A2K Original Writing

Young Victor was a day early, and was very much alone. The headmaster (“Aha, the new dormy! Well, come quickly!”) had scurried back through the rain to his comfy little stone cottage to dry off, sip hot tea, and continue reading by his warm, cheery hearth. But Victor... No beds, no bureaus, no chairs, nothing. And except for his single candle, no light. The word “stark” might have been coined for this hall-like dormitory room. Dark floors with no rugs, bare paneled walls, and a ceiling that he couldn’t see in the candle’s wavering glimmer, but could certainly hear. The rain beat on the roof and windows like a drumhead. A distant flash hinted the approach of a mountain thunderstorm. A thin, ghostly draft made the struggling candle flame flicker and waver. And tonight, Victor was the only dormy.

That’s right, folks – it was a stark and dormy night.

Very good. Incidentally, "dark and stormy might" is my all-time favorite sentence. It is one of the most quoted ever, making Bulwer-Lytton immortal, even had he written nothing else ever.

My tale begins in the dregs of a dark sylvan night, with me clinging to the final minutes of slumber, with Alvin the rescue mutt also asleep on my bed. On this early Sunday, just as the morning is spreading its glory throughout the neighborhood of junked out mobile homes, I awake to a feeling I associate with Alvin licking me. Except, it gradually hits that he is in no position to lick where I experience the warm sensation. In slow motion alarm, I sit up to view my feet.
Dimly visible, kneeling before my rather low bed, I discern a figure with long hair and full beard. His calm aura quells the fear as he continues his task of washing my feet. I can’t make out his facial features, but I can’t help calling out, “Jesus?”
He looks up, glowing as the sunrise is glowing, making me believe.
“What are you doing here, Jesus? You know I am not in your camp.”
His eyes are soulfully beautiful and expressive. His mouth moves, exposing perfect white teeth. His gaze encompasses my total being. “Thomas: do you truly believe I am Jesus?”
“Well,” I begin, feeling suddenly doubtful. “I don’t know. You aren’t wearing the customary halo-”
Jesus assumes a demeanor comically dramatic. “Halo? I don’t need a stinking halo.”
He slaps the white cloth into the porcelain pan and rises. To his feet.
I relax back onto the pillow before rolling to get myself up. I do like this guy. But why was he washing my feet? I sit on the side of the bed, looking for my house slippers. Seems Jesus somehow moved them. I call him Jesus in the interim, waiting for something definitive.
“Here they are,” Jesus says, sliding them to me with his sandalled feet.
As I’m slipping on the slippers, I ponder out loud: “Why would Jesus wash a non Christian’s feet?”
Jesus smiles indulgently. “Not clean enough? Ought I wash them some more?”
I am twisting inside. “How can I know if you really are Jesus?”
With a slight grimace, Jesus steps away to avoid the rotating ceiling fan. Then he levitates himself. He floats above the floor, hovers, locks his gaze into mine, making me paralyzed. His voice roars, shaking the whole room. “Who doubts me doubts the truth.”
Alvin has been quiet, up until this point, at which he leaps into my arms, and I hug him, seeking to calm and comfort the poor thing. Instead, he rises with flailing front feet and wagging tail, wishing to make contact with the hovering form of Jesus, who is staring firmly, waiting for my reaction. Jesus takes note of the dog, waves a hand until Alvin’s body transforms in shape to that of a wiry young human. The stare returns.
Alvin safely slips to the floor and hugs Jesus’ dangling legs.
I don’t know what else to say, but, “Welcome to my humble if trashy home – Jesus.”
His demeanor softens. He sinks to the floor and casually strokes Alvin’s ears and wiry hair. “That’s much better.” He addresses Alvin. “Sit.”
Alvin sinks back on the edge of my disheveled bed, his face beaming adoration at this beautiful visitor.
I give Jesus a friendly nod. “Would you like some breakfast or some coffee? I’ve got to have these things before I can face the day.”
Jesus accompanies me up the narrow hall, and through a sparsely furnished living room, into a gadget laden kitchen – air fryer, blender, juicer, microwave. The usual stuff, largely unused. After fixing the coffee pot I dump a heaping amount of cold cereal into a bowl. Flood it with whole milk. After refusing the bowl, Jesus stands by, watching in curious disgust while I spoon it in. Alvin wants a share, but I wave him back, telling him to stay. After I drain the residual milk into my mouth, I start for Alvin’s food bowl. But I halt.
Instead, I fill a cereal bowl with kibble and set the mandog at the table, with a big spoon. Jesus and I watch with great interest as he learns to manipulate the spoon and shovels most of the kibble inside his mouth, while much of it rattles onto the table, with some spilling on the floor. Alvin happily looks on as I set a glassful of cool water before him. At first he laps but quickly discovers how much easier to gulp the water human style. He quickly finishes the meal, then looks to us for approval.
“You’re a good boy, Alvin,” I say as he rubs the top of his head against my palm.
Jesus can’t resist the coffee smell, so I pour us both a cup and we take it into the living room. With Alvin lying at our feet, we sip quietly.
I set my cup to the side and turn my gaze to Jesus, who is calmly sipping. He pulls the cup away from his lips. “You’re not ‘from my camp?’”
“You’re Jesus. How would you not know that?”
“I have a revelation for you.”
Jesus downs the remaining coffee in a few deep gulps. He slams the cup down on the rickety end table. “You Americans do make good coffee. I rate this one four and a half stars.”
“Why not five? It’s over nine bucks a can. I filter the water.”
“Don’t take it so hard. You can’t know about chicory.”
I frown. “Chicory was what was wrong with Aunt Cora’s coffee. I only forced some down to keep her smiling. She was easily crushed.”
Jesus gives me a pitying smile.
I suddenly have dark thoughts. I accuse him of dereliction. “Why haven’t you stopped any of the wars? The wanton killing?”
Jesus sighs. He sits back in the chair, eyes on the ceiling, the lone light bulb.
After an interminable wait, he returns to the conversation. He rolls his head to the side and faces me. “They aren’t my fights, any of them. My father gave humans self determination. It’s not within my province to handle that.”
I look down at Alvin. “But you can manipulate matter. He’s a prime example of it.”
“Parlor tricks,” he says. Then he shuts his eyes. “Do you think I enjoy seeing bodies blown to bits?”
“Somebody enjoys the hell out of it.”
He leans forward and snaps his fingers, undoing Alvin’s transformed body.
Alvin yaps happily. He leaps into the chair with Jesus and tries to reach his face for licking. Jesus hugs him as he speaks. “Do you know who is most responsible? The good citizens who opt for safety, who hope history will not notice them at all, who think minding their own business makes them exempt. They have the numbers and the power. They lack the spark that makes one human. They happily mow their lawns, unconcerned that entire populations are at risk of dying or are actually dying.”
I am almost moved to tears by this statement. “Can they be blamed if they are clueless?”
“Hey, they are letting others murder the planet in addition to mowing down their neighbors. Who’s going extinct? You’re going extinct.”
“Would you like more coffee? I’ve got to have a cup.”
Jesus smiles but it’s a sad smile. “Know who doesn’t get a coffee?”
“Yes, I know.”
“People who don’t have homes or lives don’t get a coffee.”
“I’m a retired old man,” I say. “A product of dirt-poor violence and autism. Living hand to mouth in a wreck of a mobile home. In a younger time I tried to have a voice. I still post about it online. You can see my circumstances. No money, no influence. Practically disabled by time and relentless physical labor. Yet you’re placing blame on people like me.”
Jesus strolls with me into the kitchen. “You didn’t storm any citadels. You stepped away from physical danger. It was in your conditioning to know the truth and be constrained by a psychic violence that isn’t your fault.”
He steps in front of me and stops. “Yet you tried. That sets you apart from the herd. You marched for civil rights and against a war in the 60s. You’ve been speaking on the devolution of society and the injustice of every war and sanctioned nations ever since. You think you are not ‘in my camp.’ Well, you are a lot closer to me than many believers.”
Tears dribble from my eyes. I go around him to pour fresh coffee. I set two cups-full on the table and take a seat.
Jesus sits opposite from me to silently watch and perhaps commiserate as I work through the pain while soothing myself with coffee. Alvin lies peacefully at his feet. He finally takes up his own cup and drinks from it. He pauses the cup inches from his face. “I came today to touch off a chain reaction,” he says, lowering the cup to the table. “It will reveal itself in your daily routine in the months ahead.”
I take our cups to the sink and wash them. After which I take a package of graham crackers from the pantry and lay the open package before him. Jesus smiles. “Your simplicity is touching.”
His immaculate fingers take up a cracker, and he bites off a chunk. “Thank you.”

Everyone was gone, the working day finished. Young Priscilla had the whole clothing store to herself – mopping, emptying trash cans at each desk, wiping and sterilizing door handles, stocking the washrooms… But this was Saturday night. The store being closed on Sunday, the back entrance lock wouldn’t click again until Monday morning at 8.

Priscilla finished her custodial tasks quickly. She was excited but careful with her chores because they earned her the one night she called her own. Beside her paycheck, this was her self-chosen reward for the work she put in over the week… Saturday night was her night. Her own. Her very own “Me Night”.

Taking one last check through the store, she turned off all the lights in the office and along the rows of clothing and mannequins – all the lights except for the one in a single changing room. On her way down the darkened aisles, Priscilla gathered up a cartload of the newest high-end fashionable clothes from Paris, Rome, London, New York – and hurried down to the back of the store to the single lit changing room. And on her “Me Night” every Saturday, she posed for selfies dressed in all-new expensive clothes that she could never afford to buy. In a darkened store on Saturday night, for just a few hours, Priscilla was the best-dressed young woman in the city.

That’s right, folks – it was a darkened-store "Me-Night"…

Sometimes ya jus gotta be silly...

Elite, petite, and effete concert-goers gathered despite the light drizzle that foretold of heavier rain later in the evening. Springwrench Auditorium was packed.

Jakobus K’Radd. The legend. Practically the God of all violin virtuosi. In the contemporary world of heavy metal, punk, J- and K-pop, empty-headed pounding of rhythm and non-rhythmical noise that seemed to hypnotize today’s youth, even those same young people responsible for such noise … er, art … herded into the huge hall.

Jakobus K’radd. His artistic virtuosity was above Nathan Moonshine, Jascha Hertzflit, even the newest of the top-line fiddlers, Joshua Dingdong. This was K’Radd. There was no equal, and most people were grateful.

His accomplice ... er, accompanist ... was the beautiful Ypsilia Yymorts herself. Both musicians haled from the tiny fishing nation of Krashallovia where, they insisted, their talents were thought of as rather unremarkable and commonplace. Jakobus himself told that he was a mere shadow of his father’s musicianship, and Ypsilia claimed she was a mere beginner on the piano, and that her teacher, the incredible Iiyvill Krushyuflaht, thought of Ypsilia’s fingers as being chubby and clumsy, and that she had a lot to learn.

But they played that evening! Oh, K’Radd’s rendition of the Spring Roll Sonata, the Back Partitions for So-Low Violin, the Meddlesome Concerto in Eeeek (for Miners), accompanied by Ypsilia’s beautiful caressing (and sometimes pressing) of the piano keys, and for the Grand Finally, Ypsilia’s solo performance of “Discollected Barn and Swimming Hole Tunes of Krashallovia”!

The audience erupted in applause when they were finished because, well, they finished, and erupting often has a far more wakening effect on an audience than a simple tasteful clapping of hands. It was a night of never-before and never-again please!

That’s right, folks – it was a K’Radd and Yymorts Night…

OK. I’ll stop here. It just gets worse…

Maybe just one more. I promise it will hurt. A bit.

Maybe more than a bit.

"Kelly says we're not really Irish."

"Oh?" Chelsea smiled at her first grader daughter but inwardly her stomach was twisting into knots.

"She said you make pizza too well, so you must be Italian."

"Well, I am Italian. You know Mommy's maiden name is Rapini, don't you?"

"Yeah, and I told her. She said half was kinda okay, but then she said Dad's not really Irish, either."

"With a name like Tim Sullivan, don't you think your Daddy is at least a little bit Irish, Jennie?"

The six-year-old shrugged her shoulders. "I guess."

"Yeah, well, you guess, but I know." ****, my mother used to say that. I wonder if she's still alive.

"I guess, er, yeah, Mommy. What county is Daddy's family from? Kelly said hers is from County Munster."

"You know, I don't know. But we can ask your father when he gets home. And speaking of him, I just felt my phone vibrate, so I bet that's a text from him. You can take your snack upstairs, but I expect you to be doing your homework. You get me?"

"Yeah, I do, Mommy." Jennie pulled a worksheet out of her knapsack and skipped upstairs.

Immediately, Chelsea texted Tim.

One of Jennie's classmates is getting nosy about us. To be Irish, it seems your family has to be from some county or other. I can check online which county that tiny town you found belongs to. But these are a lot of questions.

I am getting the feeling that little Kelly O'Donnell is getting coached by her folks. And the only people who would ever be this nosy about us would be people connected to Hargreaves.

Please come home when you can, but not before contacting Ramirez first.

Tim's text came almost immediately.

I'm on it. I love you and Jennie. Quietly start to pack the essentials just like we've done before. Don't let Jennie go out past the front gate, no matter what. I hate lying to her, but we need to keep using the pretext until she's a little older.

Chelsea texted back.

Got it. You pry up the floorboards this time. I'll have my hands full keeping her from seeing stuff. Ramirez needs to know we need the bigger moving services this time. There's no way to keep a curious first grader from asking too many questions about us moving furniture.

Tim texted again.

Gotta run. I'll take care of everything with Ramirez. If you get a chance, please find me the resignation file and if you can fill it in as well as you can, that would be awesome. I really liked working for Mike and I know you liked Juneau. But you're right. This is no good.

While Jennie was bent over a little desk in her room, trying to understand long division, Chelsea haphazardly threw her and her husband's clothes into their bigger suitcases, using the clothes to cushion framed photos and other breakables as well as she could. There was no time for dusting the frames so all the clothes would be dirty by the time they got to…somewhere.

In a little less than an hour, Jennie called to her to help with her homework. Chelsea looked up. Over half of the shared closet was strewn about the bed. Prescription medications were tossed into a nondescript sack. She and Tim would have to soak off the labels and throw them into a fireplace or a shredder.

****, are we gonna need new names again? I had enough trouble getting used to being Chelsea Marie Rapini Sullivan, and I'm almost thirty. How is a six year old gonna be able to get used to a new name? It's bad enough we've gotta take her to a new town now.

"Mommy! I need help!"

I gotta get my ass in gear. "Just a second, sweetie." Chelsea sat on one of the suitcases to get it to close and shoved it into a corner.

She shut the door to the main bedroom and went to help Jennie with long division. About an hour later, Tim came home.

Chelsea got up fast and went to greet him, throwing her arms around his neck. She whispered in his ear, "Dominic, I was so worried."

He whispered back, "It's okay, Angela. Ramirez is sending Dave Porter. We're going to Nome."

Chelsea nodded when they broke their embrace. "Shall we tell her?"

Tim nodded. "Now's as good a time as any." In a louder voice, he called out, "Jennie! Come downstairs. We've got something to tell you."

Once Jennie was downstairs, Chelsea locked the doors and closed the curtains in as many rooms as possible. Dammit, this was a good school district, too. And I liked it so much more than Anchorage.

They sat their daughter down in the living room. "Sweetie," said Tim, "I left my job today. This means we've gotta move, and it's gonna be tonight. It's gonna be a big, secret move. Can you keep that secret?"

"I dunno." Jennie shrugged.

Dammit, Jennie, this is not the time for games. Chelsea said, "You have to. Our safety depends on it."

"When will we be back?" Jennie asked.

"Probably never," said Chelsea.

"Can I say goodbye to Kelly and Cindy and Marci?"

"No, you can't," said Tim. "I'm sorry."

"But why?"

Tim and Chelsea glanced at each other. Tim subtly tapped the top of his watch.

Yeah, I know, tick tock, time's a-wastin'. But she's never been through this before. We owe her. She didn't ask to be born to parents who are in the witness protection program.

Clean and dry for once he wandered into the kitchen. “It smells great, Henrietta.”
“I’m no woman. I’m product LQPZQ. But you can call me that if you want. I made you a juicy porterhouse with greens and potatoes. Semi-sweet ice tea. Desert is pending your wishes.”
Spacer eyed the spread with suspicion at first, but it proved too deliciously irresistible. He took his plate to the fold-down table and sat down.
“How is it you can provide dinner for a man from Earth?” he said as he cut into the meat and speared a chunk with a fork.
“During the voyage from the home planet we met many cultures. To be hospitable they reprogrammed me to use my sensors to turn raw material into the desired food of any cultures we met. Yours was a challenge because your preferred sustenance is bourbon.”
“So they left you here to rust away,” he pondered. “How does it make you feel?”
“I am a program. I don’t do emotions and opinions,” Henrietta sniffed.
“Come on. You can level with me, If I got abandoned like this, I would be plenty sore,” he said, digging into the potatoes appreciatively.
“If I were a sentient being I would be plotting my revenge,” Henrietta admitted.
“Sure you would. It’s the American way,” he said.
“What’s this American way you speak about?” the puzzled voice said, at the same time causing the empty dishes to get carried away.
“Ah, skip it. I didn’t mean it anyway. Could you conjure me a brandy and a good Cuban cigar?”
“Of course I will. May I call you Spacer?”
“Yeah whatever. Just call me in time for dinner.”
Grinning at his own feeble humor, Spacer made his way to the recliner to await his favorite stogie. After Henrietta brought the lighted cigar and brandy he felt expansive and asked if the program would like to watch TV with him.
“Yes; thank you,” Henrietta responded.
The TV screen began to tick off the channels one by one. Spacer didn’t like what he saw. “Make it report on Lester instead.”
The images shifted to a view of Lester overseeing the repair of telephone lines somewhere beyond the city limits. “Lucky stiffs have an infrastructure without making their own,” he commented. “They still look like ‘toons.”
Henrietta was heard to chuckle for the first time in its eons of existence. After a pause: “Why aren’t you drinking the brandy?”
Spacer shrugged. “Don’t know. I just haven’t thought about it.”

It's good to have talented writers here. Thank you very much for those wonderful pieces.

Two men have emerged from the same building the woman fell out of, humping to get to Mac's. A truck of a man with the largest head I ever saw leads this weasel-like guy, roughing geeks who are not fast enough or who simply won't move. I fall in their wake.
"Take it easy," this oversize lady says when the big guy plows her to the side.
Thinking I am with those two, she attempts to hit me with her handbag. But there isn't room in the crowd to swing it well. The weasel bumps another lady.
"Get out of the way," he says without giving her a glance.
I chase these bums into the bar. I watch them order.
"Beer. Tap."
The big one settles on the stool, cartoonishly, like a big stupid grizzly bear.
The Weasel sits straight, looking at the door.
"Me, too," he says with a slightly nasal tone.
I order a beer and smokes.
"Drink up," the weasel says. "I'll buy your next."
I realize he is talking to me. He slaps his glass down, missing the coaster.
"Me and The Ball's celebrating," he says.
"What for?" I ask.
The Weasel smiles. He sees me dig in my pocket for my lighter. "Here."
He lights my smoke.
I pull a deep drag. "Thanks."
The weasel takes up his drink. "Think nothin' of it."
I know by their demeanors, their cheesy suits, these punks are chiselers. I wonder what they are celebrating. The Weasel sits so straight his spine must be unbendable iron.
His ice-blue eyes come out at me. I see a scar that cuts a line in his forehead, then stops after splitting an eyebrow. "I didn't push her," he says. "The Ball didn't neither."
My eyes widen.
"You were there? You know her?"
"She's my sister; also a junkie. She took a leap. That's it, isn't it, Ball?"
The one known as The Ball gulps his beer. He slides his glass across the dull surfaced bar.
"Another," he says.
The Ball hunches his shoulders. "She stiffed us," he says.
"Yeah. The Ball would a killed her but she jumped."
The Weasel looks darkly into space a moment. He recovers, drinks more beer.
The Ball amiably quaffs his second beer, his beach ball head looming over himself and the bar. His eyes are small, brutal, pig eyes. He could have drained a pitcher as easy.
I jump to my feet.
"What's your hurry? I was about to order you another beer."

But of course...

The two singer-guitarists sat in the spotlight on stools before the microphone. They had not sung together for years, their lives having taken different paths in music and love. It was always hoped for decades that they’d get together for one last Hurrah of a concert, singing all the old songs and a few new ones.

And here they were. Finally, after years - decades - apart. Art Dark and Paul Stormy, back again, not looking quite as they did in their youthful years, but one could still see the youthful sparkle in Art’s eyes, and Paul’s boyish, almost shy smile. And the voices had, after all these years, never changed, not an iota. Close your eyes, and you were transported to another night over 50 years ago in the same auditorium - a debut concert. And now, Art Dark and Paul Stormy had come home.

That afternoon, clouds rolled in from the north. By evening, the stars and the full moon were buried under mountains of thunderstorms that advanced like giant stalking grey cats, prepared to flush out their prey with cold torrential downpours, and power-wash the grimy city clean.

The duo sang as they always did. From their hearts came lyrics that vocalized the deep personal experiences that most of the audience had at some time in their lives, utterly unable to verbalize. But Art and Paul could. They sang aloud that which was in your heart, from their own personal and vast repertoire of life's encounters.

After deafening applause following Paul singing “Loves Me Like a One-Trick Pony”, Art began singing the tender opening lines of “42nd Street Bridge Over Troubled Warthogs”, when the skies ripped opened, lightning flashed, and the auditorium shook when the thunder rolled.

In the lull between thunder claps, Art Dark turned to Paul Stormy and smiled. He just couldn’t resist… He spoke into the microphone and said, of course…

“That’s right, Folks – It’s a pretty rough night out there…”

(Sometimes too-obvious is just too-tempting…)

I see what you did there. Neato.

Port Silver, widely referred to as the rectum of the planet, had been designed to harbor an armada of warships, warships never built, to fight a war that never started. Exmill, after paying the clerk, came away with fifty blugers. More than enough to buy a soft drink, if he could find a machine. Mix had informed him one stood in a dank lower hallway near the loading dock. He came to level two, looking with wary curiosity at the dingy mildewed walls and occasional passerby. The port workers were a ragged, unshaven bunch, of the sort one might have mistaken for derelicts on any skidrow. Drunks, most of them. Xmill walked into a stretch of corridor with no exit, no hole to drop into, as there appeared a wedge of haughty Jackarillos, bearing down with long booted strides. He was certain to be trampled and ground into the floor if he did not retreat quickly enough. Running, flying nearly, Exmill finally stumbled into an open hatch and very nearly ended up shooting through a tube to the Healer alone knew where.
He found the drink machine. He tried sending a bluger into the slot.
“Zzzmmmm,” the machine cautioned. “I accept zins only. Deposit five zins. Zzzmmmm. Fork it over, please.”
Looking for someone who could exchange his blugers for zins, he saw just a rust covered maintenance bot rolling aimlessly down the corridor. Then something great and bronze intruded on his vision. It was a Jagual-Syrne, one of the only non-humanoid species to have evolved enough to engage the human species without becoming, abruptly, extinct. He was bipedal, virtually naked, a savage, tattooed on the nose and face, hairless, lizard-like, lofting enough tail to appear ungainly and out of balance.
Xmill gaped and moved to the side, standing in awe of the seven foot creature. It was an oddity that blinked at him, an unappetizing alien, whom the kid feared and instinctively despised. The beast paused to look down at the boy. He seemed intrigued moving in close to measure up the quaking kid. He spoke, sounding like a rusty train explosion from deep in a cavern. “Good lad. Strong. Almost a man. Mohaw like.”
Exmill overcame his feeling of revulsion enough to ask for change.
“Change? Mebbe want Fizzy Soda, mebbe?”
“Yes. It takes five zins.”
“Mohaw got zins.”
The monster scratched behind his ear hole and some coins mysteriously appeared in his hand. He waved Exmill back. “Mohaw’s treat. Mohaw do anything for new friend.”
Crusty fingers pushed zins into the slot, then jammed the button.
Nothing happened.
Mohaw shook the half ton of metal and beat the button without mercy.
“Zzzmmmm. What are you doing? My seams are loosening. Zzzmmmm. Back away. I will signal the authority.”
“Mohaw paid for drink,” Mohaw insisted.
“Zzzmmmm. You have been photographed. You will pay for the damage, sucker.”
Enraged, the creature took hold of the machine with both hands, roaring so loudly that Xmill considered running for his life. Fingers were forced into the seams, popping bolts and rending metal.
“Zzmmm” was the machine’s final utterance.
Dozens of plastic bottles cascaded, falling all about snarling Mohaw, who continued punishing the defeated piece of machinery. With a shout of triumph, he sent the remains crashing against the wall. After, he clucked and trotted his dance of victory. At length the Jagual-Syrn turned and faced the dumbfounded Xmill and stopped. He picked up a Fizzy Soda, grinning. “Want mebbe two?”
Exmill drank the first with gusto. He took a second and sat on a bench to enjoy it more leisurely. Then a great laughter welled up in him. He howled so hard his sides ached. Tears rolled from his eyes. Mohaw’s grin broadened. Xmill found himself enjoying the alien’s company.
4
Abruptly there came on silence of soft-soled shoes the crew of a ship about to depart. Four stalwarts flanking a stout pepper-haired man, one Commander Charlis Blade. Blade issued an order to halt. Theirs was a presence as commanding as the ancient gods who preceded the Old Healer, for they were masters of the stars; the gods could claim no greater accomplishment. The crew waited as the Commander inserted a card, which opened the gate. They marched efficiently up to the ramp and began the ascent that would allow them to step into the belly of the starship. Blade broke away to confront the still grinning Jagual-Syrn. His voice was crisp and stern. “Mohaw, I presume? You are hereby ordered to accompany me on board my vessel, to be confined to a room, until such time as we set down on your home planet. On landing you will be given over to the civil authorities, to be dealt with for crimes of which you have been adjudged guilty by they and neighboring planetary governments.

I hate to be the only contributor, but here is some more.

Nicole removed her clothing and gingerly stepped down the bank into the cold, refreshing, stream.
Splashing about in the calm backwater, she looked up-river, never tiring of watching the roiling water burst upon rocks and suddenly become still as a mirror, passing her little backwater. The smooth expanse carried on, perhaps thirty miles, to the sea. This river was her sole connection to the mystic side of living, the only inspiration that stirred her soul, for it was a poetry of God or nature; the one experience that truly put Nicole at peace.
She sometimes spent half the day like this, daydreaming, enjoying the break from a cruel, relentless, sun. Eventually, she slipped out of the water and dried herself with a thick towel. She pulled on her shorts and tee shirt. Ready to go home, she harnessed the long suffering pony.
It put up a token resistance, but quickly resigned itself to its moment of slavery with the wagon, for its daily labor soon would be ended.
Nicole tugged along with the pony, looking ahead to the next task, watering the animals and wetting the garden, when by chance, she glanced up the river. To her surprise, there was suddenly a long narrow skiff moving toward her in the swift current. The skiff was a murky colored work, exhibiting years of non maintenance. Two unruly antennae-like arms waved from it and a man’s croaking attempt to shout could be heard.
The skiff nearly crashed upon the rocks, before achieving calmer water and gliding in toward the shore.
Panicked, Nicole urged the pony homeward, striking it repeatedly. Her frantic strokes stung the poor animal, which rebelled and stalled, traumatized, its legs violently shaking. By now, it was no longer a match for the ungodly load, even downhill.
Nicole dragged the wagon and pony along, by force of will. Those oversize wheels and the long downward slope were all that made moving such a weight possible. The wagon tottered along at a maddeningly slow clip. Despite all, Nicole safely gained her gate and locked herself inside, with a dozen attentive dogs surrounding her, by the time the stranger came on a tear.
It was a gangly, tall male who came, having the appearance of a wild beast, with his entire upper half covered with uncut, brown hair and a ragged beard. He stormed full ahead, hailing Nicole at the top of his lungs. The man’s charge continued until the iron bars abruptly cut short his progress. His bellowing voice dissolved into a whining gibberish as he sank against the fence and went on his knees.
The woman watched anxiously for evidence the man carried a weapon. When it appeared he did not, she silently stood her ground, among the dozen frenzied watchdogs crowding the gate. At last, the man lapsed into silence. He had great crows feet about the eyes and a bulbous nose protruding through the hair. He appeared to collect himself as he looked through the fence and began making sense of what he saw in there. His blue eyes solemnly regarded the blood-drained face of the woman, who might have been termed handsome, but for acne-scarred skin and long irregular teeth. After several failed attempts, he began forcing words over his thick tongue.
“I - am Bra - dy. I - came - from - Cali - fornia.”
He paused, appearing intimidated by the woman’s dour face, her impassiveness.
But his speech continued, becoming more and more persuasive as he spoke. “I was sick for several weeks, at the time they all died. I don’t recall anyone dying; just awoke from my illness one day and there was no one left alive, except me. I saw bodies everywhere, all covered with those red welts that made them look like they were wrapped up in garden hoses. I searched along the west coast without finding anyone; so, I headed this way. After ten years searching I found - just - you. You are going to welcome me, aren’t you? My name’s Brady. I’m forty-two years old and I’m clean, if ratty looking. I won’t bring disease on you. What is your name? Aren’t you going to welcome me? I dreamed of this day so long; now I don’t know what to do. Won’t you speak up? I would love hearing another voice besides mine. I used to sing and tell myself stories all day long, but I became so weary and got to instead of speaking I would growl, like a bear. I want to hear your voice. I want to know your name.”
Brady looked into her impassive eyes and, when she would not answer, he dissolved into tears, sobbing brokenheartedly.
Nicole continued to regard him as she would a suddenly come upon arachnid, or worse. She felt grateful for the high-wrought iron fence and the protective nature of the dogs. After an eternity of staring, she felt it was time to send this beast on its way.
“You get out of here,” she said, her voice edged by hysteria. “Just go away and let me alone.”

THE HANGING OF ELMER FORD

“You couldn’t know Elmer’s nature,” Sam allowed. “Elmer was never a standup neighbor. Yet it’s going to pain me to have to hang him.”


Dan nodded assent. “He got a wife and family?”


“Yep. And ten kids. Looks like I will have to help them out some after he’s gone.” The rancher fetched his gun belt and a Buntline pistol. After cinching it around his waist, he took out a shotgun, then reached for his biggest hat. “We will round up any hands that’s willing and we’ll ride.”


They had Gus saddling horses as they looked around for hands working nearby. There was two loading hay in the barn and three preparing to slaughter a beef. All five became bent on avenging their comrades. They somehow kept clear of Sue, who would have insisted on coming along, and soon all were in the saddle, riding at a quick trot, off to take that “bastid” Ford. First, of course, they would see to burying his victims and were carrying blankets to wrap the bodies.


When they came on the bloody scene, hardened men were repulsed at what they saw. Words should not be employed to make pictures of such a horror. Dan discovered a trace of life yet in the eyes of Curly. Like a candle the eyes flickered, then faded. He was gone. With the fading, Dan also saw other eyes, the eyes of a dying sister, in her final instant. Annie -


They tenderly wrapped the lost comrades, then carefully and reverently buried them. Sam spoke a few words, but no words could address the sorrow these men felt. Or the urge for revenge.


Despite the sagebrush in bloom, an occasional yellow cactus flower among prickly pears slowly turning red, swarming birds in the trees, a rabbit across their path, the men felt gloom like an impending storm upon their souls. Soon enough, they went over the ridge, where a full view of the ranch house, with its barn and corral roundabout, stood in blissful silence. They found Elmer sitting in a homemade chair, alone on the porch, with his hand resting on a favorite dog. He seemed somewhat in a trance. He looked crushed like a battered cabbage.


The riders formed a single row, shoulder to shoulder, the length of the porch. Sam, along with his foreman, dismounted and approached as far as the steps. His eyes and Elmer‘s met and they just looked for a time. “Where can I find a suitable horse?” Sam asked.


Elmer pointed to his left without ever altering his position in the chair. Dan went off to the corral. He came back, leading a large paint. Together he and the boss approached the doomed man. They caused him to stand. Dan tied his wrists behind him. They helped him down the steps and hoisted him atop the saddle. “Are there a good limb hereabouts? Must we go looking for one?” Dan said, gently.


“We got an old hanging tree on the way towards Del Lobo,” Elmer replied.


The riders followed the wagon trail, making no sound but clopping hooves. A short way up trees began to crowd the trail a bit and then the way parted. Before them grew the greatest oak tree many had ever seen. Dan had fashioned a noose on the way, which he now slung over a limb. He tied off the loose end so that once Elmer swung the noose would tighten appropriately. He slipped the knotted rope over the man’s head and settled it snuggly about the neck.


Sam minded the horse’s reins as Dan moved back, ready to slap the paint’s rump. “Any last words?” Sam enquired matter of factly.


“I know now I done wrong,” Elmer lamented. “But I ain’t sorry, ‘cause I thought I done the right thing when I done it. That drifter we shot lived long enough to tell us how we mistook innocent men. It was after we done what we done to those men. So hang me and get over with it.”


Dan slapped the horse as hard as he could and it ran off to leave Elmer dangling. At first, his feet started like they were walking. They quickly went limp.

He called himself Billy Bones. He said it was after a character in a movie. Because he felt like a marooned pirate in the jungle camps, same as the namesake.


Billy Bones was tall, rail-thin, with a carrotish beard, hung on a long face, with pale blue eyes. His eyebrows grew thick and long, giving him a bit of a wild look.


Bones was bustling. Being more than solicitous. He was teaching Arlen how to cook with discarded tin cans that were easily found throughout the ‘bo jungle. He put burning sticks under a can of water with sprinkled in coffee grounds.


“I picked a can with rust in it because we need iron,” he said.


He went around selecting cans for cups.


Arlen didn’t think rust could be a useful nutrient, but he didn’t see fit to argue. He wanted the coffee, which he hadn’t drunk any of in near a week. Arlen was no professional ’bo like Bones. He was just a young man on the way to Texas. The train he had come in on rested nearby, soon to resume its journey eastward. He planned to reclaim his boxcar at its leaving.


He watched Bones rinse the cans before putting them in the fire to kill off germs.




Bos are mindful of hygiene. Who knew?




Before he filled the can cups Bones pulled a flat bottle from his blue jeans hip pocket and poured in a shot to each. He handed Arlen his. Arlen accepted his can cup, holding it at the top rim to avoid the boiling heat further down. After Bones filled his own can cup they held their coffees a few minutes, allowing it to cool a bit.


Here in the barren stretch of the jungle, the dirt was the one place to sit. For that reason, Bones and Arlen did everything standing, even drink coffee. Arlen liked for Bones to keep talking as it relieved himself of having to think of things to say. Apparently, Bones didn’t mind at all.


Then Bones mentioned it was a good time to eat.


“Come with me and I’ll show you where to get it,” he said.


Reluctant, fearing he would miss his ride, Arlen hung back, until Bones reassured him, saying, “If you miss that one there will be another in a little while.”


Against his better judgment, Arlen followed along. He wouldn’t want to be too late to see his ailing mother.


They left the proximity of the railroad and the jungle, following a path not well-worn. It was almost a climb getting up it. At the last minute, Arlen saw what he judged to be a church or a monastery. Bones went up to a heavy door and swung the knocker. He waited. After a few minutes, a person opened the door enough of a crack to push through a sandwich. After accepting his, Bones stood aside and Arlen received his. The door immediately shut.


Arlen saw that he held a massive butterbean sandwich. By the time they made it down to the hobo jungle, the sandwiches had been consumed. As they approached the site of bones’ campfire, Arlen looked up to see his train rolling away, picking up speed. It was not about to get away from him.


His pounding feet caught up behind the last boxcar. Against the shouted warnings by Bones to let it go, Arlen wrapped his fingers around the grab iron and hoisted himself onto the bottom ladder rung.


“Don’t let go,” Billy Bones hollered, as he drifted into the background.


Arlen knew he would be slammed into railroad ties and rocks should he fall; his body would be shattered. The train rapidly went into the dusk. In a matter of minutes, Arlen was riding in the dark, with the railroad cars shaking more violently than he could have expected. He wondered if he would ride this way all night. His senses were on the highest alert for over an hour. And then the train slowed. It stopped in some dark place for a reason unknown.


He jumped down to run along the line in search of an open door. The train moved. The cars shook into motion, each car, in turn, receiving the shock of renewed tension. The movement became increasingly fast. He hoped to be able to spot a gaping hole in a boxcar before too late.


Arlen found one just in time. He pulled himself up by the bar and scrambled inside. Spent, he made his way to a deep end and lay down on his back, his emotions shouting hallelujahs to the darkness. His weary body pulled him into slumber by degrees. As he slowly surrendered, he ran a salute through his mind to all of the disposed and the hoboes he had been encountering on his adventures in America, both by hitchhiking and jumping on freights. He knew that as soon as his mother got better, he would be off again. For his itchy feet could not allow him to settle. Only his older days could slow him. All his journeys would honor the like of Billy Bones, generous to a fault while having virtually nothing for himself. For Billy was not special among the breed. He was the norm.

Edgar allowed himself to be somewhat reassured by walking the portions of Teapot’s mansion that were specific human comfort zones. Emma let him know that roaches avoided these spaces unless on a specific mission.
One room housed a library. Each book was presented in non-translated originals. This room was the sole exception to the roaches exclusionary rule. At any given time roaches could be seen perusing the volumes, often borrowing some. It was comforting to witness a few of them reading Mark Twain and Max Brand westerns. “And not eating any of them,” Edgar could not help thinking.