the satellite. If we
can do that, then dragging it to ground level will be easy enough. Anybody
here good with a lasso?"
There was laughter from the dozen scientists gathered in the briefing
room. Without further questions, the meeting broke up and James was left
alone with Zemira Alvarado.
"Is it going to work," she asked. "You sounded pretty confident."
"I hope so," James said, grinning. "I can't see any other procedure with a
better probability of success."
He leaned over and gave Zemira a kiss on the cheek. She pushed him
away.
"Easy big boy," she said in mock astonishment. "People may be
watching."
Together they left the room, arm in arm. They had been engaged for
over a month now, and everybody in the lab knew it.
It was in the evening that James got the phone call. He had expected it
and was ready. He was back in the lab by 10 pm, ready for the first phase of
the recovery.
"Thanks, Tom," he said. "We now have a one hour window to get things
started. Have the boys contacted MOV?"
"You bet," Tom said. "Communication is clear and solid."
"Great. Let's get started."
James sat before the control panel and began the command sequence. A
display which showed MOV's location on a 3-dimensional grid indicated
that the Mobile Orbit Vehicle was responding. The MOV was coloured red,
the satellite they hoped to guide into Earth orbit was pale grey. It would take
almost two days for the guidance to Earth to be completed, but it needed to
start now. All eyes were on the two coloured dots.
Zemira stood behind James, her hands on his shoulders. They had met
three years earlier at a science conference in Dallas. He had given a speech
on the problems associated with Netcape, the vessel that could capture
objects in low orbit. The audience was suitably impressed. So was Zemira.
She spoke to him after the speech, he said he was starved, they had dinner at
a steakhouse, they both had sirloin blue. In fact, their likes and dislikes
matched almost perfectly, from food to drink to music to sports. They both
spent the night in the Ramada Inn near the airport ... in the same bed.
Zemira was working on satellite imagery and when James offered her a
job at SpaceLab she said she had to think about it ... which she did for about
three seconds. Since she joined the company, they had been inseparable.
Although they lived apart, they spent most evening together and took
holidays together. James had a tendency to be easily frustrated and she kept
him in line, calm and relaxed. Their marriage was arranged for the following
Summer, some warm time, some cozy place, some thing quiet–no guests.
Now, with the problems of MOV and Netcape and the satellite before
him, James couldn't think of marriage. In fact, he could think of nothing but
the rituals they had practised for months. He sat back and watched the
moving dots.
"It looks good," Zemira whispered.
"Yes, it does," James said. "We will know in an hour whether the
satellite is responding properly, whether MOV has made the correct
trajectory evaluations and whether our satellite will come home or become
another piece of space junk."
"I'd say junk," Zemira whispered, poking James playfully on the
shoulder.
"Then you're out of a job," James said.
"And so are you," she replied, and she kissed him on his ear.
Chapter Two
SEE-01 had been guided flawlessly to within two hundred kilometres of
Earth and the crew at SpaceLab were maneuvering Netcape to eject its
mantle, designed to ensnare a sufficiently small orbiting object. The socalled "cape" was made of a carbon-fibre-reinforced polymer and each
thread could withstand a hundred kilogram force. The trick was to eject the
cape, snare the object then guide it back to Earth. James had picked Tom to
do the honours. Tom had been practising for weeks and felt comfortable
with the task. Netcape was visible on highdef cameras and Tom's training
showed: the snaring of the satellite was perfect and everyone in the lab
cheered.
The landing location was in the desert near the Okanagan Valley, British
Columbia, a spot not too far from SpaceLab. It was a small desert region so
required careful guidance, but it went without a hitch. James was delighted
and left for the landing location immediately. Zemira joined him as well as
half the members of the lab. That was the last that anyone saw the recovery
team alive.
The news was headlined in the Vancouver Gazette. The area where the
satellite had landed had been carefully sealed from the public. Forensic
teams wearing specially designed antimicrobial garb had descended on the
place, medical personnel had investigated and the satellite itself was
enclosed in a plastic hut, just large enough to accommodate four people.
Jacob Gagnon was one of the four. He was head of the B.C. Centre for
Disease Control.
"That fuzzy purple coating is animate," he said. "It's doubled in size in
the past four hours. It seems to be some kind of organism, clearly alien. The
head of SpaceLab, James Default, was a good friend. He couldn't have
known the danger."
The only other person in the hut was his assistant, Jake.
"What was the danger, if I may ask?" Jake asked.
"That organism dissolves tissue, human tissue. It actually consumes
cellular matter. There were apparently six people from SpaceLab, here to
recover the satellite. They were eager to take it back to the lab, but that's a
five hour drive, so they all camped here for the night. There were also two
who had been here days before the satellite landed, getting the site ready.
Camping equipment, tents and cots, had been set up. They all handled the
satellite, not knowing of the danger involved. Then ..."
Jacob paused and gazed at the satellite. The fuzzy coating now covered
the entire device.
"What happened to the SpaceLab people?" Jake asked.
"They were found, seven of them, partially dissolved. Their clothes had
been liquified by the organism and their bodies had been almost entirely
consumed. The eighth person had decided to go into a nearby town, to stay
for the night and bring back supplies the following morning. He's the one
who found the bodies."
"So what will you do with the satellite ... especially with that organism?"
"We will destroy it. Although it'd be a wonderful investigation, to
discover its properties, it's just too dangerous. Killing it requires only that it
be sprayed with any weak acid, carbolic, for example. We will do that in the
morning."
As Jacob spoke, the purple organism shuddered ... then expanded ... then
changed colour to red ...
29 AD
I awoke and walked from the cave into the bright sun. My silver skin
held dust from a thousand years of isolation. I sat on a rock, leaned forward,
placed my elbows upon my knees and my fingers upon my brow. I could
feel the transmogrification take place, the cellular structure of skin seeping
through my pores, the growth of hair ... I was ready within the hour,
indistinguishable for a human male. I arose and walked to my cave, hoisted
the jets upon my back and donned the visual deception cloak. This was the
first of the new millennia and I would engage with society early in each
millenium. I would visit Galilee. I would hear Jesus of Nazareth.
He stood on the hill, robed in a white garment and he spoke to his
disciples and the gathered crowd.
"But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already
committed adultery ..."
I looked upon the woman who stood by my side.
"Is that your understanding?" I said in a whisper.
She did not speak. The prophet continued.
"... anyone who says, 'You fool!' will be in danger of the fire of hell."
I asked once more: "Is that your understanding?"
Again I was ignored.
"If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek
also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your
coat as well."
The woman turned to me and murmured: "That is my understanding for
He is the son of God."
I walked away and the woman followed me. I went to a nearby well and
drew water for I had thirst. I offered water to the woman and she drank
deeply.
"Do you follow the prophet?" she said.
"No, I do not," I said. "I come this way once in a great while–a thousand
years betwixt visits. I do this to observe, to collect images, to store data."
She seemed wary and asked how that was possible. I rolled back my
eyes, revealing a black interior with flashing vacuole. She fell back then ran,
and I followed her for I did not wish to leave an unsavory mark upon this
millenium.
"Please," I said, "I did not mean to offend you. I am not of this world but
of another and I come only to observe and chronicle the period for my
masters."
The woman fell to her knees and began to weep.
"Are you Messiah?" she asked. "Are you a divinity?"
"No, I am not. I am android. For millenia have I been given the task of
recording human history. Though I am automaton, I am human."
The woman clung to my leg and I raised her up and caressed her cheek
and we made love on the sands of the desert and Jesus of Nazareth said to
the crowd:
"Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge
others, you will be judged ..."
I roamed Galilee from Chorazin to Nain, from Tiberius to Sepphoris and
I observed. There was little water, a soil without fertility, sickness and
disease. I saw the Pharisees and their commitment to the Torah. I saw
Sadduccees and their wealth and their compromise with the Roman
presence. I observed the contempt of Pontius Pilate for Jewish custom. I saw
that he infuriated the Jews by building an aqueduct with Temple taxes. I
noted leather works and smiths, bakers and butchers, stone masons and
miners, artists and money changers. I wondered what would become of this
land in the next millenium.
Surely the words of Jesus of Nazareth bode well for future society.
I returned to my cave. I waited.
1009 AD
I awoke and made my way to the rock and the transformation, again a
man human. The sexual conduct of the Middle Ages would engage my
attention. I made my way to the England of Aethelread the Unready, the
king who presented himself as the overlord of the Scottish and Welsh kings.
I observed his attacks on the Viking presence in the Irish Sea. I saw the
kings of Denmark exploit the weakness of the North. The population was
rural, working the land, climate was warm and dry, infection and plague a
recurrent scourge. I watched as the English fleet invaded the Isle of man. I
travelled from Durham to Canterbury, from Norwich to Chester and
recorded the events, noted the making of beer, spinning of yarn and the
practice of midwifery by women. The Norman conquest of England by
William the Conqueror, the Duke of Normandy, was still years away.
In the country I observed a certain lack of sexual morals, erotic dalliance
and wife swapping. The Church described approved sex positions, deviant
orientation during the sex act were sinful and deserved three years penance. I
met a woman in Westminster, London and we talked in the afternoon. She
was the proprietor of a brothel near London Bridge. Her clients were
members of government and even clergy. She noted that prostitution was
necessary to subvert sexual tendencies of male youth. As St. Augustine had
said: "The removal of the institution would bring lust into all aspects of the
world." And, as the friar Thomas Acquinas would say: " If prostitution were
to be suppressed, careless lusts would overthrow society."
I followed this woman to her home in Bankside. She served me warm
beer and sweetmeats with honey and we made love that evening. In the
morning, before she awoke, I left.
I returned to my cave and I waited.
2007 AD
I awoke and made my way to the rock and the transformation, this time
a human female so as to provide a novel perspective. I flew, wrapped in the
visual deception cloak, to a large metropolis in North America, now a
dominant global component of human society. I believed that a thousand
years would surely have resulted in social betterment, respect for values and
each other and unfettered love between individuals. I believed that time
enough had passed since the Sermon on the Mount. I walked into the city
and discovered quite a startling philosophy: respect oneself, distrust others,
ignore the pleas of the poor, gather personal wealth and engage in battle with
those of different beliefs.
On the very first day I was robbed, raped and arrested as a prostitute. I
record these most recent events while in a jail cell. Human society has
progressed very little, if at all, in two thousand years since Jesus of
Nazareth. When I am released I shall return to my cave and wait five
thousand years before my next egress.
Tiddley had been busy this Summer. She collected laughter and she had
filled many, many bottles which she stored in the Mushroom House, the one
in the Golden Forest. She had many houses, but this was her favourite. The
door was small but inside it was very large with lots of room for bottles of
laughter. She enjoyed collecting laughter. She would sneak about in the
Golden Forest and, when she heard people laughing, she would open her
bottle and let the laughter in. Then she would quickly put the cork back in so
the laughter could not escape.
Hearing people laughing was the best part of Tiddley's day. She could
listen for hours, hidden from sight. If anyone saw her, they would be amazed
or maybe surprised or maybe even afraid, but Tiddley was a Gwelf and, as
everyone knows, Gwelfs are happy elfs and get along with every living
thing. They loved the Forest and spoke to the flowers and played with the
bunnies and frolicked with other Gwelfs. Tiddley, especially, was one of the
happiest Dwelfs and that was because her job was to collect laughter. How
could any Gwelf be unhappy when they spent the day collecting laughter?
Perhaps you don't know about Gwelfs, so I should explain. Gwelfs are
tiny elfs with wings. Some say the name means good winged elfs, but I don't
think so. I think Gwelf just means Gwelf. They live in Mushroom Houses
and they all have duties such as cleaning up twigs, feeding squirrels,
watering flowers and picking weeds. They are invisible to people unless they
really want to be seen. If they really want to be seen, they must be careful to
fly away before the people can catch them. I have personally seen people
with a Gwelf in their hand. Yes, Gwelfs are tiny and you could hold one in
your hand, but it will fly away so you must talk sweetly.
One day, I think it was a Saturday, Tiddley woke up and drank some
flower nectar and ate some beet chocolate and walked about Golden Forest
listening for laughter. It was very cold which was unusual because it should
be warm. In fact, it was never cold in the Golden Forest.
Tiddley walked all morning, but she heard nothing. That had never
happened before. Tiddley did see people, sitting and eating and drinking and
having a picnic in the Forest, but they did not laugh. Many wore blankets to
keep warm and they all seemed sad and Tiddley was sad that there was no
laughter ... so she decided to show herself and ask what was wrong.
One particular family seemed so very sad. There was a mother and a
father and a little girl. Tiddley walked up close and heard them talking, but
they were not laughing, so Tiddley decided to ask them why they were so
sad. When Tiddley showed herself, the little girl was so excited.
"Look Mama!" she said. "There's a fairy!"
The mother and father looked, but could not see Tiddley.
"Oh Daisy," mother said, "You are seeing things. There is no fairy
there."
Little Daisy insisted that she could see a fairy, but her mother and father
ignored her, so Tiddley decided to talk to the little girl.
"Hello, Daisy," Tiddley said. "You have a very pretty name. I talk to
daisies in the Golden Forest and now I talk to you and your name is daisy.
That is so nice."
"What is your name?" Daisy asked.
"My name is Tiddley and I am a Gwelf. I am not a fairy, but I do know
some fairies, but I am a Gwelf and we have wings as you can see."
"Oh how nice," Daisy said. "I didn't know that flowers can talk."
"Oh yes, flowers are full of jokes and funny stories and I laugh when I
hear a flower talk. But I do not hear any laughter here. Why do you not
laugh? Why do your father and mother not laugh? I often hear people
laughing in the Golden Forest, but not today. Why is that?"
"Oh, we are sad today," Daisy said. "It is cold and it should be warm.
My father thinks that the weather is changing and that we will have Winter
here in the forest."
"Oh, no," Tiddley said. "Tomorrow it will be warm, so let us laugh at the
weather today." And Tiddley started to laugh, but Daisy was sad and went
back to talk to her mother and father. Tiddley heard Daisy say that tomorrow
would be warm, but nobody believed her, so Tiddley decided to see about
the weather.
Deep in the Golden Forest lived a very old Gwelf named Ezra. Tiddley
went to Ezra's Mushroom House and knocked on the door. Ezra was
sleeping and Tiddley could hear the old Gwelf snoring so she quietly went
inside and saw Ezra on the couch. She poked Ezra in the side and the old
Gwelf woke up.
"Huh! Huh!" he grunted. "Who poked me? Oh, it's you, Tiddley. Can't
you let an old Gwelf sleep?"
"But this is important," Tiddley said. "People think that Winter is
coming to the Golden Forest. Is that true?"
Old Ezra sat up and grunted again.
"Yes, Old Man Winter is coming to the Golden Forest and there is
nothing I can do about it."
The Old Ezra fell back asleep, but Tiddle poked him again and he woke
up again.
"Huh! Huh!" he grunted. "Who poked me? Oh, it's you, Tiddley. What is
it now?"
"Why is Winter coming?" Tiddley asked.
"Old Man Winter goes where he pleases," Ezra said. "He loves to make
people unhappy. He loves to see people cold and miserable. He told me that
Golden Forest is too happy and that is bad, so he will make it cold and
people will be sad."
"But what can we do?" Tiddley asked.
But the old Gwelf had fallen asleep again, so Tiddley went back to her
Mushroom House to think. She spent two days thinking and thinking. Then
she knew what she had to do. She would make Old Man Winter go away.
The very next day it was even colder than before, but Tiddley was ready.
She had brought out from her Mushroom House all the bottles of laughter
that she had collected for so many years. One by one she opened them and
the laughter spilled out and filled the Golden Forest with giggling and
chuckling and great sounds of joy. She did this all day and the next day and
the next day as the weather got colder and colder.
Then, one day, the weather was warm again and Tiddley could hear
people laughing. Old Man Winter had given up. He couldn't stop people
from laughing so he just stopped making the cold weather. The first person
that Tiddley saw was Daisy and her family. They were all laughing and
Tiddley showed herself to Daisy and Daisy giggled and snorted and laughed.
"Oh Tiddley," she said. "It is warm again and we are all so happy."
Tiddley pulled out a large bottle and took the cork off so she could catch
Daisy's laughter. That was a laughter she would keep forever.
Chapter One
There hasn't been a family living here for years and years and I am
lonely. I practise my groans and cries and strange noises, but no one hears
me. The last family lived here for just a month. There were no children, so I
had to scare the old man and the old woman ... and they left. I much prefer
children. They can sometimes put up with my noises. Yes, they are scared,
but their parents don't believe in ghosts, so the family lives here for a long
time and that makes me happy.
My Mama told me that this would be my Haunted House for ever.
Mama has the Haunted House at the edge of town, the dark grey one, but
sometimes she visits me and we can scare together. Mama is very good with
dragging chain noises and high pitched squeals. Mama told me that I became
a ghost when I was young and I will stay young until I pass on. I asked what
she meant by 'pass on', but she couldn't explain it. She said that there were
seventeen Haunted Houses in this area, but only five had ghosts; the others
had 'passed on'. I never met Papa, but I understand he haunts in another city
and never visits. That's okay because Mama and I have great fun together ...
but now, without anyone living here, I am very lonely.
Then, last Thursday, a big truck pulled up out front and I knew
somebody would be moving in. I watched as the furniture was carried in. I
saw a lady and a gentleman, but no children and that made me sad. If I
scared old people, they moved out. I stayed at the attic window all day, until
the truck drove off and the two people were sitting in the living room. I
could see them through the small hole in the wall, a hole I made many years
ago, following the instructions given me by Mama. I thought I might scare
them right then, but maybe I should wait until tomorrow evening. They
looked tired and I'm sure they needed a good night's sleep.
The next morning I saw them arise and eat a small breakfast–something
they put into a toaster. They washed dishes and began to unpack all the
boxes. That's when I saw books for children and clothes for a little girl and
got very excited. Maybe there were children in this family after all. By late
afternoon almost all the boxes had been unpacked and the two collapsed
onto the couch ... then there was a knock on the door. The woman opened
the door and a small girl leaped into her arms. The girl was so happy and so
was I. I decided that I would scare the young girl that very night. It was an
exciting time, for me. It has been a very long time since I had someone to
scare.
It was almost midnight and the whole house was sleeping. That's when I
crept into the girl's room with my best white and feathery nightgown. I
began to cry, but the girl did not wake, so I began to make those strange
sounds Mama had taught me. They start very softly and increase and
increase until I am squealing. That was sure to wake the young girl ... but it
didn't. I was afraid of making too much noise. I didn't want to wake the
parents, so I sat on the bed and shook the girl.
"Hello?" she said, her eyes still closed. "Is it morning already?"
"Nooooo," I said in a low voice. "It is midnight and you must wake up."
She opened her eyes, sat up in bed and smiled at me.
"Oh, hello," she said. "I can almost see right through you. Are you a
ghost?"
I was surprised that she wasn't scared.
"Aaaah, yesssss, I am a ghost," I said in my scariest voice.
"Oh that is so wonderful," she said. "I've never met a real ghost before.
What's your name?"
I wasn't sure what to say. Mama never told me something like this could
happen.
"Uh ... aren't you scared?" I asked.
"Scared? Why would I be scared?" she said. "You're no bigger than I am
and you look very nice in that gown."
"Well, thank you very much," I said. "Mama gave it to me many years
ago and I keep it just for special occasions."
"Oh, do you have a name?" she asked.
"Yes, of course. All ghosts have names. My name is Whisper."
"Oh, that is a wonderful name," she said. "My name is Dorothy, but
people sometimes call me Dotty."
"That is a very pretty name ..." I began.
"Oh, it means 'God's Gift'. That's what Mommy said."
"Well, my name is ..." I began to say.
"Your name is Whisper," she said, giggling.
"Well, well, how did you know that?" I said.
"Oh, because you told me," she said. Her smile was so radiant it lit up
the room. I often forget what I say right after I say it.
"Well, Dorothy, perhaps you should get some sleep."
"You should call me Dotty," she said.
"No, I love the name Dorothy," I said.
"Will you come again, tomorrow night?" she asked.
"Yes, of course. That's what I do. Will you tell your mother?"
"Oh, no, she doesn't believe in ghosts. Neither does Daddy."
"Okay Dorothy, sleep well."
Then I disappeared.
Chapter Two
I came to Dorothy the next night. I began with heavy breathing, then low
whining and quiet squeals, but eventually I had to shake her to wake her.
"Oh, hello Whisper," she said. "I'm happy you're back. Did you sleep
well?"
"I don't sleep," I said. "I'm awake all the time."
"That is so sad. People need to sleep sometime."
"Ah, but I'm not people. I'm a ghost."
"Oh, a ghost that doesn't sleep."
"How do you know that?" I said.
"Because you just told me."
"Ah, well, I forgot that I told you. My mind is sometimes forgetful of
things that I say."
"Yes, I can see that."
"See what?"
I laughed and Dorothy laughed and we spent an hour just telling stories
and laughing and having so much fun. Then I said she should sleep and I
left.
These wonderful people stayed in my Haunted House for more than
three years ... then they left. The night before they left, Dorothy and I cried.
"I will always remember you Whisper," she said, between tears.
"Me, too, Dorothy," I said, sobbing. "If you should ever be in the
neighbourhood, will you drop by to say hello?"
"Oh yes, I will, I will," she said.
"Okay then. Now, you must get your sleep because you have a busy day
tomorrow."
Then I disappeared.
I watched them go from the small attic window. Just before Dorothy got
into the car she looked up and waved. That was the last I saw of little
Dorothy.
For the next twenty years, my Haunted House was empty. Mama came
to visit often, to cheer me up because I was so sad and lonely. She made me
practise my ghostly sounds, but I wasn't interested. There was no one to
scare. Mama told me that my House had a bad reputation in town and
nobody wanted to live here.
Then, one day, a Sunday I think, a big truck arrived and furniture was
brought into my House and I waited to see if there were any children. I saw a
mother and father and a young girl and I was so happy. I would visit the
young girl that very night.
At midnight I went to the girl's room and began to whine and groan, but
she was wide awake.
"Hello, Whisper," she said. "My name is Sylvia."
"Did I tell you my name already," I said.
"No, my Mommy told me your name. She said you would visit me so I
waited until you came. I am so happy to meet you."
"I am happy to meet you, too," I said. "My name is ..."
"Your name is Whisper," she said, giggling.
"How did you know that? Did I tell you?"
"No," Sylvia said. "My mother told me."
Then Sylvia cried out: "Mommy! Whisper is here!"
The door to her room opened.
Dorothy stood there, a big smile on her face.
I was happier than I have ever been.
Loch Ness: I was there as a young man. By volume, it's the largest loch
in Scotland. It's almost 800 feet deep and is the home of Nessie, the so-called
Loch Ness monster. I know that Nessie is there because I saw her as a young
man, on vacation, sixty years ago. Now, at my advanced age, I would like to
see her again. My wife died two years ago and my three children have
moved to Canada...so I bought a cottage on the loch. I will spend my last
days there, gazing at the waters of the loch and hoping to see Nessie.
My feeling has always been that Nessie spends much of her time in the
bay by Urquhart Castle. The water is shallower and there are shallow water
plants that Nessie can eat. I will bring binoculars and I will also spend time
by the water's edge, on a bench that I will build. It will be delightful–even
more so if Nessie comes to visit.
I sold all my local assets, moved my money to a bank in Drumnadrochit
under my name of Danny Mackenzie and left for the cottage in the early
morning. The cottage was exactly what I had hoped it would be. A wood
cabin with kitchen, living and sleeping areas and bathroom and a wonderful
view of the loch. There was a small bench in back of the cabin which I
dragged to the water's edge. I spent two hours just gazing at the loch. It was
delightful.
I visited the water every day for two weeks, sometimes in the late
afternoon, sometimes midday, sometimes in the early evening, but I really
expected Nessie to show up in the very early morning. I'm not sure why I
thought that, but my intuition was correct because in the third week, at the
break of day, I heard the splashing and the low honking. I rushed to my
bench and saw Nessie vanish beneath the surface. The very next morning I
went down before the sun came up and waited. That is when Nessie poked
her head above the surface. She stared at me for a long time, then began to
nibble on the shrubs on the shore. After just a few minutes, she vanished
again.
I was surprised to see her eating the plants on land, so the next morning I
broke off a bunch of branches from the mulberry bushes that grew alongside
the cabin and brought them to the loch. When Nessie appeared, I held out
the branches. She honked and ate them all in one mouthful. I was delighted.
For six months Ness and I saw each other every morning, rain or shine. I
even planted mulberry bushes by the water's edge for her. Ness would honk
in the early morning to let me know she had arrived. She loved to have her
head scratched. Sometimes I'd walk into the water and climb onto her back.
It was quite slippery but she seemed to enjoy my attention. I had a feeling
that Ness was a very lonely creature.
One day I felt down and out. I was getting too old and I was dying. It
had become difficult for me to walk down to the water, so this would be the
final time. Ness was there and she seemed to realize that we were meeting
for the last time. I lay by the water, feeling the life ebb out of me. Ness
reached out and I scratched her head, then she gently pulled me into the
water. As I slipped beneath the surface everything went dark, yet I could
hear Ness's quiet honk ...
**********************
Doctor Campbell stood by the side of the bed, gazing down at the limp
body of Daniel Mackenzie.
"After six months in a coma," he said, "It's a blessing that he passed
away last night."
Nurse Anderson was crying.
"Mr. Mackenzie would sometimes wake from his coma and talk ...
mumble, actually. Something about bringing mulberries to someone called
Ness."
Chapter One
I loved that guy. Yes, he was a serial killer, but he had evaded the police
for years and he left notes with each victim, quotes from Shakespeare, so
they called him "the Bard". That was pretty neat.
I imagine that killing someone, knowing that you were in control, that
someone's life depended upon your whim and fancy, I guess that would be
pretty special. I had always been mocked and laughed at. I was small, skinny
and not too good-looking, I guess. In school they made fun of me. I was
bullied and ridiculed. Even my parents seemed to complain about my lack of
athletic ability, my inability to make friends, my meek nature. Let's face it, I
was a wimp. If I were to kill someone then I would gain respect. My victim
would look up to me. He or she would be afraid, would beg, would ask
forgiveness. I would be like a God, contemplating life or death. I really felt
that I should try it.
I decided to look for victims on the Internet. There were so many places
where you could meet people, send messages back and forth, arrange to
meet. I found one that seemed ideal for my purposes: meeting-place.com.
I registered under some fictitious name. I knew no Shakespeare but
wanted to mimic the Bard, so I called myself: the Poet. I would leave a
poem with each victim. I already had my first poem:
He weeps, he cries
He kneels on the floor
And then he dies
And cries no more
Yes, I had decided to kill a man. Girls are naturally frightened, that's their
nature. But having a guy afraid, begging for mercy, now that'd be something.
I signed onto that Internet site and mentioned that I was interested in a male
companion. He need not be handsome, but he must have a good physique
and a sense of humour. The part about the physique was necessary. I didn't
want some wimp, like me. If I had some big strong guy kneel to me, that'd
be insane, fantastic, awesome.
I waited nearly a week without a response, then I modified my request,
noting that I was quite rich and intended to enjoy the company of a male
friend in exotic places. It took less than twenty-four hours to get a dozen
responses. One, in particular, looked great. The guy said he was over six feet
tall, played football in college and was eager to meet me.
I sent him a private message, giving him a date and time and the name of
a motel on the edge of town. I was there a half hour early, booking the motel
room for the night. I waited in the parking lot. I left my gun in the motel
room. I felt a gun would be safer, more frightening than say, a knife. With a
knife I could get hurt. A big guy might attack me and … well, a gun was so
much more reasonable. Who wouldn't be scared when looking down the
barrel of a revolver?
My Internet friend arrived right on time, We shook hands. He was a big
guy and I was delighted and nervous and excited as I lead him to the room.
We sat, I opened the bottle of wine and we sipped as we chatted. He said he
was new to this Internet dating game, but was pleased to meet me. I said
much the same thing. He talked of his days in college, his girl friends and his
work as a real estate salesman. I said very little. I was actually a bit nervous.
After we finished half the wine I thought I should pull out my gun and
threaten him. I was eager to see this big guy grovel.
He seemed to anticipate my movements because he pulled out a gun as
well. Then we stared at each other, each surprised, each pointing a revolver
at the other. It was surreal.
"They call me the poet," I said, setting a piece of paper on the table.
"They call me the Bard," he said, setting a piece of paper on the table.
Chapter One
Sergeant Reynolds said it was the strangest homicide he had seen. Two
guys in a motel room, each with fatal bullet wound in the head, and two
pieces of paper on the table.
One read:
He weeps, he cries
He kneels on the floor
And then he dies
And cries no more
The other read:
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.
Chapter One
In the city it was hot, crowded and noisy. It took me an hour to get to
work; bumper-to-bumper traffic. And I don't remember its being so
malodorous. I've lived here all my life, but the smell seems so much worse.
And the noise … why was it necessary to honk your horn every few
minutes?
I lived in a very nice condo on Maple Avenue with a park in back. On
weekends, I often sit on my balcony and gaze at the trees, the green, green
grass and the gardens. If I had a cabin right there, in those woods, that'd be
idyllic. I was there now, on that balcony, gazing at that park and I raised my
glass of wine and toasted the peace and quiet that flowed from the park.
Sandy was sleeping. I knew that he enjoyed the quiet. He was an eight-yearold Yorkie and my constant companion.
But why couldn't we have such a place of quiet solitude, Sandy and I? I
set my glass on the table and went inside to grab the weekend news. Sandy
didn't budge. Then I opened the paper at Cottages for Sale, sipped my wine
and browsed. I couldn't believe the cost of simple, two bedroom bungalows
on the lake. My job as store manager at Sobey's paid well, but I couldn't
afford a half-million dollar cottage. I turned to Cottages for Rent and found a
nice place on north shore Lake Erie, by a little town called Dunnville. Never
heard of it, but it seemed a pretty place, judging by the pictures I found by
googling. The cottage was awesome: right on the lake, a sandy beach,
washer, dryer, WiFi, every kitchen appliance and, most important, pet
friendly. I knew that Sandy would love it.
I rented the place for two weeks in June. Since there were grocery stores
in Dunnville, I brought just the most important stuff with me: dog food,
clothes, toothbrush and beer. The key, I was told, would be hanging on a nail
under the front porch. I suspected that every cottage on that lake had a
hidden key. When I opened the door, Sandy bounded in and began barking. I
knew he was excited. I gazed out back and saw a thousand water birds on
the lake: seagull, cormorant, grebe, merganser and even a great blue heron.
Since I enjoyed painting wildlife, this would be a great two weeks.
I had picked up a few things in Dunnville: two frozen pizzas, a half
dozen TV dinners, several cans of soup and bags of frozen peas and carrots.
Our first dinner was on the deck, facing the lake, watching the sun go down.
I couldn't be happier.
Now I'm a confirmed bachelor. It's not that I don't like women, it's just
that they take up a lot of time that I'd rather spend reading or painting or just
relaxing. So the next day when a neighbour lady dropped by to introduce
herself, I hoped she'd say hello then leave. Alas, that was not the case.
"Hi," she said. "I'm your neighbour, Helen. Welcome to Sandy Bay. I
assume you're renting."
"Uh, yes … renting, for a couple of weeks," I said.
"Wonderful! You'll love it here. There's a Provincial Park just up the
road, a beautiful place for a picnic, and Dunnville has great places to eat and
... oh, are you married? I didn't notice anyone with you."
She didn't notice anyone with me? Does she spend the day peering out
her window at the neighbours?
"No … not married. Just me and Sandy," I said. "We enjoy the
isolation."
I was hoping she would be discouraged from continuing our
conversation, but she continued.
"Yes, I saw your Yorkie," she said. "He'll love the water. I did have a
Shih Tzu, but he died three months ago. I just love dogs, don’t you?"
"Well, yes, that's why I have a dog."
"If you ever need dog food I still have bags of dry kibbles. I'll never use
them because I'll never get another dog. It's just heart breaking when they
die, don't you think? Why do dogs have such a short life span?"
"Yes, a short life span," I said.
This lady had been standing on my front porch. I felt that, if I asked her
to come in, she'd stay forever, so I just let her stand there. That wasn't very
neighbourly, I know, but I really didn't want to talk to this woman.
"Uh, would you like to come in?" I asked.
"Heavens, no," she said with vigour. "I must get back. It's time to watch
the next episode of Damages. Do you follow that series?"
"Damages?" I said. "No, I don't watch any series. I find them mind
numbing."
"Yes! You're right! They are!" she said. "Perhaps that why I watch
them." She giggled and left and Sandy and I were alone again with the
soothing sound of waves.
The next morning, Sandy and I walked along the beach. It was sunny
and the sand was warm and the air was filled with the sound of seagulls on
the lake. As I walked by a cottage, someone shouted: "Hello out there! It's a
beautiful day, don't you think?"
I stopped and saw that nosy neighbour lady standing on her deck and
waving. I gave her a short, weak wave, hoping to discourage further talk, but
she came bounding down to the beach.
"Don't you just love to walk this time in the morning?" she asked. "It's
quiet and not too hot and …"
"Yes, very quiet," I said, exaggerating the word 'quiet'.
She knelt on the beach and scratched Sandy's head. Sandy instantly fell
in love with her.
"Have you had breakfast?" she asked. "I'm just about to make bacon and
eggs with toast and marmalade and orange juice and …"
"Uh, no, thank you," I said, even though her breakfast sounded so much
better than my instant coffee and toasted pop tarts.
"Oh, please come in. I hate to eat alone."
Then she grabbed my hand and started to drag me across the beach. This
was one determined lady. Where was her husband? Did she do this to
everyone who rented that cottage? I let myself be dragged. I could smell the
coffee as soon as we got to her deck. She slid the door open and Sandy was
the first one in. This woman then found some kibbles and tossed them to my
dog. He really was in love with her; my dog, in love with a stranger.
This lady kept filling my coffee cup. I was stuffed, but the eggs were
done to perfection, not dry and fluffy but soft and creamy. The bacon was
crisp, the orange juice tasted freshly squeezed and I was enjoying myself.
She kept talking, but I didn't actually hear everything she said. Then she
stopped talking and stared at me.
"Uh, beg your pardon?" I said.
"I asked why you were not married?"
"Married? Uh, well …" I couldn’t tell her the truth, about my refusing to
listen to a female's inane chatter, so I gave her the standard answer. "I just
haven't found the right woman, I guess."
"That's what I thought," she said. "But keep trying. She'll come along
one day." She smiled and poured more coffee.
Chapter Two
At the end of my two-week stay, I was sorry to leave. The cottage was
delightful and the beach was awesome, but I actually felt that I would miss
Helen's company. Yes, she talked a lot, but she was so excited about
everything she said. She enjoyed life to the fullest and I would miss that. My
life, back home, was dull. I had never felt that so much as when we were
getting into the car. Helen was standing on her front porch, waving
enthusiastically. She seemed so sad to see us leave.
The drive home was miserable. Even Sandy seemed unhappy. When I
collapsed onto the sofa, I expected Sandy to jump up to join me. He always
did this. This time he just curled up at my feet. I turned on the TV. I
searched for a ball game, but there was none. There was some series playing:
Damages. It seemed familiar, so I watched for a while. I recognized it as the
series that Helen was watching. I sat through the whole episode, imagining
that I had Helen beside me, on the couch. It was pretty interesting. I made a
note of the time so I could catch the next episode.
I heated up a TV dinner: some kind of soggy meat, tasteless mashed
potatoes and a few carrots. I remembered the wonderful dinners that Helen
had prepared. She was a fantastic cook and she talked ceaselessly while she
cooked. It was delightful to hear her; she laughed, she squealed, she wagged
her finger, she rolled her eyes. Then she came to the table with an herbed
pork roast, cauliflower in a cheese sauce and a salad with spinach, tomatoes,
cucumbers and a marvelous dressing that she invented.
Within a week I had contacted the owners of the cottage I had rented,
asking if they wanted to sell. As the saying goes, I made them an offer they
couldn't refuse. It pretty well wiped out my bank account, but they were
surprised by my offer and accepted immediately. I wasn't scheduled for any
more holidays, yet I was eager to get to the cottage so I packed a few things
and left that Friday evening when the assistant manager took over the store.
I'd spend the weekend there with Sandy … and hopefully with Helen.
When I arrived it was quite late. There was a light on in Helen's cottage.
I parked the car, unpacked, left Sandy in my newly acquired cottage and
walked over to Helen's. I could see through the window that she had
someone with her, some tall guy. They were talking and Helen gave him a
kiss on the cheek. I backed away and returned to my cottage.
I didn't sleep well that night. I knew that Helen wasn't married. She had
told me that her husband died in a car accident years ago, but she never
mentioned any male friend. I don't know why I was angry. It was foolish.
Why should I expect Helen to be free, for me, for Sandy and me.
The next morning there was a knock on my door. It was Helen.
"Hi there," she said when I opened the door.
Sandy jumped up and began to paw her leg. She stooped to pick him up
and he gave her a kiss on the nose. I wanted to kiss her nose, too.
"I saw your car out front," she said. "Back for another two weeks, are
you?"
"Uh … no," I stuttered. "I actually bought the place."
Helen dropped sandy and leaped at me, throwing her arms about my
neck. I was a bit shocked, but pleased at her reaction.
"Oh that's wonderful!" she said. "We're neighbours and we'll see each
other often, won't we? Now you must come and meet my brother. He's here
for the weekend."
It's hard to say how relieved I was to hear that. Her brother, for the
weekend, how nice.
Well, my life improved immeasurably since I bought that cottage. I
spent every weekend there and, of course, every summer vacation. Helen
cooked everything I ate at the cottage. I gained seven pounds that first
summer. Her specialty was a creamy lasagna made with spinach noodles.
We walked together along the beach each morning. Sandy was a different
dog, twice as happy and twice as affectionate. I learned that Helen was a
high school history teacher, very clever, very knowledgeable, very well
travelled. She hid her talents well. At the cottage she was just … just Helen,
the gal next door, talking about TV episodes and reciting the private names
she gave some of the birds on the lake, like Georgie and Barbie and Sam the
great blue heron, and how carrots improve the taste of spaghetti sauce and
why her green lasagna was better than the tomato variety.
By Summer's end I knew that Helen and I must spend more time
together. A week here and there just wouldn't suffice … so I asked her to
marry me. Her reaction, her wonderful reaction, it was just what I expected.
She jumped into my arms and kissed me violently. Sandy began to bark and
wouldn't stop until she picked him up and cuddled him closely. Helen's
smile just sort of lit up the room and her giggle filled my ears with delight.
Chapter Three
We sold my cottage and kept Helen's because it was so much nicer. My
life as a bachelor is history now. I couldn’t imagine having spent so many
years alone, with just a dog for company. In town, Helen and I moved into
my condo. She cleaned it up nicely, with lots of plants and curtains and nice
carpets and books to line my bare shelves.
Helen and I have now been married for thirty-seven years. Sandy died
long ago, but we both loved dogs so we got another Yorkie then two Shih
Tzus, back to back. We had two kids who, fortunately, inherited Helen's
characteristics and not mine. They both moved to the States and we seldom
see them, just for Christmas and, sometimes, American Thanksgiving. When
they were young, their favourite place was our cottage on Lake Erie.
At every opportunity Helen and I drive to our cottage and she makes her
famous green Lasagna. We spend a lot of time just sitting and watching the
birds. Sam, the blue heron, was always there to greet us. If was clearly a
different heron, but we still called him Sam. Our latest dog, a Yorkie pup,
we called Sandy.
Could life be any better?