|
Our discussion forum is open for business. Come say hello. |
Monday, December 26, 2005
Untitled
Short Story by: Nathan Smith
They were here for her. She would be cold and unresponsive within a few hours. He needed to save her, his Grandma. She had sheltered him since he was an infant, and he was not going to let her be interrogated and killed by an inferior, at least in his conception, species. But, he knew that it was going tobe all over very soon. In a few hours he could be dead, along with the entire human race. It was up to him. She was gone, his Grandma, his best friend, his only friend, had been taken. He felt like giving up, and granting the aliens access to everything he had ever known. He felt death coming nearer,overwhelming him, and taking control of his body. He began to succumb to the force. Then, his senses came back. He was once again in command of his body and he walked into the light. Outside it was a total anarchy. He walked over to a large hole in the ground, about five feet deep. His neighbor had been standing here, he could feel it. Anger took hold of him, and he screamed a long blood curdling, immortal scream. He would do it. He would kill them all.
A mysterious man came up behind him then, during his chaotic moment. He seemed familiar, as if he had seen him before, but he knew that he had not.Before he could comprehend what had happened, the man was gone. And he was left with a gun: a deadly Smith and Weston 500. "
"Why?" he asked. But the man was nowhere to be seen. He proceeded to the local pawn shop, and on the way pondered how he would do it. How he would take his revenge.
His name was Jebadia, and he had lived with his Grandma, Jacqueline, his entire life. He was 37 years old. From the time he was a young lad he had vowed to protect his defenseless Grandma for the rest of his life. He was defiant in school, always breaking the rules and playing hooky. His only aspiration was to one day help out, and be praised. He had never gotten recognition for his unusually bright abilities. He was, in all reality, smarter than most of his teachers. But he never knew this, as his behavior was so obnoxious that his teachers, like him, never found out about his exceptional skills. He had never left his neighborhood. The only time he left his grandmother's house was to buy groceries. But a new era was beginning, one that would change his life forever.
"Are you sure you want this rusty, old thing?" The Pawn shop clerk asked."Iwas going to throw it away. Someone found it in an antique chest."
"Could I have it for free?" asked Jebadia.
"Sure, why not, " said the clerk, " it will save me a trip to the dump."
With that, Jebadia sprinted out the door with his newly acquired grappling hook with 30 yards of moldy rope attached. He was going to find her, his Grandma, if he died trying. He had an intuition that she was still alive, but the only place he knew she could be was on one of the flying saucers. This is why he had purchased the grappling hook. His plan was rather simple really; he would grapple onto a ship, climb aboard, and find his Grandma. Then he would carry out Step Two. He would eliminate every last alien. Then he would return to his home with his Grandma in hand. As far as he could tell his chance of accomplishing this task was about five percent. Not too bad.
Then his chance came. A saucer dipped down, within his reach, to abduct another victim. He wound up, and then launched his hook onto one of the antenna protruding from the ship. He started his ascent. The rope was rather slick, from the mold, but finally he heaved himself into the cargo bay. He examined his surroundings. To his left and right were large, metal alloy walls. The ceiling was about fifteen foot up from the floor. But to his front was a pile of boxes and a door. He stepped through the door into an airlock. Then he was aboard. The air was thick and full of carbon dioxide: not very healthy for a human. A light glow was emitted by the walls that filled the corridors with a dull, grimlight.
'This is it,' he thought. Armed with his Smith and Weston 500 he took a step forward. Immediately a blaring alarm went off, and he sprinted.After about two seconds he smashed right into his foe. He shot. The alien went down, and he ran again, to no avail. He halted. Standing before his was a fifteen and one half foot tall, looming alien king.
"I am Maleki," said the alien, "and you are dead." Jebadia pulled out his gun to fire, but before he could accomplish a kill, an alien transported Maleki,all the aliens, and himself into a large field. The air smelled of flowers, and when he looked down he found he was pasture of daisies. Bees were buzzing, and the sun beamed down. Then he went berserk. He pulled out his gun and killed 5 aliens: about two hundred thousandths of one percent of the population surrounding him. But to his astonishing luck, the fifth alien he killed was the one with the transporter. He lunged onto it and with a random punching ofbuttons, managed to teleport himself back onto another alien ship, an alien shipin the recesses of space.
" Holy Burritos!" he said. Then he ran. Checking every door in every corridor, he unbelievably found her, his poor interrogated Grandma. She was alive. "Impossible," he thought, but it was true, his Grandma was alive. Now he needed to carry out Step Two of his un-elaborated plan. He quickly told his Grandma of his plan.
" No," she cried, "you mustn' t do this. This is no time for revenge. This is the time for you, my only grandson, to live. I have never asked anything of you,but now you must hear me. Do not carry out step two of your plan. Take me home.I know what the aliens plan to do. They are not planning on destroying our race.While interrogating me, the aliens hinted that they were after something, something that they, themselves, lacked. They would interrogate Earth until they found what they were after: the secret of how our Earth holds together, thesecret of love."
In that moment Jebadia knew that she was right, he knew what he must do. With his Grandma on his back he sprinted until he came to his end, an escape pod. He climbed aboard. Strangely enough, the controls were rather simple. There were two buttons, a joystick, and a screen. One button read, 'go', and theother read, 'stop'. He could easily handle this. The next moment he was gone.
Flying through space at a very fast velocity he looked in the rearview mirror. Yes, the alien escape pod had a rearview mirror. He thought he saw something, a glimmer in the corner of the mirror. He knew then what it was: a fleet of ships, all coming toward him. Then he blinked and they were behind him, blasting his ship with their advanced alien weaponry: the laser. He was hit, and he spiraled down, right into a dot that was growing bigger. Then he saw it, he was heading right for a large green hill. Smash! His Grandma and himself were thrown out of the ship and landed in a clump of tall, plush grass. The sky was clear.The wind blew, and the small cool stream right next to him splashed water in hisface. He laughed. Smash! Another ship thudded into the ground. Then a thousand more followed right into the ground. He picked up his Grandma and ran. An abandoned nuclear power plant loomed ahead of him, once cooled by the creek. He entered into it. The air glowed ahead of him and he knew it was all over. He was going to die.
The aliens filtered in. Then it happened. The oxygen from his breath caused a chain reaction with the particles in the air causing the generator to explode. He grabbed his Grandma and lunged behind a pipe. The aliens were all hit with a massive blast of radiation, but instead of dying like humans, they shrunk. The aliens had never before been introduced to nuclear radiation and their cells rather than dying, shrunk. Jebadia could not explainthis phenomenon. After a minute every last alien was about one inch in height, short enough to pose no more threat to Jebadia and his Grandma.
In that instant an amazing thing happened. As the radiation came behind the pipe he blacked out.He was in a strange land, a land with volcanoes, mountains, and spaghetti. A land created by his imagination, or so he thought. A voice spoke to him: the voice of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. "Do not fear, for I am the illusive Flying Spaghetti Monster, and I am here to tell you about your life from now on.When you wake up you will be a pirate, one of my followers, for you have been changed. You will be temporarily immortal. Your story of how you saved Earth from the alien race will live on in your world, but your sacred pirate life will be one of anguish: your grandmother was not so lucky. Her body failed after the radiator blew up. Do not fear, for she will not have died in vain. She taught you a lesson of great importance, a lesson of love, of how human life itself exists. Now go, for you have a life to live."
With that Jebadia awoke,and he lived.
They were here for her. She would be cold and unresponsive within a few hours. He needed to save her, his Grandma. She had sheltered him since he was an infant, and he was not going to let her be interrogated and killed by an inferior, at least in his conception, species. But, he knew that it was going tobe all over very soon. In a few hours he could be dead, along with the entire human race. It was up to him. She was gone, his Grandma, his best friend, his only friend, had been taken. He felt like giving up, and granting the aliens access to everything he had ever known. He felt death coming nearer,overwhelming him, and taking control of his body. He began to succumb to the force. Then, his senses came back. He was once again in command of his body and he walked into the light. Outside it was a total anarchy. He walked over to a large hole in the ground, about five feet deep. His neighbor had been standing here, he could feel it. Anger took hold of him, and he screamed a long blood curdling, immortal scream. He would do it. He would kill them all.
A mysterious man came up behind him then, during his chaotic moment. He seemed familiar, as if he had seen him before, but he knew that he had not.Before he could comprehend what had happened, the man was gone. And he was left with a gun: a deadly Smith and Weston 500. "
"Why?" he asked. But the man was nowhere to be seen. He proceeded to the local pawn shop, and on the way pondered how he would do it. How he would take his revenge.
His name was Jebadia, and he had lived with his Grandma, Jacqueline, his entire life. He was 37 years old. From the time he was a young lad he had vowed to protect his defenseless Grandma for the rest of his life. He was defiant in school, always breaking the rules and playing hooky. His only aspiration was to one day help out, and be praised. He had never gotten recognition for his unusually bright abilities. He was, in all reality, smarter than most of his teachers. But he never knew this, as his behavior was so obnoxious that his teachers, like him, never found out about his exceptional skills. He had never left his neighborhood. The only time he left his grandmother's house was to buy groceries. But a new era was beginning, one that would change his life forever.
"Are you sure you want this rusty, old thing?" The Pawn shop clerk asked."Iwas going to throw it away. Someone found it in an antique chest."
"Could I have it for free?" asked Jebadia.
"Sure, why not, " said the clerk, " it will save me a trip to the dump."
With that, Jebadia sprinted out the door with his newly acquired grappling hook with 30 yards of moldy rope attached. He was going to find her, his Grandma, if he died trying. He had an intuition that she was still alive, but the only place he knew she could be was on one of the flying saucers. This is why he had purchased the grappling hook. His plan was rather simple really; he would grapple onto a ship, climb aboard, and find his Grandma. Then he would carry out Step Two. He would eliminate every last alien. Then he would return to his home with his Grandma in hand. As far as he could tell his chance of accomplishing this task was about five percent. Not too bad.
Then his chance came. A saucer dipped down, within his reach, to abduct another victim. He wound up, and then launched his hook onto one of the antenna protruding from the ship. He started his ascent. The rope was rather slick, from the mold, but finally he heaved himself into the cargo bay. He examined his surroundings. To his left and right were large, metal alloy walls. The ceiling was about fifteen foot up from the floor. But to his front was a pile of boxes and a door. He stepped through the door into an airlock. Then he was aboard. The air was thick and full of carbon dioxide: not very healthy for a human. A light glow was emitted by the walls that filled the corridors with a dull, grimlight.
'This is it,' he thought. Armed with his Smith and Weston 500 he took a step forward. Immediately a blaring alarm went off, and he sprinted.After about two seconds he smashed right into his foe. He shot. The alien went down, and he ran again, to no avail. He halted. Standing before his was a fifteen and one half foot tall, looming alien king.
"I am Maleki," said the alien, "and you are dead." Jebadia pulled out his gun to fire, but before he could accomplish a kill, an alien transported Maleki,all the aliens, and himself into a large field. The air smelled of flowers, and when he looked down he found he was pasture of daisies. Bees were buzzing, and the sun beamed down. Then he went berserk. He pulled out his gun and killed 5 aliens: about two hundred thousandths of one percent of the population surrounding him. But to his astonishing luck, the fifth alien he killed was the one with the transporter. He lunged onto it and with a random punching ofbuttons, managed to teleport himself back onto another alien ship, an alien shipin the recesses of space.
" Holy Burritos!" he said. Then he ran. Checking every door in every corridor, he unbelievably found her, his poor interrogated Grandma. She was alive. "Impossible," he thought, but it was true, his Grandma was alive. Now he needed to carry out Step Two of his un-elaborated plan. He quickly told his Grandma of his plan.
" No," she cried, "you mustn' t do this. This is no time for revenge. This is the time for you, my only grandson, to live. I have never asked anything of you,but now you must hear me. Do not carry out step two of your plan. Take me home.I know what the aliens plan to do. They are not planning on destroying our race.While interrogating me, the aliens hinted that they were after something, something that they, themselves, lacked. They would interrogate Earth until they found what they were after: the secret of how our Earth holds together, thesecret of love."
In that moment Jebadia knew that she was right, he knew what he must do. With his Grandma on his back he sprinted until he came to his end, an escape pod. He climbed aboard. Strangely enough, the controls were rather simple. There were two buttons, a joystick, and a screen. One button read, 'go', and theother read, 'stop'. He could easily handle this. The next moment he was gone.
Flying through space at a very fast velocity he looked in the rearview mirror. Yes, the alien escape pod had a rearview mirror. He thought he saw something, a glimmer in the corner of the mirror. He knew then what it was: a fleet of ships, all coming toward him. Then he blinked and they were behind him, blasting his ship with their advanced alien weaponry: the laser. He was hit, and he spiraled down, right into a dot that was growing bigger. Then he saw it, he was heading right for a large green hill. Smash! His Grandma and himself were thrown out of the ship and landed in a clump of tall, plush grass. The sky was clear.The wind blew, and the small cool stream right next to him splashed water in hisface. He laughed. Smash! Another ship thudded into the ground. Then a thousand more followed right into the ground. He picked up his Grandma and ran. An abandoned nuclear power plant loomed ahead of him, once cooled by the creek. He entered into it. The air glowed ahead of him and he knew it was all over. He was going to die.
The aliens filtered in. Then it happened. The oxygen from his breath caused a chain reaction with the particles in the air causing the generator to explode. He grabbed his Grandma and lunged behind a pipe. The aliens were all hit with a massive blast of radiation, but instead of dying like humans, they shrunk. The aliens had never before been introduced to nuclear radiation and their cells rather than dying, shrunk. Jebadia could not explainthis phenomenon. After a minute every last alien was about one inch in height, short enough to pose no more threat to Jebadia and his Grandma.
In that instant an amazing thing happened. As the radiation came behind the pipe he blacked out.He was in a strange land, a land with volcanoes, mountains, and spaghetti. A land created by his imagination, or so he thought. A voice spoke to him: the voice of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. "Do not fear, for I am the illusive Flying Spaghetti Monster, and I am here to tell you about your life from now on.When you wake up you will be a pirate, one of my followers, for you have been changed. You will be temporarily immortal. Your story of how you saved Earth from the alien race will live on in your world, but your sacred pirate life will be one of anguish: your grandmother was not so lucky. Her body failed after the radiator blew up. Do not fear, for she will not have died in vain. She taught you a lesson of great importance, a lesson of love, of how human life itself exists. Now go, for you have a life to live."
With that Jebadia awoke,and he lived.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Balance
Short Story By: Brad Burns
The simple word above this sentence could possibly be the key to all human happiness. It states ever so simply what so many of us fail to achieve. We strive at work and in our personal lives for the definition of this word to ring true. The word above implies contentment, yet energy. It implies things that are achieved and things we still seek. It brings emotions that contain contentment and fill our souls with the things we want until we become satisfied. When someone goes to bed at the end of the day and reflects on the day that has past, if ones waking hours were filled with both good and bad. Energy and rest, things enjoyed and things denied, things possessed and things coveted, things from the past laced with future dreams, then the simple word at the top of this page has been achieved. The word so simple that when we say it, the sound of this single word really says it all. There are no other words needed before or after it, because the one simple word stands alone. The word that implies courage and fear, self-confidence and restraint, good and bad, and every other opposite that can be described in human words. A mixture of both things that can produce an evenness of the soul. A level field and a flat ground in which to stand. The balance we seek is the satisfaction we crave.
Personal lives and relationships are necessary to keep us satisfied and happy. These relationships don' t always go perfectly and the highs often are followed by the lows. The things that we learn about our friends and those we share our most intimate secrets with serve as nourishment for us and keep us happy at night. The problems we are allowed to experience through the lives of others serve as a relief from our own burdens. Sometimes the things we allow to distract us don' t seem quite as bad when we look at the lives of others. Sometimes we are grateful for the things we are allowed to have. We are grateful for our friends and our intimate equals and we are allowed to appreciate them. If we pay attention to what is in our lives right now, then we are able to experience growth and happiness. We allow ourselves to seek out true things and real feelings. We allow ourselves just enough of the bad to really appreciate the good. We look around and we see the good things we already have. We cherish our friends and our intimate equals. We see the balance in our personal lives if its there to be seen. If it isn't there, then we continue looking for it until we find it. We all experience it from time to time but all of us want it. We all want to exist inside the contentment of being understood and true emotions filled with love and warmth. We long for these things from the bottom of our souls.
When we wake in the morning, fresh from a night' s sleep and dreams, the building of energy in our bodies and minds can be very exciting. The thoughts we conceive during this early hour in the morning contains so much possibility. When the sun starts to come up and night becomes day, the world begins to change and the dreams from the night begin to fade. The things we allowed ourselves to dream about during the night seem less real in the daytime. The daytime thoughts hold different goals and different rewards. The thoughts we leave behind in our beds are much more exciting and so much more interesting than anything found in the daytime. If we allowed ourselves to remain in bed, the magic would surly disappear. The magic exists because of the daytime and our appreciation of its change to night. The darkness and the thoughts we embrace at night will always hold more interest to those of us who pay attention. The daytime only makes us value it more. The daytime is a necessity to help us get back to a place of better things. The night brings us so much more satisfaction, if lived properly, than anything that occurs during the day. The night time is when some of really feel more alive. The darkness that covers the land serves to transform things and make things less clear. Thing that are not perfectly visible enable us to imagine some of their existence. We fill in things we don' t see with things from our own imagination. For the same reasons that reading a book tells us more than watching a movie ever can, we fill in the missing components of the night. We fill in imperfections not visible during this time. We make things better with our own reality. We create our own reality and in the nighttime, all things are possible. All real things exist at night. The real things and the interesting things come out at night. Nighttime brings out our true selves sometimes, if we let it. Some of us are more awake at night. Some of us belong to the night.
In a world where the food we eat and the water we drink is filled with all kinds of chemical additives and things to facilitate faster growth, so must we take things to level our minds. The mind reacts to things differently now than the minds of those who lived before us. It was once possible to learn all human knowledge during ones lifetime. In the early nineteen hundreds at the turn of the century all human knowledge was limited. In today' s world we are forced to adapt and thrive in an information society. We are forced to know things and do things every day those were inconceivable just a few years ago. The things we do for a living have a way of taking great tolls on the balance of our minds. Prescription drugs help even these imbalances out. While those generations before us felt little of these pressures, we in the modern world must not only cope with but must actually thrive in these type of all knowing real time information sharing. The prescription drugs we take to cope with these things serve as part of the balance in our modern lives. With the right balance of chemicals in our bodies, we are allowed to continue with the true realizations that are a part of our lives. We are able to deal. We are better adapted than we were before. The real person inside still gets to come out. These prescription drugs don' t dampen the real longings of our souls. The real part of our souls that seek balance and uniformity are allowed to thrive in the chemical balance brought on by the right prescription or the right mix of nutrition and care of ones self. We aren' t any less because of these drugs. We are made more whole and more able to be apart of things. We still get to go home at night and dream. We still get to lie in bed at the end of the day and think about the things that pleased us. We are allowed to see the end of the day and we are allowed to enjoy the satisfaction of this time, when the day has been good. We are allowed to appreciate the person lying beside us and there is peacefulness in this time at the end of the day. The prescription drugs got us here. The prescription drugs allowed us to get past the bad to reach the good. The side effects can' t measure up to being allowed to survive the day and embrace the memories of the balance found in a day lived fully. The end justifies the means sometimes.
I value the end of the day. I value many things described above and I still seek the balance I have explained above to the best of my ability. I find this balance sometimes. I feel satisfied in places of understanding and real feelings. I appreciate the roads that led here. I remember the things I learned getting to this place. I don't forget the bad that eventually turned into the good. I tell stories of times gone by and things yet to come. I take people with me sometimes to places where I have been. I see understanding and I experience things that others have lived through before. I value all people and I cherish my friends. Some friends serve as anchors in the balance of my life.
The balance of things is the most important thing sometimes. Just enough bad to appreciate the good. Just enough to keep the balance. The balance that I have described always exists inside in certain places and times. A place where there are always more stories and more things to communicate.
There are always more tales to tell. There will always be more time and places to tell them. There will always be summer nights and open windows and complete understanding in certain places. There will always be a balance in the stories that come from places of creativity and honest emotions.
The simple word above this sentence could possibly be the key to all human happiness. It states ever so simply what so many of us fail to achieve. We strive at work and in our personal lives for the definition of this word to ring true. The word above implies contentment, yet energy. It implies things that are achieved and things we still seek. It brings emotions that contain contentment and fill our souls with the things we want until we become satisfied. When someone goes to bed at the end of the day and reflects on the day that has past, if ones waking hours were filled with both good and bad. Energy and rest, things enjoyed and things denied, things possessed and things coveted, things from the past laced with future dreams, then the simple word at the top of this page has been achieved. The word so simple that when we say it, the sound of this single word really says it all. There are no other words needed before or after it, because the one simple word stands alone. The word that implies courage and fear, self-confidence and restraint, good and bad, and every other opposite that can be described in human words. A mixture of both things that can produce an evenness of the soul. A level field and a flat ground in which to stand. The balance we seek is the satisfaction we crave.
Personal lives and relationships are necessary to keep us satisfied and happy. These relationships don' t always go perfectly and the highs often are followed by the lows. The things that we learn about our friends and those we share our most intimate secrets with serve as nourishment for us and keep us happy at night. The problems we are allowed to experience through the lives of others serve as a relief from our own burdens. Sometimes the things we allow to distract us don' t seem quite as bad when we look at the lives of others. Sometimes we are grateful for the things we are allowed to have. We are grateful for our friends and our intimate equals and we are allowed to appreciate them. If we pay attention to what is in our lives right now, then we are able to experience growth and happiness. We allow ourselves to seek out true things and real feelings. We allow ourselves just enough of the bad to really appreciate the good. We look around and we see the good things we already have. We cherish our friends and our intimate equals. We see the balance in our personal lives if its there to be seen. If it isn't there, then we continue looking for it until we find it. We all experience it from time to time but all of us want it. We all want to exist inside the contentment of being understood and true emotions filled with love and warmth. We long for these things from the bottom of our souls.
When we wake in the morning, fresh from a night' s sleep and dreams, the building of energy in our bodies and minds can be very exciting. The thoughts we conceive during this early hour in the morning contains so much possibility. When the sun starts to come up and night becomes day, the world begins to change and the dreams from the night begin to fade. The things we allowed ourselves to dream about during the night seem less real in the daytime. The daytime thoughts hold different goals and different rewards. The thoughts we leave behind in our beds are much more exciting and so much more interesting than anything found in the daytime. If we allowed ourselves to remain in bed, the magic would surly disappear. The magic exists because of the daytime and our appreciation of its change to night. The darkness and the thoughts we embrace at night will always hold more interest to those of us who pay attention. The daytime only makes us value it more. The daytime is a necessity to help us get back to a place of better things. The night brings us so much more satisfaction, if lived properly, than anything that occurs during the day. The night time is when some of really feel more alive. The darkness that covers the land serves to transform things and make things less clear. Thing that are not perfectly visible enable us to imagine some of their existence. We fill in things we don' t see with things from our own imagination. For the same reasons that reading a book tells us more than watching a movie ever can, we fill in the missing components of the night. We fill in imperfections not visible during this time. We make things better with our own reality. We create our own reality and in the nighttime, all things are possible. All real things exist at night. The real things and the interesting things come out at night. Nighttime brings out our true selves sometimes, if we let it. Some of us are more awake at night. Some of us belong to the night.
In a world where the food we eat and the water we drink is filled with all kinds of chemical additives and things to facilitate faster growth, so must we take things to level our minds. The mind reacts to things differently now than the minds of those who lived before us. It was once possible to learn all human knowledge during ones lifetime. In the early nineteen hundreds at the turn of the century all human knowledge was limited. In today' s world we are forced to adapt and thrive in an information society. We are forced to know things and do things every day those were inconceivable just a few years ago. The things we do for a living have a way of taking great tolls on the balance of our minds. Prescription drugs help even these imbalances out. While those generations before us felt little of these pressures, we in the modern world must not only cope with but must actually thrive in these type of all knowing real time information sharing. The prescription drugs we take to cope with these things serve as part of the balance in our modern lives. With the right balance of chemicals in our bodies, we are allowed to continue with the true realizations that are a part of our lives. We are able to deal. We are better adapted than we were before. The real person inside still gets to come out. These prescription drugs don' t dampen the real longings of our souls. The real part of our souls that seek balance and uniformity are allowed to thrive in the chemical balance brought on by the right prescription or the right mix of nutrition and care of ones self. We aren' t any less because of these drugs. We are made more whole and more able to be apart of things. We still get to go home at night and dream. We still get to lie in bed at the end of the day and think about the things that pleased us. We are allowed to see the end of the day and we are allowed to enjoy the satisfaction of this time, when the day has been good. We are allowed to appreciate the person lying beside us and there is peacefulness in this time at the end of the day. The prescription drugs got us here. The prescription drugs allowed us to get past the bad to reach the good. The side effects can' t measure up to being allowed to survive the day and embrace the memories of the balance found in a day lived fully. The end justifies the means sometimes.
I value the end of the day. I value many things described above and I still seek the balance I have explained above to the best of my ability. I find this balance sometimes. I feel satisfied in places of understanding and real feelings. I appreciate the roads that led here. I remember the things I learned getting to this place. I don't forget the bad that eventually turned into the good. I tell stories of times gone by and things yet to come. I take people with me sometimes to places where I have been. I see understanding and I experience things that others have lived through before. I value all people and I cherish my friends. Some friends serve as anchors in the balance of my life.
The balance of things is the most important thing sometimes. Just enough bad to appreciate the good. Just enough to keep the balance. The balance that I have described always exists inside in certain places and times. A place where there are always more stories and more things to communicate.
There are always more tales to tell. There will always be more time and places to tell them. There will always be summer nights and open windows and complete understanding in certain places. There will always be a balance in the stories that come from places of creativity and honest emotions.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
Epiphany Too Late
Short Story By: Brad Burns
" I am nothing more than ¦ a little boy inside ¦ That cries out for attention, yet I always try to hide cause I talk to you like children, though I don't know how I feel But I know I'll do the right thing ¦If the right thing is revealed ¦ Cause it's always raining in my head ¦forget all the things I should have said ¦ (Aaron Lewis/Staind)
"Miss ¦I got what I really went after" (Jeremy Delle)
It was cloudy and sixty four degrees outside and looked like it could rain some more. The Dallas Texas suburb community of Richardson was usually colder than this in January and the milder weather had been unusual. Jeremy was getting ready for second period English. Mrs. Barnett was never very tolerant of students coming in late. Tuesday January 8th, 1991 was to be no exception.
Lisa Moore was getting ready for her second period class. Her boyfriend was on her 'short list' for his actions over the past weekend and she was ready to talk about it with her new found friend from in-school suspension. Despite the 'no talking policy' and the 'solitary like treatment' intended as punishment for in-school suspension students, part of her looked forward to this segment of the day that came a little after one p.m.
Jeremy was always a good listener, even if it was on paper only. He seemed to want her to talk about her boyfriend and she had learned more about her true feelings from doing so. Lisa needed to talk today. She needed to have another human being look at her feelings in the daylight (an on paper) and she needed to get their perspective of those feelings. The true measure of her emotions would probably come out today; at least she hoped it would, in the hour and ten minutes immediately following lunch time. Jeremy would manage to give her his opinion one way or the other before the suspension period ended. He would also manage to cheer her up as well, as he had so many times before in the past.
Jeremy's in class notes always ended with 'write back' . Lisa hadn't paid any attention when Monday's note had ended with 'later days' .
Joseph Delle had one son. His 1979 divorce from his lovely wife Wanda had been particularly hard on his one son, Jeremy. His father's guilt and his mother' s bitterness had caused a whole flurry of emotion in Jeremy's young life. The closer he got to high school graduation, the worse these emotional flurries seemed to be becoming. He couldn't remember a time when he himself had experienced any type of 'normal' childhood, complete with two happy parents and happy siblings. Jeremy couldn't remember any usually happy times in his whole damn life for that matter, much less any involving his parents. The happiest he had ever been was during the rare times he got to spend with his friends, and more over, his friends families while staying the night at one of their homes. The longing for happiness had turned into a numb like existence during the tenth grade year, somewhere between fall and early winter, and the bleak outlook held no promise of positive change any time soon. Being sixteen years old hadn't turned out to be the " most fun a boy could have" kind of time that some other young men seemed to experience.
Lisa had a boyfriend, and even if she didn't, she wouldn' t want * him* to be her boyfriend anyway. She laughed at his jokes and he was amusing enough to help her through this one little time in her life when she would be remotely in the same realm of existence Jeremy's rut his life had fallen into, or never actually been out of. Jeremy Delle knew all of these things and knowing was absolutely no comfort.
He had been able to sneak his dad' s most prized possession out of the house without detection. His dad wouldn' t have an occasion to notice its absence and he wouldn' t be looking for it, for that matter. How could he look for something when he was only home to sleep and take a shower? His dad barely seemed to notice if Jeremy was home, much less if anything small was missing from the house. Something that small could get lost easy enough anyway. It had been 'lost' in Jeremy' s locker since eight a.m. Monday morning.
Mrs. Fay Barnett was looking around at her second period' s empty chairs. There were the usual two on the right that were always empty, and one in the back that had become more and more empty as of late. It had become a normal sight not to see the brown haired sixteen years old boy in it. She had let it slide on more than one occasion but when there are obvious abuses; she knew she had put a stop to such repetitive tardiness. It was for the betterment of the student to learn punctuality if they intend to have any type of successful life. They must learn to be on time and ready to go. They must learn right now, and this learning must not be put off, because life doesn' t wait for late people. College and jobs and everything else that comes after mustn' t be kept waiting. Mrs. Fay Barnett decided this at nine o five a.m. January 8th, 1991.
Jeremy had seen Lisa Moore in the main hallway of the school when he had first arrived, but she hadn' t seen him. He didn' t want her to see him for that matter. She was the only thing that was remotely positive in his sixteen year old turbulent life and he couldn' t let something like her smiling at him be any kind of deterrent. She could easily smile at him and this whole thing could fall apart. Jeremy had things to do today and he couldn' t risk it. Lisa had power over him and he knew it as much as he knew anything else.
Jeremy' s stomach had grown into a turbulent mass of swirling emotion. The sick feeling that he might throw up had led him to go into the farthest stall of the closest bathroom to hover over the toilet, in hopes of throwing up and feeling better for what he knew must come next. He had planned this whole thing since the weekend and with five minutes left before 'show time' he couldn' t let his current state of nausea keep him from his task at hand... There was no food in his stomach to throw up, and when the second bell rang, he gave up any hope of doing so. At ten minutes after nine a.m., he left the men' s restroom of Richardson High School for his date with teenage infamy.
Fay Barnett was ready when she heard the door open. She was facing the board but she knew who it was and she also knew how she was going to handle it. The after class warnings and gentle talks had failed to help the worsening tardiness of Jeremy Delle. Fay Barnett was going to fix the problem once and for all before it got any worse. She had to save face in front of the other students and there was no other choice in her mind but to call him on it. He would have to get 'Principals permission' to enter her class today. He would have to go to the school' s office and his tardiness problems would become known. She had to do it and he would have to adjust to it. She had decided this and she was going to do it. She had to do it.
Jeremy was counting on her to do it.
With her back still turned facing the board, Jeremy quietly closed the door behind him self and quickly made his way to his seat. He gripped a piece of paper in his right hand and sat down with a thud behind the male student seated in front of him that he didn't normally speak to. Mrs. Barnett turned around just as he was opening his book and looking to see what page the girl beside him was turned to. "
Jeremy, you' re going to need a pass. Go to the office and get one now!" She said sternly in a voice unfamiliar to the thirty one students who were seated in her second period English class. She would question this moment of sternness for the rest of her life.
Jeremy got up and walked towards the class room door. He briefly looked up at the teacher through his long straight bangs that often hid his dark blue eyes. He placed the note from his hand on the desk of the boy who sat in front of him. The boy he never spoke too. The boy who never spoke to him. The boy who would wait thirty seven minutes before reading it.
Jeremy' s stomach still churned violently but he didn' t stop at the rest room this time. He didn' t go to the office either. He quickly walked the two hundred and twenty feet to his locker and opened it, silently retrieving the 357magnum revolver that his father usually kept in the dresser drawer beside his bed. There were six rounds loaded in the weapon and it felt cold and heavy and he placed it inside his jacket and made his way back to the waiting class room filled with thirty students and one middle aged female teacher. There were no students in the hallway and nobody was standing in his way. It was nine fifteen a.m.
"Did you get the tardy slip Jeremy?" Fay Barnett asked him in a less stern tone than she had used forty five seconds earlier. "That was really fast." Jeremy walked towards her desk, stopping short half way and facing the class.
" Miss, I got what I really went after," he said in an audible voice for all to hear, without the slightest hint of emotion, as he pulled the pistol from inside his jacket pocket and placed it in his mouth. Thirty students sat upright and silently looked directly at him, as the shocking and surreal event unfolded in front of them. The teacher put her hand to her mouth as the deafening 357 magnum bullet exploded from the back of his head and violently impacted the black board that she had written new words on just that morning. The red spattering of blood obscured the words and the blood instantly began to run down the wall. Jeremy fell forward to his knees and slumped over onto the floor. The gun, still in his right hand, disappeared beneath him as his body collapsed limply on the floor. The student' s screams began before his body' s falling motion was complete. A girl from the front row ran from the room screaming hysterically, thus alerting neighboring classrooms to the occurrence of the deadly event. Everyone had heard the gun shot, but no one believed it had actually been a gun shot. The girl's screaming told them otherwise.
At nine fifteen a.m. central standard time, on Tuesday January 8th, 1991, Jeremy Wade Delle took his own life with a 357 magnum handgun in front of thirty students in Mrs. Fay Barnett' s tenth grade English class, in Richardson, Texas. The students were taken from the classroom and were attended by a group of twenty grief counselors called to the school from nearby Dallas, Texas. The students who witnessed this event were allowed to leave school for the remainder of the school day, but were encouraged to stay and receive counseling. Few students discussed anything beyond telling of the event they witnessed and how it occurred. Classes for the day were not canceled.
Pearl Jam singer / songwriter Eddy Vedder admittedly read a newspaper article about the death of Jeremy Delle and this event, along with a similar childhood acquaintance from his own school, wrote the song 'Jeremy' which appears on the Pearl Jam album 'Ten' .
This has been an account of the events that led to the creation of the Pearl Jam song and the real names of persons involved in that disturbing event in American history. There have been many similar events in other schools across the United States and other countries. Jeremy Delle was not the first to commit such an act, nor has he been the last. He is to be forever remembered in the 'Jeremy' song as part of the American rock music history. Two million Americans commit suicide every year, most of them being white males, and most of them being under the age of twenty.
Jeremy Wade Delle 1975-1991
" I am nothing more than ¦ a little boy inside ¦ That cries out for attention, yet I always try to hide cause I talk to you like children, though I don't know how I feel But I know I'll do the right thing ¦If the right thing is revealed ¦ Cause it's always raining in my head ¦forget all the things I should have said ¦ (Aaron Lewis/Staind)
"Miss ¦I got what I really went after" (Jeremy Delle)
It was cloudy and sixty four degrees outside and looked like it could rain some more. The Dallas Texas suburb community of Richardson was usually colder than this in January and the milder weather had been unusual. Jeremy was getting ready for second period English. Mrs. Barnett was never very tolerant of students coming in late. Tuesday January 8th, 1991 was to be no exception.
Lisa Moore was getting ready for her second period class. Her boyfriend was on her 'short list' for his actions over the past weekend and she was ready to talk about it with her new found friend from in-school suspension. Despite the 'no talking policy' and the 'solitary like treatment' intended as punishment for in-school suspension students, part of her looked forward to this segment of the day that came a little after one p.m.
Jeremy was always a good listener, even if it was on paper only. He seemed to want her to talk about her boyfriend and she had learned more about her true feelings from doing so. Lisa needed to talk today. She needed to have another human being look at her feelings in the daylight (an on paper) and she needed to get their perspective of those feelings. The true measure of her emotions would probably come out today; at least she hoped it would, in the hour and ten minutes immediately following lunch time. Jeremy would manage to give her his opinion one way or the other before the suspension period ended. He would also manage to cheer her up as well, as he had so many times before in the past.
Jeremy's in class notes always ended with 'write back' . Lisa hadn't paid any attention when Monday's note had ended with 'later days' .
Joseph Delle had one son. His 1979 divorce from his lovely wife Wanda had been particularly hard on his one son, Jeremy. His father's guilt and his mother' s bitterness had caused a whole flurry of emotion in Jeremy's young life. The closer he got to high school graduation, the worse these emotional flurries seemed to be becoming. He couldn't remember a time when he himself had experienced any type of 'normal' childhood, complete with two happy parents and happy siblings. Jeremy couldn't remember any usually happy times in his whole damn life for that matter, much less any involving his parents. The happiest he had ever been was during the rare times he got to spend with his friends, and more over, his friends families while staying the night at one of their homes. The longing for happiness had turned into a numb like existence during the tenth grade year, somewhere between fall and early winter, and the bleak outlook held no promise of positive change any time soon. Being sixteen years old hadn't turned out to be the " most fun a boy could have" kind of time that some other young men seemed to experience.
Lisa had a boyfriend, and even if she didn't, she wouldn' t want * him* to be her boyfriend anyway. She laughed at his jokes and he was amusing enough to help her through this one little time in her life when she would be remotely in the same realm of existence Jeremy's rut his life had fallen into, or never actually been out of. Jeremy Delle knew all of these things and knowing was absolutely no comfort.
He had been able to sneak his dad' s most prized possession out of the house without detection. His dad wouldn' t have an occasion to notice its absence and he wouldn' t be looking for it, for that matter. How could he look for something when he was only home to sleep and take a shower? His dad barely seemed to notice if Jeremy was home, much less if anything small was missing from the house. Something that small could get lost easy enough anyway. It had been 'lost' in Jeremy' s locker since eight a.m. Monday morning.
Mrs. Fay Barnett was looking around at her second period' s empty chairs. There were the usual two on the right that were always empty, and one in the back that had become more and more empty as of late. It had become a normal sight not to see the brown haired sixteen years old boy in it. She had let it slide on more than one occasion but when there are obvious abuses; she knew she had put a stop to such repetitive tardiness. It was for the betterment of the student to learn punctuality if they intend to have any type of successful life. They must learn to be on time and ready to go. They must learn right now, and this learning must not be put off, because life doesn' t wait for late people. College and jobs and everything else that comes after mustn' t be kept waiting. Mrs. Fay Barnett decided this at nine o five a.m. January 8th, 1991.
Jeremy had seen Lisa Moore in the main hallway of the school when he had first arrived, but she hadn' t seen him. He didn' t want her to see him for that matter. She was the only thing that was remotely positive in his sixteen year old turbulent life and he couldn' t let something like her smiling at him be any kind of deterrent. She could easily smile at him and this whole thing could fall apart. Jeremy had things to do today and he couldn' t risk it. Lisa had power over him and he knew it as much as he knew anything else.
Jeremy' s stomach had grown into a turbulent mass of swirling emotion. The sick feeling that he might throw up had led him to go into the farthest stall of the closest bathroom to hover over the toilet, in hopes of throwing up and feeling better for what he knew must come next. He had planned this whole thing since the weekend and with five minutes left before 'show time' he couldn' t let his current state of nausea keep him from his task at hand... There was no food in his stomach to throw up, and when the second bell rang, he gave up any hope of doing so. At ten minutes after nine a.m., he left the men' s restroom of Richardson High School for his date with teenage infamy.
Fay Barnett was ready when she heard the door open. She was facing the board but she knew who it was and she also knew how she was going to handle it. The after class warnings and gentle talks had failed to help the worsening tardiness of Jeremy Delle. Fay Barnett was going to fix the problem once and for all before it got any worse. She had to save face in front of the other students and there was no other choice in her mind but to call him on it. He would have to get 'Principals permission' to enter her class today. He would have to go to the school' s office and his tardiness problems would become known. She had to do it and he would have to adjust to it. She had decided this and she was going to do it. She had to do it.
Jeremy was counting on her to do it.
With her back still turned facing the board, Jeremy quietly closed the door behind him self and quickly made his way to his seat. He gripped a piece of paper in his right hand and sat down with a thud behind the male student seated in front of him that he didn't normally speak to. Mrs. Barnett turned around just as he was opening his book and looking to see what page the girl beside him was turned to. "
Jeremy, you' re going to need a pass. Go to the office and get one now!" She said sternly in a voice unfamiliar to the thirty one students who were seated in her second period English class. She would question this moment of sternness for the rest of her life.
Jeremy got up and walked towards the class room door. He briefly looked up at the teacher through his long straight bangs that often hid his dark blue eyes. He placed the note from his hand on the desk of the boy who sat in front of him. The boy he never spoke too. The boy who never spoke to him. The boy who would wait thirty seven minutes before reading it.
Jeremy' s stomach still churned violently but he didn' t stop at the rest room this time. He didn' t go to the office either. He quickly walked the two hundred and twenty feet to his locker and opened it, silently retrieving the 357magnum revolver that his father usually kept in the dresser drawer beside his bed. There were six rounds loaded in the weapon and it felt cold and heavy and he placed it inside his jacket and made his way back to the waiting class room filled with thirty students and one middle aged female teacher. There were no students in the hallway and nobody was standing in his way. It was nine fifteen a.m.
"Did you get the tardy slip Jeremy?" Fay Barnett asked him in a less stern tone than she had used forty five seconds earlier. "That was really fast." Jeremy walked towards her desk, stopping short half way and facing the class.
" Miss, I got what I really went after," he said in an audible voice for all to hear, without the slightest hint of emotion, as he pulled the pistol from inside his jacket pocket and placed it in his mouth. Thirty students sat upright and silently looked directly at him, as the shocking and surreal event unfolded in front of them. The teacher put her hand to her mouth as the deafening 357 magnum bullet exploded from the back of his head and violently impacted the black board that she had written new words on just that morning. The red spattering of blood obscured the words and the blood instantly began to run down the wall. Jeremy fell forward to his knees and slumped over onto the floor. The gun, still in his right hand, disappeared beneath him as his body collapsed limply on the floor. The student' s screams began before his body' s falling motion was complete. A girl from the front row ran from the room screaming hysterically, thus alerting neighboring classrooms to the occurrence of the deadly event. Everyone had heard the gun shot, but no one believed it had actually been a gun shot. The girl's screaming told them otherwise.
At nine fifteen a.m. central standard time, on Tuesday January 8th, 1991, Jeremy Wade Delle took his own life with a 357 magnum handgun in front of thirty students in Mrs. Fay Barnett' s tenth grade English class, in Richardson, Texas. The students were taken from the classroom and were attended by a group of twenty grief counselors called to the school from nearby Dallas, Texas. The students who witnessed this event were allowed to leave school for the remainder of the school day, but were encouraged to stay and receive counseling. Few students discussed anything beyond telling of the event they witnessed and how it occurred. Classes for the day were not canceled.
Pearl Jam singer / songwriter Eddy Vedder admittedly read a newspaper article about the death of Jeremy Delle and this event, along with a similar childhood acquaintance from his own school, wrote the song 'Jeremy' which appears on the Pearl Jam album 'Ten' .
This has been an account of the events that led to the creation of the Pearl Jam song and the real names of persons involved in that disturbing event in American history. There have been many similar events in other schools across the United States and other countries. Jeremy Delle was not the first to commit such an act, nor has he been the last. He is to be forever remembered in the 'Jeremy' song as part of the American rock music history. Two million Americans commit suicide every year, most of them being white males, and most of them being under the age of twenty.
Jeremy Wade Delle 1975-1991
Monday, December 19, 2005
Greenwich Village
Short Story By: Bill Monks
Greenwich Village is that one watering hole, where those who wish to know NewYork must taste and see. If you're single, hungry for adventure, and a non-conformist, it's worth a year of your life. You will meet fellow pilgrims who appear from every part of the country seeking a sort of Camelot; some find it.
I loved the restaurants, the bars, the sidewalk art shows, antique shops, littletheaters, and playing chess in Washington Square. The people from the New School, New York University, Parsons, Cardozo, Forbes, Prentice Hall, Fairchild, Sheed & Ward, Marshall Chess Club, and, Asti's restaurant, were all the helpsing opera. There are the con games, the handkerchief switch, three card Monty,the supposed moron (Oscar winner), who has just found gold coins on thesubway and ask you for advice. The pick-pockets who catch you in the swingingdoor, or puts ketchup on you when you are going up a staircase and tells you, "Youâ ve been shot!" While your ripping your coat off, he walks away with the briefcase you have just put down. The supposedly stolen watch, peeking out ofthe folded newspaper and the whispered, " How about it, Mac, ten bucks?" Your friendly mugger, who can do a job on you in ten seconds, in broad daylight. I admired them, all but the mugger; he plays too rough. What you see in the Village quite often ain' t what you get. If you wish to tour the Village, keep one hand on your heart, the other on your wallet and one eye in the back of your head.
Thirty years ago I descended into a hole in the ground, smack in the middle of the Village. The hole was actually a bank' s safe deposit vault where I was employed. To describe the ' hole' where I spent a great part of my life, I could compare it to a hermitage. Those who wander down into the hole looking for a place to hide their wealth would wonder how I could stand the solitude. Little did they know from whence I came. In my misspend youth I had become addicted to chess and darn near lived in Washington Square Park. I was just a wood pusher who loved the game. As the saying goes : I don' t think I ever beat a well man. I was once taken apart by a sightless man in thirty moves. If the world is a stage, I met myshare of fellow performers, and it was quite a show. Many members of the cast sat at my desk over the years. All I could offer them was my two floppy ears. I did not attempt to untie the knots. I left that to the hundreds of psychotherapists who infested the Village at the time.
I found that the common denominator among us all was that we liked to be listened to, and that we needed a lot of loving. Each one of us exists in a different space and time that hides our interdependence. Not blind to our basic oneness, we attempt to reach out to one another.
As the strangers sat at my desk ,the first thing said would be, "Are they all your kids" I had a frame on the wall that held small cameo pictures of my adversaries. They then asked me how I managed. I replied that I had never come close. I gave the person a brief glimpse of life in the trenches and we would commence to bond.
Most people, believe it or not, are human. They would warmly accept me as a fellow member of the walking wounded. Their need to heal and be healed would service. There was a mystical touching, a willing to trust and risk letting me into their lives. They filled out a brief application that told me enough about their background to pick their locks, permitting me to draw out the highlights of the life of one of God's greatest creations. I loved them all for taking the time to sit and share. I have few gifts, but one I always enjoyed was being a good listener.
I showed heartfelt interest in their lives and they repaid me in kind. No one wore a mask at my desk. There was no need not to be honest. I know their love and wisdom made a huge difference in my handling life's problems. Humanity is like a session of group therapy that's just not running too smoothly. We really do need a Moderator.
Customers sitting at my desk carried me on voyages of wild adventure, of deep tragedy, the greatest moments in their lives, their dreams of success, how it was to grow up in Spleedunk. They shared their feelings of isolation and loneliness, even of contemplating suicide. Three of my customers told me of their plans and the good listener failed to hear them. I guess I had more hope for them than they did.
Individuals described the part they were playing in the big show, from the Mayor's bagman to Frank Sheed, (we had a mutual love of Augustine), and Malcolm Forbes. I had his Faberge Collection. I would let him look at it once in awhile.
There was the resident of the Bowery, an old shaggy bum who held his pants up with a piece of cord. He wore a copper washer for a ring. I was always alarmed that the bank was going to throw him out. He loved to play the horses. When hedied, as was the custom, we opened his safe deposit box. He may not have beaten the world, but he beat the horses: three thousand bucks in cash, a winner.
From the psychiatrist who told me she had treated homosexuals in the village forthirty years, and never met a mother who wasn't glad her son was a homosexual.
The practicing child psychiatrist who always mummified her safe deposit box with red masking tape, and constantly accused me of putting things from her kitchen into the box. Outside of that she was as sane as you are, I think. Ninety-ninepercent of the time she was perfectly normal. We got along great, but she was always disappointed in me when she found strange things in her box. One time she had a police captain from the local precinct call me up and tell me to knock it off. He did not need an explanation.
There was the psychiatrist who always had a big grin on his face, not a smile. I figured this guy must have solved the problem. I finally asked him, " What's the answer, Doc?"
Not removing the grin, he answered, "Heavy sedation."
The writer, who told me her novel was about to be reviewed in the Daily and Sunday Times the following week. That Friday I picked her book up at the local bookstore, intending to give it a preview reading. I spent a busy weekend with my head in her book. She was a superb writer, a master of the English language. She picked her words like the Colombians pick their beans. Her phrases were memorable.
I constantly paused to admire her style, but the book was god-awful. The meat of the story was the reminiscence of the main character, a dowager. She told of a life born in poverty and dying in immense wealth, at the age of ninety. Her life had been pure self-gratification, without conscience or regret. Adultery, stealing, poisoning her Down's syndrome grandchild, vice after vice, all perfectly justified. The heroine would have made a great spouse for Sammy of "What Makes Sammy Run?" I always thought you enjoyed a book or were bored by it. Not so. I was disgusted with it. The parting words of the heroine, "And I have been lied to." She should have been shot. The author' s writing skills were acknowledged in both reviews. I doubt if Rembrandt could sell a masterpiece of vomit.
The Fifth Avenue dentist who gave me $3,000 worth of treatment and would only take twenty bucks. He was a Navy dentist who I had served with on Guam. The nicest words I ever heard, "That will be twenty dollars." I was set to drop a bundle. I made it up to him in referrals.
The heart surgeon, with a huge income, told me he couldn't afford his insurance and was going to quit. I grunted with sympathy, as my intestine popped, from carrying his share of the world's wealth.
How it was to tour Russia as a reporter from a top financial magazine? The reporter was actually an editor of the magazine, a chap who, no doubt, was an expert on world economy. He told me what a joke it was to see a lock factory that had to fulfill its quota by tonnage, meet it by making huge locks. He had toured their factories and couldn't believe what he had seen. Still in a state of shock, he gave me all the details of his trip and then I read it in the magazine, the following edition. In l970 he knew U.S.S.R was doomed.
I asked the late Paul Ford who was starring in "It's Never Too Late," how he remembered his lines. He always spoke as if he was very mixed up. I don't think he ever acted. Paul Ford of the 'Bilko Show' and 'The Russians Are Coming' was Paul Ford, period. "I don' t," he replied, "I know just about what to say .Every night my lines are a little different." He was one humble person.
I met the old New York Times reporter, F.W. Marquand, who covered Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show and knew Cody, and also knew James Barrie, author of 'Peter Pan' . Imagine talking to some one who knew Buffalo Bill.
Then there was Jack Rose, the very last of the bare-knuckle fighters. A nice little man, about ninety when I met him. He fought as a bantam. There was always an unbelievable amount of rounds in each of his fights. In one of the clippings he showed me he was wearing a jewel-studded belt. He was a winner. He was a cream puff. What a simple guy! He was huggable. I couldn't picture him hurting anyone.
There was also the guy who had a swimming pool in his mansion next to his bed, my fondest dream. Each morning he jumped out of bed into his pool. One of the finest men I have ever met, yet when he told me of his baggage I knew I would never have the courage to jump into his pool. Life is very fair. It's unfair to everyone.
How would you like to be owner of one of worlds top publishing houses, and give each of your nephews and nieces a million dollars on their twenty-first birthday? Don' t forget to take his special daughter with you. She is the woman standing in the corner facing the wall. The world is very fair.
The member of the John Birch Society who had about fifty pounds of South African krugerrands in his box and was waiting for the U.S. to collapse any day.
The artist who gave me one of his paintings and then a month later jokingly accused me of hanging it under my bed. I told him, " Stay out of my bedroom."
The people who become captives of their wealth. Sometimes I actually thought the vault would pulsate, there were so many hearts locked in it. People would callme to ask me to check if their box was locked.
That reminds me of the time I asked a multi-millionaire friend how it was to be rich. He looked me straight in the eye and said, " I' m not rich. I'll tell you who' s rich. You should meet the guy whose yacht is tied up next to mine down at Palm Beach. What a yacht!"
That' s when I learned we are all rich, and we are all poor, depending in which direction you' re looking.
The countless widows of the countless magnates who died twenty years too soon. The countless sons of the countless magnates who had never taken over their father' s business, and instead beat it out to California. One old friend worked all his life to build a thriving clothing store. Two months after his death his son closed the store and sold the building for eight million dollars. I asked his son, whom I knew since he was a kid how it was to have eight million bucks. He said it wasn' t all that good. He lost all his old friends. When out dining with his buddies, if he picked up the check, he made them look bad; if they paid, he was cheap.
The thousands of young actors and actresses who came into the Village to give New York a whack. The one lesson they had to learn: If you don' t think you're better than Tom Hanks or Meryl Streep go home. You have to have one heck of an ego to succeed in the theater. The competition eats all but the tigers. It's not really a wonderful town. I met a few who made it, but not many.
The poor soul, who survived Belsen, and needed no tattoo. His eyes and skull-like face told it all. He said when he went into the camp he was a devout Jew. Now he firmly believed that Moses met no one, and heard nothing on top of that mountain. Top that for tragedy. He never really survived. That man was dead. He was a ghost haunting the living. I wish I had never met him. I never asked him for his story. Just to look at him made me nauseous with guilt. That painful reflex action gave me quite an insight into who is our brother's keeper.
The millions of dollars of diamond jewelry shown to me that could not be worn because of the crime in our society and not sold because, "My late husband gave it to me." Actually worthless to the owner.
The very distinguished gentleman, with Homburg and velvet collared coat, who only walked backwards. What a strange, horrible illness. Ask your father what a Homberg is.
Learning never to ask how the wife is, if you hadn't seen her for a while. Divorce was a popular past time in the Village.
The lady who removed every stitch of her clothes, down to the buff, sans shoes or stockings, on the bank floor. She had been told that she lacked sufficient I.D. for the bank to cash her check.
" How' s this for I.D.?"
The rest of the customers completely ignored her (the subway syndrome). I hadcome up on the bank floor to make a deposit. You could hear that pin drop.
The Admiral, classmate and friend of Rickover, who headed a destroyer flotilla, was now a lawyer. His destroyers ran cover for our convoy when the outfit was on its way to Iwo. He had served on some of the same ships my father was stationed on. I became a close friend of his father who was a very wise old rabbi. I dined with the rabbi at his home. A very kind soul. The whole family was a class act.
The Koreans own all the dry cleaning stores in New York City. Great money if youwant to put the time in. One young Korean told me he had to go to Boston in order locate a store that was for sale. This young man was what America is all about, both he and his wife, upon getting out of Parsons, put their careers as commercial artists on hold. They managed at one time or another to obtain a Laundromat, a restaurant and now they were seeking a dry cleaning business. Shortly after his return from Boston he told me his only child crawled out the window of his twelve-story apartment on Sixth Ave. Sometimes it just doesn' t pay to make friends.
The Korean girls, who worked the massage parlor around the corner from the bank, all had Irish last names and married GIs to get over here. They made a ton of money the hard way, five hundred to a thousand a day, tax-free. The average girl worked a year, made a large grub stake, then would take off to open a 7-11 out west somewhere. They all looked like sweet young things, living on the razoredge, in very rough company. The courts finally shut them down. I heard their language, when testifying, was so innocently gross, the judge had to clear the court.
The voice coach, who always invited me to observe his class of aspiring students on graduation night. He would book a club in the Village so they could perform live. I think his students always thought I was on a talent search. I felt a little guilty when some of his students would fawn over me. I thought his singers were great, but some of his comedians were hilariously lousy. Talk about chutzpah. He was a good coach, but he wouldn't take the responsibility for their material. He himself was a natural comedian and I enjoyed his company; a good friend for many years.
God, did I know widows. Some never cry, and some never stop. With their husband gone, most wives had no idea how to handle their finances. As time passed they lost touch with reality. It was painful to see the Fifth Avenue dowager facing Alzheimer's alone.
Quite often these women forgot to eat, or pay any of their utilities. I kept alot of telephones ringing and lights on. Sometimes I actually opened their pocketbooks to see if they had enough money to buy food, or I took money out of their accounts and paid the old bills that they carried, and gave them enough money for the week. They thought they were destitute because their pocketbook was empty, when in actuality they were extremely well off. They would constantly forget that they had accounts with us. The wife of the dentist dressed in rags and always thought she was broke. I went through their safe deposit boxes hunting coupon bearing bonds that sometimes had not been clipped in years. They would be so grateful when I found several thousand dollars of their own money. They wanted me to take half of it, but I never did. It was sad. It was so easy for these women to fall through the cracks. Those whose children had long ago moved to California and called Mom once in awhile. Then there were the childless, or the poor wretches who had planned their own lonely demise. They were prey to the unscrupulous. When a relative eventually showed up, I could only cross my fingers and hope for the best. The best long-term investment is still children, but there are no sure things.
The people upstairs must have suspected what I was doing, but I think they preferred not to believe it, so unbankish . Money and Banking and Mathematics of Finance were not my strong suits. I blew both of them in college. Thank God I majored in Philosophy. I never regretted it. To me the bank was always a vapor, an illusion. I could never relate to it. Don't misunderstand me I was always loyal to my employer, but in my own fashion. They came out far ahead.
I enjoyed the close relationship I maintained with my customers, and naturally I paid a price. A tear accompanied every laugh I shared with them.
I had a lot of gay friends who were caught in that sudden chilling wind thatcame from nowhere. I remembered my mother had often mentioned the horror she had witnessed during the influenza epidemic of l918. She had worked as a maid in doctor' s office in New York City. The doctor would come home and empty his pockets of all his money, and she would put it in a basket to be placed out on a windowsill. The flu was taking whole families. AIDS was reaping only the young men, but oh so thoroughly. Outside of San Francisco, there are probably more gays in the Village per square foot then any other place in our country. The gays who lived in the Village were only in the closet if they worked in an up or downtown office. Most of the gays I knew were either in the theater or the fashion industry. A great bunch, but I did feel a definite gap between us. Their world was gay but I thought I sensed a bitterness they felt toward the establishment, a hidden anger. There was an invisible line drawn, or maybe a fence that kept our worlds apart. They had more than their share of talent and, it seemed, good looks. They also had a sharp and caustic wit, but I also felt they were extremely lonely.
It was sad seeing the effeminate gay trying to built up his immune system by going on steroids, taking up body building, which was completely out of character. I watched as so many of them slowly started to fail, fade and die. It was so damn certain. Every gay was terror-stricken.The past could not be undone. When the young men died, I met their grieving families, who came to the Village from all over the country. They would go down to the vault to empty the safe deposit box. It doesn't get much sadder. As I sit here I can conjure up a sea of faces of dead friends. They all took a part of me with them. Time lock set, vault door closed, I sit in a bar across the street from the Bank, downing a Manhattan. I have come to the conclusion that the only thing of real value in my vault were the people who came into it.
Greenwich Village is that one watering hole, where those who wish to know NewYork must taste and see. If you're single, hungry for adventure, and a non-conformist, it's worth a year of your life. You will meet fellow pilgrims who appear from every part of the country seeking a sort of Camelot; some find it.
I loved the restaurants, the bars, the sidewalk art shows, antique shops, littletheaters, and playing chess in Washington Square. The people from the New School, New York University, Parsons, Cardozo, Forbes, Prentice Hall, Fairchild, Sheed & Ward, Marshall Chess Club, and, Asti's restaurant, were all the helpsing opera. There are the con games, the handkerchief switch, three card Monty,the supposed moron (Oscar winner), who has just found gold coins on thesubway and ask you for advice. The pick-pockets who catch you in the swingingdoor, or puts ketchup on you when you are going up a staircase and tells you, "Youâ ve been shot!" While your ripping your coat off, he walks away with the briefcase you have just put down. The supposedly stolen watch, peeking out ofthe folded newspaper and the whispered, " How about it, Mac, ten bucks?" Your friendly mugger, who can do a job on you in ten seconds, in broad daylight. I admired them, all but the mugger; he plays too rough. What you see in the Village quite often ain' t what you get. If you wish to tour the Village, keep one hand on your heart, the other on your wallet and one eye in the back of your head.
Thirty years ago I descended into a hole in the ground, smack in the middle of the Village. The hole was actually a bank' s safe deposit vault where I was employed. To describe the ' hole' where I spent a great part of my life, I could compare it to a hermitage. Those who wander down into the hole looking for a place to hide their wealth would wonder how I could stand the solitude. Little did they know from whence I came. In my misspend youth I had become addicted to chess and darn near lived in Washington Square Park. I was just a wood pusher who loved the game. As the saying goes : I don' t think I ever beat a well man. I was once taken apart by a sightless man in thirty moves. If the world is a stage, I met myshare of fellow performers, and it was quite a show. Many members of the cast sat at my desk over the years. All I could offer them was my two floppy ears. I did not attempt to untie the knots. I left that to the hundreds of psychotherapists who infested the Village at the time.
I found that the common denominator among us all was that we liked to be listened to, and that we needed a lot of loving. Each one of us exists in a different space and time that hides our interdependence. Not blind to our basic oneness, we attempt to reach out to one another.
As the strangers sat at my desk ,the first thing said would be, "Are they all your kids" I had a frame on the wall that held small cameo pictures of my adversaries. They then asked me how I managed. I replied that I had never come close. I gave the person a brief glimpse of life in the trenches and we would commence to bond.
Most people, believe it or not, are human. They would warmly accept me as a fellow member of the walking wounded. Their need to heal and be healed would service. There was a mystical touching, a willing to trust and risk letting me into their lives. They filled out a brief application that told me enough about their background to pick their locks, permitting me to draw out the highlights of the life of one of God's greatest creations. I loved them all for taking the time to sit and share. I have few gifts, but one I always enjoyed was being a good listener.
I showed heartfelt interest in their lives and they repaid me in kind. No one wore a mask at my desk. There was no need not to be honest. I know their love and wisdom made a huge difference in my handling life's problems. Humanity is like a session of group therapy that's just not running too smoothly. We really do need a Moderator.
Customers sitting at my desk carried me on voyages of wild adventure, of deep tragedy, the greatest moments in their lives, their dreams of success, how it was to grow up in Spleedunk. They shared their feelings of isolation and loneliness, even of contemplating suicide. Three of my customers told me of their plans and the good listener failed to hear them. I guess I had more hope for them than they did.
Individuals described the part they were playing in the big show, from the Mayor's bagman to Frank Sheed, (we had a mutual love of Augustine), and Malcolm Forbes. I had his Faberge Collection. I would let him look at it once in awhile.
There was the resident of the Bowery, an old shaggy bum who held his pants up with a piece of cord. He wore a copper washer for a ring. I was always alarmed that the bank was going to throw him out. He loved to play the horses. When hedied, as was the custom, we opened his safe deposit box. He may not have beaten the world, but he beat the horses: three thousand bucks in cash, a winner.
From the psychiatrist who told me she had treated homosexuals in the village forthirty years, and never met a mother who wasn't glad her son was a homosexual.
The practicing child psychiatrist who always mummified her safe deposit box with red masking tape, and constantly accused me of putting things from her kitchen into the box. Outside of that she was as sane as you are, I think. Ninety-ninepercent of the time she was perfectly normal. We got along great, but she was always disappointed in me when she found strange things in her box. One time she had a police captain from the local precinct call me up and tell me to knock it off. He did not need an explanation.
There was the psychiatrist who always had a big grin on his face, not a smile. I figured this guy must have solved the problem. I finally asked him, " What's the answer, Doc?"
Not removing the grin, he answered, "Heavy sedation."
The writer, who told me her novel was about to be reviewed in the Daily and Sunday Times the following week. That Friday I picked her book up at the local bookstore, intending to give it a preview reading. I spent a busy weekend with my head in her book. She was a superb writer, a master of the English language. She picked her words like the Colombians pick their beans. Her phrases were memorable.
I constantly paused to admire her style, but the book was god-awful. The meat of the story was the reminiscence of the main character, a dowager. She told of a life born in poverty and dying in immense wealth, at the age of ninety. Her life had been pure self-gratification, without conscience or regret. Adultery, stealing, poisoning her Down's syndrome grandchild, vice after vice, all perfectly justified. The heroine would have made a great spouse for Sammy of "What Makes Sammy Run?" I always thought you enjoyed a book or were bored by it. Not so. I was disgusted with it. The parting words of the heroine, "And I have been lied to." She should have been shot. The author' s writing skills were acknowledged in both reviews. I doubt if Rembrandt could sell a masterpiece of vomit.
The Fifth Avenue dentist who gave me $3,000 worth of treatment and would only take twenty bucks. He was a Navy dentist who I had served with on Guam. The nicest words I ever heard, "That will be twenty dollars." I was set to drop a bundle. I made it up to him in referrals.
The heart surgeon, with a huge income, told me he couldn't afford his insurance and was going to quit. I grunted with sympathy, as my intestine popped, from carrying his share of the world's wealth.
How it was to tour Russia as a reporter from a top financial magazine? The reporter was actually an editor of the magazine, a chap who, no doubt, was an expert on world economy. He told me what a joke it was to see a lock factory that had to fulfill its quota by tonnage, meet it by making huge locks. He had toured their factories and couldn't believe what he had seen. Still in a state of shock, he gave me all the details of his trip and then I read it in the magazine, the following edition. In l970 he knew U.S.S.R was doomed.
I asked the late Paul Ford who was starring in "It's Never Too Late," how he remembered his lines. He always spoke as if he was very mixed up. I don't think he ever acted. Paul Ford of the 'Bilko Show' and 'The Russians Are Coming' was Paul Ford, period. "I don' t," he replied, "I know just about what to say .Every night my lines are a little different." He was one humble person.
I met the old New York Times reporter, F.W. Marquand, who covered Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show and knew Cody, and also knew James Barrie, author of 'Peter Pan' . Imagine talking to some one who knew Buffalo Bill.
Then there was Jack Rose, the very last of the bare-knuckle fighters. A nice little man, about ninety when I met him. He fought as a bantam. There was always an unbelievable amount of rounds in each of his fights. In one of the clippings he showed me he was wearing a jewel-studded belt. He was a winner. He was a cream puff. What a simple guy! He was huggable. I couldn't picture him hurting anyone.
There was also the guy who had a swimming pool in his mansion next to his bed, my fondest dream. Each morning he jumped out of bed into his pool. One of the finest men I have ever met, yet when he told me of his baggage I knew I would never have the courage to jump into his pool. Life is very fair. It's unfair to everyone.
How would you like to be owner of one of worlds top publishing houses, and give each of your nephews and nieces a million dollars on their twenty-first birthday? Don' t forget to take his special daughter with you. She is the woman standing in the corner facing the wall. The world is very fair.
The member of the John Birch Society who had about fifty pounds of South African krugerrands in his box and was waiting for the U.S. to collapse any day.
The artist who gave me one of his paintings and then a month later jokingly accused me of hanging it under my bed. I told him, " Stay out of my bedroom."
The people who become captives of their wealth. Sometimes I actually thought the vault would pulsate, there were so many hearts locked in it. People would callme to ask me to check if their box was locked.
That reminds me of the time I asked a multi-millionaire friend how it was to be rich. He looked me straight in the eye and said, " I' m not rich. I'll tell you who' s rich. You should meet the guy whose yacht is tied up next to mine down at Palm Beach. What a yacht!"
That' s when I learned we are all rich, and we are all poor, depending in which direction you' re looking.
The countless widows of the countless magnates who died twenty years too soon. The countless sons of the countless magnates who had never taken over their father' s business, and instead beat it out to California. One old friend worked all his life to build a thriving clothing store. Two months after his death his son closed the store and sold the building for eight million dollars. I asked his son, whom I knew since he was a kid how it was to have eight million bucks. He said it wasn' t all that good. He lost all his old friends. When out dining with his buddies, if he picked up the check, he made them look bad; if they paid, he was cheap.
The thousands of young actors and actresses who came into the Village to give New York a whack. The one lesson they had to learn: If you don' t think you're better than Tom Hanks or Meryl Streep go home. You have to have one heck of an ego to succeed in the theater. The competition eats all but the tigers. It's not really a wonderful town. I met a few who made it, but not many.
The poor soul, who survived Belsen, and needed no tattoo. His eyes and skull-like face told it all. He said when he went into the camp he was a devout Jew. Now he firmly believed that Moses met no one, and heard nothing on top of that mountain. Top that for tragedy. He never really survived. That man was dead. He was a ghost haunting the living. I wish I had never met him. I never asked him for his story. Just to look at him made me nauseous with guilt. That painful reflex action gave me quite an insight into who is our brother's keeper.
The millions of dollars of diamond jewelry shown to me that could not be worn because of the crime in our society and not sold because, "My late husband gave it to me." Actually worthless to the owner.
The very distinguished gentleman, with Homburg and velvet collared coat, who only walked backwards. What a strange, horrible illness. Ask your father what a Homberg is.
Learning never to ask how the wife is, if you hadn't seen her for a while. Divorce was a popular past time in the Village.
The lady who removed every stitch of her clothes, down to the buff, sans shoes or stockings, on the bank floor. She had been told that she lacked sufficient I.D. for the bank to cash her check.
" How' s this for I.D.?"
The rest of the customers completely ignored her (the subway syndrome). I hadcome up on the bank floor to make a deposit. You could hear that pin drop.
The Admiral, classmate and friend of Rickover, who headed a destroyer flotilla, was now a lawyer. His destroyers ran cover for our convoy when the outfit was on its way to Iwo. He had served on some of the same ships my father was stationed on. I became a close friend of his father who was a very wise old rabbi. I dined with the rabbi at his home. A very kind soul. The whole family was a class act.
The Koreans own all the dry cleaning stores in New York City. Great money if youwant to put the time in. One young Korean told me he had to go to Boston in order locate a store that was for sale. This young man was what America is all about, both he and his wife, upon getting out of Parsons, put their careers as commercial artists on hold. They managed at one time or another to obtain a Laundromat, a restaurant and now they were seeking a dry cleaning business. Shortly after his return from Boston he told me his only child crawled out the window of his twelve-story apartment on Sixth Ave. Sometimes it just doesn' t pay to make friends.
The Korean girls, who worked the massage parlor around the corner from the bank, all had Irish last names and married GIs to get over here. They made a ton of money the hard way, five hundred to a thousand a day, tax-free. The average girl worked a year, made a large grub stake, then would take off to open a 7-11 out west somewhere. They all looked like sweet young things, living on the razoredge, in very rough company. The courts finally shut them down. I heard their language, when testifying, was so innocently gross, the judge had to clear the court.
The voice coach, who always invited me to observe his class of aspiring students on graduation night. He would book a club in the Village so they could perform live. I think his students always thought I was on a talent search. I felt a little guilty when some of his students would fawn over me. I thought his singers were great, but some of his comedians were hilariously lousy. Talk about chutzpah. He was a good coach, but he wouldn't take the responsibility for their material. He himself was a natural comedian and I enjoyed his company; a good friend for many years.
God, did I know widows. Some never cry, and some never stop. With their husband gone, most wives had no idea how to handle their finances. As time passed they lost touch with reality. It was painful to see the Fifth Avenue dowager facing Alzheimer's alone.
Quite often these women forgot to eat, or pay any of their utilities. I kept alot of telephones ringing and lights on. Sometimes I actually opened their pocketbooks to see if they had enough money to buy food, or I took money out of their accounts and paid the old bills that they carried, and gave them enough money for the week. They thought they were destitute because their pocketbook was empty, when in actuality they were extremely well off. They would constantly forget that they had accounts with us. The wife of the dentist dressed in rags and always thought she was broke. I went through their safe deposit boxes hunting coupon bearing bonds that sometimes had not been clipped in years. They would be so grateful when I found several thousand dollars of their own money. They wanted me to take half of it, but I never did. It was sad. It was so easy for these women to fall through the cracks. Those whose children had long ago moved to California and called Mom once in awhile. Then there were the childless, or the poor wretches who had planned their own lonely demise. They were prey to the unscrupulous. When a relative eventually showed up, I could only cross my fingers and hope for the best. The best long-term investment is still children, but there are no sure things.
The people upstairs must have suspected what I was doing, but I think they preferred not to believe it, so unbankish . Money and Banking and Mathematics of Finance were not my strong suits. I blew both of them in college. Thank God I majored in Philosophy. I never regretted it. To me the bank was always a vapor, an illusion. I could never relate to it. Don't misunderstand me I was always loyal to my employer, but in my own fashion. They came out far ahead.
I enjoyed the close relationship I maintained with my customers, and naturally I paid a price. A tear accompanied every laugh I shared with them.
I had a lot of gay friends who were caught in that sudden chilling wind thatcame from nowhere. I remembered my mother had often mentioned the horror she had witnessed during the influenza epidemic of l918. She had worked as a maid in doctor' s office in New York City. The doctor would come home and empty his pockets of all his money, and she would put it in a basket to be placed out on a windowsill. The flu was taking whole families. AIDS was reaping only the young men, but oh so thoroughly. Outside of San Francisco, there are probably more gays in the Village per square foot then any other place in our country. The gays who lived in the Village were only in the closet if they worked in an up or downtown office. Most of the gays I knew were either in the theater or the fashion industry. A great bunch, but I did feel a definite gap between us. Their world was gay but I thought I sensed a bitterness they felt toward the establishment, a hidden anger. There was an invisible line drawn, or maybe a fence that kept our worlds apart. They had more than their share of talent and, it seemed, good looks. They also had a sharp and caustic wit, but I also felt they were extremely lonely.
It was sad seeing the effeminate gay trying to built up his immune system by going on steroids, taking up body building, which was completely out of character. I watched as so many of them slowly started to fail, fade and die. It was so damn certain. Every gay was terror-stricken.The past could not be undone. When the young men died, I met their grieving families, who came to the Village from all over the country. They would go down to the vault to empty the safe deposit box. It doesn't get much sadder. As I sit here I can conjure up a sea of faces of dead friends. They all took a part of me with them. Time lock set, vault door closed, I sit in a bar across the street from the Bank, downing a Manhattan. I have come to the conclusion that the only thing of real value in my vault were the people who came into it.
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Spot and Snort
There was something about the little dark spot above Eric's left eye that Maggie absolutely loved. She became facinated with it on their very first date as they made somewhat akward conversation over burgers and milkshakes. The little dance the freckle did with every raise of the eyebrow or rolling of the eyes entertained Maggie so much that she didn't realize she was staring until Eric stared back at her. The look on his face coupled with the adorableness of the freckle was too much for a young Irish school girl and Maggie had burst into giggles, shrieking 'I love your spot!'
Of course, Eric hadn't the faintest idea of what she was talking about. She seemed to be a bit mad, to him, and he wondered if perhaps it would be a good idea to call the date short. That was when Maggie snorted. Both she and Eric gasped and Maggie clamped her hand over her mouth. Her cheeks gained the faintest tint of embarrassment and the two teenagers just stared at each other for a moment.
Eric broke into a smile and his freckle leapt on high. Maggie began tittering again from behind her hand and before too long both of them were laughing heartily; Maggie alternately snorting and giggling and Eric making his freckle dance with each chortle. The other patrons of the diner were undoubtedly confused and a bit frightened.
After that, many more dates followed and Maggie and Eric became enamoured with each other. They took to calling each other 'Spot' and 'Snort', something that confused their peers and, later, amused their children. Years went on, and it gave the couple great joy to introduce one another to co-workers and friends by saying 'This is my darling Spot,' or 'I'd like you to meet my beautiful wife, Snort.' The inevitable surprised moment of silence that always followed such introductions made many a boring function tolerable.
Maggie and Eric's children grew up and left the home to start families of their own. When their youngest left, Maggie kissed Eric's freckle and told him "It'll be just you and me now, Spot. A couple of old coots."
Eric patted his wife's hand and said "We've got a few more years before we reach the level of coot."
They spent those years traveling and telling anyone who would listen the meaning behind their nicknames. Even when Maggie began to get forgetful of everything else, she remembered the story behind her husband's Spot, and she still snorted with laughter when he reminded her how she had giggled as a young girl.
Then Eric had died and Maggie didn't laugh any more. When she finally joined her husband, and her children read their parents' will, they had to smile through their tears. For years after they would bring flowers to a grave under a tree that was marked "Spot and Snort~Forever Laughing."
Then one spring, Eric and Maggie's youngest child brought to the grave yard a smiling, skipping child whose freckle danced above his eye as he read the inscription of his grandparents' marker.
Of course, Eric hadn't the faintest idea of what she was talking about. She seemed to be a bit mad, to him, and he wondered if perhaps it would be a good idea to call the date short. That was when Maggie snorted. Both she and Eric gasped and Maggie clamped her hand over her mouth. Her cheeks gained the faintest tint of embarrassment and the two teenagers just stared at each other for a moment.
Eric broke into a smile and his freckle leapt on high. Maggie began tittering again from behind her hand and before too long both of them were laughing heartily; Maggie alternately snorting and giggling and Eric making his freckle dance with each chortle. The other patrons of the diner were undoubtedly confused and a bit frightened.
After that, many more dates followed and Maggie and Eric became enamoured with each other. They took to calling each other 'Spot' and 'Snort', something that confused their peers and, later, amused their children. Years went on, and it gave the couple great joy to introduce one another to co-workers and friends by saying 'This is my darling Spot,' or 'I'd like you to meet my beautiful wife, Snort.' The inevitable surprised moment of silence that always followed such introductions made many a boring function tolerable.
Maggie and Eric's children grew up and left the home to start families of their own. When their youngest left, Maggie kissed Eric's freckle and told him "It'll be just you and me now, Spot. A couple of old coots."
Eric patted his wife's hand and said "We've got a few more years before we reach the level of coot."
They spent those years traveling and telling anyone who would listen the meaning behind their nicknames. Even when Maggie began to get forgetful of everything else, she remembered the story behind her husband's Spot, and she still snorted with laughter when he reminded her how she had giggled as a young girl.
Then Eric had died and Maggie didn't laugh any more. When she finally joined her husband, and her children read their parents' will, they had to smile through their tears. For years after they would bring flowers to a grave under a tree that was marked "Spot and Snort~Forever Laughing."
Then one spring, Eric and Maggie's youngest child brought to the grave yard a smiling, skipping child whose freckle danced above his eye as he read the inscription of his grandparents' marker.
Night Terror
Short Story By: Nik
Tai Whalen can' t believe it.
How the hell do I get myself into these situations? It' s two o' clock in the morning and I' m sitting here on a blind date wishing somebody would just slip me a roofie and wake my ass in the morning.
" Don' t you think so Tai?"
Oh shit. Crystal is talking and I have no idea about what. Just smile and nod, Tai. Hopefully that will make things go by a little faster.
" I mean, if UFOs and aliens actually existed, why haven't they made themselves known by now? And anyway, how you gonna tell me that they have the technology to travel light-years and yet they' ve been abducting and ' studying' the same species for over 50 years now? Come on! Either they are a highly advanced civilization or they' re as dense as a doorpost. You can't have it both ways."
Crystal is an extremely intelligent woman and always has been. For that reason, Tai has never been able to understand why she wastes her time with such trivial conversation. Everybody has their vices. Tai figures that a fascination with nonsense must be Crystal' s.
The two have been friends since they were thrown together as roommatessophomore year at Howard University. They knew each other like sisters. All the secrets. All the real truths. That's why Tai is in a state of disbelief. It's bad enough that Crystal tricked her into this blind date. The two had come to the club together. To Tai's surprise, they were met by Crystal's boyfriend Donald and a gentleman by the name of Andrew Prescott. Among the many problems with this setup was the most obvious: Tai didn't date white boys. Crystal was well aware of this self-imposed rule. So not only was Tai bored stiff, she was a little hot with her best friend as well.
" Can I get you another drink, Tai?" Andrew asks.
" No thanks, 'Drew. I think I' m gonna head out pretty soon anyway."
The other part of this equation is that as it turns out, this isn't actuallya ' blind' date. Tai and Andrew know each other from childhood. Their parents had worked at a secret installation in Central America over 15 years ago. The kind where nobody ever leaves because it' s a self-contained compound complete with schools, shopping, and selected entertainment. Back then, Tai had actually had a childhood crush on the boy who was 5 years her senior. But, many things had changed since that time. Whatever was going on below the surface of that swarthy equatorial jungle had driven a wedge between her parents and driven her mother out of her life. Now, all these years later, the last thing that Tai wants to deal with is anything that reminds her of that time. Dealing with her father is hard enough.
" Well I think these two are going to be here awhile. Let me take you home," Drew yells into her ear, trying to be discreet yet overcome by the noise of the club.
Tai weighed her options. He was right. It didn't look like her ride would be ready to leave any time soon. And there was no way she was going to pay for a cab to pick her up and drive the thirty-something miles back to her house. The club was packed, but she didn' t want to take her chances catching a ride from some guy she just met. At least she knew Andrew.
With that decision made, the two said their goodnights and headed out toAndrewâ s car.
"I see you've done well for yourself," Tai said observing the royal blue Porsche.
"I do okay."
"Mmmhmm. What is it that you do anyway?"
" I work for NASA. Not too far from your father actually."
"Oh really."
"Yeah. And don't be pissed at Crystal. When I heard you were in town, I begged for weeks to get her to introduce us. I really just wore her down I think."
"I'd like to wear down the bottom of my shoe up-side her head," Tai thought. " Just part of life with Crystal sometimes. I' ll forgive her . . .eventually. It' s just up here. The white one on the right."
Somewhere in Tai' s subconscious, a little warning bell was going off. This was the first time she had uttered a word of directions. Yet Andrew had left the club and driven straight to her house. Yes the bell was going off, but under the haze of three Strawberry Martinis and a Long Island Iced Tea, she couldn't hear it.
Andrew pulled into the driveway of Tai's modest home. He walked her to the door and stalled with as much small talk as he could muster. Tai took as muchof this filibuster as she could until she finally ended it with a peck on the cheek and an abrupt 'good-night' . Tai didn't want to encourage him, but hell, he was cute. Anybody could see that. Most certainly, a woman who hadn't had any since she broke with her boyfriend over 8 months ago could.
Once inside, Tai decided to forego the shower. It only took seconds to step out of her skin tight denim capris, red sequined tank top and black ankle boots. With nothing left on her body but her black laced thong, Tai collapsed on top of the covers of her queen-sized bed.
When the light awakened her, Tai couldn' t believe that morning had come so soon. She also couldn't believe that she had slept with the curtains open. Damn. The sun must be parked outside her bedroom window. Thatâ s what she thought until she tried to get up.
"Just relax. We are not here to harm you."
Tai heard the voice, but sensed that there was more than one intruder in her personal space. With every ounce of strength and resolve she had, Tai fought. She fought so hard that sweat and tears rolled from her body in waves. But no matter how hard she fought, she could not move.
" She' s clean and so is the house," she heard one of them say.
Was that in her head or were they speaking out loud? Tai couldnâ t tell anymore. Terrorwas influencing thought, emotion, and action of her body. She still couldnâ tmake out any shapes or bodies due to the intense light coming from the window.
"Your new boyfriend is not who you think he is. Contact us before it' s too late."
Then, just as suddenly as it started, it was over. Tai woke up Sunday morning with a mountainous hangover. It was made worse by the memory of that crazy dream she had. That was it. That was the last time she hung out with Crystal.
Until the next time, she thought with a chuckle.
It was already noon. Tai was supposed to have an early dinner at her Dad' s house today.
I better start my de-tox if Iâ m gonna make it.
Tai headed for the shower and almost passed out when she stepped over her blacklace underwear at the foot of the bed.
Tai Whalen can' t believe it.
How the hell do I get myself into these situations? It' s two o' clock in the morning and I' m sitting here on a blind date wishing somebody would just slip me a roofie and wake my ass in the morning.
" Don' t you think so Tai?"
Oh shit. Crystal is talking and I have no idea about what. Just smile and nod, Tai. Hopefully that will make things go by a little faster.
" I mean, if UFOs and aliens actually existed, why haven't they made themselves known by now? And anyway, how you gonna tell me that they have the technology to travel light-years and yet they' ve been abducting and ' studying' the same species for over 50 years now? Come on! Either they are a highly advanced civilization or they' re as dense as a doorpost. You can't have it both ways."
Crystal is an extremely intelligent woman and always has been. For that reason, Tai has never been able to understand why she wastes her time with such trivial conversation. Everybody has their vices. Tai figures that a fascination with nonsense must be Crystal' s.
The two have been friends since they were thrown together as roommatessophomore year at Howard University. They knew each other like sisters. All the secrets. All the real truths. That's why Tai is in a state of disbelief. It's bad enough that Crystal tricked her into this blind date. The two had come to the club together. To Tai's surprise, they were met by Crystal's boyfriend Donald and a gentleman by the name of Andrew Prescott. Among the many problems with this setup was the most obvious: Tai didn't date white boys. Crystal was well aware of this self-imposed rule. So not only was Tai bored stiff, she was a little hot with her best friend as well.
" Can I get you another drink, Tai?" Andrew asks.
" No thanks, 'Drew. I think I' m gonna head out pretty soon anyway."
The other part of this equation is that as it turns out, this isn't actuallya ' blind' date. Tai and Andrew know each other from childhood. Their parents had worked at a secret installation in Central America over 15 years ago. The kind where nobody ever leaves because it' s a self-contained compound complete with schools, shopping, and selected entertainment. Back then, Tai had actually had a childhood crush on the boy who was 5 years her senior. But, many things had changed since that time. Whatever was going on below the surface of that swarthy equatorial jungle had driven a wedge between her parents and driven her mother out of her life. Now, all these years later, the last thing that Tai wants to deal with is anything that reminds her of that time. Dealing with her father is hard enough.
" Well I think these two are going to be here awhile. Let me take you home," Drew yells into her ear, trying to be discreet yet overcome by the noise of the club.
Tai weighed her options. He was right. It didn't look like her ride would be ready to leave any time soon. And there was no way she was going to pay for a cab to pick her up and drive the thirty-something miles back to her house. The club was packed, but she didn' t want to take her chances catching a ride from some guy she just met. At least she knew Andrew.
With that decision made, the two said their goodnights and headed out toAndrewâ s car.
"I see you've done well for yourself," Tai said observing the royal blue Porsche.
"I do okay."
"Mmmhmm. What is it that you do anyway?"
" I work for NASA. Not too far from your father actually."
"Oh really."
"Yeah. And don't be pissed at Crystal. When I heard you were in town, I begged for weeks to get her to introduce us. I really just wore her down I think."
"I'd like to wear down the bottom of my shoe up-side her head," Tai thought. " Just part of life with Crystal sometimes. I' ll forgive her . . .eventually. It' s just up here. The white one on the right."
Somewhere in Tai' s subconscious, a little warning bell was going off. This was the first time she had uttered a word of directions. Yet Andrew had left the club and driven straight to her house. Yes the bell was going off, but under the haze of three Strawberry Martinis and a Long Island Iced Tea, she couldn't hear it.
Andrew pulled into the driveway of Tai's modest home. He walked her to the door and stalled with as much small talk as he could muster. Tai took as muchof this filibuster as she could until she finally ended it with a peck on the cheek and an abrupt 'good-night' . Tai didn't want to encourage him, but hell, he was cute. Anybody could see that. Most certainly, a woman who hadn't had any since she broke with her boyfriend over 8 months ago could.
Once inside, Tai decided to forego the shower. It only took seconds to step out of her skin tight denim capris, red sequined tank top and black ankle boots. With nothing left on her body but her black laced thong, Tai collapsed on top of the covers of her queen-sized bed.
When the light awakened her, Tai couldn' t believe that morning had come so soon. She also couldn't believe that she had slept with the curtains open. Damn. The sun must be parked outside her bedroom window. Thatâ s what she thought until she tried to get up.
"Just relax. We are not here to harm you."
Tai heard the voice, but sensed that there was more than one intruder in her personal space. With every ounce of strength and resolve she had, Tai fought. She fought so hard that sweat and tears rolled from her body in waves. But no matter how hard she fought, she could not move.
" She' s clean and so is the house," she heard one of them say.
Was that in her head or were they speaking out loud? Tai couldnâ t tell anymore. Terrorwas influencing thought, emotion, and action of her body. She still couldnâ tmake out any shapes or bodies due to the intense light coming from the window.
"Your new boyfriend is not who you think he is. Contact us before it' s too late."
Then, just as suddenly as it started, it was over. Tai woke up Sunday morning with a mountainous hangover. It was made worse by the memory of that crazy dream she had. That was it. That was the last time she hung out with Crystal.
Until the next time, she thought with a chuckle.
It was already noon. Tai was supposed to have an early dinner at her Dad' s house today.
I better start my de-tox if Iâ m gonna make it.
Tai headed for the shower and almost passed out when she stepped over her blacklace underwear at the foot of the bed.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
The Dinner
Short story by VictorM
So last week into my life walks Ivette. Pleasant and easy going enough, her stock climbed through the roof when I found out she was a gourmet cook. After a few pleasant nights out, she invited me to dinner at her house on Saturday. How can I turn down a home cooked meal?
Her house was simple and elegant. The lights were dim, the candles burning and Leonard Cohen playing on the CD. The table was immaculately set, and she was prepared to decant the Cabernet Sauvignon bottle of wine I had brought.
After a wonderful appetizer, she brought out the entrée. I wasn’t quite sure what it was. She noticed my quizzical look and reassured me to just try it. She seemed so happy to display her surprise dish that I decided to go along and not ask.
The plate was beautifully garnished. The first bite tasted wonderful. Then I noticed something in the middle of the plate that looked rather strange. I continued to make small talk and sip the wine as I explored with the fork. I could swear I was looking at the tail of a rat. I was startled but composed myself. I mean so many things could look like a rat’s tail. And besides, how do I know what a rat’s tail looks like when it’s cooked? I shrugged off my wild imagination and ate all the food. It was delicious and a perfect match for the wine.
At the end of the night, as I was ready to leave, she asked me to do her a favor. She gave me a bag to take to the dumpster outside. As I grabbed the bag I could see it looked like a pet’s cage. I asked her what it was and she said it was Franky’s cage, her pet rat. He had died that morning.
I won’t be seeing Ivette again.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
Woman in Omaha
Short Story by VictorM
It was a cold Sunday morning in Omaha, Nebraska. I dashed across the street from my hotel into the Stage Right coffee house to eat a bagel and read the newspaper. The coffee house was swarming with women who lend credence to my factheory that all women are bitches (factheory is a word I made up meaning: not fact but more than theory). And the bitches are everywhere: a girl flirting with her friend’s boyfriend; another whined about her cracked fingernail; yet another girl fixed her hair every few minutes, using the window as a mirror. Flirty bitches, fragile bitches, vain bitches -- they are everywhere. I had already given up on finding an exception to my factheory at this place when I looked over to my left and saw her.
She was sitting on a corner table, leaning against the window that faces the bus stop. She was reading a book and sipping from her cup. Her un-meticulous hair and loose clothes yelled “down to earth”. She didn’t seem to be striving to fit in with the rest of the trendy crowd. She exuded confidence with every glance. She wasn’t movie star beautiful, but she had that midwestern classic good look, the corn-fed look. If you don’t know what I mean, never mind, it’s not important anyway. What’s important is that I started feeling that she could be an exception.
I found myself staring at her. I tried to be discreet but she caught me a few times looking in her direction. I wasn’t quite sure if she was getting annoyed or not; her expressions were intriguing but I didn’t know how to read them. I hoped she didn’t think I was being a pest. But hey, she was looking back and that was a good thing.
I saw her scribble on a piece of paper and place it under the sugar container. Then she got up and walked out just as a bus was approaching. She came around on the outside of the window, looked at me and pointed to the piece of paper. I could read her lips saying: “for you”. She smiled, winked, turned around and stepped onto the bus. Before I could snap out from my startled state, she was gone.
I hurried to the table and picked up the piece of paper. All it had written on it was a phone number. No name, just a phone number. I smiled, thinking she was exciting and mysterious, direct yet not imposing, subtle but assured—signs of a special woman indeed.
A day later I nervously dialed 402-339-2653, the number she had scribbled on the piece of paper, and anxiously waited to hear her voice. After a few rings, a man answered announcing a place of business. I asked if he could help me locate a woman. I explained that I didn’t know her name but saw her the day before at the Stage Right. He said that no woman worked there, only men. I asked him to repeat the name of the business. He said: “Critter Control, Omaha’s leading pest control firm.”
That fucking bitch!
It was a cold Sunday morning in Omaha, Nebraska. I dashed across the street from my hotel into the Stage Right coffee house to eat a bagel and read the newspaper. The coffee house was swarming with women who lend credence to my factheory that all women are bitches (factheory is a word I made up meaning: not fact but more than theory). And the bitches are everywhere: a girl flirting with her friend’s boyfriend; another whined about her cracked fingernail; yet another girl fixed her hair every few minutes, using the window as a mirror. Flirty bitches, fragile bitches, vain bitches -- they are everywhere. I had already given up on finding an exception to my factheory at this place when I looked over to my left and saw her.
She was sitting on a corner table, leaning against the window that faces the bus stop. She was reading a book and sipping from her cup. Her un-meticulous hair and loose clothes yelled “down to earth”. She didn’t seem to be striving to fit in with the rest of the trendy crowd. She exuded confidence with every glance. She wasn’t movie star beautiful, but she had that midwestern classic good look, the corn-fed look. If you don’t know what I mean, never mind, it’s not important anyway. What’s important is that I started feeling that she could be an exception.
I found myself staring at her. I tried to be discreet but she caught me a few times looking in her direction. I wasn’t quite sure if she was getting annoyed or not; her expressions were intriguing but I didn’t know how to read them. I hoped she didn’t think I was being a pest. But hey, she was looking back and that was a good thing.
I saw her scribble on a piece of paper and place it under the sugar container. Then she got up and walked out just as a bus was approaching. She came around on the outside of the window, looked at me and pointed to the piece of paper. I could read her lips saying: “for you”. She smiled, winked, turned around and stepped onto the bus. Before I could snap out from my startled state, she was gone.
I hurried to the table and picked up the piece of paper. All it had written on it was a phone number. No name, just a phone number. I smiled, thinking she was exciting and mysterious, direct yet not imposing, subtle but assured—signs of a special woman indeed.
A day later I nervously dialed 402-339-2653, the number she had scribbled on the piece of paper, and anxiously waited to hear her voice. After a few rings, a man answered announcing a place of business. I asked if he could help me locate a woman. I explained that I didn’t know her name but saw her the day before at the Stage Right. He said that no woman worked there, only men. I asked him to repeat the name of the business. He said: “Critter Control, Omaha’s leading pest control firm.”
That fucking bitch!
Welcome to Short Stories
We'll be posting all kinds of short stories that stoke the imagination.
We're counting on most of the stories to be originals coming from you. We are relying on an honor system in accepting what is described as an original story.
We're looking for short stories in the 2000 word or less range, but we're not going to count words; we do emphasize the word "short".
If you wish include the URL to your own site along with your submission. We'll be happy to link to it as a thank you for sharing the story with us.
