Tag Archives: Modern Fairy Tales

Hawk Tails

HAWK TAILS

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(So, here we go, kiddoes. I’m reposting this to start my project for fall this year. Let’s see where it takes us!)

Hawk is a supreme martial artist, having belts in every major form including several non-human ones. He acquired his expertise at the Galactic Martial Arts Dojo on Betelgeuse IV under Master Sensei Erok Velatnin and was one of the top students of his class. (Several of his competitors for top honors we’ll meet later—some are cool, some aren’t.)

Hawk thinks of himself as a “natural” man having no “super” powers or cybernetic augments. While he likes stealth and edged weapons, he’s proficient with a wide range of projectile and energy weapons up to and including the gargantuan Masur planetary defense cannons. He’s had many adventures throughout the known systems and finally, after meeting the SuperSoldiers during a little affair on a moon of Deneb III, decided to settle down with a group of peeps (sic) he could trust to watch his back.

Hawk makes his way about the star systems in his state-of-the-art, super-hardened Mercedes “Cigarette” Fighter—almost all engines and guns. A beautiful ship, the sleek and graceful lines of its design belie its deadly nature. Polymorphic wings can be extended or retracted, in various configurations depending on circumstances, for flight in gas or liquid, even plasma. The burnished plastanium skin of the vehicle can be programmed to reflect or absorb energies: light, electromagnetics, sound, J and T waves, and even quantum fractionals. This allows Hawk to be very stealthy indeed.

The Artificial Intelligence that controls all navigation, tactical, weapons, jump, and maintenance functions is named “Talon”. A self-programming intellect eventually develops a personality and Talon’s developed as counterpoint to Hawk’s over the years, settling into the distaff side of things. Though Talon is sometimes stubborn and willful she has pulled Hawk’s bacon out of the fire many times.

Hawk has a direct neural connection with Talon and, when they’re in a scrap, the Mercedes, with it’s dual triple tap fusion drives, is a match for any vessel in the galaxy—more than a match—to which his sad and sorry opponents would attest if they were still around to do any attesting!

Hawk is dedicated to the SuperSoldiers because of their code of honor and duty. He especially likes their slogan, taken from the Old Earth marines—Always Faithful!

GATHERING CLOUDS

Starc is getting the old group together! It’s been a while—on Proxima, no less. He’s not terribly popular there, especially after that Pigel affair. I wondered how he got out of that “contract” he was forced into with Interstellar Mines.

He shouldn’t have blown up that ship. IM forbade him to scuttle the crippled transport even though it was headed for a densely populated area on the surface. All he had to do was walk away but that’s not Starc. Legally responsible for the destruction of their transport, IM had Starc, lock, stock, and barrel for at least 20 years.

Once the mining corporations get their hooks into you, it’s real hard to get them out. They charge you for everything you consume, food, lodging, water—even the air you breathe, and you’re not released from service until all accounts are paid in full. Didn’t think I’d ever see Starc again but there was the hardcopy fractional space communication, plain as day.

Starc never ceases to amaze me. I punched up my comm account and found I still had a few credits. I keyed in Dexter’s number. “Dex?” I asked. The screen flashed a little then coalesced into the pug faced, sleepy image of my current employer.

“What do you want?” he snapped, “don’t you know what time it is here?”

“I’m dropping your case, something’s come up,” I said evenly.

Inside I was smiling, glad to be disturbing the pompous SOB. Dexter was so like most of my other clients, rich, lazy, selfish and paranoid, living off the sweat of the masses they shove around at their petty whims. They had the credits, however, and a guy’s gotta make ends meet somehow.

“Hawk,” he said, his face starting to redden, “we got a contract—you’re mine.”

“Yeah, well I’m breaking it as of now. Any half-witted PI can find out who that floozy’s been shackin’ up with.”

Dexter’s eyes opened wide, I couldn’t resist an inner chuckle as my barb hit home. “What!?” he nearly screamed. “You know that for a fact?”

“Don’t have any physical evidence, Dex,” I said, “but why do you think she keeps going to Mars on those ‘shopping’ trips, eh? And why does she take those painfully slow cruise liners? She could use the gates and be there and back in a heartbeat. You don’t really think she’s afraid to use them, do you?”

Dexter was quiet, you could see the wheels turning. “I want proof!” he suddenly shouted.

“You’ll have to get some other flatfoot to get the vids, I’m sorry.”

“But what about our contract?” he spluttered.

“I shouldn’t have to read the articles to you, boss,” I said. “You know an investigative contract isn’t valid until ten days after the first payment.” I had him cold there. He hadn’t paid me anything yet. “You’re into me for 300 credits already.”

“If we don’t have a valid contract,” he said, a twisted, leering sneer squirming onto his face, “you don’t have a valid paycheck, chump. Apply that to that killer loan you’ve got on that overpriced Mercedes Tac-Fighter you’re so proud of.”

That hurt. But I could live with it. I knew Starc, if he was up to his old tricks I’d be able to buy a couple brand new Mercedes with plenty left over. “You owe me, Dex, and you know it,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “hold your breath and I’ll send it right over.” The screen flickered and the Frac-Net charges screen came up—transmission terminated.

“Choke on this you slinky hoopa!” I muttered as I bashed the screen with my fist. The transparent plexi-steel was unperturbed but it made me feel better anyway. I was hoping to get the C300 as my finances were less than robust. Another payment on Talon was coming up. I’d have to settle up with Dex later. “Talon, break surveillance on the Mars liner,” I said as I sat at my workstation in the cabin behind the cockpit, “set a new course for the Proxima gate.”

Talon’s sultry voice filled the cockpit, “shall I maintain surreptitious transit?”

“Won’t be necessary, sweetheart.” A brief tingling feeling washed over me as the sleek silver long range tactical fighter became visible on all energy spectrums.

“Full visibility,” Talon reported. “Course set for Proxima gate at Mars hub, ETA in fifteen Terran minutes.” Talon’s high velocity fractional plasma drives kicked in and for an instant the G force pushed me back into my seat before the inertial cancelers compensated. The drives pushed Talon through the quantum fractional turn that put it into a grey sub-reality that would allow a jump to Proxima almost instantly. Most of the travel time was spent jockeying in traffic.

Once under weigh I thought about the old group. Man, we’d had some times. I wondered what they’d been up to these last couple of years. Did Yorgie get sober? He was always the toughest in a scrap, not many slinky hoopas could say they fought him and won. ‘Cause I don’t think any who did fight him actually lived to tell about it.

Is Moon still as enigmatic? There wasn’t any piece of tech he couldn’t figure out. And did Dobie ever get that ship he was always talking about? He always dreamed of a ship that could traverse the galactic circumference in two weeks.

Where’s the Ghost now? He’s the only one who really scared me. And don’t forget the babe—oh yeah, the babe! Thinking about her made my leather pants a little tighter. They always underestimated her, such a sweet, cute little doll. She was extremely fast, saved the team more than once because, in spite of her tiny form, she could be more vicious than the rest of us put together when she put her mind to it.

They called us mercenaries but we had a real sense of justice and never took jobs that didn’t seem ‘right.’ There were bounties on all of our heads in more than one backwoods pirate hole. Proxima was such a place but if Starc was there it must be worth the risk.

Proxima, a mudhole spaceport if there ever was one, was near Zngin space. Zngin. We wrecked ’em a couple years ago. Seems like eons.

A particularly cruel race, the “Zingers,” as we affectionately called them, had conquered several of their neighboring systems. The despotic tyrants then bled their hapless subjects dry. Mass executions, slavery and starvation were but a few of the unspeakable crimes perpetrated by this rapacious and barbaric race.

That is until delegates from the Delphi system hired us to protect them. There’s a new ring around the Zngin homeworld now—used to be their moon, their main military industrial base. Along with some major blackened spots on the planet’s surface the evidence of the Zngin empire’s collapse is blatantly obvious. We knocked ’em halfway back to the stone age.

The victory didn’t come cheap however. We paid for it with blood. Renate and Sim both bought it on that mission. It was tough on us all but the Babe hurt the worst, she was in love with Sim. I kinda’ liked Renate but she was always a little too distant for anyone to get too close. Needless to say, the liberated systems were extremely grateful. We all had enough credits to never have to work again and, sad to say, we drifted apart.

Hey, I lived pretty good for a while, high on the hog, as they say. But I never was too good with money, I managed to blow the whole wad in a few short years. I hope the others were smarter than me. Heh, to tell the truth, I doubt it. We lived hard, fought hard and played hard.

So it goes . . . I can’t wait to see them again. Talon was approaching the gate. “Gimme a cheeseburger,” I said as I put my feet up on the dash. Might as well get comfortable while I can, I thought, probably going to be a bumpy ride . . .

Story a Day

Chase

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The speeding car drifted around the corner. Screaming, smoking tires and an over-revved engine disturbed the evening calm. People who were sitting out on their porches looked up to see a shiny red Porsche shoot down the street.

About three seconds later a second car, this one a modest gray BMW, came around the corner in much the same way as the Porsche. The second car didn’t drift as much; it followed the Porsche.

Neighbors looked across their yards at each other, husbands and wives made chuckling, snide comments about crazy people on the streets. As the revving, gear shifting cars faded into the distance they went back to sipping their lemonade or tea or beer or whatever and immediately forgot the brief excitement.

The driver of the Porsche made the turn onto Old Line Road with enough spectacular drama to make Paul Walker and Vin Diesel jealous. Gravel and dust mixed with the whitish smoke coming from all four wheels as the sleek vehicle fish-tailed slightly and sped down the narrow dirt road.

The Beamer was slowly catching up. The dust trail from the Porsche pointed the way for the Beamer and it slowed enough to make the turn onto Old Line without drifting. It zoomed through the dust trail of the Carrera.

Old Line Road follows an abandoned rail bed that used to connect Winslow with Darton and the mainline rail corridor. Winslow, tucked back in the low Central Pennsylvania mountains, had several coal mines that shipped the black rock to Philadelphia and Pittsburgh and other points in between.

When two of the most productive mines fizzled out the remaining operations couldn’t provide the volume to make the spur profitable so the railroad shut it down. That pretty much killed Winslow. Only diehard natives live there now and they’re dwindling fast by attrition. After decades of neglect the old rail line eventually became unsafe and the railroad finally picked up their rails and ties and went home.

The oil stained gravel bed is mostly overgrown now but there are still some places where you can see what it had been. The accompanying road is fairly straight until the old rail line crosses the Onuchko Creek. After crossing a dilapidated wooden trestle bridge the rail trail swings north and begins the long climb up to Winslow, winding around several mountains in its ascent.

Old Line Road turns left at the bridgehead and follows the creek about half a mile through sylvan scenery to a brand new, two lane, concrete and steel span, recently erected with Federal infrastructure improvement money. The road then backtracks down the creek to intersect and follow the old rail line on the other side of the trestle bridge.

Barreling down the old dirt road through darkening shadow, expertly jinking the occasional pothole, the red Porsche was an arrow, or a bullet, or, better, a cigarette boat, with its wake of dust billowing out behind it.

The BMW was eating that dust as it passed an old sign, askew and hanging by one rusted chain from a spar that held it out over the road. You could see “Winslow Hot Springs Hotel and Baths” in burned woodcut letters as the weathered sign twisted in the breeze.

Brake lights flashed at the rear of the red Carrera as it approached the creek and the turnoff. The car stopped. The Beamer was closing the distance between them.

The bridge didn’t look particularly safe but there was a track where a street vehicle could cross. It was blocked at the moment by a barricade made of four perforated sign posts like they use for stop signs, and three horizontally mounted strips of plywood painted with reflective orange and white paint, the word “DANGER” painted prominently across the middle strip in big red letters.

The BMW was now in sight of the Porsche. Suddenly the red car’s wheels began to spin, grinding the gravel underneath, spewing dirt, dust, and smoke. It fish-tailed a little bit then ran the barricade down and bounced onto the trestle bridge.

A section of the bridge collapsed about halfway across and the Porsche did a beautiful swan dive down into the creek some 40 feet below. It crashed onto a huge flat rock in the middle of the stream and exploded with a pyrotechnical display that would make Walker and Diesel’s stunt director jealous.

The Beamer skidded to a stop at the bridge, clouds of dust billowing. The driver removed his sunglasses, his racing gloves,  got out and took in the scene. There was nothing to do but call the police; the car down in the creek was a tangled, wrecked ball of fire, no survivors.

“Crazy friggin son of a bitch,” the driver said as he tapped on his phone.

Incidentally, the Winslow Hot Springs Hotel and Baths has just gone on the market, for sale and cheaper than dirt. Could be a good deal but you probably won’t get there in time.

 

Note: You may notice Wednesday’s story is missing. I did write a story on Wednesday entitled “Intersection.” However, I managed to forget about posting it. Waaah! My personal challenge is about complete by now as I have 27 stories published on this blog. With Intersection I’ll have 28.

The challenge was to write a story a day for the month of May. I began in April and there are six entries in that month. Early on I decided to give myself the weekends off, there is only so much time in a day!

May has 31 days. I may write three more stories just to be anal about it. Heh!

Chitlin Child    😈 

Story a Day

Waves

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Deena’s sick again this morning. She’s okay in bed for now so I thought I might as well run down to St. Matthew’s and see if there’s any bread left. Had to call in this morning so I could take care of her, the chemo’s starting to leave a mark. I’ve been through two jobs since she was diagnosed with breast cancer last year. Probably get fired from this one too, maybe get one more absence out of Boss before he finally loses patience.

One last look at Deena, asleep now, and then out, down three flights to Corman St., a nod to old lady Beson as she’s coming up from the mailboxes, and then outside. My overall feeling of confinement, enclosure, eases substantially; it usually does when I get outside. I’m dealing with a lot inside. I should say we’re dealing with a lot, she’s the one who’s sick. We’ll get through it. Still, outside’s a whole other world.

There’s a farmer’s market two blocks over and I head in that direction. The church is over that way too. Sometimes you can get free bread at the market; the local grocery stores drop off their “day old” bread there on Mondays and Thursdays. St. Matthews gets their bread from a franchise bread store. I’m glad they don’t throw it away. I’ve never encountered anything that was stale—maybe past the “sell by” date but perfectly edible nonetheless.

A dumpster full of that kind of food, headed for the landfill or the incinerator or wherever, would be a crime. If you don’t think so then you’ve never been really hungry before and good lucky for you! Most of the people in the world know what I’m talking about. Think about it.

The bread we can scrounge makes a fair part of our diet. Any money I gain from employment goes to the rent and ongoing medical bills. Our food budget is almost non-existent but I did fill out an application for food stamps and the clerk said we’d probably get them. There are other charities, churches, and foodbanks around that help with food, thanks to people who care.

I haven’t discounted the common sense it makes to give food to the poor. Starving people tend to do desperate things. Lots of starving people could be a real problem especially if they’re living next to people that have more than plenty. It’s a pretty old story.

The people I see on the street aren’t on this train of thought, however. They pass by, everyone to his own. We all have things to do, I suppose. We all have good days and bad days, trials and tribulations, glory and 15 minutes of fame. It’s another aspect of being outside that helps me get my own troubles into perspective. It’s uplifting.

So I told my boss about Deena and what we’re going through and he told me he was sorry about our misfortune. He also told me he was responsible for making, packaging, and shipping as many brooms as he can every day. He went on to say that when one worker doesn’t come in it starts a ripple effect through the production line that ultimately impacts the bottom line. Boss said he understands the situation and will bend as far as he can but there are others who can do the job for him without added headaches. Boss is a good guy, he should have fired me months ago.

Got a couple bagels at the market! It’s late to be checking these places, they’re mostly picked over with little but scraps left, but these bagels were there and they’re not too hard.

It’s another block to St. Matthews. A gentle breeze off the lake rustles my hair and a wisp gets in my eye. I remove my ball cap, finger comb my hair, then reseat my cap, stray hairs contained for the moment. I look ahead and see the church door is still open, a good sign. There aren’t any people in line, though, not such a good sign.

When I get there I see that it’s over. Not even a mashed cupcake left. I guess I should have gone sooner but I couldn’t leave Deena huddled over the commode dry heaving like some kind of clogged garden hose.

I take a short detour to the lake. The breeze is lifting choppy little wavelets that splash onto the riprap and gabions of the seawall. They just keep coming, again and again, inexorable. I’m leaning with my arms on the galvanized pipe guardrail, hands together with my fingers interlocked and clutching my bagels just looking out over the water. Time passes. It’s a big lake, nothing but water on the horizon. And those little waves keep coming.

Deena and I are going to be okay. The doctor said she’ll fully recover and she has a very good chance of complete remission. We’re both young and strong and, like I said, we’ll get through it. We’re going to be like those little waves, we’re going to keep on coming. I smile and turn back toward the apartment.

Somebody, or something must be looking out for us. Those bagels are the only thing Deena and I will have to eat today.

Story a Day

Gemini Virgins

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They threw the young virgin down at the feet of the High Priest. Defiant, she sprang to her feet only to meet a soldier’s truncheon that knocked her again to the floor. Black dots and stars impaired her vision as she struggled to her hands and knees, her swaying head hanging as she regained her senses.

“Stay down,” a soldier hissed from behind.

The High Priest of the Order of Moul, resplendent in a carnelian silk toga, stood before a throne on a circular dais three steps above the young girl. “You would do well to behave, young lady,” he said, “I’m told you’re a virgin.” He looked over to one of the two guards behind her and said, “She’s been checked, right?” The guard nodded.

The priest looked down, a grim, tight lipped smile on his hawkish face. “Yes, you’d do well to behave,” he said, “I’m going to offer you a wonderful opportunity.”

She raised her head, seeing first his sandaled feet, the thongs looked like woven gold, then the red drape of his toga covering his skeletal frame, then the severe narrow face on his hairless head wearing a ludicrous gold onion dome headpiece. She would have laughed but wasn’t really feeling very funny at the moment. Indeed, she was fairly pissed off. She sat back on her knees, poker faced, and said nothing.

“Nothing to say? Don’t you want to know why you’ve been brought here? What’s your name?” the priest asked.

She glared at him, “drop dead.”

His smile widened, progress—she’s talking, he thought. “What harm will it do to tell me your name?”

The guard prodded her with the butt end of his ceremonial lance. Answer!” he growled.

Sullen, “Wyx.”

The priest grinned, she noticed he had bad teeth. “Ah, Wyx,” he said unctuously, “was that so hard?” Dropping his hands, he gathered his toga and sat back into the ornate golden chair. “You’ve heard of the Gemini Virgins?”

“Sure,” she said, “everybody has. Those are the poor bitches you sacrifice to that god you worship.”

“Moul forgive you,” the priest said, tipping his head slightly and touching his forehead with his thumb and index finger. “The Gemini are twins, my dear,” he said, “one twin is sacrificed to Moul and the other gets to serve our priests and bear our children, a great honor I might add. Female children automatically become Gemini, males become our priests. You probably know that.”

“Why would I want to have any part in your stupid religion?” she snarled.

A benign expression came over the priest. “It’s a good life. We take care of our own quite well. By keeping the Order ‘all in the family,’ so to speak, we’ve managed to maintain dominion over this world for more than a century.”

“Ha! Good for you, eh?” Wyx fairly spit the words at him. “Meanwhile the rest of us pay your ‘tithe’ or starve, right?”

“Oh, you have that wrong,” said the priest, his eyes narrowing, “our followers pay the tithe because they believe!”

“Believe or starve, you mean.”

The priest tried mightily to suppress a yawn, which he hid behind the back of his hand, and sighed, “You will be a Gemini.” He arched his brow and his nostrils flared slightly, “What I need to know right now is which part you will play, a believer and lifetime servant of the Order, or the sacrifice to Moul. Choose!”

“Any religion that forces you to believe on pain of death sucks,” Wyx said, “and can’t possibly be anything good. You suck, your church sucks, everything about you sucks!” She spit at him right before the guard hit her with the club again.

The High Priest of the Order of Moul casually waved, flexing his fingertips with a sweeping motion, “Take her. You know what to do.”

Story a Day

Evident

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He could feel the sun almost directly overhead. He mopped his brow with an already damp red paisley handkerchief, stuffed the cloth into a back pocket and knelt. In front of him was a large mound of threshed wheat that he was winnowing before it could be ground into flour at the mill down by the stream.

With a big coffee can he put a couple scoops of wheat into the woven bamboo basket he was using. He stood up and with a quick upward motion tossed the wheat into the air. A light breeze that was always present on the knoll where he was working wafted dust, grit, and other detritus from the grain downwind. There was a thick carpet of chaff on the ground extending in that direction.

After several tosses he put his fingers into the wheat in the basket, ran some lightly between his thumb and fingers. He gave the wheat a few more tosses, repeated his test, then dumped the wheat onto a growing pile of grains ready for the mill.

He heard a small voice behind him. “Papo,” it said. It was Andalisha, his granddaughter. “Mumu says come in, it’s lunchtime.”

“Okay,” he said, “Let’s go.” He dropped the basket at his feet and reached out to find Andy’s left arm right where he expected it. Papo had been blinded 20 years ago fighting a fire at a neighbor’s farm. An almost empty kerosene can had exploded, spraying his face with shrapnel and fire.

She led him down the hill toward the stone cottage next to the mill. She was unusually quiet today, ordinarily she would talk his ear off. He reached over and touched her cheek and felt a wet track. “You’ve been crying,” he observed, “Why so sad?”

“Sendru is going to the harvest celebration with Idris,” she said bitterly. “He doesn’t even like Idris. She’s doing it just to get at me, I know it. She knows how I feel about him.”

“Ohh, I see,” the old man said.

“He’s already told me he doesn’t like her or her family,” she pouted, “and now he’s going to the grange with her. And he won’t even talk to me about it. I’ve asked him several times and all he says is, ‘later,’ and he walks away.”

The Conrads, Idris’s parents, were satraps for the local warlord and they owned the mill. In fact, they owned nearly everything in the valley. Andalisha’s father, Papo’s son, operated the mill for the Conrads. He wasn’t exactly tied to the land or the job, he could pick up and leave if he wanted but leaving in these troubled times wasn’t a very good idea. There was nowhere to go where it was different. His tacit serfdom, tantamount to the real thing, kept him and everyone else in the valley under the thumbs of the Conrads.

Over a century ago the Great Collapse, caused by a worm infecting the Internet that ruined the infrastructure of anything connected to it, knocked civilization back to the middle ages. With the cities in flames and most of their inhabitants dead fighting each other during the meltdown, the remnants of civilization, rural survivors mostly, degenerated into isolated pockets of Medieval feudalism. Warlords and their henchmen control large geographic areas and are always at each other’s throats—dark days indeed.

“Sendru may not have any choice, you know,” Papo said. “He must obey the Conrads. They can easily give his family’s farm to someone else to work and there would be nothing they could do about it.”

Andalisha had never thought about politics or power before, her naiveté nonplussed. She wrinkled her brow and said softly, “You mean they told Sendru he had to take Idris to the celebration or they would hurt him and his family?”

Papo could see the furrows between her eyebrows in spite of his handicap. Her voice didn’t sound so quite so childish as it did 5 minutes ago. “I’m afraid so, child,” he said.

Andalisha, deep in thought, led her grandfather across the yard to the cottage’s Dutch door in silence. Before she opened the door she turned to her grandfather and gravely said, “That’s not right.”

With a tight, humorless smile Papo shook his head. He said wearily, “and so it isn’t, child. But so it will remain until someone changes it.”

The young girl’s eyes became slits under her lowered brows as she digested her epiphany. “Ohh, I see,” she said.

Story a Day

Cry for Help: The Dying TV

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I was walking down the alley between Locust and Walnut, coming back from my workout around the park, when I spied another one of those ubiquitous things you seem to see around all the time these days. It was, like, half a television, half an analog television, picture tube and a few strands of colored wire protruding from a plastic frame. Lying beside it, crushed into a couple dozen pieces, was the plastic from the rear of the device. Most of the circuitry was missing.

I wouldn’t have to walk too far down the alleys before finding a similar scene of grisly electronic carnage. Such tableau, multiple carcasses even, seem to be quite commonplace, at least for the time being.

I’m thinking, since all analog TVs are headed for the recycle bin in the next couple years, many folks have the problem of just what to do with that $800, 200 lb., doorstop that they just replaced with a $150 High Definition TV from South Korea. A replacement that, incidentally, produces three times the picture size, incredible image quality, and better sound and only weighs about 10 lbs.

It seems some folks have figured out that television circuitry is made using precious metals, gold, silver, platinum, and such like. The TV carcass tableau are what’s left after the integrated circuit boards are removed. The TVs may have been left out on the street, picked up by an ‘entrepreneur’ and transported to some location nowhere near his or her own residence, eviscerated and abandoned.

So, actually, I’m kind of blind to that sort of thing when I’m out on my walks. However, as I was passing this particular shatter I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a bright flashy movement. The sun glinting off some shiny surface, I mentally shrugged and was about to dismiss it when I heard a small, tiny voice saying, “Help me!”

I froze in my tracks. Yes, I thought, now it’s finally happened. I’ve finally gone over the edge of the map to that part that says “Here there be dragons.”

And then I heard it again–there was no mistaking it. “Help me!” it implored. It was a tiny, scratchy little voice. Just like the trapped fly at the end of “The Fly.” Not the one with Jeff Goldblum, the old 1950’s one with David Hedison. I stared at the wretched TV. There! I saw the flash again and saw that it came from a piece of windblown foil. But that little voice . . . “Help me!”

Okay, so I’m crazy! I can afford to be gullible. “Help you? How can I help you?” I said in the direction of the wreck.

“Take me. Put me back together. I still have life! I can still be your everything!” it squeaked.

I said, “You’re a broken, smashed up, beaten down, destroyed television. How could I possibly put you back together? You don’t have any circuitry left at all, not even a power switch.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” the voice said. “I can give you anything you want.”

“Like you’re some kind of genie, eh?” I queried, “three wishes and all that, right?”

“Oh no, much more than a genie,” it said, “much more than three wishes. Everything and anything you want can be yours and so much more. Just fix me up and you’ll see. Don’t think about it; just do it!”

Having endless wishes come true sounded pretty good. Since I’d finally lost it I thought I might as well play along. What can it hurt? And then it hit me.

“You been promising me that all my life, bitch,” I said as I turned and continued on down the alley.

Story a Day

Stairway to Heaven

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This stair just keeps going. I take another step . . . and another . . . and so on . . .

Funny how your mind wanders when you’re locked into a mindless task. My task, at the moment, is to put one foot in front of the other and climb this endless stair. That’s all there is. Just this stair, ascending to the vanishing point in front of me and, if I look back, descending to the vanishing point in that direction as well.

It’s lit well enough. I can see it’s plain, unmarked brick-red surface clearly. The unknown, invisible, source of light is omnipresent as there are no shadows. All else is darkness . . . another step . . .

So back to vacuous thoughts during drudgery. One thing I thought of was my mother wiping my face with a damp cloth. I remember I was hot, sweating quite a bit, and I didn’t feel very well. She wiped across my brow and even though the cloth was damp it left my brow drier, and cooler, than it had been before. That moment, how I felt, how it’s meaning changed and grew in importance as I matured, seems to be part of my definition. . . . and another step . . .

The thought fades as I trudge on. Curiously, the stair begins to widen. Maybe it was wide already, I just couldn’t see it? Don’t know. Next thing I do know is that there are other people on the stair. As my perception of the breadth of the stair increases I can see the forms and shapes of others walking the same stair. They trudge on like me.

Soon the stair is so wide I can’t see anything else. People on the stair extend in both directions left and right as well as to the compass points behind me. Some people, stepping faster than myself, are up ahead of me, but not by so much. In the farther distance out front I can see some figures, probably running, I’d guess. I don’t think I need to run . . . step . . .

I see a woman to my left stop climbing and just stand there. She looks around while others pass by her, some having to step around. I catch a glimpse of her eyes. She looks tired. I keep climbing, though, and she quickly passes beyond my peripheral vision.

Is there any end to this? I might be a little tired, but I keep on.

Then, funny, a memory slips in. It was the summer after third grade and I was playing in the Little League. I was big for my age and was lucky enough to get picked for the team that would become the area champions that summer. Of course, we didn’t know that at the time. What a summer!

I’d get a quarter or two to take to the game for refreshments. The favorite drink of the team was called a “suicide” that was a mixture of all the flavors they had, grape, cherry, lime, lemon, orange! For a third grader it was the ultimate euphoria! . . . and another step . . .

Another thought intrudes. I was sitting in front of my desktop computer, the mouse hovering over the “Apply” button, my finger on the trigger. I remember hesitating. Should I really sign up for Social Security now or should I wait? One of the big questions I had in my mind was whether there’d be anything left in the fund if I waited too long. I did apply, of course.

And then there’s bagels! MMMmmmm! I love them! Gimme some cream cheese!

Yeah, I’ve been on this stair it seems like my whole life. I wonder, if I’d known what I know now, if I would have kept walking the way I did. Ha! Probably . . . and yet another step!

Story a Day

Kaleidoscope

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Promontories of fire extrude and coalesce, violets, greens, blues, taint the orange, yellow, and brilliant white dominance. Gravitic forces pull the immense streamers back into the maelstrom that is the star Procyon, one and a half times larger than our own star. Energy of unimaginable magnitude swirls and eddies, some escaping the powerful pull of the star and bursting into the infinite depths of space.

One such energy packet crashed directly on the fourth planet in the Procyon system. The dominant species on that planet had great plans to conquer their closest neighbors on nearby Alpha Centauri and then on to the other stars in the neighborhood, one of which is good old Sol.

When the energy burst hit Procyon 4 with a super electromagnetic pulse it knocked out every electromagnetic device on the planet. Communications, data shipping and receiving, manufacturing, and transportation services, all dependent on electricity, immediately ground to a standstill.

In only three planetary revolutions the would be conquerors’ civilization began to break down. Without heat many froze to death in the winter climes. In the cities, storehouses, without replenishment, became empty caverns, littered with detritus from hysterical rioters, rioters who could not be stopped by the disorganized, read non-existent, forces of law and order.

Workers on the verge of restoring some power at the power generators were killed by mobs that appeared at the generating stations, irrationally angry that the power was off and wasn’t being restored quickly enough.

Seven days later they began to starve and that’s when the breakdown accelerated, sending the arrogant species back to the stone age, warlords and all. It would be interesting to see how they enjoy conquering themselves all over again.

Maybe we’ll pay them a call sometime, once we get off the planet we were born on. Let’s say . . . if . . . ?

Story a Day

Just a Little Respect

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He gave the clerk, a dour, balding, middle-aged man with a considerable paunch filling out his once white apron, the money for the eCigs. The man gave him his change along with a bored look, “Anything else?”

Wilson David said, “No,” and left the little corner market. Man, that guy was real excited about doing business with me. Get the same reaction from most people I run into. Don’t I deserve just a little respect? I am a human being.

He made his way down the street, passersby on their lunch breaks moving to and fro. This section of town sure has changed, he thought. Fresh, colorful awnings shade freshly painted storefronts of quaint shops, all color coordinated to blend well with the neighborhood. Small restaurants and walk in pizza and sub shops with tables and chairs out front offer a wide variety of culinary delights for the lunch-breaking business folks.

In addition to the food venues the upscale commercial district also sported a number of esoteric craft and specialty stores. There was a luthier with 3 beautiful handmade guitars displayed in the showcase window. A potter worked at his wheel where anyone on the sidewalk could easily see. There was a curio shop with a large collection of items in the window, each guaranteed to start a conversation.

Well, that’s interesting, he thought when he saw the flash drive nestled among the jade combs, cute paraffin lamps, cascading beads, elegantly framed daguerreotypes, and other sundries that you certainly don’t need in any way but must have regardless. The flash drive had a single word imprinted upon it in caps: RESPECT.

The shopkeeper in “Just Imagine—Unique Curios” was an old woman, frail and bent with age. In spite of her unsteady appearance she had quick, bright and perceptive eyes, which met his as he entered the small shop. “Yes?” she queried.

“I’m looking for a little respect,” he said, chuckling at his clever private joke.

“Aren’t we all?” she replied. “I presume you’re interested in the RESPECT app in the window.”

“An app for what?”

“Any version of smart phone you care to consider,” she said, “any model, any OS, it’s universal.”

That’s pretty interesting in itself, Wilson thought. He said, “So what does it do?”

“Install that app on your phone and, as long as it’s on your person and powered up, you will get great respect from everyone you meet.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Wilson said, “Smart phone apps are wonderful, helpful little programs; they do everything but brush your teeth, and they’re working on that. But tell me how can something like that make others respect you? It’s not possible.”

The woman grinned, revealing a gold-capped eyetooth. “A lot of things are ‘not possible’ but work anyway,” she said. “Bees fly despite it being aerodynamically ‘impossible’ for them, for instance. Try it and see for yourself.” She reached into the showcase, picked up the drive and handed it over to him. “Just plug it in and follow the prompts.”

He did and was presented with a dialog that asked: “Purchase” or “Trial.” “Choose ‘Trial,’” she said.

Wilson tapped the Trial choice and the install screen disappeared. In the lower right hand corner two little progress bars came up, one, colored in, had a legend that said “10 minutes, the other was empty and had “Lifetime” above it. Other than that, nothing happened. “So,” he said, looking closely at the device. “Is it working?”

“It certainly is. Take it for a stroll,” she said with a surprisingly graceful wave toward the door.

He gave a little shrug, “Okay,” he said and went out onto the street.

It was great! Everyone he passed on the street looked at him with a smile, moved aside so he could pass undisturbed, and, in general, treated him with great consideration. His lips tightened, the corners pulling down, as he evaluated the experience. I can get used to this, he thought.

He checked the phone. The time bar was diminishing and a little color appeared in the empty Lifetime bar. I’ll have to ask her what that means.

Let’s see something, he thought. He went back to the convenience store. The clerk got up from his seat behind the counter immediately. “How can I help you, sir?” he asked with deferential concern.

“Give me a cherry slushy,” Wilson said.

The clerk arched an eyebrow, “Slushies are at the self serve bar over there, people help themselves.” The man straightened his apron. “But for you, sir, I’d be honored if you’d let me get it for you.” He emerged from behind his counter, got the slushy, returned, and passed Wilson his beverage. “On the house,” the clerk said.

“On the house?” Wilson couldn’t believe it.

“Why, of course,” the clerk said, “for you—on the house!”

Wilson left the store sucking on his free cherry slushy. He got the phone out and saw his trial period was just about up so he headed back to the curio shop. The old woman was fanning herself with one of those Asian folding paper fans.

“Hey, I really like this,” he said.

With an impish smile the old woman nodded.

“One thing, though,” he said as he placed his phone on the counter before the woman. “The time bar I understand but what’s this “Lifetime” bar mean?”

“Oh, that,” she said, “that’s how much of your lifetime you lose if you get respect you don’t deserve.” She looked at the phone. “Hmm, looks like you lost a couple of days.”

Horrified, he said, “you mean I’ve lost days of my life for that ten minute trial?”

She fixed him with her sharp eyes. “You know, of course, that the only real way to get respect is to earn it, right?” she asked him pointedly. “If you don’t earn it you must pay for it somehow, don’t you think?”

Guess she’s right, he thought. And, now that he was thinking about it, he couldn’t think of too much he’d done in life that deserved respect. High school dropout, father to two children who knows where, no military or community service of any kind . . . a lackluster life to say the least. He wasn’t pleased with his evaluation. I am better than that.

Still, those people pretty well fell over themselves trying to kiss his ass. A long life earning respect or a shorter one getting it undeserved? Getting it undeserved . . . He cocked his head and stood there thinking for a long moment. The old woman waved her fan.

“You know,” he finally said, “I think I feel better about getting respect I deserve. You can keep the app.”

The old woman nodded with a knowing smile and said, “I’m not surprised. Many people have tried it, just like you. Not one person bought it.”

Wilson looked at his phone again, the app was gone. “I think I’ll go find something respectable to do,” he said as he left the shop.

The old woman waved her fan, “thought so,” she said.

Story a Day

The Golden Tablet

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There was someone following her. Melisha had just finished her workout at the Jazzercise Dance Studio and was walking home, about two city blocks away. Ferris Street, two lanes in both directions as well as parking on both sides, is one of the main streets of the city and at this time of day is fairly busy.

Late evening, the early summer sun had already dropped behind the buildings and, though the light was waning fast, storefronts and streetlights hadn’t yet turned on. Traffic on the street was moderate, about average for a Thursday.

Melisha stopped by a sub shop and peered into the reflection cast by an angled pane of glass by the entrance. There he is, about 25 feet back. She was looking at a rather short man who was wearing a Bowler hat, an Inverness coat, Sherlock Holmes style, and was walking with a curious shuffle, dragging his feet a little. His legs didn’t seem to be bending in the right places, she thought. He took a sudden interest in the wares displayed like waterfalls in the Busy Bees bead shop.

The strange fellow had been behind her since she left the studio. I’m just being paranoid, Melisha thought, and with a little inner shrug turned and continued on her way home. Some of the streetlights sputtered as they began to heat up.

She made her way down the street, moving with the flow of the other pedestrians. A delicious aroma emanated from the coffee shop next door to the news stand where she got a paper every now and then. She looked into another reflection. The little man was still behind her, only closer, a bare 10 feet away! He had stopped and was looking directly at her through the reflection through thick black-rimmed glasses. The “coke bottle” lenses made his eyes look tiny. (Blink, blink) He blinked his eyes like a maritime signal lamp. (Blink, blink)

It was slightly comical to her. She should be feeling threatened and down deep she did but her curiosity and amusement dampened her fear. She turned and faced her follower. (Blink, blink) He smiled with thin lips and walked up to her.

“You are Melisha,” he said with a reedy, scratchy voice. (Blink, blink) A statement, not a question.

She saw that she was actually bigger than the small person, which diminished her fear a little more. He looks like one of Tolkein’s hobbits—no, more like the dwarfs. She wondered at the oblique thought that seemed somehow appropriate. With bolstered confidence she replied, “And how could you possibly know that?”

“I know everything,” he said. It was another statement, and made without apparent hubris. “I know you lead a very happy life in spite of severe poverty. Your mother suffers from emphysema and taking care of her costs every extra penny you can earn. Nonetheless, you engage life with zest and aplomb in spite of severe adversity. How do you do it?”

True, mother taught me to love life. But how can he know these things? Melisha thought as her fear went up a notch. “So?” she said warily with narrowing eyes. “I don’t know you.”

The man smiled his thin little smile again. “Please forgive me. I’m Marvis,” he said. “I’m from . . .” (Blink, blink) “. . . far away.” He reached up with uncommonly slender fingers and tipped his hat. “I’ve brought you a gift you might use.”

A gift, eh? she thought warily. “Oh, sure,” she said, “. . . what’s the catch?”

“No ‘catch,’” he said, “we . . . ahh . . .” (Blink, blink) He considered, his lips pursing smaller and smaller as he thought; she could see the wheels turning in his head. He looked up at her, (Blink, blink) his lips slowly drawing out to that thin smile, “I’m a member of a research organization studying human behavior. We monitor human beings on a daily basis and conduct experiments designed for us to understand the ‘human condition.’”

“You’re monitoring me?” she asked, slight furrows appearing in the smooth skin of her brow. “Isn’t that a violation of my rights?”

Chagrined, he said, “Technically, yes. Practically, no—because as you well know, in this day and age of instant communication, the Internet, etc., everyone and everything is being monitored 24/7 by a myriad of watchers. What’s one monitor more or less?” (Blink, blink) He looked at passersby going in both directions on the sidewalk. “Is there somewhere we can go off this street?” (Blink, blink)

Even though Melisha was a smart young woman her curiosity was getting the upper hand. Somewhere public, she thought, the coffee shop would serve. “Let’s go in here,” she said and they went inside and found a booth away from the people up near the front. After they were seated she asked, “What would you like to drink?”

“I like beer,” he said.

“No beer here. Coffee.”

“Coffee?” (Blink, blink) He pursed his lips again for a moment then said, “oh . . . okay. I’ll try some.”

She arched an eyebrow toward him. Never had coffee before? Strange. Save the espresso for later. “Wait here,” she said and went to the counter to bring back two lattes, one of which she placed before Marvis.

(Blink, blink) He sniffed the beverage with oddly pinched nostrils then took a tiny sip. “It’s hot,” he said with a smile, then took another sip. (Blink, blink) His eyes rolled up into his head and his face became ecstatic. His lips pulled back to reveal even rows of pointed teeth, top and bottom. After a moment he relaxed (Blink, blink) and said, “That’s good!” He took another, longer sip. “Mmm, that’s really good. Good as beer!”

Melisha began to really wonder who—or what she was dealing with. Marvis certainly wasn’t the average human being. “Look,” she said, “I don’t have a whole lot of time. I need to be getting home . . .”

“. . . to care for your mother,” Marvis finished for her.

“Yes.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Well, here.” He reached inside his coat and brought out a medium sized tablet. “This is for you.” He laid it on the table and pushed it toward her.

The tablet was on and she saw it had the latest operating system as well as the most popular of the top apps—Facebook, Twitter, Amazon, iTunes, Candy Crush, etc. She’d been saving for one; a piggy bank in her kitchen was slowly filling with spare change that she intended to eventually spend on a tablet.

“I’ve wanted one of these for a long time,” she said almost under her breath.

(Blink, blink) “This one is yours and you’re welcome to it,” Marvis said. “But I should tell you that it’s a very special version of tablet. Anything you order from anyplace on the Internet you pay for with happiness, not money.”

Isn’t happiness an abstract idea? The thought amused her and she couldn’t keep a smile from pulling at the corners of her mouth. “How can you pay for something with happiness?” she asked.

(Blink, blink) “Happiness is a quantifiable quality of the human life string. The string begins with birth, progresses through time from event to event, and terminates at death. Lifetime totals of many abstract aspects of a human life can be assessed from string analysis.” (Blink, blink)

“They can’t do that,” Melisha said. “Who in the hell are you?”

“Just Marvis,” he said. (Blink, blink) “And you’d be surprised what ‘they’ can do. What I’m telling you about this tablet is true. Just try it and see for yourself.”

We need a dishwasher, she thought. Mom gets so breathless when she tries to help so I do them most of the time. Can I sacrifice a little happiness for a little practicality?

She tapped the Amazon icon and tap-swiped her way to a dishwasher that would suit. A golden pop up box appeared near the lower right of the screen. In the box written in gold relief was the legend: 25 hours.

“That means that dishwasher will cost you 25 hours of your happiness subtracted from your lifetime total.” (Blink, blink) “Which, in your case, is currently in the 20 to 30,000 hour range. You could easily lose 25 hours with very little noticeable effect.”

Why not? she thought, we do need a dishwasher. “How do I do it?” she asked.

(Blink, blink) “Just fill out the purchase info and when you get to checkout just tap the golden box.”

Melisha filled out the purchase form for the dishwasher and installation by a local company on Monday afternoon and came finally to the checkout page. She hesitated, holding her finger poised over the gold box. She looked over at Marvis who (Blink, blink) nodded with his tight lipped smile. She tapped. Confirmation and thank you screens followed.

Marvis drained the last of his latte. “That’s all you need to know,” he said and rose from his seat. “Enjoy your new device.” He turned and made his shuffling way out of the shop.

Melisha watched him trundle away and looked down at the tablet, still not quite believing what had just occurred. She drank the rest of her latte in deep thought. What could she do with such a golden goose?

The installation contractor called the next day to confirm their appointment. She asked how much the install would cost and was told everything was paid in full. It worked! she thought. She should have been delighted but strangely wasn’t.

She took off work early on Monday and the dishwasher was delivered and installed with little fuss. She thanked the workmen as they left and went back into the kitchen to look at her prize. There were a few dishes in the sink from breakfast and her mother’s lunch so she loaded them into the new machine. She latched the door and started the cycle. That’s when she realized she should be happy about the new appliance and its benefits to her life but wasn’t.

That’s it, eh? she pondered. It didn’t pop my balloon but somewhere there’s a leak. Is a life without happiness worth a life of plenty? Really? She thought of the simple joy she felt washing the dishes by hand. Really?

Later that day, after she’d finished leading her Jazzercise class, she went down to the Riverwalk. She took the tablet out of her bag and gave it a nice, spinning toss into the river. It skipped twice and on the third hit sank below the lapping water.