Runaways
Dom just sat there staring at the airbike and shaking his head. Using both hands he scrubbed his head briskly, shaking dust and sand and twigs out of his hair.
Not smart Dom. Not smart at all.
He glanced around briefly before staring once again at the twisted lump of metal that used to be his ride.
Idiot! What was I thinking?
Dom inspected himself for any major cuts. Nothing too bad, but the skin was worn down pretty good on one of his elbows. The hair on the back of his neck stood up a bit when he saw the sand and gravel caked in blood.
Way to run, Dom. Way to leave them in the dust, eh?
He glanced around at his surroundings once more. He found himself in a shallow ravine, sitting in the shadow of a bridge that spanned its breadth overhead. Looking around, he could tell it wasn't going to be an easy climb out of there.
Way to leave yourself in the dust is more like it.
Dom went to stand and let out a tortured moan as he put weight on his left leg.
"This is just great!" he growled to himself as he collapsed back to the ground. It didn't seem broken, but it certainly wouldn't be carrying his sorry butt anywhere for awhile.
So much for my head start.
He laid back in the dirt, clenching his teeth.
Why? Why does this happen to me? Even my good luck is bad these days. Come on Dom, snap out of it! You've got to get moving. Quit wasting what time you've got.
He looked at his watch, blinking his eyes slowly at its broken face. With a snarl, he ripped if off his wrist and began pounding it on a nearby rock.
Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn! DAMN!!! This is turning out to be an excellent day, Dom. Pat yourself on the back for a job well done. You've managed to turn your 24 hour lead on an airbike into a who knows how long of a lead... on foot... with only one good leg.
Dom picked up the broken pieces of his watch and threw them at the heaped airbike. The effort of it sent a sharp pain down his leg that knocked the wind out of him.
"Pull it together" he growled at himself when he could breathe again. "You can bitch yourself out tomorrow if you live to see it."
He took a number of deep breaths to calm himself and ease the pain and then set himself to the task of figuring out how he was going to get himself out of there.
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The Lamppost
The Lamppost
By W David MacKenzie
“I wasn't always a drugged-out thug, you know.” Carlo whispered to me as he raised his head slightly. Our eyes locked. “I was a kid once, a good kid, a clown even.”
I studied Carlo's watery red-rimmed eyes. I peered past the green irises and tried to see beyond the tainted soul of the multiple-murderer to find the innocent youth he was remembering, but I lost my way among the dead bodies. I closed my own eyes and swallowed hard, determined to get on with my job, but Carlo was still staring at me when I opened them again.
“I remember one winter when it snowed and my best buddy...” a brief smile danced across his face. “He dared me to lick the frozen lamppost and...” Carlo's already soft voice trailed off and he blinked, freeing me from his hypnotic grip.
I turned my head so I wouldn’t meet his gaze again then moved behind him and busied myself with the routine tasks. I tightened the bands around Carlo's head and chest then moved to the controls on the wall behind him. I stood ready, but his eyes and his words still haunted me.
The warden’s perfunctory voice came from the overhead speakers. “Carlo Anthony Fuguerro, do you have any final words?” A heart beat passed, then another, and another, but Carlo was silent. A red light blinked on and I flipped the switch, closed my eyes, and tried to forget the snow, the lamppost, and my childhood buddy.
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Pedestrianism: 2nd Version
July 25, 2006
This 
fog over San Francisco is the new desktop image on my computer... Big deal, right? But it is! My last desktop image, of koi at Byodo-In Temple in Hawaii stayed on my desktop for seven years, always bringing back memories of one of my most favorite trips ever.
This new photo is special because it features the hill I live on, and a view of the tops of three of the most recognized buildings in the city: Coit Tower, TransAmerica Pyramid, and Bank of America building. I see this view almost every day when I walk home.
Above the buildings is the fog that San Franciscans love to complain about. They look like clouds from this angle, but you can see this fog roll in from west of Golden Gate Bridge, across the city to downtown, and sometimes, all the way (east) across the bay.
Fog is big in the city -- it gets cold when it rolls in, and we complain that it's there. When it's hot, we complain that it's not there. According to one book I read on the subject, I relate to fog. Those born on February 29th live like they're heads are in the clouds, never really being able to clearly see where they're going, but somehow, always getting there.
That's me. Daydreaming is my 
earbuds favorite hobby. I do it well. I love to load up my music player with daydreaming music, plug in my earbuds, and ramble off on walks through neighborhoods around this hill. It's one of the best cities in the world to just watch and enjoy... even with my head in the clouds, and the earbuds blocking out all the sounds.
During any day in my neighborhood I probably pass more tourists on sightseeing walks than I do real neighbors. I've noticed how tourists like to get out in the street and take photos of the views. With traffic like we have here, it's a wonder they don't get hit by it.
They should teach us about traffic in high school, but they don't. Considering how far above the street my head usually is, I have formulated some very strict laws of pedestrianism, that make the clouds a pretty safe place for heads. I have never believed in the little white man... You know, the star of the Walk/Don't Walk light. You can get a ticket (moving violation) for setting foot on the pavement anywhere there isn't a little white man saying it's okay. But, the little white man has no eyes, how can he possibly see when it's safe to get on the pavement?
So, without further explanation, here are The Four Laws of Pedestrianism:
1. Don't take another step until you've made eye contact with the driver of the nearest moving vehicle, which might be coming from behind you around the corner.
2. Stay as far away from emergency vehicles as possible -- those drivers are trained to run red lights; they might not kill you, but it's safer to just stay out of their way. Besides, some of them can charge you with a moving violation for jaywalking.
3. Avoid buses and trucks -- they are much harder to stop than cars and bicycles.
4. And, speaking of bicycles... Let 'em go by -- those riders think they own the road. They can come from any direction, they don't obey traffic signals, and when they hit you, you'll be lucky if they say "Oh... sorry."
You might expect that I don't have much respect for the little white man. He can't do any of these four things, so I don't let him delay me often. The four laws of pedestrianism make my jaywalking safe, I can easily avoid the little guy when it looks like he's going to block my way.
But today I found myself stuck in pedestrian hell with the other pedestrians... I fault myself for this: Had I planned my jaywalking better, I'd still be walking. Instead, I was waiting impatiently to cross a street. When the man finally made his appearance, the pedestrians herded off like sheep onto the crosswalk. One woman was hurriedly leading the way.
They obviously 
a city bus hadn't heard of the Four Laws of Pedestrianism. Cautious old me was trying to make eye contact with the nearest driver. That happened to be a bus driver. He was far too busy for eye contact because he was driving, against the red light, through the intersection. I thought it was a good time for jamming on the brakes, but he was going to weave through the busy crosswalk, hopefully avoiding as many pedestrians as possible. I wondered to myself, wouldn't he lose his job for that?
When I looked back at the crosswalk, the hurried woman was still hurrying, still leading the herd across the crosswalk... totally devoted to the little white man. How could she not notice a bus heading right into her? This is not a time to seize your legal rights by boldly marching forward... Just wait for the bus to go through. The weird thing was, nobody else was waiting to let the bus pass either, except me. They were all devotees of the little white man! And I thought it was just me with my head in the clouds!
At the rate that woman was going I figured she'd walk head first into the front left corner of the bus... maybe she'd hit the door. Good thing she wasn't wearing earbuds too.
WATCH OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I yelled it out as loud as I could and she stopped. She was completely stunned... she was saying "He ran the red light! He ran the red light!" Yes -- and she's very lucky I wasn't off jaywalking somewhere. I'm sure there would have been a few of her pieces to pick up off the pavement had I not been there to shout at her.
I have never saved somebody's life before... it's a pretty interesting feeling... it stayed with me the whole day... so much synchronicity... what a difference me missing a light can make on somebody else's life.
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God's Red Shoes
What did God do before he made man?
Just sit around outlining his glorious plan?
Actually, I think he put on his work clothes
And began constructing our heavenly home.
I can just see him in boots and overalls
Sawing and nailing and hammering walls.
Designing a structure to house a gazillion
Complete with BBQ, deck and pavilion.
There would be, of course, a humongous pool
With chairs and umbrellas where we could stay cool.
A grand coliseum would be built down the street
Where choirs of angels would come to compete.
The botanical gardens he planted by hand
With trowel and rake and fertilized sand.
He chose each flower with infinite care
And planned to invite us all in to share.
With all of that work, he must have been pooped
As into his godly recliner he drooped.
And when it was time for his grandest creation
He looked forward to it with such great elation.
He changed from his work clothes and into his best,
His velvety robes which clung to his chest
Like the down of a duck so soft and fine,
It flowed with ease; with gold it was lined.
Then he chose his most bejeweled crown
To top this special occasion gown.
Right down to his toes he sparkled and shined
As he donned his red shoes each polished so fine.
With the wave of his hand, or the crook of his finger
He created the skies but there didn’t linger.
With more work to do to fulfill his great plan,
He created the earth and then he made man.
He gave him the animals to name one by one,
Then from man he made woman to assure him of sons.
He did all of this work in just six little days,
And to rest on the seventh was his only pay.
I think he really did hope it would work,
That we’d be his companions and not become jerks
But even the best of Godly intentions
Can be lost in the evil of mankind’s inventions.
If he looks at us now from his thrown up on high,
I’m sure there are tears in his red rimmed eyes,
Reflected in the light from his shiny red shoes,
Because he gave man the ability to choose.
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The Exorcist
The Exorcist
By W. David MacKenzie
July 23, 2006
Elijah Beck stepped down from the long, barrel-shaped caravan, closed the door, smoothed out his musty sackcloth habit, and snugged the rope belt tight around his belly. He walked up the length of the caravan, passing the faded yet still colorful sign painted on its wooden side. In bold flourishes, it proclaimed: "Brother Elijah, Exorcist and Confessor, Dispenser of Graces, Doctor of The Sacred Reliquary". Elijah traced his hand along one weatherworn swirl of painted gaudiness and wondered again why these anti-tech fundamentalists found comfort in such audacious claims. It was the damnedest thing, but each time he repainted the sign more troubled souls flocked to his caravan seeking relief from their torment.
As Elijah mounted the ladder and pulled himself up to the driver's bench, the rope belt rolled off the downward slope of his potbelly and settled loosely on his hips; he just left it there. It would be an hour before he pulled into Pinnacle and there'd be time enough to tidy up his costume before he got there. He picked up the reins, gave them a couple of brisk shakes to wake the four mules and yelled "Hey-yawh!” The animals dug in their hooves and the caravan bounced and rattled its way down the rutted trail.
-=-=-=-=-=-
Sitting at the computer terminal tucked in at the front end of the caravan, Elijah placed the holographic data disk into the media drawer for safekeeping. A week in Pinnacle was six-and-a-half days too long as far as Elijah was concerned, but his results were quite spectacular. Forty-six disks from this little burg was amazing. Elijah couldn’t wait to get the disks back to his office and make a few phone calls to his most wealthy patients. In no time at all they’d be relieved of their dreamless nights and he’d be a rich man.
A soft knock sounded on the caravan's door. Elijah closed the media drawer in a guilty rush then stood up from the computer console and composed himself. He pulled the curtain across the nook to conceal the taboo equipment and the room was once again transformed into the Chapel of the Reliquary. Elijah walked the length of the chapel, casting myriad candlelit shadows on the ivory-tinted wall coverings, and reverently opened the door.
At the bottom of the steps stood a young girl. She was clad in a simple linen frock and wore a plain white bonnet that framed her moonlit face. She carried an equally plain rag doll in the crook of one arm. A young man and woman stood a few steps behind the girl. Elijah supposed they were the girl's parents, though they seemed scarcely old enough for the job.
"Child, it's late for you to be out. What can I do for you?"
The girl held out her free hand and Elijah stooped down to receive a crumpled five dollar bill.
"For the Saint," she said. "Mamma and Poppa say it's time for me to get exized."
"You mean exorcised," Elijah corrected and the girl nodded. Elijah looked up at the girl's parents for confirmation but their heads were bowed so he gave his full attention to the girl.
"What is your name, daughter?"
"Sara"
"It's nice to meet you, Sara." Elijah stood up and held out his hand to the girl, palm up. "I'm Brother Elijah." Sara took his hand and he steadied her as she climbed the steps. Together, they retreated into the chapel and closed the door, shutting out the cool night air and Sara's praying parents.
Elijah dropped Sara's donation into the urn beside the door, then, placing his hand on Sara's back, he urged her forward to the altar at the center of the chapel. He helped her kneel on one side of the stone altar and took his place on the opposite side. Normally he’d begin with a Latin chant to reinforce the Catholic trappings but he figured that was overkill in this situation.
“How old are you, Sara?”
“I’ll be seven next month.”
“And what has your mother told you about exorcisms?”
“That it would save my soul.” She paused, apparently trying to work the words out in her mind before speaking them out loud. “That it would stop the demon from poss…poss…”
“From possessing your soul at night?” Elijah suggested.
Sara nodded her head slowly.
“How do the demons come to you, Sara?”
“It’s just one demon.”
“Ah, well, that’s because you’re still so young. Does the demon take the same shape each time he tries to possess your soul?”
Sara nodded her head again.
“Tell me how it happens, Sara.”
“I had a puppy named Zeke…” Sara’s voice trailed off.
“Go on,” Elijah urged. As Sara gathered her thoughts, he lowered his right hand below the edge of the altar, popped open a recessed panel, and used the silent-touch keyboard hidden there to make adjustments to the instrumentation embedded in the altar.
“Last winter Zeke was playing on the iced-over lake and he fell through the ice. He died and Poppa couldn’t save him.”
“And?” Elijah prodded.
“And the demon comes to me as Zeke when I sleep.” Sara’s words were coming out in a tumble now. “He leads me to a sunny field filled with flowers and tries to get me to play with him and follow him across the field to the dark forest on the other side.” She gulped a big breath and pressed on. “Momma says that if I go into the forest my soul will be lost and I’ll go to hell. She says I have to resist the demon’s temp… temp….”
“Temptations?” Elijah asked.
Sara nodded her head.
“Does the demon tempt you every night?”
“Not every night. Some nights I sleep all the way ‘til morning without the demon trying to get my soul. But Momma says I’m too young to resist the demon so I need a ex…or…sizz…um.”
Elijah nodded at her for tackling the big word and was rewarded by a brief smile.
“Yes, I think an exorcism is exactly what you need, Sara. It will chase the demon away and he won’t bother you again as long as you lead a life free of sin. But Sara,” Elijah’s voice took on a note of grave concern, “to chase off the demon you have to let him visit you one final time. You have to make him believe that you’ll follow him wherever he wants you to go. Have fun with him and play with him as if he really were Zeke.”
Sara's eyes showed her confusion and fear so Elijah changed his tone to a joyous piety that lightened Sara’s mood. “Then, just before you go into the forest with Zeke, the power of the Saint & Martyr will flow through you and chase the demon away forever.” Out of Sara’s line of sight, Elijah took a disk from a spindle of blank media next to the keyboard and slid it into the recorder and closed the hidden panel. “Are you ready to begin?”
Sara hesitated just a moment then nodded her head one more time.
“Excellent, you're a brave girl, Sara” Elijah stood and walked around to Sara’s side and helped her up onto the stone then eased her back to a lying position. She clutched at her doll like a mother and daughter in repose. “Does your doll have a name?”
“Mary.”
“That’s a lovely name. Our Savior’s mother was named Mary.”
“I know”
“Let me take Mary and I’ll just set her here by the altar.”
“Will Mary need a ex-or-sizz-um?”
“Oh no, not at all,” Elijah consoled her. “Mary’s blessed against demons. All dolls are.”
Sara smiled at this piece of happy news and allowed Elijah to take Mary and set her beside the altar.
“Now, Sara, I want you to relax and take steady even breaths. Close your eyes and think about Zeke when he was alive and you used to play with him.” Elijah moved to the head of the altar, opened a panel, and pulled out a helmet covered with glowing lights. A bundle of colorful cables protruded from the apex like a ponytail of hair. “I’m going to place the Cap of The Martyr on your head. It’s a holy relic that will give you strength against the demon and help the Saint and Martyr to capture the demon that’s trying to possess your soul.” Elijah slid the helmet into place on the young girls head and braced it with his hands.
“Are you frightened, Sara?”
Sara shook her head and the helmet wobbled slightly. The pattern of lights changed.
“Keep your head steady, Sara, and tell me your answers out loud.” Elijah lowered the tone and volume of his voice. “Listen to my voice, Sara. Pay close attention to my voice and the way it sounds. My voice makes you feel relaxed and safe. My voice gives you strength. As long as you hear my voice there’s no need to worry about anything. Demons can’t get you and Zeke can’t hurt you. My voice is a blanket that covers you with warmth and security. My voice is trust and God’s love.” The lights on the helmet slowed and began to pulse white in steady waves as Sara slipped into the hypnotic trance.
“Can you hear me, Sara”
Her voice was whisper soft. “Yes.”
“Sara, do you see Zeke?”
“Yes, he’s jumping around at my feet.”
“Good. That’s good, Sara. Are you in the house or outside?”
“We’re in the kitchen. There’s a cherry cobbler on the counter and it smells good.”
“Ah—“ Elijah stumbled then a thought came to him. “That’s a sign that the Saint and Martyr is there,” Elijah said. “His presence is like the comfort of home. Play with Zeke, Sara. Tell me what you’re doing.”
“I’m chasing Zeke around the kitchen like you said. I’m playing with him. He’s barking and panting. The kitchen door’s open and Zeke’s going out into the yard.”
“That’s good, Sara. Follow Zeke into the yard.” Elijah listened to the girl recounting her dream, watched with his own mind’s eye as she relived a moment of childhood joy with her lost pet. How could they believe that this image of pure innocence was demonic possession?
“Zeke’s running out to the field where Poppa let’s the cows eat.”
“Follow Zeke, Sara.” How could they deny this precious child one more romp with Zeke in the privacy of her sleep? His data drawer was packed with adult nightmares of greed and lust and violence. Melancholy and want and perversion deserved to be cast out—but this perfect moment of happiness?
“We’re in the field with the big tree, next to the creek. I’m sitting under the tree in the cool shade and Zeke's licking my hand.”
This should be Sara’s treasure and solace as she comes to experience the heartache of womanhood.
“Zeke's running in the creek now and splashing in the water. He’s coming out of the creek and shaking his body. The water’s going everywhere. Now I’m all wet too.”
Elijah’s throat tightened and he rubbed at his watery eyes. Maybe that was their point. Maybe twisting this happy dream into demonic temptation would inure her to the misery she’ll one day know in this backwater.
“Zeke's running across the field again.” Sara’s voice changed slightly. “He’s running toward the forest.”
“Don’t be frightened, Sara.” Maybe life really was God’s punishment for original sin and sparing this child one happy dream would lessen her pain by giving her nothing hopeful in comparison.
“I’m following Zeke but I’m scared. The forest is dark and scary.”
“Zeke can’t hurt you as long as you hear my voice.”
Nothing hopeful except the promise of Heaven.
“Stop at the edge of the forest, Sara. Feel the power of the Saint and Martyr through my voice, Sara. Feel God's love and truth in the sound of my voice. The forest is fading away, becoming misty and white. The forest is gone.”
“The forest is gone,” she whispered.
“The field and the creek and the tree are fading away. The house and the yard and the kitchen are becoming more and more distant. You can’t see them any more.”
Nothing good except God’s love and the promise of the Resurrection.
“I’m all alone with Zeke,” she said.
“Zeke is a demon, Sara. He has no power over you if you’re strong and believe in the Lord. The demon is getting smaller and smaller as your belief grows. The demon is so small and the power of the Saint and Martyr that flows through you is so strong that you could step on the demon and end his power forever.”
No faith but faith in God.
“Step on him Sara and be free from demons for as long as you live.”
On the altar, Sara’s foot twitched. “The demon's gone,” she said.
“Listen to my voice, Sara. Pay close attention to my voice and the way it sounds. My voice is a beacon. Follow my voice. As you get closer to my voice you will start to wake up. The closer you get the less you will remember about the exorcism. You’re getting closer to my voice and you’re coming more awake. You’re forgetting everything that happened while you were on the altar. You’re almost to my voice and almost awake. When I tell you that you’re awake you will keep your eyes closed and you will remember only that the power of God’s love will protect you and stop the demons from coming to you in your sleep.” All of the white lights on the helmet had faded away and only the swirling dancing colored lights remained. “You’re awake, Sara.”
Elijah removed the helmet and tucked it back into the protected nook at the head of the altar then moved around to face Sara. “You can open your eyes now.”
Sara blinked her eyes a few times. “Did it work?”
“Yes, it worked. You won’t be bothered by demons again.” Elijah helped Sara to sit up and then to stand.
“Thank you, Brother Elijah,” Sara said, then smiled.
“You run along now. I’m sure your parents are worried about you.”
Sara walked demurely to the chapel door, opened it, and was gone.
Elijah swallowed hard and turned back to the altar and opened the control panel. He was glad he’d be leaving Pinnacle in the morning. He removed the holographic disk from the recorder and went toward his computer nook. He’d never worked his scam on someone as young as Sara, someone so innocent. He pulled the curtain back to reveal all of his high tech gadgetry and wondered how it stacked up against the hopes and dreams of one little girl. Was all the money hurled at him by the self-centered and witless scions of his society worth robbing this child of hope and love and joy?
A gasp from behind sent a shiver through Elijah’s body and he reflexively hid the disk, slipping it into the habit’s pocket as he turned around. All he saw before the father’s fist impacted his jaw and sent him sprawling to the floor, before the man’s kicks raged against Elijah’s chest, was Sara’s mother holding the young girl to her protectively so that the child could not see the forbidden computers and machinery that their faith equated with devil worship and sin, or the violence meted out by her father as punishment for Elijah’s duplicity. Her father’s words, however, punctuated by pain, burned into Elijah’s soul.
“…trusted you with our daughter…came to thank you…to retrieve her doll…you consort with the devil…use the demon’s machines…dress in pleasing garb…bring shame and damnation to us all…”
-=-=-=-=-=-
When light tore its way through Elijah’s black unconscious mind, it brought pain: physical pain of a wracked body, mental pain of wrongs remembered, spiritual pain of hopes and dreams stolen by him and from him. He rolled over onto his side and forced his tortured body to sit and, eventually, to stand.
It was noon. He was outside in what passed for a town square. Occasionally people walked in or out of the general store and the blacksmith’s hammer rose and fell in staccato clangs, but no one looked at him in his battered and bloody monk’s habit. No one commented on the charred odor of his smoldering caravan—his Chapel of the Reliquary. Everyone turned their back on his burned and smashed computers. His digital recordings, now amorphous lumps of plastic slag, did not exist to them. Sara’s father, indeed the whole community, could not bring itself to murder, even in what they probably judged a righteous cause, but they were not without recourse.
He was shunned. His existence—past, present, and future—erased from their world by sheer force of will. Why? Because he pretended to be something they could understand to achieve his own goals? Because he used the wrong tools to achieve their desired goals? Or because their dogma could not encompass the truth that God uses all the tools at His command to achieve His own goals and teach His own lessons?
Elijah limped out of Pinnacle. Each step hurt in his chest and his hip but the pain helped him focus his thoughts on movement, on getting away from this place and these people. He held his hand to his side to ease a sharp twinge, felt a hard shape, and remembered slipping Sara’s dream disk into his pocket just before the bottom dropped out of his world. He pulled the disk out of the pocket and examined it in the noonday sun. Flashes of light danced across its surface and refracted in rainbow coruscations through its translucent matrix. Miraculously, this fragile recording of a young girls last innocent dream had survived his beating and abuse.
He smiled, slipped the disk back into his pocket, and resumed his limping stride down the dusty road.
-=-=-=-=-=-
Elijah Beck stood before the dressing room mirror straightening his tie when the intercom sounded.
“Doctor Beck, Mrs Cobar-Solana is waiting for you in the treatment suite.”
“Thank you, Rachel.” Dr. Beck examined his appearance in the mirror one last time, tugged his vest down over his protruding paunch, and winced as the constricting garment pressed on his still tender ribs. Elijah looked askance at the battered monk’s habit hanging in the closet. The bruises and abrasions had healed but some mementos, some aches and pains, kept the memory of Pinnacle fresh in his mind. Six months or a year from now the hypnotic suggestions he implanted would weaken, “demonic possessions” would again trouble their sleep and those backward sods wouldn’t have Brother Elijah available to exorcise their demons. He steeled himself against the pain and put on an air of confidence before striding out of the dressing room.
“Wilhelmina…” Elijah oozed charm as he sauntered across the expansive treatment suite and sat on the upholstered stool beside the instrumented couch where his patient reclined. He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “How are you this afternoon?”
Wilhelmina Marianna Cobar-Solana was, at first glance, a handsome middle-aged socialite, impeccably dressed and curvaceous in all the right places. In actuality, however, she was a septuagenarian taking full advantage of the widely available anti-aging gene therapies.
“Oh, Elijah, where have you been?” Her tone was theatrical, almost melodramatic. “I’ve been trying to make an appointment for weeks but that horrid woman of yours kept telling me you were unavailable and I refuse to see any of those other hacks. Eduardo and I are off to Madrid tomorrow and I simply cannot go in my current condition. Elijah, I must have my dream treatment at once. It’s like I’m sleeping in a cave now. Totally dreamless. I’ve never been so bored in my life.”
“Wilhelmina, I’m sure you’re exaggerating.” Actually, he was sure she wasn’t. Total dreamlessness, what physicians now called anorphia, was a persistent side effect of the gene therapy and often lead to acute depression and even suicide. Happily for his patients, however, Elijah offered a treatment that was effective. The fact that Elijah’s treatment was expensive, temporary, and somewhat addictive was not coincidental. However, with more people taking the gene therapies and competing anorphia treatments cropping up, he’d met with skyrocketing expenses for his raw dream recordings. After the disaster at Pinnacle, another source was closed to him.
Elijah moved to the console behind the couch and pressed a few buttons—the instrumentation inside the couch hummed to life. “As it happens…” He paused to ease a brain interface helmet onto Wilhelmina’s head then plugged the bundled wires into the console. “…I can give you a treatment right away.”
“Oh Elijah, that’s wonderful. I just knew you’d be able to help me.”
Elijah extracted a holographic disk from his vest pocket and studied it for a moment. He recalled the price that had been paid for this particular dream recording, paid by him and paid by Sara; a price he’d have to pass on to his patients if he was going to start the search for another source of dreamers. He slid the disk into the drive slot on the console.
“You do like puppy dogs, don’t you, Wilhelmina?”
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WDavid,
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Ruth,
The Button
I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a chest that big, but I could be wrong. I am here to get my eyes examined after all. The waiting room where I was placed between dilation and examination is just a tiny nook with four seats on each side and hardly room between them to negotiate to the last remaining seat, but she managed. Tip-toeing, gently and with determination, she came. Stopping, she hovered over the chair, bent to pick up a magazine left there by some former occupant, and gave us all an excellent view of the smooth curve of her buttocks straining against her tight fitting navy blue gabardine slacks.
My male brain quickly calculated those hips to measure about 38”, a good and proper size for a woman of her maturity - but those breasts… 46”, 48”?!
She smiled brightly as she caught my eye, her blue eyes moist from the dilation drops, but she said nothing, just opened the magazine and flipped page after page until she found something of interest. Squinting, she pulled it closer to her face to read, and then realized that she couldn’t read. With a great sigh, she bent too quickly to retrieve her purse from beneath her chair, going for glasses I guessed. A loose button, straining for release, finally popped its last remaining thread and shot across the aisle from the expanse of her chest to the cuff of my jeans, disappearing… taking refuge there. I wonder if anyone else saw it go. I wonder how they could have missed it.
Glancing around at my seat mates in our intimate little nook I saw a child of ten or so engrossed in some electronic game or other; her mother crocheting to pass the time; two elderly gentlemen comparing their aches and pains; a middle aged woman, her red hair askew against the wall behind her, mouth gaping, but not yet snoring; and one teenage boy openly staring at that expansive chest. Grinning, he made what he thought to be a surreptitious “thumbs up” signal between his legs. “Sweet!” he mouthed in my direction.
“Mr. Johnson?” the nurse called, forcing me to avert my bulging eyes and pick my way through seven pairs of fidgety feet to follow her into the doctor’s office.
Fingering the button I’d retrieved from my cuff, I stared into the doctor’s eyes during his examination, I wondered what he saw in mine. Were those 48’s as indelibly imprinted on my retina as they were on my brain? My cheeks reddened at the thought and I dropped the button into my shirt pocket, a bit of memorabilia to reflect upon some other time.
“Now read the smallest line on the chart which you can read comfortably,” he repeated robotically.
I guess there’d been no imprint.
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Ruth,
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WDavid,
Peter,
Veggie Villanelle
This is a villanelle. One of its main features is that entire lines are repeated. The repeated lines must rhyme with each other. The second line of every stanza must rhyme with each other. The first lines of every stanza after the first stanza must also rhyme with the repeating lines.
Veggies
Man, I can't eat any meat!
Green vegetables I do detest.
Being a vegan is quite a feat.
Turn on the stove, turn up the heat.
I can't wait to have that chicken breast.
Man, I can't eat any meat!
Maybe I will enjoy fields of wheat
And also a peel of lemon zest.
Being a vegan is quite a feat.
Broccoli has become a tasty treat.
I am serious, I do not jest.
Man, I can't eat any meat!
Hey, this weight loss is really neat.
I think I have become obsessed.
Being a vegan is quite a feat.
I will be tempted to cheat
But I will pass this taste test.
Man, I can't eat any meat!
Being a vegan is quite a feat.
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Ruth,
Ruth,
PeggySueO,
WDavid,
Fred MacKenzie,
Peter,
My Father's Son
This is a sestina. It doesn't use rhyme; instead, it has six keywords essential to the poem's structure. The poem's 39 lines - six 6-line stanzas followed by a 3-line tornada - all end with one of the keywords; in the tornada, there are two keywords in each line, one of them at the end and the other somewhere in the middle. There is a prescribed order for the keywords in a sestina, and you may notice that each one eventually appears in each line of a stanza.
My Father’s Son
When I was born there was plenty of time
for you to avoid me and go on with your life.
You could not see me when you looked in the mirror
because you lived as you were taught in the past.
Children were a bother who had no worth.
But I loved, and was lost in the glare of your reflection.
As I grew I saw the dimming of your reflection
and my admiration lessened with the passing of time.
It was obvious I had very little worth
because you had yours and I had my life.
Childish love was a thing of the past.
I could not see you when I looked in the mirror.
Who did you see when I looked in the mirror?
Was it yourself, or someone else's reflection?
The screaming and fights are now in the past
but healing these wounds takes time.
I have wasted many days of my life
waiting for you to show me that I do have worth.
As I matured I discovered the true meaning of worth.
It is what I see when I look in the mirror
and does not have to be given to me by others in my life.
I can find value in my own reflection.
This knowledge has been within me all this time
but I could not see it in the dark days of my life.
Now I must reconsider my actions of the past.
Did I ever try to show you that you had worth?
So many wasted days and now so little time
for me to repair the crack I find in my mirror.
You are not the monster I used to see in your reflection
but a kind and loving role model in my life.
You did not know how to express love in your life
because you lived as you were taught in the past.
Again I love, and am lost in the glare of your reflection.
Yet, I am unable to express to you the value of your worth
as I stand here alone looking at you in the mirror.
After all, I have been my father's son all this time.
There comes a time in every man's life
when he looks in the mirror of his past
to see the worth of his reflection.
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WDavid,
Ruth,
try not to think
I try not to think that you don’t want to be with me
I try not to think I am old news to you
I try not to remember the last time we touched
I try to tell myself its all a dream, wake up!
I try to convince myself love has left my heart
No more pain,and that nothing can tear me apart.
I try to not wait by the phone for you to call
I try not to act like I am not waiting around for you
It is hard enough to pretend you are here
I think of you and here it comes, a tear
Not only for sadness but fear and doubt
That one day I will come home and find that you have ran out.
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Aaron,
Ruth,
Peter,
WDavid,
I Could Give It A Title But It Would Give It Away
I miss the old days, the days when people cherished me. There were times when I would glide along twisting, turning. Sometimes I would lift into the air and land again at a precise location emphasizing the obvious. How important I felt when my movements would express a wide range of emotions and opinions. I had the power to change people’s lives, to make them smile, cry, laugh, or turn red with anger. I wasn’t just some cheap thing to be tossed by the wayside.
People today like to pretend they don’t need me, but always they come looking for me to help them with something in their lives. They should be careful though because I can still cause good and bad to happen. I can give the gift of love or bring on financial doom. My movements can still mesmerize those who are willing to watch as I dance. My lines are more intoxicating than the clicking of my new age replacement. I don’t require power and electricity from a plug, as it flows through me with the touch of a hand. I would like to think that I will always have a purpose, but the day is coming when I will do nothing more than sit around and dry up like a withered leaf falling from its tree branch as winter approaches. No longer will people need me to tell the world who they are, a finger print or retinal scan will be all that is required.
Yet some still hold me gently and stroke me across the page like a parent would stroke the head of their child as they sleep. I suspect that there will always be those who keep me hidden around to dance again another day, those who will still allow my lifeblood to flow from me as I portray their ideas to the world. There will, I suppose, always be those who need the feel of something solid in their hand, something to tap gently on the table or chew on as they struggle to convey all that is within them. These are the people I live for, the ones who will give me a transfusion as my insides fade away to nothingness on the paper, the ones who need me as much as I need them.
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Ruth,
Ruth,
Fred MacKenzie,
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Peter,
Tree in the Sky
Since Peter has challenged us to take a piece of his work and put a new slant on it, I chose to use his photo for a poem.
I awoke about 5 am
to a strange swishing
noise outside my
window.
Peeping out through the
blinds,
I gasped and blinked my sleepy
eyes.
A tree was hanging there in the
sky
swishing back and forth
in the brisk New England
breeze.
Side to side it swung
suspended from a rope of red
attached to a silver
cord.
Awakening too soon,
I had apparently caught
God
in the act of replenishing his
garden.
We cut ‘em down,
grind ‘em up,
chop ‘em up,
and burn ‘em up
and God just drops another
one,
puts it in place,
cuts the red
rope
and retracts the
cord.
I always wondered
how that worked!
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Pedestrianism
June 21, 2006
I was surprised when I looked out the window this morning... 
hanging olive tree there was a tree hanging in the sky. It was doubley strange because, at this time of year, the sky is usally covered in fog so thick it could take all day to burn off.
Was I dreaming? Was my head in the clouds wishing?
Trees have been on my mind lately for another reason. I've been having tingling and numbness in my left arm and fingers. The guy at the local Chinese pharmacy checked my pulse. He assured me it's nothing to do with my heart... he says my kidneys are too weak to support the ulnar nerve in my arm. If I drink his tree bark and dried snake soup twice a day for awhile, that should clear it up... and it is clearing up.
I liked the medicine connection: trees have many arms; snakes have many joints. So, I'm taking this tree theme as some kind of special symbol for the summer. Clear skies ahead hopefully, and, since I often find my head up in the fog above the trees -- maybe a season of keeping my head close to me hear here on the ground too.
I've been making that hear here typo a lot lately... that's because these days, I spend a lot of time hearing new (to me) music in my relentless search for podsafe music on the internet. Podsafe, meaning free to put on my music player, free to listen to, and free to share with friends. You know... without worrying about some big music corporation threatening to sue me for downloading theft.
I need the music...
earbuds I'm really trying hard to get a one hour brisk walk in each day. I love to ramble off in anticipation of the new sounds that will stream through the earbuds I plug into my head, even if they make it hard to keep my head near me here at street level. Today I was daydreaming away on some cool new grooves in hot sunny weather... only 5 or 10 days like this per year here in San Francisco.
It's one of the best cities in the world to just watch and enjoy... even if the earbuds block all the sounds around me. During any day in my neighborhood I probably pass more tourists on sightseeing walks than I do real neighbors. And the tourists, usually earbud-less, look at everything but the traffic. It's a wonder more of them don't get hit in traffic here.
They should teach us about traffic in high school, but they don't. Considering how far above the street my head usually is, I have formulated some very strict laws of pedestrianism, to ensure that my head avoids any moving vehicle that might be taking aim for it. I have never believed in the little white man... You know, the star of the Walk/Don't Walk light. You can get a ticket (moving violation) for setting foot on the pavement anywhere there isn't a little white man saying it's okay. But, the little white man has no eyes, how can he possibly see when it's safe to get on the pavement?
So, without further explanation, here are The Four Laws of Pedestrianism:
1. Don't take another step until you've made eye contact with the driver of the nearest moving vehicle, which might be coming from behind you around the corner.
2. Stay as far away from emergency vehicles as possible -- those drivers are trained to run red lights; they might not kill you, but it's safer to just stay out of their way. Besides, some of them can charge you with a moving violation for jaywalking.
3. Avoid buses and trucks -- they are much harder to stop than cars and bicycles.
4. And, speaking of bicycles... Let 'em go by -- those riders think they own the road. They can come from any direction, they don't obey traffic signals, and when they hit you, you'll be lucky if they say "Oh... sorry."
You might expect that I don't have much respect for the little white man. He can't do any of these four things, so I don't let him delay me often. The four laws of pedestrianism make my jaywalking safe, I can easily avoid the little guy when it looks like he's going to block my way.
But today I found myself stuck in pedestrian hell with the other pedestrians... I fault myself for this: Had I planned my jaywalking better, I'd still be walking. Instead, I was waiting impatiently to cross a street. When the man finally made his appearance, the pedestrians herded off like sheep onto the crosswalk. One woman was hurriedly leading the way.
They obviously
a city bus hadn't heard of the Four Laws of Pedestrianism. Cautious old me was trying to make eye contact with the nearest driver. That happened to be a bus driver who was far too busy for eye contact. That's because he was still driving through the intersection. He was not jamming on the brakes; he was going to weave through the busy crosswalk, hopefully avoiding as many pedestrians as possible. I thought to myself, couldn't he lose his job for that?
When I looked back at the crosswalk, the hurried woman was still hurrying, still leading the herd across the crosswalk... totally devoted to the little white man. How could she not notice a bus heading right into her? This is not a time to seize your legal rights by boldly marching forward... Just wait for the bus to go through. The weird thing was, nobody else was waiting to let the bus pass either, except me. They were all devotees of the little white man! At the rate that woman was going I figured she'd walk head first into the front left corner of the bus... maybe she'd hit the door. Good thing she wasn't wearing earbuds.
WATCH OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I yelled it out as loud as I could and she stopped. She was completely stunned... she was saying "He ran the red light! He ran the red light!" Yes -- and she's very lucky I wasn't off jaywalking somewhere. I'm sure there would have been a few of her pieces to pick up off the pavement had I not been there to shout at her.
I never saved somebody's life before... it's a pretty interesting feeling... it stayed with me the whole day... so much synchronicity... you never know what you might miss if you don't wait for the little white man.
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Peter,
Ruth,
Peter,
Fred MacKenzie,
Peter,
Assorted Haiku
The road to nowhere
Is easy to get onto
harder to get off
Snow is falling hard
Even more than yesterday
Snowman is drowning
Ice covered forest
Caught by bright morning sunrise
Crying tears of joy
The death of winter
Is just the circle of life
The rebirth of spring
Under bridge tonight
One man shivers in the cold
Solitude and death
The intersection
Of life and death is only
A new beginning
When I turn from God
Will He still be there waiting
If I turn again?
Love licking myself
But hairball is annoying
Dogs have it easy
Heavy golden rain
Driving down the mountainside
Autumn wind blowing
How far can I go
And still feel your love with me?
The ends of the earth
Today may look hard
It might seem unbearable
Tomorrow will come
Flowing downstream
River settles into creek
Caressing the stones
Creature of ancient
Sits atop hoarded treasure
Eating crispy dwarf
Forty days of rain
God's judgment on all mankind
Rainbow, God's promise
Bright summer morning
Dirt road leads to mountain lake
Barefoot and skipping
The pain is too much
How long must this go on Lord?
You have heard my cry
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Ruth,
Peter,
Fred MacKenzie,
Fred MacKenzie,
Fred MacKenzie,
Fred MacKenzie,
Ruth,
Your Cup of Life
Drink deeply from your cup of life.
Savor each precious drop.
Sip lightly to taste each flavor.
Lick the foam from off the top.
Control the list of ingredients.
Make sure they're the very best,
For what you put into your cup
Should never be taken in jest.
Add a lot of joy and laughter,
A touch of heartache for spice,
A trace amount of pain,
Just enough to make you think twice.
If you make it three quarters love
It would then be just about right.
Add integrity and honesty
To help you sleep better each night.
With diligence to each detail,
What a brew your life will be...
Intoxicating and valued
And your very own recipe!
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Ruth,
WDavid,
Aaron,
Ruth,
WDavid,
Peter,
Ruth,
These Arms
These arms are my love, they will pull you in, bringing you comfort and peace.
These arms are my strength, they will protect you, building safety showing you a love that cannot be torn down.
These arms are my soul, they will be still for you guiding intimacy, calm silence and unconditional love.
These arms are my excitement, I will raise them high to celebrate you, bringing freedom to those who notice them , so they can embrace the joy.
These arms are my heart, they will wipe away our tears driving away clouds.
When I dance they will dance with me and give the power of self-expression to my heart.
These arms are my eternity, when I pray or rest, my brow will be lowered to their palms.
When I die, they will be my wings formed by the dreams of my life, and I will fly to heaven.
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Interpreting Childhood
Interpreting Childhood
By W. David MacKenzie
Any person picking through a junk drawer or scanning the dust-covered items on a knick-knack shelf or searching the nearly forgotten trunk in the attic will come across the mementos of youth. Those relics of days-gone-by will stir memories of a play-filled childhood, an awkward adolescence, or love’s first blooming. Trying to connect those items to universal themes or imbue them with significant life lessons, however, is ultimately counterproductive. Forcing adult meaning upon the artifacts of childhood is an attempt to define oneself as a victim of circumstance, to rationalize away the responsibilities of one’s choices, both past and future.
Did my G.I. Joe with fuzzy beard and crew cut provide a thousand imaginary mission ops for his action-figure bravery, or indoctrinate me into the homoerotic subcultures of uniform fetishism and physique worship? Was my plastic armory—filled with six-shooter cap guns, rubber bowie knives, and sparking M16’s—an arsenal for make-believe battles, or a collection of violent idols promoting imperialist America’s quest for power? Did countless hours spent watching sci-fi films and reading fantasy novels feed an unquenchable thirst for wonder and fuel a budding urge to write, or offer easy isolation from a confusing coming-of-age in which I fit none of the acceptable male stereotypes?
I’m not homosexual because my mother gave me hyper-masculine dolls to play with; I’m gay because that’s the number that came up when my parents rolled the genetic dice. I’m not proud of America because I bought into the establishment’s propaganda machine; I’m patriotic because I truly believe that America, regardless of who sits in the Oval Office on any particular day, is the best society that six thousand years of civilization has produced. And I’m not an introverted geek because escapist fiction stunted my emotional development; I’m thoughtful and forward-looking because each tomorrow shines with glorious potential for those who open their minds to welcome its coming.
I don’t live in yesterday. I don’t discount what I am today by second-guessing my past. I live in today. I consider today’s choices, one by one, and go to bed knowing I’ve lived the day as best I could. And each night, before I go to sleep, I set my alarm clock to meet tomorrow’s sunrise.
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WDavid,
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WDavid,
Ruth,
Extraction
Extraction
By W. David MacKenzie
July 14, 2006
The chair was tilted back at exactly the wrong angle for comfort but that seemed fitting since the chair was located in a dentist’s surgical suite and I was about to have my wisdom teeth extracted. To be fair, I was only having two of them removed since my questionable genetic heritage didn’t include a full set of four. Nevertheless, when you’ve managed to get through forty-four years on this earth without a single surgical procedure, the relatively simple act of removing two useless molars is enough to make you worry. I worried—a lot.
As soon as I sat down in the green leather chair my first thought was that I should get back up again and run for the nearest exit but the nurse…surgical assistant…orderly…whatever he was, was one step ahead of me. He handed me a tiny paper cup.
“Take a mouthful of this and swirl it around in your mouth for twenty seconds then spit it out.”
That did it—I wasn’t going anywhere. That little cup might as well have been a seat belt strapping me to the chair. Now I had a task to do; I had ticking seconds to count in my mind and tingly antiseptic mouthwash to swish between my teeth and over my gums. Fifty thousand years of human evolution had primed me with a lifesaving fight-or-flight instinct and it had all been derailed by a Dixie cup of blue mouthwash.
As I spit the frothy liquid back into the paper cup the—oh, let’s just call him the nurse—the nurse started checking the equipment at the back of the room. I was taking in the cityscape view through the expansive windows while behind me the nurse fiddled with things that clanked and dinged in metal trays or beeped and buzzed at the push of a button. I was wondering what interesting little sound he would make next when the jarring roar of an industrial strength buzz-saw drained the color from my face.
Time to leave! Time to run!
I shot a glance left then right…no tables, no flat surface to set down the cup so I could get the hell out of there. In a moment of blind panic, I rushed the cup to my lips, gulped down the used mouthwash, and crushed the empty paper cup in my fist.
The antiseptic fluid burned and scratched and fizzed as it went down my throat. I coughed and gagged and wheezed trying to force it back up. The buzz-saw sound stopped and the nurse hurried to my side.
“You’re supposed to spit it out,” he said, prying the crumpled cup from my clenched fist. My eyes were watering, and breathing was still an iffy proposition, but I could tell he’d sized me up as the dumbest thing since Project Monorail. Luckily he mistook my bright red face for asphyxiation instead of unparalleled embarrassment. He produced a plastic bag that I held to my mouth while I retched up most of the noxious liquid, and all the while he patted my back in a “good thing I’m here to save your stupid butt” kind of way.
After that, the rest of the extraction process was all down hill. They injected me with anesthetic, put a gas mask over my nose, and I floated off to la-la land. I don’t have any memories of anything else until I woke up in my own bed three hours later, but my father says I kept mumbling about poison mouthwash and the monorail all the way home.
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WDavid,
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Fred MacKenzie,
Here I am
As a bit of introduction to those of you who may not know me as David's (this blog founder) mother, I have been writing poetry since elementary school, but only started saving it since the 1970's. My rhyming, mostly Christian, and usually understandable poetry, is not what is generally published these days; so, I have had only a few published over the years. I did self-publish a book of poems for family and friends and helped other family members self-publish a family anthology of our work. I took a class recently and got David interested in taking writing classes which he seems to thoroughly enjoy.
My aim is to post a little something on the blog here now and then and welcome comments from the members here. I'm trying to learn to write in different styles, but it isn't easy for me.
As my first post, here is a poem I wrote three or four years ago.
Here I Am
My Smiles emerge from deep within;
But, I cannot, will not, even begin
To search for the why of it.
I barely skim the surface of life
A stone hop-skipping the waves of strife.
No need to cry of it.
Here I am as was intended
Broken dreams and heartaches mended;
Still, in nightly dreams I roam.
Always onward I must go
As water down the hill must flow
Finding comfort in the touch of earth its home.
----------
They say a poem is never finished and I'm beginning to believe that. Every time I thumb through my notebook, reading over them again, I stop to make corrections to typos, or change a line that just doesn't seem to flow, or find a better rhyme. Just in putting this one into this post, I made changes to all the stanzas but the last one. Oh well, this is the version you get. Tell me what you think.
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Ruth,
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Ruth,
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Cool City Limits
Cool City Limits
by W. David MacKenzie
Jimmy bounded out of the minivan as soon as his mom opened the sliding door and tugged at her jacket excitedly. "Did you see that sign back there, Mom?" he shouted as he pointed back down the winding road. "This is where I wanna live. Cooooool!" He drew out the word into a whole sentence and stuck out his thumbs like Fonzie from Happy Days.
His mom tousled Jimmy's hair affectionately then met her husband at the front of the minivan where he was already stomping his feet for warmth. "They sure named this place right," she said as she zipped up her jacket and looked around at downtown Cool. The sign showed a population of 235, but the isolated convenience store and the solitary clerk inside made her wonder where the other 234 people were hiding.
While his parents were talking Jimmy slipped quietly into the shop. The clerk had his back to the counter as he tapped keys on his notebook computer and watched the array of colored dots swirl around in different patterns. Different keys strokes made different patterns and the clerk jotted down notes about each one, oblivious to the young boy staring over his shoulder.
Jimmy, too, was engrossed in the colorful display and noticed a pattern to the flying dots on the screen, a tendency for them to congregate in a certain way. When Jimmy said, "Try pressing Control G three times then Option W," the clerk jumped like a snake had bitten him. He stared wide-eyed at the boy, but Jimmy just nodded at the computer. "Try it, I wanna see if they'll all line up."
The clerk, a twenty-something man with a buzzed haircut and smooth face, shook his head and drawled "Kid, I've been working on this simulation for almost a month and they ain't gonna do no such thing."
Jimmy arched his eyebrows and said, "Try it."
The clerk shook his head again, turned back to the keyboard and tapped out the key combinations Jimmy had rattled off. With each keystroke the dancing dots moved closer together and when he'd finished all four he gawked at the screen. The thousands of individual points had formed a solid column of light on the screen. Slowly, the clerk tapped two more keys on his own and the column changed from red to green. He flopped back into his chair and gawked at the boy. "How did you...?"
"I hope Jimmy's not bothering you." the man and woman said as they entered the shop. They walked to the counter and the clerk pushed the notebook screen closed as he stood up, but his eyes never left Jimmy's.
"I'm just watchin' him play a computer game, Mom." Jimmy said.
"It's always computer games with you, kiddo." His dad snorted then turned to the clerk. "It's impossible to beat him on any computer game, even ones he's never played before."
"Ya, he just taught me a new move," stammered the clerk.
Jimmy's parents grabbed a few snacks and drinks, paid the clerk, and the three of them returned to the minivan. The clerk was watching them climb into the vehicle when the store's backdoor opened and a soldier walked in.
"What are you staring at, Lieutenant?" he barked.
The clerk snapped to attention. "Sir, that boy..." his gaze drifted back to the minivan as the family backed out of the parking lot and into the quiet road, then turned back to the Captain. "He solved the cryo-stabilization simulation."
Both men turned to look out of the store's large front window just as a logging truck sped around the curve in the mountain road and barreled into the minivan sending flames and shredded metal flying everywhere. The Lieutenant and Captain raced out of the shop, their screams of "medic" echoing through the air as they ran toward the wreckage and were joined by a dozen camouflaged soldiers who emerged from the shadowy forest to aid in the search for survivors.
***
The Colonel paced back and forth in the dimly lit observation area. Just beyond the foot-thick glass wall the Army's best cryo-surgeons worked quickly and carefully on the mangled body of a ten year old boy while a score of thermal-suited technicians hovered nearby, ready to leap into action as soon as the extraction was completed. The boy should never have been here, but now the Colonel and his team were this boy's only chance at life and the boy was their only chance of progressing this program beyond the theoretical stages.
He had always argued that this installation needed a secure perimeter, but his superiors believed hiding in plain sight was a less costly option. So few cars used the mountain road that it seemed impossible an accident like this could ever happen. That was one of the reasons why the Army had bought the town in the first place. The other reason was that someone higher up had a sense of humor and couldn't resist placing the Cryogenic Operations and Optimization Lab in a place actually named Cool.
For the tenth time the Colonel asked "Are you really certain the boy solved the simulation?"
The Lieutenant stepped out of the shadows. "Yes sir. Jimmy, ah, the boy, seemed to sense what needed to be done. I just pressed the keys he called out and then tweaked it a little."
"And why did you have the simulation above ground in a non-secure area in the first place?" the Colonel moved toward Stephens as his face reddened. "You were supposed to be on store lookout duty!"
A cough from an aid diverted the Colonel's wrath, turning his attention back to the operating room where the surgeons seemed to be finishing up their procedure. The cryo-surgeons stepped back from the operating table and the technicians elbowed their way in and surrounded the table, bringing new equipment and bizarre appliances with them. The Colonel moved to an intercom and pressed a button. "How long before I can speak with the boy?"
The technician replied without even looking up from his work. "It'll take us a couple of hours to hook up the interface wetware and test the new cryo-stabilization parameters," said the tinny voice from the intercom. "If that works then give us another hour to make sure he's acclimated and the wetware actually functions in real-life conditions, then you can speak with him."
"And if these new parameters don't test out?" questioned the Colonel.
"Then as soon as we make the insertion the cryo-solution with flash-crystallize and we'll have another freezer-pop on our hands just like every animal test we've run before now." The technician pause then faced the Colonel. "I sure hope you know what you're doing with this boy's life, Colonel."
"So do I," the Colonel whispered under his breath as he clicked off the intercom button and the technician went back to work.
***
"Colonel," said the female cryo-tech as they stood outside the recovery room, "we've dimmed the lights to be on the safe side and Jimmy is aware of his surroundings to some degree, but he's having a little problem with visualization at the moment." She paused to consult her clipboard full of charts.
"And his hearing?" asked the Colonel?
She smiled, "Oh, his audio pick-ups and comprehension are perfect and the speech synthesis is working better than expected. He actually sounds like a kid and that has some of the technicians stumped since the vox unit should be nearly monotone."
"What about movement?"
"We have not connected the relays for any of the mobility servos," she said. "We didn't want to take the chance that he might injure himself accidentally. He'll need a lot of retraining until he's able to move on his own."
The Colonel considered a moment and then asked, "Does he know what's happened?"
"No," she answered. "I'd say he's recovered from the anesthetics, but he may be experiencing some emotional shock. He's been pretty quiet, just giving simple answers to our simple questions."
The Colonel turned to enter the boy's room. "I don't want to be disturbed unless your monitors show he's in some sort of danger."
"Yes sir."
As the technician had said, the room was nearly dark except for the soothing blue glow emitted by the equipment. The Colonel walked quietly over to Jimmy and put his hand on a piece of equipment. "Hello Jimmy. My name is Joshua Hood," he said quietly. "Can you hear me?"
"Yes sir, but I can't see you very well, it's dark." His voice did sound like a boy's to some degree and Colonel Hood detected a note of worry in the mechanically accented sound.
"Your vision will improve in a day or so." Colonel Hood paused and the whirs and clicks and beeps of the machinery filled the silence. "Jimmy, there's no easy way to say this so I'll just say it. Your family was in a bad accident and your parents, well, they did not make it, but they didn't suffer either."
He watched as the patterns on Jimmy's EEG monitors became erratic and a few other machines beeped faster than before, but soon they all settled down and Jimmy asked, "Did I die, too?"
"You were seriously injured, and we thought we wouldn't be able to save you, but that trick you did with the man's computer game helped us. It's hard to explain, but you solved a problem that we've been working on for a long time."
"And that saved my life?" asked Jimmy's new voice.
Colonel Hood walked forward and placed his hand on the side of the transparent insulating cylinder on the table in front of him. Though it was warm to his touch, it was filled with a super-cooled blue fluid that was in no danger of crystallizing thanks to Jimmy's help with the simulation. Inside was the delicate brain and portion of spinal cord that was everything that remained of Jimmy. Micro-thin wires extended from the organ like a wild head of hair and connected to a host of equipment that replicated Jimmy's senses and allowed him to experience and interact with the world.
"Yes, Jimmy." He patted the cylinder as he would have patted the boy's shoulder. "And you're going to be one amazingly important young man."
"Cooooool!" came the boy’s synthesized voice.
***
Lieutenant Stephens made a short sweeping motion with the paint brush and stepped back to admire the small change he'd made to the sign: “Cool City Limit Population 236.”
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WDavid,
Sinister
Sinister
by W. David MacKenzie
The leafless trees and abandoned picnic tables eased out of the cold night, casting sinister shadows as dawn forced its way into the snow-covered park. In a few hours kids would be playing noisily, but for now the silence was broken only by the soft crunching of my boots through the day-old snow as I walked toward the wooden bridge and the frozen tire tracks leading into the river. I was fairly sure what I'd find, but I needed to be certain so I could put this case to bed and then hit the sack myself.
There was a lot of disturbed snow at the river's edge but enough of it was frozen into crystal-clear tread patterns to give the crime lab boys some good solid evidence, if they could get to it before it melted. I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my parka as a shiver passed through me and tried not to think of what must have happened here in the wee hours of the morning.
I'd made a night of it, going to the darkest bars downtown, making enough easily overhead comments to be certain my target knew I wanted to meet with him and where. Of course I was nowhere near there--here, when he arrived. I was home leaning over a steaming mug of coffee, reading the file on his grisly deeds and the months of police work that had finally pointed me in the right direction. I was reassuring myself that I'd made the right decision. I was leaving the dirty work to others better suited to it.
I kicked a clump of ice and it slid down the tire tracks like a bobsled, plopping into the water as I trudged over to the bridge. The boards were slippery and I shuffled up the incline carefully until I was on even footing then stood leaning over the handrail, looking down onto the roof of a car just barely submerged in the shallow river. "Did you have to drag the whole car in there?" I snorted.
Water lapped noisily among the bridge supports as something moved in the sluggish river and a deep voice, its labored breathiness breaking the cadence of the words, filtered up from beneath the bridge. "He wouldn't get out of the car and it seemed the easiest thing to do." The speaker drew in a long gravely breath. "Even so, if the riverbank had not been icy I might not have had the strength to do it."
"When the squad cars get here they'll need to call in a water rescue team, so you'd better be gone by then." I stepped back from the railing and looked down through the gaps in the boards beneath my feet. It was too dark to make out anything other than a vague shape, but I knew what I would have seen and I wasn't disappointed that I couldn't see it.
Water splashed around again as the shape beneath the bridge moved, probably trying to look up at me. The wheezing growl came again, "There's another bridge a ways up the river. I'll be safe enough.” The voice went silent for a moment then resumed hoarsely, “This one was particularly evil.”
"I'm not surprised, with the number of women he'd slaughtered."
I paused and gazed back down at the car in the water, nodding my head toward it as if the thing under the bridge could see me. "Is there anything left in there?"
More movement churned the water as the thing coughed out a malignant chuckle. "It was difficult, but I left a morsel or two."
My stomach tightened. It wasn't the first time I'd used my contacts to bring a case to a speedy and certain close and I doubted it would be the last time, but I didn’t like being reminded what took place when I made these bargains.
An oversized arm, thick with corded muscles, reached up from beneath the bridge holding a nylon wallet between its gnarled and boney fingers. It deftly deposited the soggy item near my feet then slowly withdrew into the shadows. I stared at the wallet, simultaneously wanting to know who the anonymous serial killer had been and not wanting to know whom I had lured to his death. I kneeled down and reached for it then stopped. I would read the reports soon enough; for the present, not knowing made it easier. I left the wallet on the bridge and stood up. "Thanks for the help."
I turned and walked carefully down the bridge toward my car a few hundred yards away. Above the crunching of my boots I heard the troll's gruff voice call out, "Thanks for the dinner."
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WDavid,
Welcome to "Putting Pen To Paper"
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penitentman,
5 Comments:
Hi all!
Just joined the blog today. Have always loved to write, but haven't been very serious about it.
Trying to get more serious about it now.
Mostly I've written rhyming poetry that is more fun than artistic, but I'd like to start writing some stories.
It's late for me, but wanted to get something up and look forward to reading what others are sharing.
As I'm really just starting to get into this again, I'd really love any feedback at all. Does this spark any interest in the character? Does reading this much make you care at all what happens? Why? Why not? etc...
Thanks for a great site and great opportunity!
-Mike
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penitentman, at 7/31/2006 10:07:00 PM
Mike, thanks for joining our little group. I hope we continue to see more of your work. Please help us out by commenting of other posts here too.
Now, for your story... I totally enjoyed it. It is a very few moments in someone's life and does leave you wanting to know what happens next... Is he truly badly injured? What is he running from? who is pursueing him? Had I not had the title "Runaways", I might have concluded that he was in some kind of race and had a grand "lead" toward making it to the finish line first.
I also hope to see some of your poetry here since my first love has also been rhyming poetry and when I am truly enjoying it, I am "playing" with it. I'm just now trying to learn to write poetry without rhyming and it's a real challenge!
By
Ruth, at 8/01/2006 04:34:00 AM
Mike...Welcome to our world. :-)
I've been eagerly awaiting another short storist...I'm surrounded by poets and out of my depth. :-)
Like Ruth, I initially thought it was a race of some sort. The "airbike" got my attention and I immediately wanted to know what that was all about. I guess the recent tour de france had my mind on cycling. When I saw that he had a "24 hour lead" I began to suspect something other than a race in the competitive sence.
Yes, I thought Dom (Dominic?) was engaging with he self recrimination for blowing his lead. I would like to know how he managed to crash the airbike and what he's racing away from.
You've created a sense of urgency and a sense of impending peril for Dom if he can't get himself moving again.
There was one place that I stumbled. "He glanced around at his surroundings once more. He found himself in a shallow ravine, sitting in the shadow of a bridge that spanned its breadth overhead. Looking around, he could tell it wasn't going to be an easy climb out of there." There's a lot of looking around going on here and I think it's safe to assume that a bridge would naturally span the breadth of a ravine so stating it her seems clumsy. Maybe rephrasing it like "The desert rose steeply on either side and the railroad bridge at the top of the ravine cast it's gridwork shadow on Dom. Climbing up to level ground would be tricky thanks to the gully's loose rock and dirt walls."
Just a suggestion. Take it for what it'sworth. :-)
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WDavid, at 8/01/2006 07:06:00 AM
Good story -- I definitely wanted to know why Dom got into his predicament, and where he was going next.
I also liked the quotes of the mind chatter.
But I didn't like the reference to "sorry butt" after Dom realized how injured he was -- the voice went from gentleman biker to something different, and back. Maybe you could move the colloquial language into the mind chatter, but leave the narrative with a consistent voice?
By
Peter, at 8/02/2006 12:35:00 PM
I did like the story and definitely wanted to know everything all the others have already mentioned. I'm not sure that I liked the narrative talking though with all the other mind talking. It just seemed out of place to me, but what do I know?
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PeggySueO, at 8/02/2006 10:02:00 PM
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