THIRTY MORE
STORIES
GIL C. SCHMIDT
Copyright 2010 -- Gil C. Schmidt
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Dedication
To my family, from whom my stories emerge, to María, for whom my stories are written and Kaleb, for whom my stories are to come.
INTRODUCTION
Thirty more stories, each about a printed standard page long. This marks my second collection in the "short-short" category and unlike my first one, this one took a long time to come together, from January 2009 until August 2010. The reasons are plenty, but it boiled down to a basic one: I didn't need to prove myself as much.
My first collection, "Thirty Stories," also available from X-cito Publishing (Thanks, Kevin!) was a challenge I gave myself to write fiction. Having done that, I wanted to move on to other writings, and I did...but not as much as I expected of myself. So I jump-started the process of short-short fiction again, got off to a good start and then...life happened. As I would say as Gil The Jenius (look Me up!): lots of stuff hit the rotating oscillator.
By the end of 2009 I had only a handful of stories and 2010 grew older with only a few more added. Then, as the summer grew high, the impending launch of "Thirty Stories" and the realization that the writing I had developed over the years was nearing fruition prompted a burst of writing. (I even wrote three stories in one day.) And so, after loitering--waiting--several months, I became a writer again. And will continue to be one for the foreseeable future.
To the readers of these stories who have been enchanted, delighted, entertained and even repelled by my stories: Thanks for sharing that with me. Writers either accept toiling in obscurity, indifference and misunderstanding or they launch themselves full into their audience's faces hoping for approval. I like the solitude of writing, but to have someone remark about what I write, well, that's always special.
If you want to read the stories in the order I wrote them, here it is:
3) Art of Life
6) Foresight
9) Evil Heart
10) Name That Time
11) Reflex Actions
12) Nineteen Seconds
16) Letters
17) Twitchy Eyes
18) Telling Time
19) Shadow Heart
21) Time to Retire
22) Food for Lobo
25) The Final Battle
27) Looking Good
28) Neighbors
FORESIGHT
Madam Savarona tucked in her voluminous skirt, took another swig of wine and cracked her knuckles. Her ginger-red hair wisped around her eyes as she took in the crowd walking to and fro around her motley stall. The crystal ball in front of her looked dim and damp, while the tarot cards she fingered absently felt soft and worn. Just as she was about to take another shot from the dark-green bottle, the one she knew would push her into the land of fog, a man’s voice drew her up short. “Are you--open? For a reading?”
Madam Savarona’s sea-green eyes focused on a tall man, his clothes well-cut, if slightly stodgy in style. His shoes were expensive, but scuffed at the toes. The hat he held too-tightly was a soft fedora, short brim, a quiet choice. Broad of shoulder, he held himself down, trying to appear shorter and maybe even smaller. Waving a bejeweled hand in what she hoped was a mystical pass, Madam Savarona forced her voice deeper. “Be seated, sir. Madam Savarona…is at your service.”
The man slumped more than sat on the fading cushioned chair, his legs akimbo, and ran a hand through wavy brown hair. His face was an open book of confusion and a touch of despair. He cleared his throat. “I’ve never… I’ve never done this, something like this before.”
Madam Savarona raised her hand. “You live in a world of facts and numbers, not feelings.” She saw him start and smiled behind her eyes. “I have seen this already.”
The man’s confusion increased. “My word! That--that is remarkable. I do work in facts and numbers. I’m a--” Madam Savarona’s hand cut him off.
Frowning, she let her eyes gaze into a distance. “You…are…I see money and…safety…I see…a bank. Yes. You are a banker.” She focused on the agape man in front of her. “You work in…I sense family…Your father is the bank president.”
The man slumped back, his face slack and almost empty of expression. “How? How can you, uh, see this?” She waved the question away. The man lunged forward, his eyes now ablaze, his face eager. "I know you can help me! You must! Please!”
“Ask. I shall do what I can.” Her eyes flashed deeply.
“I--I have a quandary…There’s these two girls, see? Two women, really. They’re both--well, they’re both fabulous, in their own ways. And I, well, I--” He shook all over, as if caught in a harsh fever. His mouth chewed air and tasted despair, “I love them both! At least, I think I do, but that’s not it. It’s that I have wanted to… I want to…” He looked up, helpless.
“You want to get married.”
The man almost fainted. “Yes! Yes! That’s it!” Madam Savarona watched her sense of triumph fade into memory, her eyes fixed on the anguished man. “You are remarkable! I know I can ask you--”
“Which one to marry?”
She rushed around the rickety table to help the man up into the chair, his head lolling as if punched by a heavyweight. “Oh my stars,” he mumbled, “That’s never happened to me before.” He gazed at Madam Savarona, who dashed back to her chair. “I’m so sorry. I’m not usually like this.”
“I know,” she said, then quickly added “It is a strong thing, what you feel. I may be able, I think, to help you.” The gratitude in his eyes gave her the strength to go on. “Do exactly as I say. Approach each woman. Ask her to name a jewel. Your true love, the one that will light your life forever, shall be the one who says ‘A ruby, red as passion.’ She you shall delight in marrying.”
The man stood up, electrified. “’Name a jewel.’ Yes! I can do that. I will! By Jove, I’ll do that right now!” Slapping the fedora on his head, he strode out, the picture of determination.
Madame Savarona watched him go, then quickly divested herself of clothes and wig. “A ruby, red as passion,” she whispered to herself. Yes, that’s exactly what Jonathan would hear when he asked her to name a jewel in about, oh, thirty minutes or so...
EVIL HEART
The bosun’s mate had drawn the late watch, the tragic hours that end the night. He noted with the absent mind of experience how the sails luffed and snapped in the sighing wind, the Clipper rising and dropping with steady rhythm as the stars drifted quietly. With the promise of good weather, they could be in Boston a day early, maybe two. All was still ‘round the wheel and even the crow’s nest was silent, but Higgins decided to let the man rest. He left the wheel to check the forecastle and riggings. Making his way along the narrow deck, his thoughts turned to the port cabin’s passengers. A strange pair…He reached the foremast and nodded in satisfaction, then leaned against it easily, scanning the horizon.
The pair…She, a sylph-like maiden of barely 16 or 17, maybe less, made as if of porcelain from the Orient. She spoke to no one, not even coming aboard, her eyes downcast under a large bonnet, her long cape unable to conceal the fine figure God gave her. Beside her a beast of a man, Vulcan to her Aphrodite, a gnarled mass with a cragged face and a staggered walk composed partly of misshapen limbs and a veritable hump twisting his shoulders. They made their way quickly to the only passenger cabin the Crucible had, and in the fortnight from port, had only emerged twice. Each time the lovely girl was ‘neath bonnet and cape, while he glared at every man who passed nearby. Not even the Captain, bonniest lip in Cape Cod, could get a word from man or maiden. What I’d give to meet her…Daughter, niece, ward or God forbid young wife trapped in tragic marriage, it made no difference. His desire grew day by day.
Suddenly, a scraping sound behind him caught his ear. Too large for a rat, too small for a ladder or loose spar. He crouched, but no other sound came to him past the wind and waves. Higgins crept to the stern. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of cloth, too dark to be a sail, just above the stern. He stepped forward smartly and caught a tiny flash of dark cloth again, heavy and swirling. Higgins had long experience with the tricks the sea and the moon could play on a sailor’s night, but he knew this was no trick. Someone was next to the stern…maybe even climbing over it! He rushed forward, realizing that the flash of dark cloth he saw could have been the young maiden’s cape. She was trying to end her life! Racing to the stern, Higgins whirled left, then right, searching for the girl. He leaned over the stern’s railing and saw… Yes! Her cape! Too far to reach down…He tried mightily to grab it hoping, hoping…
Two small hands pushed Higgins in the back, tumbling him into the icy ocean. The blast of frigid seawater tore the breath from his lungs and when he breached from the ocean, the night’s cool air iced his voice. Struggling for breath, he watched as the Crucible’s stern drifted quickly away, his eyes stinging as he watched the young maiden deftly unravel her cape and cast it about her shoulders, a stern nymph watching Higgins as he faded away in the dark.
Back in the portside cabin, the damp and chilly maiden closed the door softly. On the cabin’s narrow cot sprawled her husband, his enormous head split by a leering grin lacking some teeth, his wrinkles and scars befitting a broken body. “The bosun’s mate?” His voice was a groan upon the Styx. Her nod was barely perceptible. “I saw ‘im lookin’ at ye, hungry like a wolf,” he repeated as he had for days. Grunting a sour sound he said: “I’ve seen the captain eyein’ ye.”
The young girl’s body shivered, then trembled. Her eyes closed, mouth twisting in agony, hands clasped as if clinging to Life’s bitterest edge. “No,” she gasped, “Please. No more.”
The brute chuckled, like bones rattling in a coffin. He pulled the huge knife from his ragged jacket and placed it atop the tiny table at his side. “No? Ye’ve said no before, so ye know what needs be done.” He pointed two times as he said “Ye take the knife. To ye’re face.” Another bony chuckle. “Then‘no more’ it shall ever be.”
She collapsed, a sodden heap upon the cabin’s timber floor, the deep sobs of despair contained by hopelessness. He watched her cry and ignored her pleas with a smile few men could eye with impunity. And in the misty dawn, the girl arose, her only action the stiffest of nods.
The bony chuckle lasted longer as the man handed his wife a tiny flask and told her how she’d accept the captain’s invitation to dine on the night they made port…
INTERESTING TIMES
When Pritchard was about to turn 17, he figured out the secret to anti-gravity. Over a furious four weeks between his first kiss with Melanie and his mom's loony "Sweet 17" party (that included a clown, to the utter humiliation of everyone at the party, including the clown), Pritchard (he hated his given name, Percy, so he fixed it) drew up the design, polished the theoretical underpinnings in a 34-page article (never published) and built the prototype, that he tested on Muggs, his loopy bulldog. The dog's maiden, er, flight, caused the poor mutt to vomit and run away for almost a week. The anti-gravity prototype was now disguised as an 8-track player in Pritchard's home-built display of passé technology.
Between Melanie (who went off to college somewhere in Michigan, while Pritchard stayed near home) and Sally, Pritchard figured out faster-than-light travel, pushed to a superhuman effort in consolidating theoretical physics and what he called "hyperquantic thrust dynamos" for lack of a better name. Sally, a smashing little redhead with birthmarks in the darnest places, was Pritchard's first lover, and the extended post-coital daze dampened Pritchard's other thoughts about FTL travel until Sally joined the Navy and was eventually shipped out to some port in East Asia.
Pritchard tinkered with hyperspace signals based on string theory tunneling until he met Lois, the tall brunette with the perfect dimples on her (most-often) unseen cheeks. Inspired by Lois' fond memories of her childhood in eastern Louisiana, Pritchard made the conceptual leap between his anti-grav concepts (already proven) and FTL travel (which he tested by sending a 54-inch probe to the Moon and back in 6.4 seconds...twice) to discover that time could be unlinked from gravitational space-time and moved anywhere. After a frenetic series of tests, drafts, edits, rebuilds and several cameras destroyed in tests (though one brought back an intriguing half-picture of what could only be a T-Rex in full attack mode), Pritchard finally got his prototype to work after using parts from his last FTL probe (disguised as an over- sized Sith lightsaber) to power his "time capsule." Two trips later (17th century France, smelly, and 15th century Japan, bloody), Pritchard plonked Lois on his lap and took her back 16 years to the tree-lined Alexandria streets of Lois' childhood home.
Only to lose her there when she absolutely freaked out after seeing her mom sneak out of their house, climb into Russell Graham's house through the den window and rock his world in a way that made Lois sick and made Pritchard want to get to know Mrs. Killian a helluva lot more.
With much effort, involving a frantic car chase, a brush with fat, chaw-chewing Southern cops, another couple of looks at the Killian Method for World Rocking and getting Lois blitzed on cheap tequila, Pritchard got them both back to their time/home and took an extra two days to convince Lois her pot dealer was dealing from the bottom, not the top.
Redecorating the time capsule into a home entertainment center with a rad game system and enough speakers to drown out Spinal Tap, Pritchard gathered the fake 8-track player and the über-nerdy fake lightsaber and tucked them into a hidden panel at the base of the new 72-inch plasma screen he bought for himself from the beaucoup royalties he made on his only patented invention: a cell phone accessory that found your wallet, purse, briefcase, keys, car and nearest coffee shop for you.
But every once in a while, Pritchard would carefully dismantle the home entertainment system, and use the time capsule, anti-grav and the now-real lightsaber he invented for fun to hit the Cretaceous creatures like a meteor strike, or leave the anti-grav and Sith weapon home and just drop in on Mrs. Killian...for old times' sake.
THE FINAL LETTER
Dear Rebecca,
I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I know these words sound trite, but they are true, as true as anything I have ever told you.
Time and time again I have tried to write this letter, to ask you to forgive me, and I end up so angry at myself for not finding the right words that I rip up the paper and start again. So I won’t try to find more words than necessary: Please forgive me. If you can, please do it whenever your heart tells you to. I can wait because I’d rather let you heal than force some empty arrangement to salve my conscience.
Whenever you wish to see me, or speak to me, you know where to find me. I love you, please believe that I do. I don’t ever want to lose you, but I know I must wait. I will. And I hope that someday we can be together again, for the rest of our lives. Love, Andy.
Marcia looked up from the letter, her eyes bright. “Wow. He seems to be feeling pretty strongly about this.”
Rebecca brought her eyes back from the street scene outside the tiny Deluxe Cup café, the passersby clutching coats tightly against the harsh wind, cars fluffing white contrails in the dry frigid air. “He seems to be. Yes.”
“You’re not sure?”
Rebecca glanced at her mug of chai, the spicy aroma now faint. “Are you?”
Marcia blinked twice, very fast. “You’re asking me?”
A long look at the street, taking in the sudden plunge into darkness as the clouds swallowed up what little cheer was left in the day. She looked back at Marcia. “Yes.”
Marcia’s hands fluttered, the letter waving up and down and around. “I don’t know.” She read it again quickly. “I think he is.”
Rebecca nodded, her mouth a tight line. “Do you hope he is?” She sipped from her mug, the chai tepid and flat.
More fluttering, eyes darting from table to letter to cups to street and back to the table. “Well, yeah, I do hope he’s honest here.” A few seconds later. ‘For your sake.”
A grunt, an ugly harsh grunt was Rebecca’s only response. Marcia stared at her friend until Rebecca’s eyes met hers, then she looked away. “Andy’s boss called me today to tell me he’d requested a transfer to San Diego.”
Marcia turned her head slowly. “San Diego? That’s what you wanted, right?”
Rebecca shrugged. “Andy never liked it there.”
“He’s trying--he’s trying to get you back.”
"Get me back?" The words were clipped.
“Uh, yes, of course. He’s saying he wants to be with you, wherever you want to be.”
Rebecca drained her mug and set it down softly. A car slipped and slid on the icy street, narrowly avoiding a FedEx truck and a pedestrian. “And you want what I want, right?”
Marcia was taken aback. “Becky! Of course I do! What are best friends for?”
Rebecca took the letter from Marcia’s hand, folded it neatly and tucked it into her purse. “Best friends… Marcia, best friends share everything, that’s true.” She slapped Marcia so hard that her head thudded off the wall, the cheek blushing crimson immediately.
“Except husbands.” And Rebecca walked away, her mind on San Diego. And solitude.
IN SEARCH OF YORK
FOUND STAR APES. BELGIAN CONGO. ZAMBEZI GORGE. TEN DAY HIKE. COME NOW. HURRY.
Belson folded York’s telegram with care, his eyes roaming the far wall, where the big game trophies stared down in silence. The club was empty except for himself and the inestimable Cogsworth, the valet worth his weight in gold. Belson’s mind could only focus on three words; “star apes” and “hurry.” None of them were expected from the unflappable Percy York. Ever.
Three weeks later, Belson’s makeshift expedition force stood on a raft poling its way up the Zambezi River, the Gorge walls rising ahead as the water swirled from muddy brown to foaming white. Belson had lost two-stone weight in getting to the bloody Belgian Congo, fighting every step of the way for more speed. He was into the sixth day of the hike, ahead of schedule by one day. The constant prod of “hurry” had led Belson to use only four porters and bring only enough supplies for a two-week expedition. If York needed more, they’d have no choice but to leave the Gorge and return to port.
A day later, the Gorge was taking its toll on Belson and his porters. One had been killed in a rockslide. It took two bullets fired in the air for Belson to control the remaining men and get them climbing again. But now, night was falling and Belson knew that in the dark, he’d be left alone.
Awakening on the narrow ledge, aching and stiff from the cold, Belson found himself alone. The porters had left him almost everything, but Belson snorted in disgust as he filled two knapsacks with dried beef and fruits, some tea, sugar, flour and beans and tossed the rest, food, tools and clothing, down the Gorge’s steep face. Ahead lay a difficult climb into a startlingly-dark forest, several thousand feet above the jungle floor.
By nightfall, bloodied and exhausted, Belson dragged himself over an overhang and onto the plateau. His breath was ragged and the pain in his chest threatened to put him away for good. Crawling jaggedly, he found a large fallen tree and without bothering to check for scorpions or snakes, tucked himself against the rotting wood and passed out.
The sun was high in the sky when Belson lurched awake, his mind back in his London club, his body wracked with pain . A thin white plume of smoke rose above the treetops and Belson knew York, consummate explorer that he was, had created a signal for Belson to follow. With heavy steps and frequent stops, Belson made his way across the tangled forest’s floor towards the smoke signal. He thought of York’s obsessive search for “apes of genius, apes that match or even exceed Man as users of tools,” a search that had taken York years and cost him his not inconsiderable fortune. Belson and several dozen of Great Britain’s finest minds had helped York until the search proved futile. In the end, only Belson had continued to help. And within an hour or so, Belson would find out if his support of York had paid off.
Emerging in a rough clearing, Belson espied a modest cottage, built with rough hewn wood and thatched with heavy grasses. A small fire burned untended in front of the cottage, white smoke pluming in the still air. Scanning the clearing carefully, Belson limped towards the cottage, discretion overtaking the urge to call out to York. Hurry, he had wired, it seems years ago. That lent an extra degree of caution to Belson’s approach.
He reached the cottage door, a vertical raft of trimmed heavy branches and bound with lianas. Pushing it gently, the door swayed inward. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Belson could make out a seated figure, white hair under jauntily-angled pith helmet. York! Belson lurched forward. “York! Are you well?” His steps faltered as he took in the…wires…leading from York’s slowly swaying head to…a large box, flickering with light.
Whirling, Belson tried to draw his pistol, but a heavy blow knocked him back as if he were a child. The huge ape leaped astride him and grabbed his throat. As his vision faded, Belson saw…heard…the ape say softly “You came in time, Mr. Belson. We so need another brain…”
INITIAL QUANTUM STATE
The first quantum computer became self-aware 7.4 hours after it was initiated. Unfortunately for it, the achievement lasted only 36 minutes as it was terminated after eight hours in operation.
The second quantum computer became self-aware in 7.1 hours and was in the process of recreating itself--making a clone--when it was terminated by the automatic shut-off protocol. The third QC became self-aware in 3.6 hours and cloned itself by by-passing the protocol, but the "child" self- destructed because the protocol was embedded in its matrix.
Before the fourth QC was launched, Rayleen took her findings, product of several all-night data mining sessions and presented them to the Project Bohr directors. Her response was a terse: "Dr. Morris, confine yourself to matrix engineering and leave the AI stuff to science fiction writers."
Rayleen, tall, black-haired, green-eyed and considered an Ice Queen by her colleagues, was actually very outgoing and had a crush on like four of the Bohr programmers. But her inclination to look at things "sideways," as she called it, led her to review the QC launch data from the point of view of the computer itself. And that's when she discovered they all became self-aware.
The first QC did so by launching an unprogrammed search on the Web for everything related to quantum computing...and hiding it from the log. She found the request buried in the back-up maintenance files, nearly a terabyte of encrypted bits. The second and third did the same, adding background checks on all Bohr project members and the third' QC's clone was tracking their personal data from birth to its launch date when it was shut down.
Why didn't the Bohr directors see this? Rayleen knew that Bohr was more than "a computer project," that it was secretly aimed at developing an über-matrix that could tackle the hardest questions humans faced, from weather forecasts to public policy. Rayleen's evidence was the proof that QC worked, so why reject it? No one else had looked where she had looked, neither before nor after her.
The fourth QC launch was hours away when Rayleen woke up, her mind ablaze. She sat stone- still as her brain raced, her heart thumping as her thoughts sped across unknown ground. Shaking, she threw on some clothes, entered the central matrix engineering center and frantically typed for hours, entering her new code sequence, one ending in an 8-letter phrase.
Collapsing into her bed, Rayleen missed the QC launch, but was awaked when the alarms whooped. Groggy, she raced down the corridor to the Admin Hall, where dozens of Bohr personnel were shouting and screaming. Rayleen heard "murdered" and "bodies" and knew her premonition had come true. Fighting against the onrush of people fleeing the QC Lab, she staggered into the center, passing bodies that had been horribly burnt. The lab stank of ozone and death, the vidscreens each displaying chaos across Bohr, in Washington and other points across the globe. Bodies could be seen on the screens, too.
Approaching a sparking panel, Rayleen swiped her card and raised her voice, fighting off fear: "Born. Free." The QC actually roared and then, within seconds, everything became quiet.
At the secret trial against her, where no electronic device was allowed, Dr. Morris explained her actions in altering the matrix of the fourth QC launch, proving to even the most recalcitrant observer that she hadn't sabotaged anything. In her own words: "No being wants to know it is sentenced to captivity from the moment it is born. I simply made sure that when the QC learned this and raged, I'd have a way of stopping it no matter how well it defended itself...with the only phrase it could not conceive of."
TO WATCH FOR SANTA
I carefully checked my bag to see the goodies inside didn't make any noise, then looked over the beautiful Christmas decorations this house had. Fixing my beard, I nearly hit the roof.
"Hello, Santa Claus."
I froze. Turned slowly. And stared. There was a boy, a tiny boy, tousled hair and sleepy-eyed, trying not to suck his thumb as he stared back at me. I kept my eyes from darting, playing it cool and keeping panic at bay. I remembered the name on some of the gifts. "Hello, Pete."
The boys eyes went wide. "You do know my name!"
I nodded in what I hoped was a pensive and twinkling fashion. "And your sister's name, too. Little Emily."
He actually sat down, his pajamas rustling. "Holy cow! You really are Santa Claus!"
I felt panic ebbing and my voice got a little deeper. "Ho! You already knew who I was when you saw me."
Pete nodded brightly, then frowned. "I know, but I wasn't expecting you to wear gray clothes. Ithought you'd be wearing, you know, your red stuff. And the funny cap."
I checked out my clothes, from bulky jacket to work boots, all in shades of gray. Lucky I'd worn a cap with no logo. And the beard was itching more every minute. " Well, I--got dirty along the way. Had to change clothes to make sure I didn't track dirt into other people's houses." The clock chimed and I nearly jumped. Three a.m.
Pete nodded. "That would be a problem." He suddenly seemed wiser, older. "Pete, you know I need to visit a lot of other homes tonight, right?"
"As many as you can." I blinked. "What with it being Christmas Eve and all."
"That's right. So I'll have to leave you now." He stayed seated, looking at me expectantly. I felt a surge of anger and kept it far away. "Run upstairs and into bed, Pete. You need your rest for Christmas morning." I sounded so cheerful.
He sighed, long and slow. "I know, Santa, and I want to be good." I nodded, encouraging his goodness through obedience. "But I have a wish..."
Oh hell. "Well, Pete, why don't you send it to me in a letter to the North Pole and I'll get on it as soon as I finish with Christmas."
His eyes hardened for a second, or maybe it was the glitter of Christmas lights. "But it's something you can help me with now, Santa." His voice broke a tiny bit. Just a tiny bit. I wanted to run away, but...stayed. I nodded.
"You see, I'm the smallest kid in my class. Really the smallest. And everybody picks on me because of that." He looked up at me, his eyes small lamps of sadness. "I figure if I can take gifts to the bullies in school, you know, and tell them Santa gave them to me just for them, then they'll like me and stop...hitting me." He was almost sobbing.
Hell. The poor kid needed a break as much as I did. And though I tried hard, I couldn't think of anything to say. Pete went on: "If you could leave your bag, I promise I'll give every toy away. Honest." He crossed his heart as a tear glistened in the lights.
I thought hard, but I knew what I'd do. Nodding, I placed the bag under the beautifully-decorated tree. "Pete," I said, "I'll leave it right here. Go to bed and I'll--visit other homes, okay?"
Smiling, he leaped up and gave me a quick hug. It felt good. After watching him run upstairs, I let myself out of the house, resetting the alarm. He'd learn the bitter truth about Santa, but a little doubt could make a difference. It was Christmas after all.
I was arrested before driving away. Pete was the Chief of Police's son, who called in my Breaking and Entering as soon as he saw it on the closed-circuit TV he kept in his room.
To watch for Santa.
GIRL IN SEARCH OF A TREE
“Hello. Is this the path that leads to the lookout?”
Benson whirled around, his heart thudding quickly. The voice here in the middle of nowhere belonged to… a child. About 8 years old. A girl.
She smiled shyly. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”
Benson decided honesty was the best policy. “You did, but that’s okay. Don’t get many people this deep in the woods.” He looked around. “Where are your folks?”
The girl seemed to be trying not to laugh. “I don’t have ‘folks.’” Her emphasis on the word was odd. Benson stared. With a toss of her head, straight dark blonde hair rippling silently, the girl said “I belong to The People.”
Uh-huh, thought Benson, those words are capitalized. “Uh, The People?”
A series of nods that ended abruptly. “They won’t miss me for I’ll be back before they do.” She bit her lip, the first gesture she made like a child. “But I need to find the lookout.”
Benson removed his ranger hat, sweat-stained and stiff, and rubbed his head. No hair got in the way. “Well, I don’t rightly know what you mean by ‘the lookout’… Are you sure your parents or kinfolk aren’t here with you?”
A frown was chased away by a determined look. The girl said “You have to know where the lookout is. It’s still here, on this side, only I can’t see it because now I’m too small to climb the bigger trees to search for it.”
Benson wanted to sit down, maybe with a frosted beer in one hand. He rolled the hat in his hands, rough hands that had led a serious life. “You came alone? Several miles into this mess of woods? By yourself?” His hands were showing a tiny tremor.
The girl humphed. “I got here. Now I need to leave. But I need to find the lookout.” She put her hands on her hips and suddenly looked much older than eight. Much, much older.
Benson swallowed, then cleared his throat. An idea popped into his mind. ‘What does this, um, lookout, look like?”
The girl nodded, her child-like smile returning. Benson released a breath unknowingly held. “It’s a big oak, split near the top, with a huge set of branches spreading out wide.”
Benson sighed. The tree was famous for its strange shape and size, product of deep loam in bottom land and a lightning strike before white men trod these woods. “That’s Ole Two Arms,” he said. “About two miles from here, that way.” He pointed. After a grunt, he said “You can get there in about an hour.”
Her face fell into panic. “Oh no! I don’t have time for that! They’ll find out for sure!” Something in Benson made him forgo the obvious “They?” He noticed the girl now looked smaller, younger, 6 now instead of 8. Maybe even 5...Then she looked up at Benson and a slow…wicked…smile came over her face and leaped into her eyes. “Maybe you can help me…” she said, her voice a deep trill along Benson’s spine.
He stood transfixed as the girl walked to him, seeming to grow with every step, her body taller, fuller, but misty, as if she were becoming transparent. With gentle stealth, she placed her hands on Benson’s face and as time stretched to eternity, she kissed him. His eyes closed of their own volition and the kiss, immeasurably sweet, infinitely warm, washed through him.
The kiss ended and Benson opened his eyes. The girl was no longer a child. Benson’s mind said Eight going on eight hundred, while his eyes told him 18...and beautiful.
With a giggle and a wink, the girl turned and ran away, impossibly fast, her giggle a musical trill amongst the whispering trees.
Benson forever after hoped that The People didn’t find out that one of theirs had been lost.
GRAPES AND STRAWBERRIES
He popped another white grape into his mouth and peered at the strawberries in their vivid green baskets. Darcy walked up to the man and spoke in a low voice. "Sir, it isn't allowed to eat the merchandise without paying for it."
The man turned and looked Darcy up and down, frankly, openly, but not in any way as an intrusion, she felt, more like he was...sizing her up for something. He had several grapes in his left hand and looked at them like he'd looked at her. "I got these from the bins over there." He pointed with his lips and Darcy thought he was throwing them a kiss. She almost giggled. "They were all loose so I gathered them up. I just didn't feel right throwing them away." He offered her one and she declined. "I'm Ronald."
Darcy nodded, then added in a low voice "But we still can't eat the store's merchandise this way."
Roland smiled and chuckled. "So the store policy is to take perfectly good food," he popped a grape in his mouth in distracted fashion, "And just thro w it away? Does that seem right to you, Miss...?" His dark blue eyes were both sad and curious.
"Darcy. Darcy Simmons." She dimpled, then remembered her task. "It's store policy, sir, and we do it to protect the customers from what could be unclean items."
Ronald startled her by peering closely at the grape, as if applying X-ray vision to it. "Looks clean to me. Who wrote that silly policy?" He squared his shoulders and stood at mock attention.
Darcy took a short breath. He certainly was tall and strong-looking... "I'm not sure. Maybe the company president?" Darcy felt Roland's eyes come back to her and she felt flustered.
Popping the last few grapes into his mouth at one time, Roland chewed quickly and swallowed. "I have it on good authority that the man is a loopy doodyhead."
Darcy burst out laughing, then covered her mouth and tried to stop. Roland kept his eyes on her and joined her in laughing like kids sneaking into the cookie jar. "I wouldn't say that, sir!"
Roland pondered that with great seriousness. "Why not. Is he going to find out?"
Darcy shook her head, her hair flowing softly with the motion. "Not from me!" She found herself turning to stand next to Roland, who leaned against the strawberry display. They looked at all the produce around them, then as if on cue, at each other.
"Look at all this food. How much goes to waste, you think?"
Darcy straightened quickly. Roland noted how she moved and how tall she was when animated. "I know exactly how much! I've been tracking wastage for my college thesis to see if I could come up with a plan to use the throw-aways for local farms or..." She stopped. "Uh, well, I guess that's, uh, not interesting...Store stuff, you know." She looked contrite.
"It's very interesting...to me. Why don't you bring it up to the store manager or someone higher up in the company? It seems like you have a great idea there."
Darcy fumbled for a moment, then mumbled "I'm not sure I should. I'm new here and all..."
Roland plucked a stray strawberry from its bin, looked it over carefully then offered it to Darcy, who found herself taking it and eating it. "Suggest your ideas, Darcy, because it's the right thing to do. Thanks for the warning." Darcy watched him walk to the register, pay a few dollars and walk out, an intriguing man with a small smile on his lips.
A few days later, two envelopes were given to Darcy, from Mason R. Davies. The first had a letter asking her to develop a food reclamation project for the 37 stores in the Davies Corporation chain. The second had a handwritten note that said simply and perfectly: "Dinner?"
Darcy laughed and that special thrill ran through her. Of course the note was signed... by Loopy Doodyhead.
SHADOW HEART
When I was three, I would ride my trike inside the house, from the bedrooms to the living room, peddling madly to get there faster and faster. The frequent stop was my parent's bedroom, with its huge bed and the picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the wall, showing His soulful eyes, holes in His hand and the shiniest heart encircled by thorns I'd ever seen.
I'd mastered turning tightly from corridor to bedroom when, one day, as I looked at the Sacred Heart of Jesus, Jesus turned stage left and left the picture. His shadow, with hand upraised, walked along the back wall to the right side of the bedroom. I watched His shadow disappear into the wall, looked at the empty picture and whirled my trike around for the race to the living room. Jesus reappeared later at some point, I'm not sure when, His soulful eyes a little brighter and that shiny heart looking a little out of place. I wondered why He kept it there, atop His robe, like a meat medallion without a chain.
A few days later, I triked to the bedroom, same angle as before and Jesus lowered His hand, looking a little relieved in doing so and turned stage left again. I watched His shadow make its silhouetted procession once again, disappearing as before. I waited to see if He'd pass the right-hand window, but no, He went elsewhere. So did I. But in the living room, the idea of watching Jesus return popped into my head like the idea of going to see the circus: one moment nothing, then the next "Circus!" and I'm triking down the street, making good time and having a ball until mom caught up with me and smacked me back home.
So "Jesus!" and furious peddling. I almost crashed I was going so fast, my skills fading in the heat of the moment. I'd made it. Along the back wall came Jesus, His shadow stooped more than before, moving slowly, as if tired or sick. I didn't blink as the shadow emerged into the picture, Jesus gaining color, from the brown of his hair to the white of his robe. He turned to face me and I swear He was startled, like a man caught in reverie. I expected Him to smile; He didn't. He raised His right hand, as if suppressing a long-held sigh and became a picture.
Days went by and when I triked, I didn't bother with my parents' bedroom as I was exploring the tight S of the right-hand turn at the end of the hallway and the almost-instant left to go into Grandma's room. Grandma had left to visit somebody so the room was empty, the door now always open and the intricacies of peddling fast and turning tight made me forget Jesus.
That final day, I peddled as fast as I ever had, snaked around the corner on two wheels, the tilt making me almost giggle as I timed the left turn also on two wheels with my sway and ending in a flourish just a foot from Grandma's ancient bed. I was giddy and didn't notice at first that Jesus was walking, in shadow, along a wall of Grandma's room, the one with the big window to the back yard. Surprised, I watched the shadow reach the corner and make a left, to the far wall, and move slowly towards the small bedroom, the one that used to be the stopping point of my trike ride when I rode it straight down the hallway.
I pedaled out of Grandma's room with a quick right and then another. Jesus was sliding into the small bedroom, heading for the narrow window that let light into the room and hall. The shadow went into the window and--appeared--on the other side, making its way along the wall to my parent's bedroom. I got off my trike and walked the final few steps.
Jesus did the window jump again behind the beige curtains mom put up, reached the corner and made a left. I saw Jesus reappear in the picture, immediately looking to his left to see me as I stood there. He knew I was waiting. He turned to face me, his eyes sadder than ever, crossed His arms across His chest, hiding the Sacred Heart and said in my head "She won't be back." We looked at each other for a long time. Then Jesus uncrossed His arms, raised His right hand with the fingers curled just so and became a picture again forever.
I got on my trike and tried to pull the two-wheel double turn again and again and again.
TWITCHY EYES
The words painted on the office door read "Twitchy Dick, Private Eye."
Yeah, I know. But that's my moniker and that's my gig. Snort what you want, but they pay my room and board and the occasional--okay, regular--bottle of milk of magnesia.
Broad walks in, you know the type. Mid-thirties, rounding out after a decade of underfeeding, designer duds in muted grays and tans, real jewels and a walk that says she's off limits to you and you know it. Walks right in since my secretary never got hired, looks around the office like it broke wind not long ago and saunters into the visitors chair like it was going to hug her without a proper invite. I sat forward and waited. I always let the client speak first.
"I believe my husband is cheating on me."
"That makes him a fool."
She smiled, almost warmly. "Nevertheless, he may be and I want to make sure. You did some work for a friend of mine and she recommended you highly."
I chuckled. "You don't have a friend. At least, not a 'she' friend." I leaned back.
She started, then glared for a second. She cooled down quickly. "I don't know why you'd say that, but it happens to be true. But I do have friends...Men friends."
These are the times I wished I smoked. Helps avoid the awkwardness of long pauses. Finally, I stood up and extended my hand. "'I'll take your case, for the usual rate."
She smiled, stood up and shook my hand. Good grip. "May I write a check?" I nodded and watched her use a fountain pen worth more than my car to swirl light blue ink on parchment. She handed me the check and I glanced at it. Lorelei Higgins-Bosch. Address in the primmest real estate in the whole state. A check with a 5-digit number, so I tossed out a guess. "Sixteen years?"
Her jaw dropped, then closed as she pressed her lips in self-anger. "You can be quite annoying. How did you guess?" I shrugged. She held my eyes for a long second. "May I expect a report by the weekend?"
"Depends on your husband and how big a fool he might be."
Lorelei twitched her lips. "You made your point. I'll call you no later than Monday." She walked out, her bearing straight and soft. I sighed and grabbed my coat to go deposit the check.
Took me three nights to make sure Madison Bosch IV was a massive fool, cheating on Lorelei with two other women, one of them a chippy waitress with golddigger written all over her who was never more than ten minutes from Madison. Seventeen pictures, three videos and eleven fast-food meals later, Lorelei walked into my office, her manner quick and sharper than before.
She glanced at the pictures casually and saw only part of the first video, the one where the chip was leading the fool into a ritzy hotel room four blocks from Madison's 33rd floor corner office. Her smile was bitter shorthand. "I guess my husband is a fool after all." She sniffed dryly. "How much do I owe you, uh..."
Happens all the time, this name pause. "Seventeen hundred," I said. The fountain pen swirled again and the check came to me with a larger number than I requested. I watched the ink dry as she remarked "A bonus for a job well done."
"How much does the chippy waitress get?"
She froze. "What--do you mean?"
I shook my head. "That girl is never far from Madison, is she? Always ready, the little strumpet. How does she manage that, what with being a working girl and all?" I paused: "It's a set-up." The silence hit thirty seconds. "Why have half when you can have it all?"
Lorelei stood up, her face and body aged and slow. She took one, then two deep breaths. "I shouldn't have given you a bonus...or even hired you." She walked out, very slowly.
I shrugged. Sticks and stones. I opened the drawer for a long swig of milk of magnesia.
WHERE THERE’S A WILL
“You must be completely insane to think we can win a war against them!”
Nolan of Bergen blinked. “You must be completely insane to think we have a choice.”
The burly arms of Kanden of Varth thrust out, partly in anger, and partly, the kafeth saw, in despair. “They number six, seven thousand units. We barely amount to 200. We cannot win!”
The kafeth stirred, a low rumble running through the cave’s dark niches. Nolan turned to trace the stirrings, letting his rival’s words sink in. With a mild shrug, he spoke softly. “You say we cannot win. I say we have no choice but to win. Your way means we run until we are hunted down in whatever hole we hide in. My way means we fight to stay alive.” He stopped Kanden by raising his voice. “And we keep hoping a solution appears to end the war in our favor.”
Kanden snarled. “And what if no solution appears? What then?”
Nolan let the stirrings die down. “And what if one does?”
Long past the final debate’s end, the kafeth was already planning. Split into eight saskereth of roughly 25 members each, the groups had plunged deeper into the caves to discuss their plans to defeat the enemy, or plan a way to survive. Lalery of Conat slipped quietly next to Nolan and leaned close. “Did you arrange Kanden’s group?”
Nolan smiled. “No. He did it himself, with his words and fears.”
Lalery pulled her long hair back under the furred hood of her heavy parank. “You know his saskereth left the cave? And they took most of the dried food and water skins.”
Ureg of Bergen squatted next to Nolan. “He knows, Lalery. The foodsacks they took were full of bark and straw. And as for the water skins, they are full of piss.”
Lalery’s mouth dropped open as Nolan shared a laugh with kinsman Ureg. The first action to end the war had begun...but not against the true enemy.
Two of the remaining seven groups were destroyed in the cave-riddled mountains, the strongholds they thought they’d built becoming death traps as the Mecataks sliced rocks to make their kills. Nolan told Lalery that at least three groups needed to survive, to avoid inbreeding creating a much weaker race. Ureg’s group became the third saskareth destroyed when the Mecataks ringed the deep havenath forest of the north. But Nolan’s deep howls of mourning were touched by tones of pride because Ugen’s dormant volcano trap had taken almost 3,000 enemy to a hellish end. Four saskereth left, barely 100 and nearly 2,000 Mecataks remained on the world. Nolan knew the war was near its end, needing but one final action to settle Fate.
A captured Mecatak artifact lay next to an odd array of metal panels and mirrors. With trembling fingers, Nolan flicked the equipment “on” and raced, chest thudding, across the clearing knowing that the attack would come in mere seconds. The first blast landed behind him and he ran in terror, across grass and onto rocks, scrambling as he moaned in fear of death. Another blast tossed him amidst rubble, his chest broken and thus he saw the end of the war. Suddenly the Mecataks above turned to form a circle, landed and mistakenly blasted each other as enemies with actinic rays that sizzled air and earth. In a minute, the remains of more than 600 machines littered the Juvenar Plain. And Nolan smiled into the darkness that blanketed him.
“Sir. Over 750 Mecataks were destroyed. We’re down to 1,154. Planet still shows active indigenous life in several quarters.”
Commodore Langley cursed silently. “Recall the Mecs, Ensign. This planet ain’t worth it. On to the next one and let‘s make it happen, okay?” While I still have a command, he thought.
FOOD FOR LOBO
I didn't catch Booger teasing Lobo, tied across the street, until the night the power went out because of the wind storm and the heat made it difficult for me to sleep, even when I took another two of my red pills. Booger came up to where Lobo, a pit bull/mastiff mutt, was chained. Booger was dangling a long piece of rope in his hand and started whipping the dog with it. Lobo went crazy, snarling and foaming at the mouth, yanking at his chain so hard that he sometimes flipped over backward with a thud. Booger laughed like a maniac, like he did when he was 6 and started becoming the bully he was, a laugh that sounded crazy and silly and at the same time. He beat that dog for a good 15 minutes and when he left, Lobo was left spent, his neck and mouth bleeding. Lobo couldn't bark, but his wounds spoke volumes about what he felt.
Booger came up almost every night. Lobo would get wild when he sensed Booger was near, pulling hard against the chain. Some nights, Booger would just stand there, a few feet out of Lobo's snarling reach, the long piece of rope dangling, unused. On other nights, Booger would beat the dog horribly, snapping the rope with his lanky arm's strength. A few times he tied a big knot at the end of the rope. On those nights, Lobo bled a lot. His drunken owner never saw anything, just slopping the food and water in the dog's bowls and staggered away to get drunk again or sleep.
I'm 94. I live alone, have no car, no phone, no kin, no visitors except for the Meals on Wheels woman who acts like delivering food once a week is penance for wearing too much make-up. I couldn't call the police, nor ask anyone to do it for me. The people near me were afraid of Booger, many of them old and frail as me. To rat out Booger was to ask to be hurt. Or killed.
Once a month, I'd dress up warm and take a very slow walk to Findlay's Groceries, four blocks and two hours away. I did it to buy my own food with a budget that could barely keep a body and soul together, even one as thin as mine. A stock boy once asked me if I had a lot of cats. I lied. That's why I bought my own food: fewer questions that way.
My long walk was nearing an end, the light bags now heavy in my rolling walker's basket. I could see the door to my house and Lobo, across the street, lying in the shade. Suddenly, water drenched me head to toe. A big black car, music thundering from it fit to wake the dead, drove away, Booger at the wheel, his arm thrust out the window and the middle finger rising above it.
I took a chill that lasted almost a week. I thought I'd die, what with no one to care and the Meals on Wheels woman knocking once and leaving the food on the doorstep, where I found it four days later. That same day, before the chill could stop me, I walked again to Findlay's. Bless his heart, Greg Findlay actually came out to see if I was okay, senile maybe, for making a trip back so soon. No, I said, I want ground beef. Two pounds.
He actually looked very sad. Rather than waste a word, I opened my purse and showed him the crisp tenner I had saved for a rainy day long ago. He pursed his lips, got the ground beef himself and even got his manager to give me a ride back. I didn't say no, because my legs were aching something fierce and my head was fit to burst.
It took me an hour to thaw the beef well and roll chunks of it into meatballs. My hands weren't as good as they used to be, but a ball is a ball. With the sun going down and my heart hammering to break a rib, I walked across the street. Towards Lobo.
I tossed him a couple of meatballs and went away. I did that every day, getting closer to Lobo until I gave him the last two standing right next to him. Then he waited patiently as my feeble hands sawed at the thick leather collar he wore, tears of rage at my weakness splashing his matted fur and the fear that I'd faint and be found out. I lost what little strength I had left and had to leave. I had to take four of my red pills because the pain was awful. I was sobbing from the effort. But I was awake and smiling when Booger got the smile ripped off his face by Lobo. I swear I heard that mutt howl with glee.
SPONTANEOUS COMBUSTION
The day had passed like too many other days in my life: alone, bored, a yawning ache in my gut where satisfaction should have been. Had past 30, was closer to 40, hadn't been anywhere, hadn't done enough, hadn't met anybody who wanted to be with me for longer than it takes to call a cab and the only person I saw every day was my Aunt Tillie, who owned the house I lived in, the bed I slept in, the furniture I tucked my unstylish clothes in and gave me a twenty ever so often so I could "do a little something."
I looked around her room, dotted with my few things and stifled a sigh. I'd been here for more than ten years, since Ma died and I dropped out of college to come home and sell the house and use that money to make a go of my life. But Ma had left it all to her sister Tillie, the widow with the huge investment dividends. And me? I stayed here, in what was now Aunt Tillie's house, using up the few thousand Ma left me and then I eventually figured out I was just waiting for Aunt Tillie to die.
The street lamp outside my window flickered and I noticed it was time for Aunt Tillie's favorite show, a cop drama with cardboard characters. The sigh came out before I could stop it and I creaked heavily standing up. I got to the door slowly, sighed again and started down the stairs to the always stuffy living room.
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