realidad

Tú no existes
Al menos el tú en que yo creía
El tú que veo ahora
El que tengo delante
Es otro
Es uno con sueños que no contabas
Con ideas que no pensabas
Con palabras que nunca me decías
Cuando eras mi tú
Tú te vas
Y me dejas con el espejismo
Que eras en mis ojos
Tú te escapas
Y tu imagen permanece impresa
Como una foto de un actor
En su vestido del papel
O su disfraz
No eres mi tú
El tú que me despide con un abrazo
Y me dice adiós

Don't Laugh at Charlie Vargas

There he sits at his table, left hand stroking his chin, right hand gently cradling the pen.  He is crafting his Master Plan, the one that will catapult him into fame everlasting.  The paper before him is covered with scrawled words and numbers, barely distinguishable as sentences and formulas.  It all makes sense to him.

Years ago, he traveled quite a bit with open eyes and mind.  It had done him much good.  He had seen many things, learned many tricks and shortcuts to many questions.  Yes, his years of travel had been fruitful.  And now it is time to reap some of those fruits.

The plan is coming together, oh yes.  He will have to learn a new vocabulary, at least in the way of jokes and stock phrases, but they are jokes and stock phrases, nothing too complicated.  It won't be much of a problem for him to incorporate a few into his introductory repertoire.  Eyes gleaming, he remembers that evening in Las Vegas with those three stock brokers.  Ah, such fun.  So many jokes were flying around that evening, the dealers and bystanders and everyone seemed to be in on their fun, even if they didn't actively participate.  That was a great night, when he felt involved in everything, and part of any circle he wanted to be.  He was Charlie.  Yes, Charlie is talented and powerful, a real success story.  He has all the contacts he needs to spread his word.  It is a difficult job, being a consultant, but for those with the touch, it was not only simple, it was a truly enjoyable line of work.  Charlie has the touch.  He can talk to anybody about anything, make them see the most convenient perspective.  In theory, it would be the most convenient for everybody, but...well, sometimes a sacrifice has to be made here and there.  He is sure it would be on the part of his consultee more often than not, but those would be little sacrifices and he can make them up to the client later.  With big returns, oh yes.  Big returns.

People in this country are willing to take risks for those big returns, he mused.  There's too much timidity where he came from.  People were cautious, entrepreneurs overly careful.  Sure, they stayed afloat, but they were paper boats in rain puddles, not yachts in swelling oceans.  The ocean swells with the tides, with storms and unforeseeable excessive additions from regular tributaries.  But it's those huge inundations that are the most exhilarating, and the ones which you can ride the highest.  People need to stop being so afraid of risk, was that really so hard to see?  Here, things were different.  Everybody was always on the lookout for a new opportunity and willing to get a little wet if there was some splashback, and no biggie, you know?  That's the way the wave rolls.  All you had to do was fit into the game.  And he fit in.

It might have been harder a few years ago, when he was still so attached to his old self.  "Be yourself," everybody said, "You can't please everyone, so you might as well please yourself."  Wait, wasn't that from a song?  "To thine own self be true."  There, that's better.  More cultured.  Of course, Shakespeare didn't know what he was talking about, but it sounded good.  Form over substance, which was strangely just the thing in the business world, Charlie has discovered.  Only the idiots follow that namby-pamby feel-good advice, the winners know how to make themselves winners, whether they are natural-born winners or not.  He just wouldn't have made it here before, he was too straightforward, too clean.  He didn't know how to play to his clients' expectations.  But he had picked up on the undercurrent pretty quickly.  Hence, he is now Charlie. 

At first it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to be Charlie, but recently there has been some kind of negative reaction to him.  Not from clients, of course, the clients are always in the palm of his figurative hand.  But some acquaintances are skeptical of his personal evolution.  He couldn't quite understand their reluctance to see the easy benefit; they seem to think it's a superficial and even cynical decision on his part.  Well, it doesn't really matter what those people think, they're only academics after all.  Those who can't do, teach.  Right?

So now he is Charlie, and Charlie has all the answers.  He has all the aces.  He is making his plan there at his desk.  And when his plan comes to fruition, they won't be laughing anymore, no sir.  They will positively be in awe of him and his greatness.  Once this plan goes through, nobody will laugh without his say-so, oh yes, he is going to be in total control.  And all those moments from the past, when he was practically invisible, before he came here, when that dopey, good-guy name was holding him back, all those moments will be lost forever under the collective repression of memory that Charlie will exercise, because Charlie has the talent for it, and soon he will gather the power.  No, they won't laugh at him again.  He smiles grimly at the thought, staring at the drawn curtains with what he hopes is a look that cuts like a laser.

coffee

Buffalo Alberts was humming softly behind the wheel of his truck, humming itself as it rolled down the highway.  His broken radio had been no good at entertaining him for so long, he couldn't remember the last time he'd used it.  Didn't bother him, though.  Singing to himself kept him more awake.  Better than coffee, even.  But speaking of which, it was time to find himself a refill.  He'd been running on fumes for about 80 miles now.

He pulled off into a little service station, with just four pumps, all looking shiny and new, and parked next to the door.  Clear, clean, automatic doors.  Nice.  He nodded his head approvingly as he entered.  The young man behind the counter looked up as Buffalo came down the aisle.  Well, young man - just a boy really.  He had acne and a scrawny teenager's mustache.  Buffalo tried to give him a dignified but condescending look as he went passed.  Tripping on his undone bootlace did not add to his planned effect.  Although he avoided falling flat on his face, he couldn't help cursing to himself as he made his way to the back of the store, where the drink machines were.  While filling his travel mug, he snuck a glance over his shoulder, as if he was just taking a leisurely look around the store and rubbing his grizzled chin nonchalantly.  The boy's gaze was lowered to the counter and some paper lying spread out on it.
"Well, damn it," Buffalo thought, "doesn't that boy have a sense of humor?  If I'da seen him stumbling around like a dumbass I sure as hell woulda laughed."  Steaming black coffee now filled the mug and the man snapped the lid back on.  As he walked to the counter, he gave the store a final lookover.  Not a soul about.  Perfect.  Buffalo never was a fan of complications.  Stepping up to the counter, he pulled his pistol out from under his shirt and with his coffee stained grin, said in a jovial voice, "Alright buddy, this is what's gonna happen.  I'm not gonna pay for this coffee.  Nobody oughta pay for gas station coffee anyway, it's shit.  What's more, you're gonna pay me not to shoot you right in the gut.  Open that register and hand over some cash."  The boy's face was frozen into a mask of surprise.
"You want all of it?"
"Aw, hell, why wouldn't I want all of it?  Well, now that you mention it, not all the coins.  Just the bills.  Just gimme some quarters for the tolls."  The boy obeyed in a robotic manner, opening the cash drawer, carefully removing the bills and putting them together in a stack before slowly handing them over.  Then he fished several quarters out of the drawer and dropped them into Buffalo's outstretched hand.  His face had an incredulous, but perversely joyful smile, as if this was an event he had imagined but never quite believed he would experience.
"I don't get the impression that your corporate masters have impressed the importance of money on you," laughed the man as he deposited his toll coins into the pocket of his shirt.  "You seem practically happy to give it away."
"There isn't that much cash," the boy replied almost apologetically, "and they tell us during training not to confront robbers.  Just give them what they ask for and don't antagonize."
"Always service with a smile, huh?" Then Buffalo let his face harden into what he hoped was a cold and threatening glare.  "So they're caught off-guard when the police come after you push the alarm button under the counter."
The boy's expression was now more one of panicked confusion.  "What?  No!  No, there's no button, there's no alarm, the cops are supposed to come by regularly.  I can't call them, I swear to god!"
The man nodded slowly as he moved towards the door keeping his pistol pointed in the boy's direction.  "Well, I'll believe you this time.  But there better not be any cops on my tail down the road.  I'll shake them off, and then I'll come back to get you for lying to me."
"I'm so not lying, I swear to god!" the boy sobbed.
"Alright then," grunted the man, backing slowly out the door after he heard it swoosh open behind him.  He was just about to walk calmly to his truck when he realized his freshly filled travel mug was still on the counter where he'd left it so he would have a free hand to grab the cash.  He strode back into the store, boomed out, "Forgot my coffee," and shot the startled cashier right in the middle of his forehead.  He leaned over the counter after the body fell, searching the underside with his fingers and eyes carefully.  "Well, god damn it, he wasn't lying about not having a button," he muttered to himself.  "Oh well."

Heaving himself back onto his feet, Buffalo Alberts took up his mug, tucked his gun back into his grungy jeans and walked to his rusty truck that was waiting patiently to take him to his next stop.

Young Math - he meets the stranger

The boy awoke the next morning early with a hankering for breakfast.  He decided his best bet was the widow innkeeper, who always made more than her guests could eat, and would happily allow him to eat his fill in return for help in serving the food and clearing the tables.  He shook the old man's shoulder to let him know his plan, but the old curmudgeon waved him away with a grimace and a snarl.  Shrugging, the boy went off in search of his first meal of the day.

All went according to plan and the boy was in high spirits when he left the inn.  He went back to the stable to see if the old man was still there, but the hayloft was empty of large bodies.  While the boy was looking around, a huge cry went up in the street and he rushed out to see what the cause was.  A crowd was gathering and angry faces were all around.  The chapman was shouting and pointing - at the old man.  He was in the center of the crowd, in the eye of the hurricane of ire, looking all about him with a face of defensive indignation.
"This beggar, this bum, this filthy hobo is nothing but a thief!" thundered the chapman. "I caught him red-handed trying to lead off my best mule!"  The old man shook his head furiously.  He was about to say something, explain himself, but somebody in the crowd cut him off.
"String him up!"
"Yes!" another voice in the crowd agreed, "String up the thief!"  The thirst for vengeance exploded in the crowd and the old man held up his hands, waving them desperately.  Then the wave of mob violence rose, crashed over him, and washed him away with it, down the street to the square.

"Well," thought the boy, "I guess he's going to miss his meeting with his friend."  All of a sudden, a burning desire sprang up in his heart.  He just had to know where that stranger meant to go and what he was going to do.  At least, he had to be told that the old man wasn't going to meet him.  With this justification, the boy trotted off down the road in the direction of the blue boulders.  With all the excitement of the old man's capture, not one person remained in the streets to see him run off and out of town.  He skipped, carefree, along the road until the blue boulders came into view.  He was mildly surprised not to see anybody anywhere around.
"The stranger must be hiding behind them," he thought, "Guarding those things he wants to take."  But when he got to the rocks and looked behind them, there was nothing.  He circled the lumps of solid sea blue curiously.  Coming back to the road, the boy stopped and looked back towards town, thinking the stranger must have found another way to travel and maybe had heard of the old man's trouble and run off, abandoning him to his fate.

"Well, well," came a voice from above him, "A little barn owl has come to see me off."  The stranger was standing on top of the rocks, smiling down at the boy.  His shiny cape was open, revealing a smart, red suit and reddish brown boots.  The man's hair was shaggy, a nondescript brown, and his grin was friendly enough, but his eyes were flat pools of blackness.
"I just wanted to tell you not to wait for your companion, sir," the boy said as gravely as he could, "The townspeople think he tried to steal a mule and he's being - tried."
"Yes, of course," mused the dapper stranger, "That oaf never could do anything right.  Always too contrary to follow the law, and too clumsy not to get caught.  Oh well, I'll just have to go on alone, I suppose."  He jumped off the boulder, landing lightly on the ground.
"How will you move your things without a mule?  Are you just going to leave them here, on top of the boulders?" the boy wondered, "You could.  Nobody likes to spend much time around these rocks, and they're too slippery for most people to climb..."  His thinking out loud trailed off as he realized he couldn't explain to himself how the stranger had gotten up on the boulders, much less brought travel supplies up with him.
"Oh, I don't have any belongings, I much prefer to travel light.  I pick new things up as I need them and leave them behind when their usefulness is at an end.  Always renew yourself, never go back or repeat.  That's what I say."
"But you told the old man-"
"Bah, I just told him that to give him a goal to work for.  Some people have such trouble coming up with their own.  I really was just giving him a hand."  The stranger was smirking a little with his gaze turned towards town.  The boy was starting to feel more and more uncomfortable.  He didn't really want to stay much time with the stranger; there was something about the man that made him uneasy.  At the same time, he didn't feel much like witnessing the fate of the old man.  Although the townspeople were goodhearted and fair-minded in general, sometimes there was a kind of demon stirred up in their bellies and they lost their heads for a few hours.  The boy had never been caught up in the madness and it always made him feel a little sick to see it arise.

"You aren't like them, you know," the stranger said, like he was sharing a great secret, "You could be so much more if you wanted to be."  In spite of his haughty tone, the stranger's face was soft, giving him some sort of aura of vulnerability.  Even his eyes had gained a liquidy shine, although that wasn't so pleasant.  It gave them the appearance of little puddles of oil in an expanse of sand.
"They are good people," answered the boy stubbornly.
"Oh yes, 'good people', those content cattle of human beings.  Never any ambitions, never any rebellion...if that's good, they can have it.  I'll be bad, I'll be pure evil.  And I'll enjoy every minute!"  As he spoke, a light began to glow brighter and brighter in those obsidian chips in his eye sockets.  A tiny needle of terror pierced the boy's heart on noticing this and he backed away instinctively.  The stranger saw the movement and seemed to get hold of himself.  He chuckled, trying to bring some friendly warmth to his voice, instead of blazing rage.  His hand snaked out to grab the boy's shoulder and hold him tightly.  He said, "Of course, I might be too ambitious for my own good.  I wouldn't recommend emulating me to anyone, especially a young man with so much potential.  Only the talentless must rely on their force of will."  The boy was unsure, unconvinced.  The hand did not pull him closer to the stranger, but neither would he be able to escape its grasp to run back to town, he felt.  "Isn't there something you want, though?  Some skill you wish you had or could develop?  Come now, I promise I won't laugh."  A little flame of desire sprang up in the boy's heart, right in the space the previous terror had left.  He answered quietly, "I guess I always wanted to know about magic.  How to do tricks, which ones are real, that sort of thing."  A strangely jolly laugh rolled from the stranger's mouth and he said brightly, "You are most certainly in luck, my boy.  It just so happens that magic is my specialty.  If you agree to fly a while under my wing, I will teach you all I know and you will have every answer you seek."  A purple glow of hope grew around the boy's heart.  He felt, for the first time in his yet short life, the call of adventure.  The stranger was suddenly dashing, exciting, appealing.  A broad smile broke out on the boy's face and with a nod, he sealed his fate.  The two began to walk away from town with the stranger's cape trailing behind them and sometimes swirling in the breeze.

Young Math - he has a dream

Oh the bouncy dream sheep with rubber legs
Oh the pinkish skies and bluish grass
Water flows like wine and full of pigs
The glowing stream crossed over by zebraffes
Oh there's the wolf with toothy flashing grin
His mouth is full of fire and laughing scorn
See how the little horses flee from him
Hear how the great deer clash their great red horns
Waving trees in twilight sing and sigh
The heaving ground bounces baby birds
They chirp and cheap but never do they fly
Their tiny wings cover tiny heads
The hot wind pushes clouds over the hills
And yet the purple long-grass stands unmoved
The sky shark floating by roars and swells
When Baseball Bear hits it with a glove
The wolf is prancing now with tiny foxes
He bounds and leaps on rubber pebbled path
They dodge a flock of quacking, quarreling ducks
While the waterpigs look on with masks of wrath
And now the wolf sends out hairs of death
The foxes and the ducks explode or scatter
He laughs and laughs until he's out of breath
And walks away like nothing even matters

Young Math - he meets the old man

There was a boy who was a very funny boy.  He was always laughing and making everybody laugh with him.  His face was always smiling and his voice was always warm and even on the grayest day people felt good when he was around.  He could go through the town and collect treats from shop keepers and people running their daily errands in exchange for jokes and antics.  The boy had no father or mother, so all the town took care of him.

Then one day, an old man came to town.  He was gray and wrinkled and smelled of vinegar.  All the townspeople were suspicious and didn't want to talk to him any more than necessary, and he seemed to feel the same way about them.  Only the boy was friendly.  He went up to him and said, "Good day, uncle.  Can I help you with anything?"
"No!" snapped the old man as he shuffled away down the street.  His shoes were like bedroom slippers, but all dirty and with the soles almost worn through.  The boy shrugged his shoulders and went off to run errands for the tavern keeper.  The old man just wandered around town, peering angrily into windows as if he disapproved of everything he saw going on inside.

Later, the boy ran into him again hanging around the bakery, shooting pathetic, sideways glances at the cakes and loaves as they were carried out the door, wrapped in protective arms.
"Good evening, uncle," said the boy.  The old man scowled and started to stomp away, but no sooner had he gone two steps than he shuffled back, leaned way up close to the boy's ear, and whispered conspiratorially, "Boy, do you think you could get me a nice, fat loaf of bread?  I'll make it worth your while."  The boy's grin ate up half his face.
"Uncle, it's no trouble to me at all.  Just a minute."  and he went inside the shop to talk to the baker.  He started telling the story of the bear who thought he was a mole, miming the action as the main character tried to dig his tunnels, mound his hills and chase his worms.  Soon the baker and the couple of customers in his shop were roaring with laughter and when the boy had finished the story, he received two fresh raisin buns and a small loaf of white bread.  He brought his spoils out to the old man, offering him one bun and half the loaf, but the old codger shook his head and snapped, "I never let those nasty dried-out things near my stomach!  I'll take the loaf, if you please.  You keep those spotty buns."  This was perfectly agreeable to the boy, who preferred the raisin buns to plain bread, and they were fresh while the loaf was from the day before.  In spite of its dryness, it soon disappeared down the old man's gullet.
"Where will you stay tonight, uncle?" asked the boy.  The old man looked around nervously.
"Well, I don't know.  Truth be told, I was supposed to meet a friend here, but he hasn't come.  He knows the place better than me."
"Who is this friend?  Maybe I can find him for you."
"Oh no, he doesn't live in this dump of a village.  When I met him he had a splendid castle on an island in a sea surrounded by desert.  Later he had to leave it, but I'm sure he's living well still."  The boy was impressed by the image this statement left in his head, but he had never heard of a sea in the middle of a desert with an island and a castle.  Not even in stories.  Finally, the old man accepted the boy's invitation to spend the night in the hayloft of the stables.  The hay was soft, if somewhat pokey, and the animals made the building pleasantly warm.

In the middle of the night, the boy was awakened by voices.  He looked out over the edge of the loft and could barely make out two figures standing in the middle of the stable, just their outlines illuminated by the moonlight seeping through the chinks in the walls.  One was the old man, looking as filthy and scruffy as ever, even in such little light.  The other figure was taller and clothed in something that shone softly, like satin.  They were speaking in hushed tones to each other, but it was still easy to tell that they were arguing.  The old man's whisper was harsh and raspy and his arms jerked around as he hissed at the other.  His companion/opponent had a voice like a breeze in Indian summer, soft, but with wintery teeth that caught hold of you as it slipped past.  The boy leaned over the edge of the loft just a little more and strained his ears to hear something.
"You can't do this to me!" the old man hissed, "You promised!  After all I've done for you - "
"I never asked or demanded a thing from you," soothed the other, mellifluous words filling the air like smoke, "You made your choices.  I offered what I could and made clear what was necessary to receive my aid."
"You didn't reveal everything, you bastard!  You kept some of those oh-so-important details to yourself, and look at me now!  I'm a beggar in some backwards, backwoods village!  I did everything you required, and if you required me not to do other things, you should have said so."
"You foolish man, you would still challenge me?" the voice had an odd kind of echo to it, "What is common sense need not be mentioned.  If you need it so, you are uncommonly senseless."
"There you go with your insults, like you're so smart.  You remember when we first met, where you were?"
"Your intervention was welcome but unnecessary."  A voice that you heard in your head as much as with your ears.
"Ah, ox dung."
"Be silent.  You may draw attention to our presence.  It is not in our interest at this time."
"There, you see how easy it is to tell people what not to do?"
The other seemed to ripple in the dimness, and expand.  "I advise you to be still now.  Tomorrow we will leave together for the north.  Meet me on the road, a mile from town.  I will wait by the blue boulders.  You will come with a mule to carry the supplies I will have."
"Fine, a mule," muttered the old man, shaking his head and staring at the floor.  He turned to go back up the ladder to the loft and the other stepped backwards into deeper shadow.  With a soft whump, the air seemed to lighten and brighten, and the boy could suddenly see that the barn floor was empty of people.  He rolled back to his place in the hay, just as the old man's head crept over the top of the ladder.  He was grumbling to himself through clenched teeth, "That sneaky bastard.  As soon as I get that box back I'll show him."  Grunting, he deposited himself in a pile of hay, and for all his bother and consternation, was soon snoring away.  In spite of the odd scene he had just witnessed, the boy also fell to dreaming in no time.

Merry Out Of The Sea - beginning of the middle

Mom hustled me out of the room when he said that.  She shoved me out the front door and said, "Go on home.  Mrs. Patrick and I will take care of things here."
"But -"
"No buts.  Go."  She opened the front door, shoved me out so I almost slipped on the icy, snowy sidewalk, and shut it firmly behind me.  It was a definitive click that came from it, and I knew better than to turn around and go back in, a thought that did enter my mind.  But, I just glared at the closed door and stomped off home.  Mom came home a couple of hours later without appearing very upset or relieved and wouldn't answer any of my questions about what went on in Mr. Jessup's house.

Tay Jessup died a week later.  Dr. Leqeuex was in his house when it happened, doing a favor I guess.  Mrs. Patrick had harangued him for days to at least go and look in on Mr. Jessup as a friend.  It was a small, very quiet funeral, with only a few adults from town, who had been schoolmates of his, invited.  There was so much mystery about his illness and death, that that was all we could talk about at school for the rest of the month.  Everybody was frustrated with how little information their parents were letting them in on and curious about what was going to happen to Merry.  Nobody knew anything about where she had gone.  I assumed Dr. Leqeuex had taken her to the hospital or maybe sent  her to another one, a psychiatric hospital, but then one day I saw her face in Mrs. Patrick's upstairs window.  I stopped dead in my tracks and stared up at her, and she stared blandly down at me like somebody watching grass grow.  Not a shadow of interest flickered on her face.  We had our little staredown for a minute or two before it got too unnerving for me and I ran inside.  "Mom," I said breathlessly, "Why didn't you tell me Merry was with Mrs. Patrick?"
"Damnit, I told her to keep the girl away from the windows." grumbled my mother as she folded shirts.  Then she turned to me and said, "I didn't tell you because it's not your business.  It's not your friends' business either.  It's nobody's business but Dory Patrick's and I don't want you or anybody else mucking around in it.  I'm absolutely serious, Lori."  I believed she was serious.  I don't think I've ever believed so much in anybody's seriousness before or since.  I brooded over my bit of knowledge, but in the end it got out without any help from me.  That does seem to be how things work when I have a secret anyway.

Spring break was coming up, although spring wasn't much in the air yet that year.  There were still piles of snow on the street corners and the sky was the same monotonous, cottony grey for weeks on end.  One afternoon I was walking home from the library with the Mulligan twins, Martha and Curtis, and we saw Mrs. Patrick wandering around in her bathrobe in front of her house.  She would take a few short steps in one direction, stop and look around as if confused, and kind of trot of in another direction.  Martha and Curtis didn't know what to make of her and didn't want to go near her, but she was my neighbor and I felt like I should say something at least.  "Mrs. Patrick, what are you doing outside without a coat?" I called over the gate to her.  I also noticed she was wearing slippers and no socks.  She looked at me with a puzzled expression, like I was speaking in a language she didn't understand.  "Are you alright, Mrs. Patrick?" I called again.  She didn't answer and slowly her gaze turned away from me and she tottered off to stare uncomprehendingly at her peach tree.  I looked up at the window expecting to see Merry and yes, she was there.  What I wasn't expecting was to see her so fascinated with watching Mrs. Patrick.  Her eyes were wide open and she was riveted to her host's movements.  Since she had never shown any expression in public before, I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing, or be sure I was interpreting it correctly.  As eerie as she was with her normal, blank face, this was even creepier.  I backed away from Mrs. Patrick's gate and hurried to join the twins, who were standing in front of my door.
"I think you should call an ambulance for your neighbor," said Martha tensely, "Even that weird sea-girl looks worried."
"Worried?  You think so?" I asked.
"Yeah.  Did you see how big her eyes were?  She looks really freaked out."
We went inside to go over some notes and found Dad cutting up vegetables in the kitchen.  We told him what was going on next door, but instead of calling 911, he mumbled, "I'll take care of it." and zipped out the door.  We were working on our notes for a couple of hours and didn't notice when he came back, but he was in the kitchen with Mom when I walked the twins to the door.  They had the door almost closed and I couldn't hear the words they were using, but the tone was very serious.  I looked out the side window and saw Mrs. Patrick's yard was empty.  I went up to the kitchen door, ready to go in and ask what was going on over there, but just when I was about to open it, Mom hissed some kind of impolite words and somebody slammed a fist on the counter.  It didn't seem like the time to intrude.

The next morning at breakfast both my parents had such grim faces that I didn't dare bring up what had happened the afternoon before.  Somehow, in the fuzzy light of morning, it didn't seem so important, or even real.  If it hadn't been for my parents' thundercloud faces, I might have thought it was all a dream, or maybe a misunderstanding of what I'd really seen.  As the day went on, it seemed less and less tangible in my memory, although Curtis Mulligan did start a question in the hall that seemed like it was going to be about what we'd witnessed, but after, "So did your dad...?" he just shut his mouth and walked away.  When I got home I didn't see anybody around Mrs. Patrick's house, not in the yard or in the windows.  Nobody was home to query either.  I had to wait for hours to satisfy my gnawing curiosity.  Of course, it wasn't satisfied even when Mom came home from grocery shopping because she just shook her head in disgust, saying, "I don't even want to think about that right now."  She just radiated so much tension when I tried to ask the question that I knew way better than to try again.  I just stomped off to my room to stew and wait for dinner while pretending to do homework.  I was a little apprehensive about joining my parents for dinner, but by then they had relaxed and everything seemed to be just like always.

I didn't feel like rocking the boat right away, especially with ACTs on the horizon, so I decided to leave things alone for a couple of days.  Maybe, just maybe, somebody would slip up and let a little information into the air around me.  Sure enough, rumors and bits of phone conversations started to paint a picture of hospitals and locked doors.  Mrs. Patrick had gone to stay with her sister in Ohio, while Merry had been taken to the hospital again.  They found she had hardly eaten in over a week and she was put in bed with an IV.   It seemed like that would be the end of any trouble for a while.

In fact, it was.  Merry left the hospital about a month later and put in a sort of managed care facility.  Like with old people.  Now that the snow was pretty much gone, she could fumble around outside in her wheelchair.  Since she had people checking on her, she didn't need to go shopping for anything, and since she didn't have any friends, she didn't have anywhere to go.  Mostly she sat and stared at everybody who walked by her little square of the complex's lawn.  I didn't have much need to go to that part of town, and now I had even less desire to do so.  I heard some kids at school talk about going to "stare down the weirdo" or throw eggs at her window while she sat behind the glass like some uncomprehending goldfish, but I think that was just talk.  There would have been indignant letters to the editor and auds on tolerance and preventing vandalism or something if anybody had actually gone through with such provocation.

I put my mind to my classes and my tests and my scholarships.  Packets of information were showing up in our mailbox by the pound, and that was more exciting than Mr. Jessup's mute widow, who never bothered to leave the property she was allowed to use by the county.  I did some virtual visits online and Dad and I went to see a couple of nearby colleges on weekends.  They were nice enough, but I really wanted some more distance between me and my childhood home.  Not that I had a need to escape, but I wanted a little freedom to see how much I could change in a new, unshadowed environment.  Most of my friends were of similar minds, although a lot of them were perfectly happy to attend the state university, almost 4 hours away.  That was enough distance for them to feel they'd slipped their hometown bonds.  Actually, the distance itself was enough for me, but so many of my classmates would be around that I wouldn't be able to shake old habits, I felt.  Mom tried to argue that with almost 15,000 students I wouldn't be running into my fellow small-towners all that much, but I didn't want to take the chance.  She also tried to convince me with Suzie; the poor thing was old, what if she got sick and I was far away, I wouldn't be able to say goodbye before she died.  Something about that made me more determined to go farther away.  It just felt like uncalled-for emotional pressure.  Eventually, I thought I had set my heart on a small college in one of the Rocky Mountain states.  They had vibrant history and writing departments, and that was just the sort of atmosphere I was looking for.  Financial information was sent and scholarships were offered, and by May I had everything set up for my great new start in September.  I, like my friends and classmates, was so absorbed in planning my future, that stories from the younger students about weird things going on in town were brushed off without a second thought.

I got myself a summer job at the big bookstore at the mall off the interstate.  Even with scholarships, no reason not to gather up a little more cash.  Kate Owen was working there too, and we carpooled most days since we had the same shift.  One day in July, towards the end of the month, she was late picking me up.  It kept getting later and later and I was worried about having to explain to the supervisor that I didn't know what happened, but I missed my ride.  After 15 minutes, I even went out to the curb to wait, kind of to drive home that I had noticed the time.  But I didn't say anything about it when she finally pulled up and I saw her face.  I wasn't sure if she looked more angry or sick, with red eyes and cheeks but mostly grey skin underneath.
"Holy shit, do you have the flu?" I asked, "You shouldn't go to work if you're sick."
"I'm not sick," she muttered, "I just saw something..."
She didn't finish the thought and I was pretty sure she wasn't interested in talking about it, so I just let it drop.  She looked almost healthy when we got to work and when we left she was her normal self, so my question just drifted into the back of my mind.  Until that night when I was getting myself a snack and my parents were in the living room watching the local news.  I heard my mother gasp, "Oh my god!" from the kitchen and I trotted out to see what was going on.  Both of my parents were sitting on the edge of the couch, leaning intently towards the screen.  I just saw the tail end of the story, but it looked like the outside of the nursing home where Merry was being kept.

"What's up?" I asked, and they both jumped like I'd stuck a pin in their behinds.
"Oh honey, I'm glad you didn't see it," Mom said, "Some guy just committed suicide this afternoon in front of the nursing home.  They don't know why, he just walked out the door and waited for a truck to come down the street.  Then he jumped out in front of it."
"Was he one of the residents?"
"No, he was one of the nurses," answered Dad.
"I bet you anything he was taking care of Merry!" snapped Mom.  Dad kind of groaned and rolled his eyes.  "Yes, Steve, I do think it's possible.  You know what happened to Tay and Dory."
"Well, I don't think we have to discuss it now, not in front of her anyway," grumped Dad and Mom threw her hands up and a "Fine, you're right." over her shoulder as she stomped off upstairs.
"What's going on, Dad?" I asked timidly, trying to put on my best little girl face.
"Oh honey, it's not something you should have to know about.  You're going off to college all those hours away in the fall anyway."
"But Dad-"
"No," he sighed, waving his hand, heaving himself off the couch and switching off the TV, "There will be no discussion.  Not until your Mom calms down and tells me what's OK for you kids to know."  Then he kind of shuffled off to bed, rubbing the back of his head.  As soon as he was out of sight I switched the TV back on, but of course the report was over, and they were into the weather.  I turned the TV back off, wondering if that's what Kate had seen that affected her so much.

Merry Out Of The Sea - beginning

I remember it was a very grey day when Mr. Jessup found that girl.  In spite of the clouds and dampness, it was strangely warm too.  Now, whenever those meteorological conditions come together, I get chills since it brings me back to that day and all the things that came after.

I was watching Suzie sniff around the yard, looking for the best place to leave her next mark, when Tomlin Welsh came running down the street.  He was out of breath and clearly very excited to tell somebody, everybody, about something.  I came up to the gate and Mom came out of the house to ask him what was wrong.  Some of the neighbors came over too, having seen his wild run and his stop in front of our house.  It took him a few seconds to catch his breath and then somebody brought him a glass of water, which disappeared immediately down his throat.  Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and the words practically exploded from him: "Mr. Jessup saved a girl from drowning!  They're down on the beach now!  She's so tired so can't even talk!" 

Heads turned in the direction of the beach as one.  We all moved off like a herd of cattle, leaving everything we were doing behind us, although Mom and I made damn sure the gate was closed so Suzie wouldn't get out again.  The crowd tramped down the street with purpose, so intent on getting to the beach and seeing for ourselves just what was happening that we didn't even talk to each to each other about our thoughts or theories.  Another group had gotten there before us and was milling around the parking lot.  Tay Jessup was talking to the chief of police, gesticulating angrily, although we couldn't hear a whisper of what they were saying, down there on the sand.  I didn't see anyone who could be the almost-drowned girl, or anyone I didn't know - the benefit and curse of living in such a small town.  "You see the girl, Mom?" I asked.  "Must be in the ambulance," she answered, nodding towards the vehicle I had missed.  The doors were closed and the lights were flashing, but it was just sitting off at the end of the parking lot.

I wandered toward the other group to see if any of my classmates were there.  Although pretty much everybody knew each other in town, the adults were very closed-mouthed until the "kids" got full-time jobs.  I was just going to start my junior year in high school, so my summer jobs didn't count.  Other kids would share info freely, though.  Tom's sister Katherine was there, taking to Kate Owen.  They weren't good friends of mine, but we didn't have anything against each other.  They were the only ones my age.  I came up and said, "Hey gals, what do you know about this half-drowned kid?"  "She's no kid," answered Kate, "She's just a little older than us, like 20."  "I didn't see her face," said Katherine, hair and make-up perfect as usual, "her body looks mid-teens to me."  "You hardly saw her body and you just admitted to hardly saw her face at all!"  "That wet dress left nothing to the imagination."  "Oh please, it left plenty!  You're starting to sound like your aunt Mary!"  As Katherine rolled her eyes in studied irritation, Kate fixed her gaze on me, ready to spill details.  "Mr. Jessup was out kayaking and he said he saw something white floating in the water.  At first he thought it was a plastic bag and he thought he should fish it out, so he paddled over.  But then he saw it was a girl, face down in the waves.  He grabbed her, hauled her over the front of his kayak, and paddled back, shouting at whoever was on the beach to call an ambulance."  "So, who called?"  "Oh, who knows.  Does it really matter?  Nobody knows who she is or where she came from.  She looked like she was dead at first, but she got loaded into the ambulance with an oxygen mask, so I guess she wasn't.  I don't know how Katherine missed that."  "Just bad luck, I guess," sighed Katherine, "I was watching my brother run off like goon."  "Yeah, you can hardly keep your eyes off your own brother."  "Shut up, sometimes I just can't believe he's related to me."  "Why's Mr. Jessup all pissed," I wanted to know.  "He wanted to go in the ambulance with her and they said he can't 'cause he's not family."  "But if she doesn't have any family here, why not let him go?"  "I 'unno."  More people had shown up and were drifting aimlessly around the parking lot like clueless patrons at a modern art exhibition, and Mr. Jessup and Chief Southcote were walking to the chief's car together.  They both got in and drove off and the ambulance drove off after them.

Rumors flew around for a couple of days, but then people kind of forgot about it since there wasn't any information forthcoming.  That was a little strange, since people getting fished out of the water like that isn't exactly common where we are.  We're just lucky, I guess, very few incidents on our shore.  Mild currents or something.  Anyway, school started before we heard any news.  Of course it was Tom Welsh who acted as town crier again, but this time through the halls of the high school.  The high school was actually in the next town over, a consolidated school, so half the kids barely knew anything and Tom got to tell the whole story all over again, much to his enjoyment.  It turns out, the girl had recovered, somewhat, in the hospital, and nobody could find any information on her.  She wouldn't talk and didn't have any ID and her fingerprints weren't on file anywhere, and they never got any leads from the photographs they sent out asking for information.  Finally, they let Mr. Jessup take her home.  He had to carry her from his car since she hadn't shown any power or inclination to walk.  He put her up in his attic with a window that had a view to the beach, and people walking by said they could see her up there, pale as cheese, with her hair all knotty and stringy around her face.  She always had a blank expression, people said, but not really sad at all.  Mr. Jessup started buying lots of fish at the market since that's the only thing she would eat, he said.  She would only eat them raw or in soup, never baked or fried, Mr. Jessup said she just stared at fish prepared that way like she didn't know what it was.  The Shears next door helped him buy some clothes for herand they tried to talk to her, but she never made a sound.  People started calling her the Mermaid.

After a couple of months, the rumors and stories died down again.  Then Mr. Jessup finally got tired of having her hang around the house all the time, got hold of a wheelchair, and started taking her out for walks.  It was winter already, but fortunately for him, the street and sidewalks were diligently shoveled so he could push her easily.  She would sit wrapped up in blankets, staring at everything and never saying a word.  At least she looked interested.  It was much nicer to see than the cold, blank face she'd had at first.  Her eyes were a little scary to me; they hardly had any whites.  They were like Suzie's animal eyes.  Mom told me I shouldn't talk about people's appearance like that.  Mr. Jessup invited people for Christmas and I heard she hadn't combed her hair or let it be combed once since she was found, and she was just white and pasty as yogurt.  What I guess she like most was the carols; she kind of waved her head around with the music - like Suzie again, but Suzie howled too.  Mr. Jessup was calling her Merry.  It was Merry Christmas and kind of short for mermaid.

It was a little strange how fast the town got used to her.  We even said hello to her when we saw her being wheeled down the street by Mr. Jessup, just like we had known her all our lives and almost expected her to answer back one day.  She never did, though, she never even waved.

For some reason the town was shocked when rumors started buzzing that Mr. Jessup had applied for a marriage license.  Ina Keates, the town clerk, spread the word, not out of mean gossipy-ness, but because she didn't know how she could even issue a license when the girl didn't have any ID at all.  She asked for advice and people she asked asked other people because nobody was sure how to just assign ID to an adult, assuming she was one, who couldn't give any information about herself.  Finally they decided they could just assign a name, SSN and DOB to her, if no other information came from the FBI before summer.  Mr. Jessup wasn't too upset by the delay, I guess because she was living with him and had nobody else so he didn't really have to share her with anybody anyway.  The mayor thought we should have a contest to choose a name for her, but Mr. Jessup wanted to name her himself. "I'll be calling her, after all.  I'd like to use a name to my own liking."

So, the woman was named Merry Delmar ("It's Spanish for 'from the sea,'" explained Mr. Jessup) when no unfavorable reports on her came by July.  There was a small ceremony at the courthouse the week after her Social Security card came and Mr. Jessup wheeled his bride out the door with the toothiest smile the town had ever seen.  Merry looked very calm, like lake water on a perfectly still day, like completely white clouds reflected on the surface.  They took a honeymoon drive down the coast with old tuna cans clanging behind Mr. Jessup's old Toyota.

I started my last year of high school that fall.  I was looking forward to graduating and moving on to college, preferably many miles away.  It wasn't that I had things so bad in this little town, but something in me wanted to be far away for a while.  I took my studies very seriously, participated in the production of the student newspaper and in Drama Club.  I still didn't know quite what I was going to study, none of us did I think, but we were all looking forward to something new in our lives.  Something for us, I mean.  Merry was pretty much just for Mr. Jessup.

In the beginning of November we started to see him looking pale and thin.  When asked what was wrong, he would shake his head and say, "Oh, nothing, just that bug that's going around."  Mom ran into him at the pharmacy in back of the supermarket one day and that night at supper she told Dad, "I'm really starting to worry about Tay.  He looked just awful when I saw him this afternoon, like a cancer patient or something.  I swear he looks like he's aged 20 years."  Dad said, "Well, maybe he does have that super flu.  You lose a lot of liquids and it makes you look older."  "He wasn't getting flu medication, though, it was anti-vertigo.  He didn't look dehydrated either, he looked starved."  "Oh, like you're an expert on starvation," joked Dad, winking and swatting Mom's butt between the seat and the chair back.  "Agh, Steve, you know I hate it when you do that in front of the kids!" and she got up to put her dishes in the dishwasher.  "Oops, guess I'm in trouble now," Dad chortled and he picked up his dishes and trotted after her.

I hadn't seen Mr. Jessup for weeks myself, but some time after that, getting towards Christmas break, I saw him shuffling down the street to his house.  I saw him from the back, but recognized him because of his earflap hat.  As I came up behind him I called, "How you doing, Mr. Jessup?  And how's Merry, we haven't seen either of you for a while."  Actually, the part after "haven't" didn't make it out of my mouth because Mr. Jessup turned around.  He really did look older than he was; he was in his late 40's and his face could have been an 80-year-old's.  his skin was yellowy and deeply creased; his eyes were sunken and red, surrounded by bruised looking, papery skin; oddly, he didn't seem to have eyebrows anymore.

"Oh, Lori," he said, "Haven't seen you in a while.  Saw your mom a couple weeks ago.  Got my meds.  Not doing their job yet."  "How's Merry doing?  Do you guys need any help?"  "Oh, Merry, Merry." he whispered as he pivoted back around, "I hear her in my dreams.  My dreams are only voices now."  I was perplexed by his statement and didn't go after him to follow up.  When I got home I told Dad about it and he just shrugged, saying, "Jessup's been a weird old coot our whole lives.  The guy was even old when he was 10."  Later I heard Mom talking in the kitchen with Mrs. Patrick from next door.  "I think somebody ought to check on the girl," she was saying, "she can't go out herself, not in the snow.  She can't even call for help."  "Yes, Dory, I think you're right.  If you don't mind waiting until tomorrow, I can make up some soup to take over there."  "Good idea, Belle.  I was thinking of making a tuna casserole.  Maybe she'd eat a little of it too, get some variety in her diet.  But if you bring one of your nice cod stews, I won't need to worry so much."  I went upstairs thinking I;d make sure to go with them the next afternoon.

The door was unlocked, so after repeated, unanswered knocking, we went in with our provisions.  We found them in the bedroom.  Mr. Jessup was lying completely wrapped up in blankets and quilts, except for his head, which was sunk into the pillows.  Merry sat in her chair beside the bed, watching him.  Her face was smooth as marble and just as motionless.  Only her eyes flicked towards the door when we came in.  "Merry," said Mrs. Patrick gently, "Belle has some cod stew if you're hungry.  I brought some tuna casserole for Tay, and I wish you'd try a little of that too."  Merry's tangle-haired head moved smoothly to look Mrs. Patrick full in the face for a moment.  Then she carefully positioned her hands on the wheels and jerkily maneuvered out of the room and into the kitchen with Mrs. Patrick behind her.

"Tay, why don't you go to Dr. Leqeuex?" asked Mom, "You can't go on like this much longer.  What will Merry do if something happens to you?"  When she said Merry's name, Mr. Jessop's eyes fluttered and he started making kind of a whining sound.  It took me a couple of seconds to start picking out the words - "Merry's out of the sea.  Out of the sea.  All wrong.  Can't put it back.  Merry's out of the sea."

split

My dragons and my wind
Up and over the treetops and away from me
What would you ask the moon?
Dark wood oak doors stand closed
Locked shuttered rusted hinges
Dusty curtains on the corn tops
Withdraw upon grinning
Done, done, all is done
All is done to dusk
               ~*~
I follow my smile from corner to corner
Skating on a razor edge
With little points twinkling
I don't believe my laugh lines
They are here to lead me astray
And down the path of complacency
My expressive shield and sword
Prevent all approaches
But the most unaware
The fools and jesters who would fall headlong into volcanoes
I cannot lower my defenses

muffled

If at one time I thought my heart would break
Without your presence to give it shape
I have been proved wrong
My heart is slow and dull and painless
But it is not in pieces
It seeks nothing and noone
Except perhaps some solitude and quiet
It does not extend itself to warmth or care
It remains in its cave, dark and empty
Cushioned in numbness, it withdraws from any spike of feeling
It will hibernate, insulated, wrapped in the felt of danger
And never be bare again

Slug

I have a friend called Slug.  It's not his real name, of course, that's just what we all came to call him.  Slug suffers from a very rare, very terrible, degenerative disease that has caused all his bones to slowly disintegrate beginning at the onset of puberty.  Fortunately, the destruction of his skeleton was so gradual that certain operations could be performed, allowing him some semblance of an inner structure.  While it was deemed necessary for his skull to first be reinforced and finally completely replaced with a tough plastic shell, his body is now kept upright by a system of air-filled bladders, each painstakingly inserted under his skin, with their little valves for topping up at his joints.  Sometimes as a prank, somebody would switch his air tank for one full of helium.  The first time, poor Slug hit the roof.  After that, he always made sure to keep some weighty reading material around, just to keep his feet on the ground and his head out of the clouds.  He was once heard to remark that it was actually easier to drift off to sleep while under the buoyant influence of helium, but that was no excuse for people to go around sneaking these things on him.  Those air bladders lasted some years with no problem but the foreseeable air loss, which was fixable through the valves, but after a decade or so, their material began to degrade.  Slug began to suffer embarrassing blowouts and breakages.  Sometimes he would be seen dragging himself around town with one limb limp and flat.  One dreadful night, he suffered a major air pressure loss while showering and the last anybody saw of him was what his roommate said was probably his left hand, spinning slowly as it followed the rest of his breathless body down the drain.  If he happens to surface from your plumbing, his friends would be most grateful for his return, to the extent of reimbursing postage.  Just be sure to make a couple of air holes in the box.

epic "haiku"

Over the red hills
Came riders we did not know
Their steeds made thunder
And clouds behind them.
They were bold under the light
Of a summer sun.
The riders were unkind.
They came not to visit or
For trade.  Their foul aim
Was dripping with blood.
Their shining swords were seen first
With little sun glints
While they were still far
And riding furiously
Down the hills, to town.
Their other decor-
-ations, spoils of other wars,
Began to be plain.
Dried hands and fingers
Waved hello and shooed off those
Who found themselves front
And center with this
Pack of bloodthirsty killers.
Scalps, long braids attached,
Swung violently too.
All too silent, these deathly
Trophies of winners.
Then we saw their teeth.
Cut sharp and filed pointy like
Fangs of snake or shark.
Little white sentries
To grind up invading meat
And let pass rivers.
That seemed like a good
Comparison after that,
When all had happened.
The riders came through
The town like a hurricane,
Tearing down every
Single thing that stood,
In a rush of violence
That none could foresee.
It surprised us all
With its ruthlessness and gore
And its fleeting
Presence through the town.
Almost as soon as we knew
It was there, it passed.
Some died.  Not only
At that moment, struck down by
Heartless, steely blows,
But also later
When their woulds turned black and stank
And their eyes went out.
The rest of us owe
Our lives and livelihood to
The hero who came
When we feared all was
Lost, a champion from the gods,
Blowing in like rain.
He came from the way
We go to the river with
His great sword, leading
Men as rough as trolls,
Who rode hairy ponies, with
Grim faces and sharp knives.
The riders had turned
To come through the town again
When they saw the force.
They attacked without
Hesitation and the great
Hero and his men
Fought them mightily.
Half were struck down and half fled.
The hero took naught
But the horses of 
The fallen; no gold or grain
From us whom he saved.

Events in the Life of Janet O'Connolly - a conversation

"Jan, come on!  My stinky brother will see us!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming."
"I don't know why Tina didn't want to come today.  She's such a weenie sometimes."
"I think she got in trouble last week.  Her mom's making her clean the whole house or something.  She was talking about how unfair it was yesterday at lunch."
"Well, what is she in trouble for?"
"Who knows?  Failed the science test?"
"Not likely.  You know she's good at that junk."
"Yeah, I guess.  Not like you, booger brain."
"Who's a booger brain?"
"You!"
"No, you!"
"No, you!  You got Ryan Kettle to cheat for you on that math test!"
"Math isn't science!  And he didn't have to, he didn't for Jocelyn and she offered him her pudding cup."
"That's 'cause he likes you!  Ryan and Judy sittin' in a tree -"
"Stop it!"
"K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"
"Stoooooooooooop!  I'll tell everybody about you and Ted!"
"What?"
"You heard me."
"What about me and Ted?"
"Geenie said she saw you guys behind the curtains after gym.  She said you guys were kissing."
"Ewwwww!  No we weren't!  I'd never kiss him!"
"But you'd kiss somebody else!"
"No!"
"Yes!  You said you'd never kiss him!"
"Come on Judy!  That's not funny!"
"Yeah it is.  Ted's such a dork."
"Your brother's a bigger dork and you kissed him!"
"That was Truth or Dare!  That doesn't count!  Besides, he's just my brother, he's not like a real boy."
"So who's a real boy?"
"Well, I bet Tina thinks Ted's a real boy.  She pulled down his shorts that one time, remember?  Maybe she did it again and that's why she's stuck at home."
"Yeah, but we would have heard.  Everybody in the whole school heard the last time.  Didn't he even miss school the next day?"
"Oh yeah.  And Sammy and Rusty took those shorts from the Lost-and-Found the next week and were throwing them at him all day.  Mr. Hawthorn looked like he was going to pop a vein."
"Anyway, those two need somebody to whip their butts a little.  They're such noodle brains.  I think Ms. Forster just wants to kick them out of class sometimes."
"Sometimes I wish Ms. Forster would get kicked out.  She's such a witch."
"She's not that bad...is that all you got?"
"If I take more my dad'll know."
"Well, who's going first?"
"I am.  I got it, didn't I?"
"OK...but don't slobber on it.  That'd be like kissing you when it's my turn."
"Ew.  That'd make you a lezbo."
"Would not.  If you don't get my spit, it's just you kissing me so that makes you the lezbo."
"Does not.  You're sucking my spit so you're kissing me."
"Let's just do this.  I brought the lighter...oh, crud, it's not working."
"It's OK.  I brought matches just in case."
"A whole box?"
"Yeah, my dad gets 'em from all over: hotels and bars and restaurants.  A lot of 'em the same.  he won't miss one box."
"OK...you have to breathe in..."

HACK GASP CHOKE
"Oh, that's nasty!"
"You probably didn't do it right.  Give it to me."
FSSSSSP!  GAH HACK WUFF
"Oh gah!"
"My dad's crazy doing this!  It tastes like poop!"
"I think I need some fresh air.  I can't breathe very good back here now."
"OK Jan, let's just go down to the store and get some Jolly Ranchers.  I need something sweet."

a connected tale

In a little house in a little town in a little country lived a little family with a little boy.  He was a boy very much like all the others.  He helped his father in his shop when he was needed and the rest of the time he was allowed to do as he pleased.  Mostly, what pleased him was to run through the fields pretending he was a great warrior with a long stick for a sword.  He also dreamed about having a mighty war pony, but his parents just shook their heads and rolled their eyes when he asked about it.

One day a traveling show came to the little town.  All the children ran to see it and oohed and ahhed over the performers, especially the magician.  His hair stood out all over his head like a porcupine's spines and his eyes glittered in their sockets with fire from within him.  He whirled around the stage with his cape swirling around him, changing colors in the light.  He made things disappear and reappear in strange places.  He took them apart and put them together again.  He made a dog cluck like a chicken and a canary hiss like a snake and a lizard sing like a choir boy.  All the children were fascinated by him and clapped and screamed when his performance was over.  They went home, chattering joyfully, driving their parents to clap their hands over their ears, exasperated.  The show packed up the next morning after a quick speech of thanks by the barker, and the boy and a friend of his ran into the camp to find the magician.  He was tying boxes closed with twine and his hair wasn't quite so electric and his eyes were more glassy than glowing.  But he was still wearing his cape.  The boy ran up to him and said breathlessly, "Sir!  I would like to know how you learned your tricks."  The magician smiled a little.  Oddly, it made him look much older.  "They are not tricks m'boy, they are facts.  But I'm afraid I cannot reveal my secrets to you, or to anybody."  The boys looked at each other, trying to think of a good whine to convince him.  Then the boy said boldly, "I will be your apprentice.  I will help you move your boxes.  And you will show me how to do these facts."  The magician shook his head.  "I'm sorry, lad, but I cannot accept your offer.  You are far too young to be my apprentice."  "But isn't it better to start young?" asked the boy.  "Not with my facts," answered the magician, "Others have tricks and illusions.  Go to them.  They will take you on and you will be happier anyway."  The boy stood pouting and said stubbornly, "I don't want to do tricks if I can do facts.  I want to do real magic like you do."  The magician heaved a sigh and the boys could see that his cape was really a patchwork of different materials of different colors.  In the light of day it looked sorry and threadbare, not magical and mysterious like it had on the stage.  "I will give you a token and when you are older my master will pass by here.  He will recognize the token and take you on.  Do you accept?"  "Oh yes!" squealed the boy.  And the three trudged around the caravan.  On the other side there were two animals tied up: a skinny, little horse and a big, fat dog.  The horse was not only skinny, he was dirty and ugly, with knotty knees and bony shoulders.  He was dark bay or brown with scruffy hair and piggy little eyes.  The magician slowly untied his rope and stared at it for a while before holding the end out to the boy.  The boy was overjoyed.  Now he had his war pony and the promise to be taught magic too!  Then he could make himself a warrior and make the little horse big and strong.  But then his friend grabbed his shoulder squawking, "You're not really going to take that thing, are you?  It doesn't look like it'll even make it to your house."  The magician said softly, "I assure you he will.  But I also remind you that you would be happier learning other things than what this creature promises."  The boy looked from his friend to the magician, catching a glimpse of the dog too.  It was watching them intently and it occurred to him that it looked more like a wolf than a dog, with its bright yellow eyes and pointy ears.  The magician shifted uneasily and snapped, "Decide, boy!  I don't care if you choose to accept the animal or not, but I can't stand here all day and wait for you to make up your mind!"  At this, the boy snatched the rope from the man's hand and started to run home with the horse.  He called back over his shoulder, "I'll be waiting for the master!"  The magician was staring at the ground and the dog was watching them go, grinning with a more wolf-like face than ever.  The boy also noticed now that it wasn't tied up, there was just a rope tied to the caravan with one end dangling down next to the dog.  The boy's friend ran after, yelling, "Are you really taking that old nag?  It looks like it couldn't pull an empty cart!  Your ma's gonna box your ears for taking it home!"

In fact she didn't box the boy's ears, but she was very upset.  The boy's father was too, and his brothers and sisters chided him all evening about his useless horse.  The animal stood behind the house that night, chewing on the weeds that grew there.

The next morning the boy and his next elder brother went to the saddler to see about making a harness so the horse could help their father make deliveries and earn his keep.  They were told to come back in a couple of weeks as the saddler didn't have enough material at the moment to make a harness and didn't have any lying around either.  Their father was frustrated and their mother threw up her hands in exasperation.  "That nag will eat us out of house and home!" she cried.  "No he won't," piped up the youngest sister, "Look how skinny he is.  I bet he hardly eats at all."  The parents went on about their daily business grumbling and shaking their heads and the brother smacked the boy on the back of his head.  "Now they'll be cross with us for days, manure-brains!"

That night the boy couldn't sleep.  Supper had been tense and quiet.  Then everybody went to bed without much talk.  Everybody else fell asleep quickly, but the boy's bed was closest to the little window that looked out over the back yard and he could hear the horse walking around.  Finally he got out of bed and went outside to see what the animal was doing.  When he went out the door, the horse stopped in mid-stride and looked at him from across the yard.  The boy picked up a stick from the ground and ambled off to live his warrior fantasy, at least for a couple of nocturnal minutes.  The horse waited for him, ears pricked expectantly.  Putting the stick between his teeth, the boy heaved himself up on the horse's bony back and, as soon as he had righted himself, the horse sprang off, heading right for the fence.  The boy grabbed the horse's tough, thick-haired mane, expecting to suffer a bouncy jump.  The horse did jump - and soared up towards the full moon.  The wind rushed by faster and faster, and colder and colder, and the boy's teeth dug into the stick as they chattered.  He looked around, half-expecting to see wings had unfolded from the animal's sides, but there was nothing to explain their flight.  It seemed like there were others flying through the air with them, black shadows against a slightly less black sky.  Over the shrieking whistle of the wind the boy could just barely make out sounds like shouts and laughter.  He couldn't quite tell what the other shapes were, maybe other horses, cows, pigs, goats, maybe even other people flying by themselves.  The boy looked down at the earth and saw it rolling beneath him at a frightening pace.  He started to feel terribly dizzy and closed his eyes.

He opened them in his own bed with the sun shining through the window into his eyes.  At first he thought it had all been a strange dream, and out the window he could see the horse standing placidly in the yard, looking no worse for wear and completely flightless.  But when he went to make his bed, he found the stick, nearly bitten into pieces by a set of teeth that fit his perfectly when he held it up to his mouth with a trembling hand.

cat

I am a cat.  I live in a nice, warm house with good people who always make sure I have enough to eat and drink.  They groom me and play with me too.  All the people in the house belong to each other, there aren't any strangers.  There is one who takes a special interest in me.  She is a young woman.  I think she is pretty by their standards; in the last few years she's often entered the house with the smell of strange male on her and she's always showing her teeth, which people seem to do when they want to be friendly and nice.

Actually, lately her her teeth have been out even more than before and there's one particular smell she always brings home with her.  Maybe the source will come and not be a stranger anymore.

Today she's very excited, very nervous.  She's running all over the house.  She picks me up and puts me down again.  I wish she'd sit down in front of the light box like she used to so I could relax on her lap.  The other people are nervous too, but everybody seems happy except the little girl.  She doesn't seem happy at all.  In fact, I think she's very angry about something.  But everybody else is running around and papers and clothes are flying everywhere.  It's starting to make me a little nervous too.

Now the girl is following the young woman everywhere, but she's not drawing her attention.  Why doesn't she speak?  Or grab the woman's shirt?  That's how I get her attention.  I also roll around on the floor in front of her, which makes her produce all kinds of interesting noises, but it's been years since I've seen any of the people do that.  Wait, now she is putting her hand on the woman's arm.  Now they're going into her sleeping room.  They're staying in there for quite a while; I think I'll lie down here in the hall and wait for somebody to massage my head.

Wow!  What's that racket?!  I must have fallen asleep.  I do tend to do that.  Everybody's all excited now and running every which way, but it's not the happy excited like before.  Everyone seems upset.  The young woman is sitting on her bed crying.  I run up to her and she grabs me up into her lap, holding me tightly.  She's extremely upset, her hands are trembling and tears are falling into my fur.  The older people are shouting at each other but I don't think they're angry with each other, they're just nervous and I think a little afraid.  The girl is coming back into her sister's room now and she's crying too.  Her face is all red.  On one side it's shaped like a red hand.  "I'm sorry," she whispers, "I'm sorry."  The young woman buries her face in my fur and sobs.  The next day she takes all the things in the house that smell like the stranger and throws them in the big metal cans outside.  I guess he'll always be a stranger now.

The Devil's in the Details

Charlotte sat at the old, wooden desk, covered in orangish lamp light.  She turned pages furiously, eyes darting, cramped fingers scratching out notes on the wrinkled paper next to her.  Why hadn't she thought to buy batteries when she was out that afternoon?  It was so much easier to speak her notes into the little digital recorder.  Even Char could barely read her chicken-scrabble writing.  Her mother joked that she needed to make friends with a doctor who could decipher it for everyone else.  But, this was her only option for the moment.  She had to get through the old book, lift all of the pertinent information for her article.  She had disappointed Ralph too many times already, with her blown deadlines and dropped projects.  This time she had to finish something.

It wasn't her particular interest, though, this sort of thing.  A tract on pseudo-Wicca.  The plasticky smell and feel of the cover threw doubt on the human skin story.  The bright cherry red of the chapter titles made blood ink seem unlikely.  The rest of the ink, a soft, easily readable black, could have been made with ashes and melted fat, she supposed.  Ashes of burned witches and fat of unbaptised babies.  Or was it pigs?  Or cats born on Friday the 13th?  So many rumors, so many people believing without question.  That's the thing about magic, she mused, it plays to our deepest desires as greedy humans.  Everything supernatural has a connection to our own psyche and our petty, selfish wants.  That was what she had wanted to write her senior thesis on, except she hadn't finished her sophomore year of psychology before she switched to history.  Then journalism, then chemistry, then French.  Then she switched to an accounting program at the community college just so she could have some qualifications and maybe a chance to get a job and pay back her bank account draining, paycheck swallowing, hope and dream crushing loans.  But she didn't even finish that 6-month course.

Fortunately, her favorite cousin (although the feeling was not necessarily mutual) had an exceedingly large house, inherited from a great-aunt by marriage.  This cousin let her stay in a small apartment over the back patio in exchange for a pittance in monthly rent and some gardening.  Char did enjoy a good session of weeding when she was feeling blocked and watering with the anaconda-like hose in the early morning gave her the kind of wake-up she enjoyed.  Her income was mostly freelance articles and the sale of flower photography.  Char herself thought neither the flowers nor the photos were anything special, but there did seem to be a market.  Which was undoubtedly fortunate, since not one in ten of those freelance articles ever left her laptop. 

Charlotte was too easily distracted, said the family indulgently.  Charlotte found this diagnosis irritating, but also found herself unable to modify her behavior.  In a way, her first attempt at college had been her trying to fix herself.  Hadn't worked.  Just opened her eyes to more possibilities for study and exploration and Char felt like she had to try everything before her time ran out.  That was really the problem, she told herself, that she had too much curiosity, that everything was interesting to her.  And life was short.  If she knew she would have the chance later, she could settle down and focus on one thing at a time.


That's weird, she thought with a start, these pages are different.  The paper was slicker, whiter, and the ink was blue.  Sure didn't look like the rest of the book.  Must have been added in later, Charlotte thought as she scanned the pages.  Her hand automatically scritched key words.  It was a pack of about 20 pages, but at the end, she noticed that the sentence cut in the middle by the end of the newer-looking page was finished on the top of the next, original looking, page.  Maybe it's just a sloppy repair job, Char thought.  I'm so tired now.  I probably won't take good notes at this time of night anyway.  Better finish up tomorrow.

Charlotte awoke the next morning not feeling refreshed at all.  She couldn't remember what she had dreamed about, but she still had a feeling of fearful tension in her upper back and shoulders.  Even going into the garden and dousing everything with its daily soothing shower did little to ease the tightness.  She went back to her desk and her notes feeling troubled.  When she saw her notes, her frustration hit its peak; they were practically illegible!  She'd have to go through more than half the book again.  But first, batteries for that damn recorder.

With the gadget newly prepared, Charlotte sat down to work.  She opened the crackly old book to the third chapter, where she had been when the recorder had died the day before, and started off.  She murmured through her reading, gaze sliding rapidly over the paper, dry fingers turning pages easily.  It was amazing how much faster it was this way.  Then she got to the part that she vaguely recalled as being an insert or repair.  And it wasn't there.  All the pages were the same off-white color, with a texture somewhat like a paper towel, rough and spongy, and the black ink never brightened into blue.  Charlotte was sure she could remember that part.  Positive.  She couldn't go on until she proved to herself that she hadn't been dreaming.  Or had been, whichever.  She pulled her notes from their circular grave.  A flash of headache hit her, but she thought she could probably decipher a word here and there and find that odd part.  It definitely had a different tone than the rest of the book, more straightforward and less pretentiously magical.  Char always thought the language in those magic books sounded forced, like people pretending to know a foreign language and wording everything in a completely unnatural manner because they heard something like it in a movie once.  Those blue ink pages had a very normal and natural feel to them, very contemporary.  Hey, here's something.  Spells for getting what you want from your superiors.  That was from the blue part.  And she'd made a note of the change back - page 345.  And even some of the lines from that last page.  Charlotte checked the book.  Pages 344 and 345 had the same paper and ink.  The blue sentence had stated, "With just a little help from beyond, you will see made reality -"  The sentence, now all black, read, "Beware temptations and beguiling spirits whoso offer- (page 345) all thy wishings and wantings and needs in all the world."

Charlotte sat back in her chair.  What the hell happened last night?  How could the book have changed?  Was she really dreaming then?  Or now?

Confused, Charlotte got up to make some tea to wander around the grounds with while she considered the possibilities.  She spent several hours wandering and wondering.  In the early afternoon, though, a pile of dark gray storm clouds slumpfed over the horizon making staying outside a less attractive choice.  A clap of thunder boomed just as Char closed the door behind her and she flipped on the light.  Which immediately burned out.  Scowling and cursing, Char stomped over to the desk and tried the desk lamp to be sure it wasn't a blackout or fuse and warm light illuminated the desk top.  She sighed and sat down.  She picked up her notes, sighed some more, and looked at the book.  Wait a goddam minute.  Now there's a sheaf of white pages in there again!  With no regard for old bindings or paper cuts, Charlotte yanked open the book and there it was.  White pages, blue ink, simple style.  Was it the lamplight?  Char reached for the switch to test her new theory, but hesitated, afraid the blue would disappear and not come back, or wouldn't disappear and then she really would be crazy.

Fine.  The "new" bit was there again, staring her in the face.  What to do now...Charlotte glanced back at her notes and where a jumble of scribbling had been sprawled before, a pattern now seemed to leap out at her.  The letters down the left-hand edge of the page made words and the words made sentences that actually made sense.  The words trailed around the bottom where she had written some quotes and then back up the right side and backwards across the top (if she only used the first letter of each word).  Charlotte picked up the paper and murmured the words to herself.  When she had finished the full circle an enormous crash of thunder shook the room while the desk lamp flickered nervously.  Then all went quiet.  No wind outside, no pitter-pat of the first drops of the storm.  Char looked out the window and could see the dark gray clouds drooping over the trees like somebody's first attempt at setting up a tent.  Curious about the stillness, she went out into the garden.  At the far end of the yard, Char saw a woman standing under the trees.  She was dressed in a floor-length black hooded cloak with the hood draped loosely over her head.  She started to walk into the yard.  Little leaves and fallen petals whirled around her footsteps before she even put her feet down, although Charlotte felt nary a breath of air around her.  The woman's face was pleasant, rosy cheeked, red lipped, with a smile that bespoke a calm good humor.  Her eyes glittered like stars.  She came right up to Char and said, "Well, dear girl, here we are at last."  Char's confusion must have been apparent on her face because the woman quickly added, "Of course, you weren't really expecting me, but I've been thinking about coming to find you for some time now.  I'd like to offer you a bit of assistance.  It's a small favor for me to grant and no trouble at all, really.  But you must accept the favor for it to benefit you."  Charlotte was even more confused by this, but then the woman took her hands.  Her smile widened just a little and her face seemed to radiate joy.  She's practically glowing, thought Charlotte, maybe she's pregnant and wants to sell me the baby.  Give me some direction in life.  The woman lifted her hand to her mouth to cover a musical little giggle, then put on a more serious face.  "Charlotte," she said, her voice soft and rich as the garden soil, "You need to relax and concentrate.  I've heard it many times in off-hand comments, but after so many, I felt it was worth my time to present you with a solution.  You will have time for everything, Charlotte, that I can promise you.  But you will have to use the time or it will revert back."  Now Char was skeptical.  "Revert back to what?"  "Why, to the Universe."  The woman was smiling again, pink lemonade lips curving slightly upward in a gentle arc.  Charlotte considered for a moment and said, "I would like to have time."  The woman's eyes brightened.  "Are you sure?"  "Yeah, sure.  Everyone wants more time."  "But do you want the time I offer you?"  "Well, yeah, why not?"  The woman sighed happily and said, "Charlotte, I look forward to hearing about your achievements.  I may drop in from time to time, just to make sure you stay on course."  She squeezed Char's hands and glided back the way she came, with an unfelt wind whipping up the leaves on the ground and swirling her cloak around her.  She reached out and absently caressed a blossom on her way and Char just watched her go, entranced and not sure what to think or do.

When the rain started to fall, she darted back into the house.  After a moment of indecision she went for the light-bulbs and a chair in the kitchen.  Once the burnt out bulb was replaced, she went back to her desk and sat down in front of her notes.  Suddenly she realized she had sliced her thumb on the pages of the book some minutes before and had left a small dot of blood on the paper.  Her thumb didn't hurt at all now, though, and the opened skin had been closed with a skinny line of dried blood.  Without another thought, Char opened the book to where she had left off recording and, snatching up the recorder, she smoothly began to redo her notes.

After a couple of hours of unexpected and newly experienced dedication, Char stood up to take a walk and stretch her knotted muscles.  This attention thing was hard work, but maybe with some practice she could get into the habit.

Things began to come together for Charlotte after that day.  She started finishing more and more articles on time.  She was able to start studies in communication and journalism at a local college, and do a reasonable amount of work for her classes while continuing to write for the magazine.  She just felt calm, no rush at all.  Her relationship with her family also improved.  They were more relaxed around her, feeling no need to push or pressure, and she felt they were more supportive of her endeavors than they had ever been before.

Char's life rolled on in a steady stream of writing, research and travel.  Her degree hung on her wall, she dedicated herself to her articles, and she got to know people and places that only five years before had seemed far out of her reach.  But finally, she began to get tired.  It started with a frightening experience on one of her research trips, where she was going to interview a few museum curators and witnessed a spectacular traffic accident.  Instead of researching and writing, she began pondering and brooding.  Her output slowed to a trickle, but editors were willing to give her a little time off, a mini sabbatical.  It became clear after an entire week in bed that her interest in the world had tapered off and she no longer felt the urgent need to get things started and experience everything before her time was up.  Somehow, she was sure there would always be another day, another year, and she would do everything she wanted to do and more.  And it made her despair.

When Charlotte finally rose after that week, she realized she could barely stand up.  She lurched into the bathroom and splashed water on her face, spraying the walls and floor with heavy droplets.  Finally she looked in the mirror and was thoroughly startled to see how awful she looked.  Her hair was greasy and lank, hanging in twisted strings; her eyes were puffy and bruised looking, with the little red blood vessels jaggedly shooting across the sclera; even her skin had a horror movie quality to it, all grayish and full of bedlines like Frankenstein monster scars.  "What the hell is wrong with me?" she wondered aloud, shocked at how raspy her voice was.  She dragged herself to the kitchen for a vitamin shake.  As she gathered the blender and ingredients, she kept trying to keep down the nagging thought that the effort would kill her, although as she moved around the room she began to notice energy trickling back into her limbs.  By the time she finished drinking the shake, it was like she had been given a whole new gas tank, filled to the top.  Now that she was full of energy again, she didn't stop to ponder the meaning of this almost spontaneous healing; she got right back to work on an article she had been having trouble finishing.  It came out easily.  Like a hot knife through a stick of butter.  Words poured onto the page, and they were the right words, Charlotte was sure as soon as she typed them.

So, Charlotte went back to her busy life for a while, with only a niggling, nagging feeling in the back of her head about her collapse.  After another couple of months, it happened again, with the same result - after a time spent in repose, getting worse, Charlotte forced herself up and she recovered.  The third time laid her out quickly, and with such alarming physical effects that her mother had her shipped off to the hospital, where doctors were stymied by her failure to respond to treatment as much as by the cause of her condition.

One night while dozing in her hospital bed, Charlotte suddenly became aware that somebody else was in the room with her.  Her eyes flew open and she shot bolt upright in bed, heart pounding in her anguished chest.  There in the visitor's chair sat the woman in the cloak, resting her head on her right hand, with a somewhat wistful expression on her face.  She smiled just a little at Char and said softly, "Well, Charlotte, I told you time was a gift to be used."

"I don't know what you mean."

"I told you that morning in the garden.  If you don't use the time you're given, it will be taken from you."

"But - but it's not time that's leaving me, it's my health, my life!"

The woman dropped her hand and straightened up in the chair.  "What do you think life is, my dear?  Life is time.  Life is the time you use.  Everyone receives a certain measure, but sometimes we can be persuaded to give out more if we think it won't be wasted.  When it looks like the gift is not being appreciated, however, it leaves the recipient."

"So you 'gave' me time and when I needed to slow down, you took what you gave plus interest."

"Oh no, Charlotte.  I'm not taking anything, it's natural.  If you pull back a branch to open up a little space and the branch springs back when you let go of it, are you taking space away?  No, the branch is returning to its natural state, although it might have a little, shall we say, backlash.  You were given more time.  You stopped using it, and it's returning to its natural place, but you feel a little weaker than you would normally.  If you can stand to wait, your feeling will balance itself eventually."

"So my gift time is leaving me, and taking my own time with it?  Should I be dead already?"

"If you should be dead, you would be."

"But who says I wasn't using my time?  I just got tired, I needed some time to reflect, think about my life and where I was going!  Am I supposed to just work, work, work?  I want to consider the big picture of existence!"

The woman sighed and stood up in one smooth motion.  She stood then at the foot of Char's bed with her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes shining like little mirrors in the dimness of the room and her smile twisted oddly on one side of her mouth.  "You may have mistaken me for somebody else, Charlotte.  I don't deal with the big picture, that's a friend of mine.  I am all about the details."  Then she smiled broadly, white, teeth practically glowing, and just when Char noticed that she hadn't heard one sound while they had been talking, not a chirp of monitors or a nurse's voice or a footstep in the hallway, a piercing beep drove into her ears.

She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them.  It was morning and the nurse was opening the blinds, making a horrible squealing noise.  She turned around and looked at Char sheepishly, as if to say she couldn't do anything about it.  Char noticed a thin brown haze out the newly unclad glass, a collection of gases hovering in the atmosphere above the city, and felt the strength returning to her arms as she visualized typing up her next article on the dangers of and solutions to pollution.