38. If You Dig Too Deep

            The light was just right. The wind had died down as Sam Jones positioned his feet on the railing.

            Darla Collins, his date, relaxed on her iron patio chair, pink drink in hand, listening to the band. The Willows, a harbor side restaurant, though pricey, was a common dinner place for the couple. Sam, president of his family operation, a chain of Jones Hardware Stores, could afford the occasional nice night out.

            Her eyes drifted from table to table as she analyzed the clothes and affect of fellow diners. She turned her head to the right to watch the sea birds flying overhead when she saw him.

            Her rapid intake of breath caused her to aspirate her juice-laced rum. The coughing explosion she couldn’t prevent hindered her from calling out to him. Sam, overweight at 31, was walking the railing 150 feet above the jagged granite boulders on the beach below.

            Darla’s frantic pointing to the spectacle alerted patrons and staff. Sam walked oblivious to the crowd with his face turned outward to the water. He reached the end of the rail and turned to the patio. The crowd gasped as he bent forward, certain he was falling. Sam’s hands grasped the railing on either side of his feet. He rolled forward. When his feet were above the pavement he let go, landed, and walked back to his table.

            Later, at home Darla held a pillow to her chest as she related the scene to her fourth friend on the phone.

            “No, he acted as if nothing had happened. I got us out of there as soon as I could and tried to get him to explain it to me. He still insists he wasn’t up there. He’s over 230; he can’t climb like that!”

            When her anxiety was spent Darla went to bed for sleep filled with nightmares.

            At work on Monday Darla got a grip and faced her twenty-seven fourth graders. She didn’t have a moment to think. She brought her class to the auditorium at 1:30 for a short presentation about the perils of smoking. The entire school was in attendance.

            At 1:47 Darla rose from her chair at the end of the aisle. She strode purposefully to the stage and joined the presenters who were in the middle of a skit about fending off peer pressure and cigarettes. She took a microphone from a stand.

            “When you’re a Jet you’re a Jet all the way from your first cigarette to your last dying day! When you’re a…” sang Darla with decent singing voice and a good command of tune.

            “…You’re never alone, you’re never disconnected…You’re…”

            The audience sat in stunned silence as Darla belted out the song. The faces of her fourth grade were radiant in their mouth-gaping, open-eyed surprise. Miss Collins sure could sing!

            Darla concluded and even got some ragged applause. She replaced the mike and returned to her seat. The players on stage regrouped and finished their performance. When the students were settled at their desks, the Assistant Principle beckoned to Darla to join her outside of the classroom.

            Mrs. Jenny Carthwaite seemed shaken as she proceeded to question Darla about the incident.

            “What were you thinking?” she asked nervously, barely able to look Darla in the eye. “What possessed you to sing in the middle of a school assembly, and especially that song; it promotes smoking cigarettes!”

            “Jenny, are you sure you’ve got the right person? I sat and watched the presentation just like everybody else. I…”

            Darla looked at pictures of herself on stage on Jenny’s phone.

            “The principal is gonna want an explanation. Better think of something,” whispered Jenny hoarsely.

            That evening, Jenny wrote in her journal with a mug of chamomile tea. Outside the window her half-tilled garden bed waited for her to resume planting. She stared into space, ruminating about the odd event in school but also about a conversation with her brother, Sam Jones, the prior day at a coffee shop. He insisted that she had done something that she had no memory of. He said she had gone to one of the family hardware stores and bought six cans of spray paint. When the manager closed the store, he discovered a mural freshly painted on the wall on the side of the building. It was a painting of a magnificent snarling black panther balancing on the limb of a tree.

            Her denials were countered with her signature to the side of the art work. They examined her car and found the six empty spray cans in the trunk.

            The evening grew darker. Jenny, Darla, and Sam, each in their respective homes, brooded over inexplicable actions they were told they had taken. What they did not recall were the random thoughts in their minds the moment before acting, thoughts of a ‘what if’ nature.

 In Jenny’s garden where she had been turning over the earth in a flower bed before going to the hardware store, a pale glow was visible. Mingled with the pungent scent of soil was the effluence from an organism, disturbed. Jenny was the first host.

           (857 words) 

37. Friendship: Constant, Amateurish Psychoanalysis

            She knew the signs.  Irritability, loss of appetite, jumpiness.  He seemed to anticipate the slightest sound, as if someone were sneaking up on him. It had to be love.

            Holly kept a close eye on Elliot. She noticed that he couldn’t keep his eyes off of the accounting supervisor, Mallory. And why not? He confided that his loneliness since his break-up with Perla two months prior was unendurable. He liked long hair. Mallory was unattached and had hair past her shoulders. Perfect match!! Now to draw him out.

            “I watched those hilarious horse pranks on You Tube that you mentioned. Who knew horses were so devious? You should tell Mallory about them. I heard she rides.”

            “What? Nah, I can’t just drop over to her desk and order her to watch something. I barely know her.”

            Shy. How cute.

            “And speaking of horses, she’s got a nice mane of hair herself. So thick and glossy, and long.”

            Elliot rolled his eyes at her and turned back to his spreadsheet.

            That weekend, Holly confided to a friend she’d known since college, Elizabeth, that she had just two real friends, Elizabeth and Elliot. Elizabeth decided that this was her chance to finally reset her thinking on this oft returned-to subject.

            “Oh come on. You have more friends than that.”

            “No, I really don’t. I don’t know how to get things started.”

            “Okay, here’s something I heard on a radio interview. You’re supposed to be fearless and unassuming when you approach people. You know, like a friendly dog.”

            “Is that right! Thanks for that! I should be a dog.”

            “Yeah,” said Elizabeth realizing this wasn’t going well. “You know. Dogs aren’t stiff or competitive. They just wanna get to know you.”

            “So I’m stiff and competitive. Huh. Thanks some more.”

            “No, no, no. When you’re a dog you can make someone like you right away, regardless of what you look like or say. Not that dogs say anything…”

            “I’m also not too good looking, and I should not talk. Got it.”

            Holly got off the phone shortly after that. Elizabeth chewed her lip.

            Back at work Holly mused that after that noxious phone call with her supposed old friend it was a good thing she had Elliot. She gave a warm hello when he arrived at his desk.

            Elliot grunted in reply and buried himself in his work.

            This response convinced her to execute her little plan. If Elizabeth was going to be unsympathetic, and Elliot was too dam busy, she’d just have to branch out and find new people. She’d be bold and daring yet unpretentious and down-to-earth. She took lunch early and ‘bumped into’ Sherry from IT in the company ‘dinateria.’

            “Hi Sherry, I noticed that you usually eat alone at the corner table. Mind if I sit with you?”

            “Sure. No. Not at all. Come sit.”

            What Holly hadn’t noticed was that Sherry always brought a section of the Times to lunch with her. Lunch proceeded with short answers from Sherry in between longing looks at her crossword, and awkward attempts at conversation by Holly.

            As each went back to her own department Holly thought Sherry needed some of that dog advice, and Sherry decided to eat at her desk.

            Holly saw Elliot talking to Mallory. They were walking into the meeting room. Aha! Then she noticed a message from her meet-up group on her phone mail.

            “Hey Holly, we’re gonna meet at the Bear Mountain trail, south of the turnpike this Saturday at 10 AM. Bring lunch and binoculars. Western tanagers and Mountain chickadees are astir in the woods. Don’t forget your tick spray! Bye!”

            Holly smiled to herself. Now she had plans; she didn’t need her less-than attentive friends.

            Friday rolled around and Elliot, used to the near-constant asides from Holly across the aisle, realized that she hadn’t been as interactive as usual. He thought she was a typical needy single woman. But now that she was silent, he missed her chatter. He got two coffees and waved them under her nose. She started, so engrossed was she in her work.

            “Let’s get some air,” he said.

            Outside on Madison Avenue, breathing the sweet, exhaust-congested air of temporary freedom, Elliot made attempts at idle chatter. Holly seemed subdued.

            “See that bird perched on the curved street light?” she said. “He may look like a sea gull to you, but actually he’s a drone commissioned by a talent scout to find the next new stars for the ‘Hunger Games’. Quick, suck in your cheeks. We may have a shot.”

            At first, Elliot played along. Then he caught on.

            “Why are we talking about a sea gull? You talk about incidentals when you’re avoiding something. What…”

            “I just want to point out that we’re being watched, that’s all,” said Holly a bit defensively.

            “What’s really on your mind?”

            “Did I ever tell you that my cat, Sunshine, dips her paw into my glass of ice water and licks it off her fur? How many times you think I didn’t know she did that and drank from that glass? Hasn’t killed me yet!”

            “Holly...”

            “What time we got? If I smoked my cigarette would be finished by now!”

            She turned, tossing her paper coffee cup into a trash can. Elliot followed her through the heavy glass doors of Grassi and Co.

            At home, Holly ignored three phone calls from Elizabeth in succession, just as she had neglected to answer several texts during the day. She began the Zen-preparations of baking an apple coconut monkey bread to bring to share with her meet up group. A glass of wine furthered the disconnect from minor disappointment, subtle rejection, and loneliness that she often felt on Friday night.  She had a date with Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter after all. “The Long Utopia”, their literary collaboration, had her transfixed.

            On Saturday morning, Holly stuffed her loden green pack with the essentials of a bird-watching hike, grabbed her red sun visor and joined the bird lovers. She wore the club tee shirt which was sapphire blue with white splotches across the shoulders, and the embroidered bird with binoculars logo on the left side. She was completely surprised to see Elliot standing to the side of the collective, conversing with the group leader. When he saw her he strode over.

            “I know you’re surprised to see me here but I remembered that you joined this group and looked it up on line.” Holly opened her mouth to speak, closed it without a sound and smiled up at him. “Whoa, is that bird shit on your tee shirt?” he asked laughing as he glanced around. “Looks great on you.”

            Holly swatted his arm and said, “If you prove yourself worthy you too may someday sport the colors of those who have their eyes on the birds.”

            The dulcet strains of Vivaldi’s lute concerto in D, second movement, emitted from her phone. She waited and heard the guitar riff that indicated the caller had left a voice mail. She listened and heard, “Holly, I miss you. No one endures my crap like you do! Call me!”

            “That was Elizabeth. She needs me. Later. Ever see a mountain chickadee? It’s just breathtaking. Way better than any old drone sea gull…”

           

  (1,215 words)          

36. Not Over-ratted

April 4^th. World Rat Day.

            “How stupid is that?” thought Ben.

            He drove to work that Friday morning and saw it. A giant blow-up rat on Jericho turnpike. It was seated on its haunches. Its eyes were red, its claws and fangs were chalky white and menacing.  He couldn’t read the sign near its snaky tail.

            “I hate coincidences,” he muttered. 

            In his safe little cubicle he read the morning’s email.

            “Monthly rattings of cubicle cleanliness will be posted in each department,” read the memo.

            “Rattings?” thought Ben. Isn’t spell-check hard-wired into Office Web email?”

            He waded through a third of his work load until he received a text:

            “Impromptu Party: Wine and cheese to celebrate “World Rat Day.” Prize for best rat reference. Tonight at The Dirty Pigeon in Huntington Village. 7:30”

            He laughed. Not surprising that his friend, Dave, would want to go to anything bizarre.

            Driving home after work Ben noticed that the Wisconsin license plate ahead of him read, “WRAT 09.”

            “It’s a sign.”

            The Dirty Pigeon was known for its Spider Bite beer and pigeon décor, pigeon motifs everywhere.

            Ben leaned toward a girl with soft brown hair and said, “Pigeons, rats, the owners of this bar seem to like animal themes.”

            She waved her Spider Bite at him in agreement.

            “I went to the Dolphin and Anchor last week.  They had a karaoke contest of fish songs.”

            Ben groaned. “How many versions of Mack the Knife can people stand?”

            She gave a throaty chuckle. Just then a waitress wearing gray spandex, round ears and a long slinky tail stood in front of a small curtained area with a mike in her hand. Ben saw that it was a tiny stage.

            “It’s time for our Best Rat Reference Contest,” she stated in her rather high-pitched voice.

            “What’s the prize?” someone shouted.

            “Anything on the The Dirty Pigeon menu,” she said. “Dinner for two.”

            “I wouldn’t’ have the pigeon pot pie!” shouted the girl with the Spider Bite in Ben’s ear as the crowd cheered.

            “Or the bird’s nest soup,” he shouted back.

            “Or the chiffon cake, light as a feather,” she responded.

            Ben learned her name, Alena, and they found two bar stools with a good view of the stage. He was starting to like the place. The drinks were reasonable, the patrons were friendly and the waiters and waitresses had one of the best theme-related uniforms around. Only the MC was dressed as a rat. The rest had on dark blue tee shirts with small white splotches on the shoulders and down the front and back. He thought they made a design until he got it.

            “Too damn funny,” he said to Alena. “They’ve all got bird shit on their tee shirts.”

            Alena took a look and they both doubled over with laughter.

            The first contestant was on the stage. He had a brown fedora pulled over one eye.

            “You dirty rat,” he was saying in his best James Cagney mobster impression.

            Applause.

            Another contestant sang a song parody about the rat race to the tune of Jingle Bells.

            Laughter and applause.

            “Wow, these people really want to win,” said Alena. “Lot’s of effort here.”

            Finally, the rat MC asked if there were any more entries. Ben surprised Alena by rising with his arm in the air.

            He stepped onto the stage platform and faced his audience. Alena gave him an amused grin.

            “I have to say, those are some of the best rat references I’ve ever seen.” (low laughter in the background) “I will finish off the night with my entry. Rat names.”

            Ben fished a folded paper out of his jeans pocket.

            “First off, if I had a rat I wanted to name after a movie star, I could name him Rat Damon.” (snickers) “A singing rat would be Rat King Cole.” (crickets) If my rat lived in a cage on my dresser, I would name him Bureaucrat.” (some laughs) “An albino rat would be named Non-rat Milk.” (good-natured laughter)

“Then there’s John Ratzenburger from Cheers of course, but since that’s his real name he may not count.” (murmurs of assent) “So there you have it. Happy Rat Day.”

            Ben bowed to enthusiastic applause. He headed back to Alena and she hugged him.

            “Con GRAT tulations, she articulated. You’re very brave.”

            Ben didn’t win the contest. The bar favorite was the tall blonde who had explained how a bouffant hairdo was created in the 1950s with a stuffed nylon bag called a ‘rat’ hidden under teased hair. She then proceeded to pull a rubber rat out of her own up-do, perfectly fine with ruining her polished appearance for the sake of a laugh.

            Ben had no doubt he had won nonetheless.

            “I’m getting hungry. Dare we try the hot wings?”

            (800 words)

   

35. Affinity

Mignon trundled down the stairs to the basement, turned right and swung the heavy basket of laundry onto the worktable. Her slippers splashed for the last few steps. Looking down she was dismayed to see a shining sea of water over most of the floor.

Later that day she escorted her husband down to see the ‘flood’, a recital of the mess not satisfying enough to share the worry of it.

Aloysius Schick, or Wish as he was better known, ruefully surveyed the tide of water reaching under all storage containers, wood, polyurethane or otherwise.

“Why is this happening?” asked Mignon. “The rain we had today couldn’t have done all this.”

Wish struggled with the advisors in his head. Should he pacify her, or give her more to worry about?

“Well, honey, it wasn’t this storm, it was the sequence of storms.” 

Mignon crossed her arms against her chest, cocked her head to one side and waited.

“Well,” he sighed, “it’s the water table. It’s risen under the floor.”

“Oh… my…..GOD!” she exclaimed. “Water,” she paused to breathe, “is right under there?”

She pointed to the gray-painted cement floor.

“Um, yeah,” said her husband, beginning to sweat.

He could see the little curlicue wrinkle form on her forehead, indicating that her thoughts were flying a mile a minute.

“Oh my God,” she said and flew back up the stairs.

That night, Mignon marched down the stairs and stood at the water’s edge. They did not live near the beach. They were situated on level ground on the middle of Long Island. They had inhabited their cozy cottage of a house for five years with seasonal dampness, yes, but never a lake such as this.

Mignon loved the water. Not just the roaring surf, freezing, heart-stopping water collecting in a basin under a waterfall, or a serene lake, but all things related to the water world. She would wander in a light rain throughout her garden, feeling the gentle touch of drops on her body. She would seek out the sparkling diamond droplets on the tips of pine needles, muddle her fingers in water collected in a deep leaf, and pull a drooping branch and spring back as a rainstorm beat the grass.

Sleep was never better than when the rain tickled the windowpanes or drummed on the roof. If she couldn’t get to sleep she imaging herself a drowsing bird, thinking itself safe for the night perched on a branch under masses of rhododendron leaves. When thunder and lightening announced a storm, she would be besieged with frightening drops bucketed onto her wings. She would fly desperate to reach shelter and land, shaking soaking wings on the porch of a tiny birdhouse. She would go inside to find an old nest, lined with soft feathers. There she would rest and watch the storm’s night terrors before drowsing off, safe.

She looked down fascinated. She jumped straight up and down near the water with as much force as she could. The water rippled, disturbed, then smoothed itself, unfazed. She tossed a penny she found in her pocket from jeans now in the dryer. The round circles of water spread into satisfying waves. She marveled at their symmetry.

The lights went out. Why had a former owner installed a timer on the lights for no good purpose?  Mignon dismissed her initial instinct to rush up the stair. She heard the slow lap of water. It echoed and surged, winding itself in a subterranean chamber around large stones impeding its progress, rushing to another destination. It was rushing right under her feet, caressing the cement floor when it reached high enough in its coursing.

Her fingers stretched to reach the water. She could feel the swirl of it, sensuous, caressing her hands. It was then she registered that the water had risen half way up her thighs, and there was the delicious sound of echoed dripping, as if in an underground cavern. Music.

The water, fragrant as a wooded glen, lifted the tips of her hair and spun it lazily around her shoulders. She murmured a sigh and reclined her head back into it. Watery fingers inched along her tingling scalp to her hairline.

“Wish,” she thought.

Crashing stomping steps reached her, arms encircled her and dragged her from the almost merging that had tried to breach her fragile skin and draw her home once more.  

 (734 words)

34. Tongue Tied

Tongue Tied

The tart after-taste of the elixir lingered in his mouth. Benny Traversom walked down the alley west of Dunster Street in Boston as directed. He noted that the light grew dim, a mist seemed to settle itself in the air, and his wool pea coat was indeed warranted, all as the Instructress had indicated. All so much dramatic pretention, he thought. Power of suggestion. But it was a lark anyhow. The cost of some clipped fingernails, a snip of his hair, and a kiss had bought this unremarkable non-adventure. Why had he listened to Shara?

The kiss had been harassed out of him in front of his compatriots at the Ghoul and Gruel, a nouveau-gothic bar/gathering place for bats and beers. What was his hearts’ desire? To meet a like-minded woman, someone seeking a man like himself. A kiss sealed the bargain of possibility. Shara dared him to it and wouldn’t allow a refusal. What kind of second date had this turned out to be?

His head was definitely hazy. Had to be vodka. Lots of it. And a comingling of some bitters and sour apple. All present behind the counter, station of the Bar-mistress or Instructress as she had the effrontery to call herself. Good thing good money hadn’t been involved.

Benny stumbled. The surface of the alley had changed. He remembered a dirty cement walk-way but now he saw that the alley was paved with cobblestones. Cobblestones! Uneven, toe-snagging, knee-cap breakers, that’s what they are! He wiped his nose on his sleeve. The air smelled like the harbor. He ran his fingers though his hair and found it to be longer than it had been in years.

The soft gong of ships’ bells mingled with the soft shush of incoming tide. But he had no time to wonder about this change in scenery, he had an urgent meeting, a rush-of-the-heart, longing to be there, push to his footsteps. He turned around a corner of bricks and she was there.

She rushed into his arms. He whirled them both behind a wall of casks, indigo darkness to any passerby. He accepted her fervent kiss and embrace, returning them with ardor. He could feel a familiarity as he struggled to recall her name. He did not know her, as if he had been slipped into someone else’s life, yet, her perfume steadied him, her touch reassured.

“My a’th kar,” she whispered.

“My a’th kar,” he replied.

            The gonging of the village bell pulled them apart. They sped off in different directions as if agreed upon. Benny found himself running down the cement alley-way, not stopping until he had hustled himself into the crowded entry of the Ghoul and Gruel. Shara turned to him as he came up to the bar. She grinned.

            “How was your adventure?” she shouted into his ear over the music.

            “I went in the alley and had a hallucination. How was yours?”

            “Oh, I didn’t go on one. Only one per customer and I had mine ages ago.”

“You have to tell me all about it,” he said, then noticed that a thin silver bar suspended on a delicate chain around her neck had spidery words etched on its surface.

“Math kat,” he stated, surprised that he had spoken aloud.

“My a’th kar,” said Shara. “My a’th kar is Cornish for I love you.”

             

(560 words)

33. For Your Welfare

For Your Welfare

                A cup of steaming Earl Gray appeared beside Leigh’s console. She smiled up at Dan and continued her prep. Her interview at Xanadu Systems was tomorrow. 

            “Don’t wear yourself out. You know you’re ready.”

            “Just this last thing,” Leigh answered. “I need directions to the Huntington Quadrangle.”

            “The car will know how to get there,” laughed Dan. “Got your papers together?”

            Leigh held up a folder. Funny how despite all of the electronic exchange of information, paper copies were still required. She thought of an interview as an audition. Her appearance must fit the part. A hound’s tooth dress and black blazer conveyed sophisticated professionalism. Hair and makeup just right. Silver hoop earrings. And a portfolio of education, internships, climb-the-ladder jobs, and commendations from supervisors sure to impress. Ten years since grad school had prepared her for this next opportunity. The final challenge was the face to face with a panel of interviewers. After the qualifying exam of course. Leigh was excited instead of nervous. She knew her stuff.

            Her dreams were filled with visions of houses they had visited. This job would enable them to move up from their two bedroom starter home, ‘the cottage’ as they liked to call it. Dan’s success with the franchise he acquired four years before, one of the many ‘Chauffeur Car Shops’ that catered to owners of driverless cars was their other income source. Leigh thought about baby names for future reference.

            The next morning at ten AM Leigh sat for the one and a half hour written and computational test for her position. After a brief rest she was brought by the HR rep to the conference room. Five men and women alternated giving her questions designed as an exhaustive perusal of her qualifications, attitudes, and experience. After the final handshakes were complete she returned to the main entrance where her silvery blue car waited for her. She was surprised to find a light lunch packed in the cooler compartment. Dan’s thoughtfulness.

            At home Leigh walked the dogs and smiled as she reviewed different aspects of the ‘interrogation’. Dan joined them in the garden when her cell rang. She put it on speaker.

            “Leigh we’re happy to tell you that you’ve got the job.” Leigh and Dan embraced and did a silent victory dance as the voice continued. “We’ll need you to come in one more time to sign paperwork. After that, all paychecks will be direct deposited into your account on a biweekly basis. Congratulations. We’ll see you tomorrow in the contracts department at nine thirty. Welcome aboard.”

            “I never doubted you’d land this job Baby! Now we can move ahead with all our plans.”

            “Out to dinner first. Let’s start celebrating. This is my dream job!”

Leigh and Dan Osbourne, a young professional couple making their way in the world. After decades of a jobless population struggling in the aftermath of global automation, a savvy government designed a way to provide for the needs of the people. They compensated workers for jobs they could not give, but maintained competition required for a sense of autonomy and individuality. For their welfare, the masses were paid to stay at home.

            (531 words) 

32. Dreaming Your Life Away

            

            The glass doors of the Sky Room Café were open to the lobby of the Cinema Arts Center in Huntington, NY. Al Darcy walked inside glancing at the various groups clustered at small tables. He decided on a gathering of five with papers in front of them instead of carrot cake and coffee. The Writing Group.

            “Good evening. I’m looking for Carrie Rickman.”

            “You’re Al. We saved you a seat,” chirped Carrie.

            Introductions were made as Al took a sheaf of pages from a folder.

            “As I told you on the phone we all write in different genres. Bill and Harry write screen plays, Lauren writes flash fiction, David is working on a stage play, and I have a novel in progress.”

            “I have a penchant for short stories and poetry,” said Al placing his hand on his pages.

            Harry distributed copies and parts to the company for a reading of a scene. His screen play, a comedy entitled “Not So Fast”, had them chuckling at a deft use of slapstick and pratfalls.

            “That’s schadenfreude. That’s why it’s so dam funny,” said Carrie. “Your character is enjoying his coworker’s difficulties.”

            “A little too much. The actual translation from the German is ‘harm joy’,” said Bill looking up from his cell phone.

            “You know how hard it is to act happy for someone when they have a windfall,” said Harry. “I don’t want to know if they got a nice inheritance. But if they have a problem it’s easy to be all sympathetic. It makes you feel better.”

            “Sounds like sibling rivalry,” said Lauren. “Competition is fierce.”

            Al listened intently to the light-hearted discussion glad to see that criticism wasn’t a part of it. They laughingly told of moments when they had experienced the particular, shameless delight of schadenfreude. Then Al was invited to share something he’d written.

            “I brought a poem to start,” he said. He distributed copies and read to them in a soft voice in an even tempo.

           

Stars

Sometimes I yearn for the past too much.

I would live among the stars

If I could to have it back again.

Stars are so far away

that the beauty of their light

does not shine in our night

until time unimagined has passed for them.

And so it is the same

that turnings of earth have not transcended

through space to the stars as yet.

I could live among the stars

where my dreams are of those

I have not met, or lost.

            “Lovely,” sighed Lauren as the others murmured agreement. “You’ve got science in here. It’s about the speed of light, isn’t it?”

            “Yes. I’m quite interested in the concept of time and how it can be manipulated.”

            “That’s Lauren’s favorite topic,” said Harry. “Science fiction.”

“Thanks for the segue; I brought a sci fi piece tonight.”

Lauren read “Please Do the Math”, a flash fiction story of 611 words.

“I always like your twists at the end,” said Carrie about the unexpected ending that the man looking for the perfect mate at a dating service was an android.

“The need for love is universal,” offered Al. He caught Carrie’s eye. “What did you bring?”

“This is chapter 14 of a novel about thefts from museums. It’s a mystery.”

“With passion and ardor mixed in. That’s her specialty,” said David. The others agreed. Al learned that Carrie had written many novels and was successfully launching them to avid fans on the internet.

As they walked to their cars Lauren and Carrie agreed that they hoped Al would return.

“He’s charming,” said Carrie.

“I like the quaint way he turns a phrase,” replied Lauren.

Two weeks later at the next meeting of the Writer’s Group Al read the part of George in Bill’s screen play. They all agreed that he portrayed a vampire-zombie with tacit self-centered self-loathing.

“If, I mean when we start producing films, you get the part,” stated David.

“You must have been on stage,” said Carrie in a flirtatious tone.

Al just smiled.

David’s play, a musical, focused on New Year’s Eve in New York. Summoning his courage he performed a pivotal song and dance number. He accompanied himself on a ukulele and sang out to the small crowd in the Sky Room Café.

“You’re headed for dinner theater,” said Harry as the spectators applauded.

On the evening of their next meeting Al handed out neatly stapled copies of a short story he’d written.

“This story takes place in England. I based it on an unusual experience I had while on holiday. We could each read a page.”

They looked at the pages before them.

“Tomorrow, Today, and Yesterday,” he read. “Not another historic site,” complained Glynis. “We need a café for rest and reflection.”

A pause. Silence. The members of the Writers Group looked up and drew a blank. A collective intake of breath accompanied their confused stares at the place where Al was sitting a moment before. He was gone.

“Where’d he go?” asked Carrie in a shaky voice.

Lauren rose and looked at his small leather zippered case on the table.

“His name is here, and his address. Alphonse D’Arcy  4400 Chamonix  Mont Blanc  France  +33 (0) 4 50 12 60.

At the moment he disappeared Al opened his eyes in a hospital room in Chamonix, France. His coma had lasted for 32 days.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” said Lauren. “It’s as if he was never here at all.”

          (912 words)