The Mariner’s Dream

Ocean storm

It was the night we rounded the Cloven Hoof, a curious feature of the nameless island guarding the mouth of the Windy Straits, east of the Greater Diamond Cloud ice shelf.  A deceptive bit of sea, it is, with water clear as air lying atop a plateau of rare blue granite and a narrow channel twisting its way roughly parallel to the island’s northern coast.  Balloonists tell us it’s impossible to distinguish the depth of the channel from the shallows of the formation by sight alone as the shades of blue are identical.  A pilot must be specially licensed by the Maritime Ministry to attempt it.  Most of the freight lines plying the Great Seas of the north avoid the island and the treacherous shallows but The Merchants of the Western Thunder built their reputation for speed and reliability by boldly taming such risks, thereby making their fortune.

The deck master was down with “the wobbles” so I had just finished my second watch of the day, shivering at his post on the afterdeck while himself lay snug and warm in sick bay.  Not that I’d wish such gastric mayhem on my hardest foe.  The mess is ungodly.

The night was sharp and cold, with a full moon shining like ice in the bottomless violet sky and stars thick as flying snow.  The banshee-wail of the wind in the rigging sang with an eloquence not of this world, calling me to contemplate the frail mortality of my kind and the fascination that drew us to such extreme places, where impending disaster was the air we breathed.  But this clear, star-strewn night held no catastrophic portents, at least none as could be read by an ignorant old sailor like me.

I eased my knotted muscles and frosted bones down on the edge of my rack, racing against onrushing sleep to pull off my sea boots but the race was over before it began.  I am in my seventy-fifth year at sea and not the rock I still fancied myself to be.  Down I went, leaving ghostly impressions of the moonlit compartment fading behind me, on through the gate of sleep.

Of late my dreams have carried me to the sun-drenched fields of the farm where I grew up under the watchful care of my widowed mother, gone these forty years and sorely missed.  How the dear used to worry, especially about the state of my eternal soul!  “Have a care, my boy!” she would say, her soft, amber eyes glistening with the tears she fought to hide.  “I’ve seen how the sea can rob a man of his faith before sending him on to the next world.  Beware!”

She needn’t have worried.  I’d sooner forget the way from stem to stern than Him who stills storms and rescues the shipwrecked souls.

There was to be no visiting the old place this time.  The waving fields of turquoise grass gave way to more fluid vistas as my slumbers took me far from the rustic comforts of home and showed me things long forgotten or never seen before.

‘Twas a bracing wind that flew us across the foaming tops of the steely gray waves.  Our sky-blue sails, now tinged with red from the hidden sun ahead, were swollen with the gale and the old ship’s timbers creaked and cried as if they knew their time had come.  I felt the speed of our reckless dash away from the churn of the blackened sky and sea swallowing our wake in the cold distance aft and smelled the crisp, clean scent of ozone that came with every snap of lightning.

As I pondered these things my gaze was drawn to a ship emerging from the ruddy glare of the sun-infused mist, his course parallel but opposite to my own.  A curious thing!  Could there be two strong winds running counter to each other in such proximity?

He drew closer and I saw his blue sails tinged with that same red illumination, filled with the opposing wind.  No signal passed between us and we were too far apart to make out the forms of men but as he sailed by I felt a great sadness for the trials he would endure in the grip of the storms ahead.  The icy blasts of his life upon the sea would surely sap his youthful strength, harden his character and cut him off from loved ones upon the land.  Likely he would see good ships wrecked and good mates go down to the black depths, where souls never rest quiet.

Even so, for all that knowledge of dangers and pains, I felt a boundless longing to abandon my trusty old ship and swim across the briny waves to join him.  A fine thing that would be, to mingle my ancient knowledge of the mariner’s arts with his youthful vigor!  A fine thing indeed, but tide and currents did their work and I was powerless to do aught but watch as his ship continued on its appointed course toward the black-shrouded horizon.

My own vessel glided smoothly now, with hardly a ripple upon the quiet, calming waters.  Ahead lay the warming embrace of the rosy haze, inspiring reflections upon the passage in the old, old Book; “By blood have ye gone out; through Blood shall ye return…”

~

I awoke to the songs of nesting birds ringing sweetly through our snug little house all full of sun.  My mother was at the hearth, my gear was stowed neat and ready in my sea bag by the door.

“Have a care, my boy!” said my mother, looking up at me with eyes impossibly soft for all the hard things they’d let in to her mind and heart.  “I’ve seen how the sea can rob a man of his faith before sending him on to the next world.  Beware!”

“Mother, my dear,” I answered, “you’ve nothing to fear!  Last night I had a dream that I take for a prophecy.  I saw an ancient ship upon the ocean, sturdy but battered from long years of hard use.  Its course was for home as mine was for the mystery of the open sea.  A great peace came upon me as I watched, for it sailed quietly into the calm red waters of heaven.”

“His will be done,” she said with tender reverence, relinquishing me to the care of The Commander of The Sea.

With a final look about the dear old place I hefted my sea bag, said my goodbyes and made for the stormy seas.

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The Old Blues He Loved to Sing

gibson-jazz-lee-ritenour-l-5

Maybe it shouldn’t matter how Homeless Joe ended up shivering in the woods somewhere in southeast PA under a full moon in early September of 2050, singing out Catfish Blues, sliding the little section of steel pipe up and down the neck of the old Gibson L5 guitar.  Moonlight was white upon the paling grass like the frost that started showing up around this time of year and Joe knew he’d be seeing his breath on the chilled air before morning.  There wasn’t a thing he could do about it so he sang.  Music was the only refuge they hadn’t locked up and declared off limits, at least not yet.

So that was authentic enough.  The officers of the Cultural Reclamation Board would be satisfied had Joe still been under their watchful eyes.  A sixty eight year old black man was alone in the woods of an urban park because there was no place else he was allowed to go, singing his heart out to tomcats and possums, waiting to see what the Lord had next.  The scene would fit quite neatly into any number of books or movies, not to mention actual historical lives.  There was even a little of the forbidden fruit that had brought him to his present state of ruin, quietly collecting moonlight in a heavy green bottle.  Quite a bit of that fruit, actually; Joe didn’t like wine.  His ultimate downfall resulted from a laughably tiny sip of the stuff.

Before long his voice was ragged from the cooling night air so he restored the guitar to standard tuning and ran through St. Louis Blues, the number he always played to end his day.  Then he put the meticulously preserved instrument back in its beat-up case, taking care to avoid scratches from the illegal hunting knife or dings from the discredited book he likewise stored in the case.  They really didn’t fit but there was no place else for them so he had to make do.

“I ought to hate the bastards,” reflected Joe as he lay on top of the guitar case, hoping the meager warmth of his body would keep the approaching cold from damaging his most prized possession.  “Bastards” was no mere insult or indulgence of indiscriminate temper.  It was precisely descriptive of specific individuals and the drivers of their actions in the world.  Joseph H. Porter, PhD was a precise kind of man, especially where words and ideas were concerned.

Lights twinkled along the eastern edge of the park.  In the distance beyond neat ranks of perfectly ordered houses softly glowing spheres floated low over immaculate streets and highways, shedding warm golden illumination while collecting data from every passing vehicle or pedestrian.  A fire would draw the wrong kind of attention so Homeless Joe, PhD in Russian literature and formerly a licensed Neighborhood Character curled himself up as tight as aching bones and stiff old muscles permitted and drifted off to sleep.

It had been ages since Joe had dreamed.  Dreams were dangerous things and danger was forbidden in the freshly cleaned and ordered world of the New Affirmation.  But tonight the dam of mental prophylactic food additives and subliminal media reinforcement split down the middle and the dreams came tumbling.

He was in a dark, old house.  No, he was in his tiny room at the Salama safe village where he lived with a number of licensed Neighborhood Characters classified as “indigent” by the Cultural Reclamation Board.  Standing in a shadowed corner with ghostly stars visible through numerous oddly shaped windows was a white man in nineteenth century clothing, mumbling and gesturing expressively.  He was trying very hard to decide to kill himself.

“Kirillov,” said Joe, recognizing the troubled intellectual from Dostoyevsky’s novel.  Typical of characters in dreams the young man had a number of identities, all working at once.  “Dr. Porter,” he greeted in the voice of one of Joe’s graduate students from his teaching days at Swarthmore.  In his hand was a glass of wine which he offered to Joe.  “We affirm the end of God,” he said brightly, taking a sip of the wine and dumping the rest on the floor at Joe’s feet.  “We are new!  We must be God ourselves!”

Joe heard a shot as he walked away from the house, into the star-crazed night.  Behind him the house slid down into a gaping pit, its walls scraping the earth like the bow of a violin, making music like a chorus of bees.

On the outside of Joe’s sleeping body the wind picked up, swishing through the trees.  The people in the green homes at the edge of the park turned in their sleep as their environmental processors adjusted, maintaining perfect comfort.

Joe’s dream turned out to be one of those traveling affairs, the kind that can be left and returned to even if one awakens briefly and goes back to sleep.  Now he was driving onto the Swarthmore campus.  The narrow road twisted its way between countless buildings and green spaces, abandoned athletic fields and parking lots with no spots left for Joe.  He was late.  He was not prepared.  The car stopped and would not move.

The hood was up.  Larry Wells, head of the college’s Cultural Reclamation department was hard at work taking off pieces, looking them over and putting them back out of order.

“Ali Yusuf!” barked Wells as he wailed on the engine with a sledge hammer.  “I’m Ali Yusuf!”

“You can’t be,” said Joe.  “You’re an atheist.”

“Wells was an atheist!  Yusuf is a cultural Muslim, a brilliant Muslim man with no God!”  Clang went the hammer.  “He is affirmed and breaks the slave master’s chains!”  Clang went the hammer.  “And Porter is a traitor!”  Clang went the hammer.  “Porter is a friend to Solzhenitsyn and his capitalist God!”  Clang!  “He is a traitor to his history!”  Clang!  “His people!”  Clang!  “His culture!  He shall be cast into outer darkness…”

Joe awoke with a start.  Somewhere beyond the nearby line of trees a freight train rumbled slowly along the track, its bell clanging.  Joe wondered where the unmanned leviathan was headed and if he had what it takes to hop aboard.  He’d heard about the tru-bos, roving bands of the genuinely homeless and disconnected living somewhere toward the middle of the state, far from any major cities.  If he was going to make it out of the Philly-Chester Home-zone the train was his only chance, even though it was really no chance at all.

Those kinds of plans would have to wait for the light of day and something in his stomach.  The need for sleep was overpowering even in the grip of the dropping temperature.  Off he went to dream some more, remembering as he headed for the cliff that Ali Yusuf now taught his course in Russian literature.

“Yes sir, Mr. Fat,” said Joe, hearing the little ding of the elevator in the lobby outside the neat, rainbow themed office of the Cultural Reclamation Board.  “I started playing when I was ten.  If… if I must be on the street I’d like to do something more than… beg.”

When Mr. Fat smiled the pale rolls of flesh hanging upon the bones of his face convulsed and crinkled so that his blue eyes disappeared.  “Bro,” he said, “it’s not beggin’!  A place for everybody and everybody in place!  That’s the New Affirmation!”  He jumped on “New” with both feet, as if there was an old affirmation to contrast it with.  “There is a surplus of Children of Power in academia so now, instead of aiding the White Hate by exalting their degenerate literature you may bear witness to the truth of your people!  You are an authentic object lesson, oh yes!  I envy you!”

“But the guitar, Mr. Fat,” pressed Joe.  “May I play for my bread?”

“Ah!” rhapsodized Mr. Fat, “the old spirituals of your people!  Jimmy crackles the corn and I don’t care!  Don’t know why there’s no fun up in the sky!  The kid is not my son!

“Mr. Fat, please!  Sir, if I may…”

“Huh?  Oh yes, what is it?”

“I was thinking something a little more…”  Joe nearly choked on the word.  “…authentic.  I play blues.”

“Blues?”  Mr. Fat suddenly looked troubled.  “Blues?  Blues come with… with sex and alcohol!  Perhaps marijuana!  You cannot partake of these things!  No indeed!  The Board has rules!  Rules for your well-being…”

“Not to worry, sir,” assured Joe wearily.  “I come vice-free.”

“And smoking!” continued Mr. Fat, nearing a kind of panic.  “If you smoke we must revoke your license!  And drinking!  Alcoholics may not hold Neighborhood Character licenses!”

“I’m not an alcoholic, sir,” insisted Joe.  “I don’t even like…”

“I am given to understand that one drink is all it takes!  One drink and you will lose your position in our society…”

“Mr. Fat!”  Joe was long past the humiliation of his demotion in human society and the charade behind it all.  Now he was just exasperated.  “I don’t drink!”

Mr. Fat’s big blue eyes were wide and round.  “Bro,” he virtually pleaded, “chill, please!  Do not revert to the violence of the veldt and rain forest and inner city!”

“My apologies, Mr. Fat.”  The only thing Joe wanted was to be out of the man’s presence and crawling was the fastest way through the door.  “Sir, I am not a drinker.  I am not a violent man.”

“You are an indigent blues musician,” said Mr. Fat.  “These things are part of your profile.  So I warn you sternly.  Break one rule and you forfeit your license and the support of our community.  Even authenticity has its limits.”

The first splotches of gray light were soaking into the eastern sky.  Joe was freezing and he really had to pee but the prospect of uncurling his creaking old bones in the icy wind was too much.  He took one more stab at sleep.

Now he dreamt with the clarity of memory.  It was the previous morning, warm and sunny and Joe was on the job at his usual spot at the end of Star Avenue, right by the platform for the local U rail.  A bottle of Night Train in a faux paper bag, a standard issue prop for Neighborhood Characters on the street, sat next to his guitar case.  He played Blues Before Sunrise to the delight of the curious and one or two genuine aficionados.

A lot of things went through Joe’s head as he played.  Today he was heavy with the trajectory of his life and the world he had known.

He heard a familiar voice behind him.

“Well done, Joseph,” said the diminutive Ali Yusuf in smooth, urbane tones.  “At last, you have found your true cultural identity.”

“Good morning, Larry,” Joe said.

“Larry is dead.  Yusuf has arisen from his ashes,” rejoined the gray-haired academic.  “Do try to remember, my friend!  That’s a delightful ditty you strum upon your instrument.  What’s it called?”

Joe wanted to throw up.  Larry Wells was a regular person with radical views who had grown up in Northeast Philly.  The two of them never got along but they had respected each other.  “Ali” was a figment of Wells’ imagination.

“It’s called Strange Fruit,” replied Joe, looking forlornly down the rail.  Why is there never a train when you need one?

“Intriguing title!  No doubt a paean to the romanticized simplicity of our agrarian past!  I see your talent for stroking the power structure transfers easily from academia to the lively arts.”

Joe remembered the hunting knife in the guitar case next to the copy of Parallels in the Russian Novel, the graduate level textbook written by Joseph Porter, PhD.

“That’s right!” beamed Joe, flashing his pearly whites.  “Everybody in his place!”

“Oh, you disgust me!” snorted Ali.  “The one thing that’s wrong with the New Affirmation is that it leaves room for people like you!”

“Actually,” said Joe, opening the guitar case and moving the book aside, “it doesn’t.”

Enough was enough.  The hunting knife was mighty tempting but it was no solution.  Joe put away the guitar and closed the case.

“Don’t tell me you’re going on strike,” said Ali.  “Isn’t that a little left-wing for you?”

“It’s no wing at all,” answered Joe as he picked up the bottle of Night Train and unscrewed the cap.  “Happy landings!” He put the bottle to his lips and guzzled.

As soon as the rancid rocket fuel reached his cowering stomach Joe heard the alarm from the micro-computer implanted in his head.  “Attention!  Neighborhood Character license is now revoked!  Remain where you are until the authorities arrive!”

“Care for a snort, Dr. Ali?”

Ali turned his head with his nose in the air, not deigning to answer.

“I’ll be going, then,” said Joe.

Morning finally came, gray, cold and hard.  Joe heard a dog barking in the distance and the rumble of traffic on the highway behind the trees.  A revoked Neighborhood Character license was a low priority for law enforcement but they would catch up with him eventually and jail might be more comfortable than Salama.

The distant blare of a freight train horn reached his cold-numbed ears.  If he moved as fast as his stiff old legs could carry him he might just be in time to catch the leviathan.

He gathered his possessions and ran for the tracks.  Even if he made it in time the train might be moving too fast.  If the train wasn’t moving too fast there was rail security to get past.  If he made it past the cameras and drones and the train moved slow enough and he spotted a car with something to grab onto he would have to throw the guitar aboard then jump.  He would make it and ride to another home to live among the outcasts or his foot would slip, his grip would fail and he would die.

Either way, he would be free.

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By Order

chaos

My name is Vantu.  I am a composite man, a cyborg from a family of ignorant tradesmen toiling for bread in Region Three, where the tortured ground took less radiation and disease than other places during the Thousand Years’ Horror but still struggles to produce useful crops.  I am the only man in my family to complete my local schooling and go on to university.  I wish to be a scholar rather than a barrel wright.

When I started at the University of Dreams and Knowledge I was a dull, timid child of a man.  On the first day of my sophomore year a light broke within me, revealing another kind of man.  Here is what happened.

~

Quietly we followed the straight black path between the great shadowed blocks of the University of Dreams and Knowledge, the little whirs of our prosthetic limbs echoing, small as pebbles rolling through a mighty, foreboding canyon.  My roommate Kranji walked directly ahead of me in the required formation but as we approached the intersection at Omicron Hall an upperclassman turned onto the path ahead.  Kranji dropped back to walk abreast of me, forming the requisite equilateral triangle with the superior student in his yellow tunic at the forward apex, leading we two sophomores clad in green.  Thus we made our way, averting all mysterious catastrophes by counting the passing people and objects in multiples of three until a fourth pedestrian compelled the formation of a square.  Our silent counting continued in multiples of four.

Kranji has been my roommate since I started here at UDAK last year.  He comes from a small mining town to the west, somewhere out in Region Five.  Such places generally produce only miners and farmers but this particular town seems to be disproportionately represented here.  Their school must be superb.

Kranji is an unparalleled scholar and a natural mentor.  He is a good friend.

We arrived at the lecture hall precisely at our appointed time.  Like all buildings on campus the hall is a vast stony block with narrow lines of slit windows and a mosaic of orange and aqua tiles adorning the top quarter.  The images are nonrepresentational and apparently vary slightly from building to building.  Some of the art majors claim they can discern a conceptual narrative in these variations.  I cannot.  To me they conveyed nothing but an icy alien formlessness and a vague sense of menace.  I have seen them in nightmares.

Seating in the hall seems haphazard at first glance.  In reality the seats are arranged in complex patterns which include the X, Y and Z axes.  It is a test.  The student is expected to recognize his proper seat intuitively and indeed this is second nature for most but as I looked over the covertly ordered ranks I noticed one student with an expression of distress.  Some fool has misunderstood and taken his seat, leaving him stranded.

Black-robed Professor Hilber did not look up from the notes he had been studying since we entered but said simply, “4, 7, 2; explain yourself.”  A look of panic crossed the face of the young man in seat 4, 7, 2.  Before all eyes he rose and exchanged seats with his stranded classmate.  The professor did not pursue his demand for an explanation.  Grace for the first day of class, no doubt.

“Good morning, students,” greeted Professor Hilber, lifting his eyes from the glowing blue notes impressed upon their golden, metallic sheets.

“Good morning, Professor,” we answered as one.

So began the routine common to all classes since before the bloody mayhem of the Thousand Years’ Horror.  The syllabus, the lengthy codes for the brain etchers, the rules of verbal engagement, the grading standards and required punishments were all delivered without pause or repetition, uninterrupted by superfluous questions.  It was difficult to keep up with the professor’s rapid, flawless delivery but the assurance that my stalwart roommate would help me with it later kept me from succumbing to panic.

The greater part of our class time had elapsed as sunlight, dim and brassy slanted through the narrow window, slicing the room in half.  The professor, finished with his mundane instruction moved on to the subject of today’s session.

“Dobrik Snett, stand please,” said Professor Hilber.

The young man who had taken the wrong seat whirred quietly to his feet.  Perhaps he had not escaped the professor’s wrath after all.

“Who can tell me the significance of this young man’s actions at the beginning of class?” asked the professor.

No answers.

“Come, come.  You’re all sophomores so you’ve all mastered introductory psychological alignment,” said the professor.  “What was the overall effect of Mr. Snett’s mistake?”

“Confusion, sir,” answered a young woman.  Her blazing orange hair was a startling contrast to her deep green blouse.

“Confusion, yes,” approved the professor.

“Discomfort?” offered a student sitting behind and above me.

“Certainly,” affirmed Professor Hilber as he whirred quietly to his feet.

“Anger?” said another student.

“Anger, yes!” said the professor.  “How many were angry?”  Most raised their hands.

“How many were afraid?”

Hands rose slowly as awareness dawned.  Kranji’s hand remained on his desk.  I noticed his fingers drumming nervously; one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four…

“Why were you afraid?” asked the professor.  “A young man takes a wrong seat.  So what?  It’s not the end of the world.”

“We don’t know that, sir,” said the student behind me.  “I mean, that is…”

“You mean you didn’t know it until I said, ‘It’s not the end of the world.’”

“Exactly, sir,” answered the student with evident relief.

“I see your predicament.  We’ll talk about ways of knowing and sources of order in a moment but first we must discuss…”  The professor turned and wrote on the board behind him.  “Disorder.  Who can define it?”

“The natural tendency of all objects to repel all other objects,” said a young man at the back of the room.

“Ah, a material philosophy major!  Well done,” commended Professor Hilber.  “Who else?”

“The natural state of the unregulated human mind,” said another.

“Did all of you spend the summer reading ahead?” said the professor lightly.  I think he would have smiled if he was able.  “Very good, and much closer to the preferred definition for our purpose.  One more.”

“The negation of any ultimate governing principle,” answered another student.

“Good!” said the professor.  “Nicely nuanced.  Negation implies nullification of that which is in operation, whereas the absence of ultimate governing principles would be…”  More writing on the board.  The crystalline silence of the classroom was broken only by the soft whirs of the professor’s prosthetic arm.

“Chaos.  So, we have Mr. Snett’s actions, the action of one, the reaction of observers or the many and some talk about disorder and chaos.  Who would like to put it all together?”

The young woman with orange hair raised her hand.  “Mr. Snett’s action was out of order.  Where there is the negation of order there is no certainty.  The lack of certainty is the subjective correlate to the absence of governing principles, which is chaos.  Therefore, Mr. Snett’s action invited chaos and its attendant effects.”

“Indeed,” affirmed the professor.  “And how were your fears allayed?”

“Your intervention, sir,” the young woman fairly beamed.  “You provided the resolution.”

“And had I not intervened?”

Again the class was silent.

“Come, come,” chided the professor impatiently.  “Wrong answers are opportunities for learning but timidity will not be tolerated.  Speak up!”

“The many,” offered a young man to my left.  “Order would have to be restored by the many.”

“But the many are angry and afraid,” the professor reminded us.  “Can fear be a secure basis for order?”

“Is not fear the ground from which courage springs?” offered Kranji.

The professor seemed perplexed.  “Can you elaborate?  What is the connection between courage and order?”

“Is it not obvious that courage is a prerequisite of leadership?” continued Kranji.  “Must not a leader first be courageous?”

“So the many may not produce order,” surmised the professor, “but they may produce a leader who in turn serves as a source of order.  Excellent!”

I was not at all surprised that Kranji had thus distinguished himself so quickly.  How well I remember the struggles of my first months at the university and my dramatic improvement under his patient and uncompromising tutelage.  It is no exaggeration to say that I owed him my academic career.  The memorization of facts was no easier for him than for anyone but reasoning, the bridge from fact to concept to comprehensive philosophical construct was as natural to him as breathing.

Yet, despite his facility I knew that he was apprehensive about this class.  It was puzzling.

“Now, let us move on to…”  More writing.  “…ways of knowing and… sources of order.  How do we know things?” asked the professor.  “How is knowledge arranged to provide the order we need to function and advance?”

“We know things by direct experience,” someone answered.

“Yes we do,” acknowledged the professor.  “But ‘knowing things’ isn’t enough, is it?  What enables us to organize and make use of knowledge acquired through direct experience?”

“Intuition and subjective response,” replied the same student.

“Exactly,” approved the professor.  “So direct experience is a ‘way of knowing’ and our subjective response is a source of order.  What else?”

“Unquestioned assumptions.”

“Why unquestioned?” asked the professor.

“Simple assumptions are open to unspecified examination,” answered the orange-haired young woman.  “This places them beyond the jurisdiction of sources of order.”

“Interesting.  So what would be the source of order for unquestioned assumptions?” pursued the professor.

“Consensus, sir.”

“Ah!” approved the professor.  “So the many are not so helpless after all!  A leader can arise from the many but so can an organic order given the proper conditions.  Any others?”

“The declaration of authority, sir,” answered the student behind me.  “The source of order is the authority itself.”

“And a reliable source it is,” remarked the professor, obviously quite pleased with the answer.  “One more.”

Kranji had raised his right hand.  I could see the fingers of his left hand drumming nervously on his thigh under the desk.  I wondered why.

“Yes, Mr. Courageous Leader.”

“Directed investigation,” said Kranji.

“Directed investigation.  Now that is interesting.”  As he said this the professor’s expression changed, as if Kranji’s contribution might be more than interesting.  “Could you be more specific?”

The patch of weak sunlight had shifted to the prime quadrant where Kranji sat.  “The scientific method,” he said.

“The scientific method,” repeated the professor in a curiously thoughtful tone.  ”Indeed.”

Kranji shot me an odd sort of glance as if he stood at the edge of a precipice some distance away.  He didn’t look at me again.

“How many are familiar with the scientific method, or, more precisely, scientific methodologies?” asked the professor in an entirely new tone.”  “Come now, it would be shocking if you hadn’t heard of it.”

Hands rose slowly.

“Can anyone give us a quick outline of a scientific methodology?” said Professor Hilber, returning to the harsh, mechanical tone he had employed while explaining his rules and expectations.  “Mr. Snett, you’re a history major.  Can you enlighten us?”

“Well, sir,” began Snett, “It has to do with the observation of phenomena, the formulation of a theory to explain how the phenomena happen and the testing of the theory.”

“How is the theory tested?”

“The theory is used to predict what’ll happen,” said Snett.  “If the phenomena occur as the theory says they will the theory becomes… I forget what it’s called but it would be a source of order, sir.”

“Would it now?  Is anyone dissatisfied with Mr. Snett’s explanation?  No?”  He paused, drumming the fingers of his left hand on his desk, one, two, three, four, five, as if considering some radical departure from his planned agenda.

“Tell you what,” he said.  “I loathe suspense so let’s do this in one go.  Is there anyone in this class who believes the scientific method to be a reliable guide to… truth?”  He wrote the word on the board.  His writing was large and energetic.

Now I understood my friend, though I must confess I was shocked.  Why had he not confided in me?  How well had I really known him?

Having already declared himself by bringing up science Kranji raised his hand without hesitation.  Dobrik Snett followed boldly, as did two others, albeit with reluctance.

“I see,” said Professor Hilber.  “Well then, if you will consult your syllabus you will see that your first paper is due in two weeks.  The subject will be the root and rise of the horror genesis philosophy.  In addition, our four ‘scientists’ will each write an essay entitled, ‘Why I Have Rejected the Infantile Scientific Method’.  Now, to continue our discussion about ways of knowing and… yes, Mr. Snett?  What’s the matter, don’t care for your assignment?”

“In fact I don’t, sir,” acknowledged Snett, “but that’s neither here nor there.  I’m sure the four of us knew we’d be swimming upstream here at the university but is this sort of treatment really necessary, sir?”

“No, Mr. Snett,” answered Professor Hilber.  “It is not.  Nothing is necessary; that’s the point.”

“But sir, I thought that…”

“No you didn’t!” said the professor.  “You haven’t thought at all!  You’re just passing along whatever superstitions and mythology your parents have passed on to you.  Perfectly natural but that’s why we have a university.  Let’s see, you’re from Eastmine, out in Region Five, aren’t you?  Mines and farms!  Hardly an intellectual nerve center, don’t you agree?  You do understand that the scientific method is not the issue?”

“Then what is the issue, sir?” asked Kranji.  How far did he intend to take this?

“The issue, young man is the arrogance of certainty,” said Professor Hilber.  “Look, from what we have been able to surmise from the bits surviving the Horror the scientists of the past were just as committed to the fallacy of certainty as the moralists and religionists.  It’s no good saying they hedged their bets with probability; there’s no such thing.  A thing happens or it doesn’t; there’s no probably about it.  Besides, probability was generally applied to the most thoroughly tested hypotheses whereas the really big assumptions were held with the same baseless certainty as religious dogma.”

“Sir,” ventured Kranji, “you acknowledge that the evidence is scant and fragmentary.  How can you claim such certainty?”

“You heard your fellow ‘scientist’” said the professor.  “The purpose of the scientific method is to predict the future.  I think we can all agree the world has had enough of that.”

“But nothing could’ve predicted the Horror,” said Snett. “Nothing could’ve prepared us…”

“Exactly!” declared the professor.  “Now you’re getting it.  It was all figured out, wasn’t it?  Scientists, philosophers, religionists; everybody understood how the world worked.  Differences of emphasis, yes but order of some sort was assumed even by those who denied it.  It was validated through experimentation, divine revelation, logical reasoning and even subjective response.  And it was wrong, all of it!”

Even as he railed against the ancient heresies the echo of loss was unmistakable.

“The Horror took everything that we believed made us human,” lamented the professor as we listened in silence.  “No god stepped forth to protect the beings made in its image.  There were no scientific principles which enabled us to comprehend what was happening to us, let alone defend ourselves.  What man has always suspected but never had the courage to accept smashed through the brittle, decorative walls we’d constructed for ourselves.  To paraphrase Job, that which we most greatly feared came upon us.

“Listen carefully!” said the professor with fervor not often found in a university lecture hall.  “There is no truth beyond that which we choose to recognize.  It’s not hidden, waiting for us to persevere until we find it.  It’s just not there.  These… these attempted returns to the arrogant posturing of the past are delusional!  They can only lead us back to the chaos of the Horror.  Are you really so impaired that you can’t understand that?”

“Maybe that’s it, sir,” answered Kranji calmly.  His conviction was unshakable.  “Maybe I’m not smart enough to give up.  The Horror turned man inside out but not nature.  When my dad plants wheat, wheat comes up.  When the hen lays an egg we never get a goat.  The stars don’t drop from the sky.  Objects still fall down instead of up or over.  Always have, always will…”

“That’s it!  Right there, don’t you see it?” said Professor Hilber.  “‘Always have.’  Do you really know every event that’s ever occurred?  Can you know that a chicken has never hatched a goat?  Do you have the knowledge of the mythical One Almighty?  As for ‘always will…’  A little presumptuous, don’t you think?”

“No sir,” persisted Kranji.  “It is reasonable.”

I cannot lie.  I must confess that I too have considered these things despite their taboo nature, or maybe because of it.  I knew nothing of wheat or goats but the order of human relationships was inescapable.  If I neglected to test the water or read the dosimeters on schedule my father would swear and beat me.  A present action ensured a future result regardless of the uncertainty demanded by the horror genesis philosophy.

Nothing prevents the extrapolation of this natural order into every realm of existence but the academics have constructed an ersatz reality upon the contrived order of leadership and submission, closing off every avenue of inquiry. The modes of thinking derided by our professor come naturally to the human mind.  It is not at all difficult to conceive of a world founded upon a discernible transcendent order, perhaps presided over by an ultimate source of order.  Scientific inquiry is ideally suited to the task of systematic discovery and understanding.  Might not philosophical and religious reasoning reveal their answers as well?

Kranji saw this clearly.  His response was to fight…

“Ah, reasonable,” continued the professor.  “Let’s see if I can characterize reasonableness.  Today we observe that A + B = C.  Seed plus dirt equals wheat.  Being good scientists we observe this equation over a specified period and record our findings.  Every time we examine the statement A + B = C we find it to be true.  Therefore it is reasonable to conclude that tomorrow A + B will equal C.  Is that an acceptable characterization of reasonableness?”

“Limited,” said Kranji cautiously, “but not inaccurate.”

“So in your view reason is just another name for faith?” challenged Professor Hilber.

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Kranji.

“We have many working definitions for faith,” said the professor, addressing the class, “but none surpass the simple elegance, and therefore usefulness, of this verse from the old book.  ‘Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.’  The ‘things hoped for’ part is subjective, of course.  Who knows or cares what others hope for?  But the ‘evidence of things unseen…’  Now that is a gigantic concept, a philosophical monster capable of devouring all who consider it, but like all truly great concepts its applications are limitlessly comprehensible and direct.  Can anything be more ‘unseen’ than the future?  Can certainty about the unseen future be called anything but faith?”

“This is sophistry,” protested Snett.  “The terms of this discussion are undefined.  When words can mean anything they mean nothing, sir.”

“Exactly,” I called out.  I did not look at Kranji as the light broke and I sprang from the edge of my own precipice.  “Mr. Snett is correct, sir.  If even the words common to us all are not to be trusted, what are we to do but look to an authority for order and security?”

“Well now,” approved the professor.  “That is insightful.”

Every hand was raised as the students, excited by the discussion, sought to make their contributions.  But our time was up.

As we rose in our ordered ranks the professor directed us to the assigned reading for the next class.  And then, looking directly at me he said, “Take this thought with you.  In a world established upon chaos faith and its twin brother reason are the most destructive delusions of all.”

The timid sun had retreated to the safety of clouds as we stepped onto the narrow black path.  Habit drove Kranji past me to take his customary place at the head of our line segment but as he passed I grabbed his shoulder and glared hotly.  My simple act of betrayal had remade me and he knew it.  Without a word Kranji took his new position behind me and we made our silent way, counting in multiples of two until we were joined by a third.

Looking up at the orange and aqua mosaics glowing eerily in the gloom beneath the overcast sky I began to hear the whispers of their devilish incantations.  Their ungodly chaos was indeed not of this earth; the nightmares they promised would be bottomless and exhilarating, crushing order, faith and reason beneath the furious stamp of their elemental banshee feet.

No more fearful counting for me.  I had found my source of order, the leader whose courage strengthened him to rebel against reality itself.  My path would follow the roaring lion, who walked about, seeking whom he may devour.

I was a new man.

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Civil War

captain-america-civil-war-international-poster-excerpt

I finally saw “Civil War,” the umpteen zillionth movie in the unendable Avengers series.  It was quite enjoyable but there was one scene in which all the that-would-never-happen-ness came to a point.  The bad guy has just explained with utmost clarity and precision how and why he moved heaven and earth to set the Avengers against each other.  He knows he could never destroy them so he manipulates them into destroying each other.  “See?  That’s what I’m doing!  I’m playing you!”

To which Tony Stark, of all people says, “Great idea!” and starts wailing on Captain America.

I thought that really took the audience well past suspension of disbelief into delusional territory.  You’d have to be crazy to buy in to the premise that the smartest man in any given room would let himself be played.

Then I went to Facebook.

My my.  Such crazy!  Such eagerness to follow pipers!  Such happiness to march over cliffs while flipping off people who suggest you should maybe not march over a cliff!  It’s almost as if some unprecedented event had occurred, generating a big wave like an EM pulse that short circuited human brains and made everybody crazy.

You’d think we’d never had an election in this country.

But we have had some elections.  I remember one back in… 2008, I think it was.  You remember too, right?  That time when the country was doomed, DOOMED by the election of Barak Obama?  The republic absolutely, positively could not survive four years under an Obama administration.  Then the country was doomed all over again in 2012 and, I hate to say it but the political doomsayers told you so.  Here it is 2016 with all the churches turned into museums of socialist progress, every Bible safely burned along with every copy of the Constitution and Oceania has always been at war with Eurasia…

Oh, wait.  That didn’t happen.

There are many among us who believe that progress was made in positive directions over the last eight years.  There are many among us who believe that our country moved way too far in negative directions over the last eight years.  No matter what you believe, we still have a country and it still works.  The doomsayers were all full of it.

There are many among us who believe that progress will be made in a positive direction over the next four or eight years.  There are many among us who believe that our country will move way too far in a negative direction over the next four or eight years.  No matter what you believe, we will still have a country and it will still work.  The doomsayers are still full of it because doomsayers always are.

President Trump, who I did not support during the campaign, is neither a harbinger of doom nor the savior of the Republic.  Conservatives will not gain as much as they hope, liberals will not lose as much as they fear.  Sensible people will work with the new president where they can and oppose him when they must.  Mr. Trump never claimed to be a doctrinaire conservative. He will certainly propose some measures that will draw the ire of conservatives and advance some aspects of a progressive agenda.  Will Democrats work with him to advance the interests of their constituents or will they stick with the scorched earth tribal warfare which is the bread and butter of muck raking talking heads and duckspeakers on all sides?

Will left-wing yahoos continue to make common cause with right-wing yahoos to keep pots boiling over with fear and/or resentment?  How long will YOU let these people play you?

If your circle of friends is shrinking because of media-hyped political narratives, you are being played.

If you’re being suckered into placing tribal loyalty above personal relationships, YOU ARE BEING PLAYED.

If you’re jumping at the chance to cut off family members because they’re wrongthinkers, I can’t help you.  You may be too far gone.  But I can tell you YOU.  ARE BEING.  PLAYED.  The little man who convinced the mighty Avengers to duke it out is laughing at you.

For goodness sake, come up for air!  Go outside and play!  Go swap recipes with that old friend who Facebook just outed as a jack-booted Nazi or Commie saboteur.  Apologize to your wrong-winged mother or politically addle-minded kid.  Turn back into a person.  Stop being the stock character in the old war movie who endangers the crew of the damaged submarine because he panics.  It’ll be okay as long as everybody keeps their wits about them.

Honest, it will.

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The Sun Men

sunmen_2

Begin transmission.

I must report this quickly, before the next gravity surge crushes the sun station.  Will it ever be heard?

Five hundred years ago, during the reign of the Third Dark Moon Prince, the first sky man transformed gravity and ascended beyond the atmosphere.  Others followed; soon the planets of our star system were populated.

There were groups, too numerous to list, for and against the expansion.  One group on the furthest fringe warned about gods and angels, or devils and fairies or some such fantastic creatures.  I only know this because my wife…

No time for this diversion.  The readings are heading up.

It was my proposal!  For over a century Ether Corp. has operated the sun siphons, collecting the rare lights and pure fusibles which energize… energized our civilization.  But the sun is also rich in heavier elements, particularly essential metals.  I recognized the potential of the magnetic coupling effect and the exponential amplification possibilities of resonant neutron carrier beams.  Small scale tests…

Voices in the background, raised in panic.

“The lifeboats won’t boost you out of the gravity well!”

Sounds of struggles and screams.

She was right!  My wife was right!  When I showed her the drawings for the beam projector she just nodded the way she did about all of my work.  Then she noticed the title, “Sun Drill,” and she asked what it meant. I told her it was for mining the sun, thinking how impressed she’d be but she just got quiet…

“…secondary field rupture!  Did they get out?”

She finally told me what was on her mind.  I told her she was crazy.  “It will be no more than a pin pricking the surface of the world!” I told her.  I was angry.  “It can’t hurt anything!”

We fought about it for the twelve years it took to build the sun station.  I’m ashamed for what I put her through.  Ashamed!  She was out of her mind when I left last week.  “Don’t hurt them!” she cried.  “Don’t kill the sun men!”

The sun, a community of living beings!  And I… an assassin!

We powered up for the full intensity test and fired.  A hole, a stream of bright red, the sun flickered then went out.  Contraction and collapse started immediately.

The last of the sunlight has passed the home world by now.  My wife is frozen.  I know she stood in our garden and watched as her husband killed the sun, killed the planets and every living person.  I know she couldn’t bring herself to call me a fool.  I know her last thought…

End transmission.

 

“The Sun Men” first appeared in Bewildering Stories issue 447, September 12, 2011

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Sunlight in an Empty Room

sun-in-an-empty-room

Before the room was empty…

Joan slept with a nightstick under the pillow.  She never told the kids it was for burglars but that’s what they thought.  The older ones would catch on soon enough but by then it wouldn’t be much of a surprise.

She met Ronnie at a party and she wasn’t fooled for a minute.  He was smooth as glass and just as transparent.  But she liked him.  That’s what it came down to.  She liked his black wavy hair, his eyes that shone like dark water beneath a full November moon and that hint of an urban accent that set him apart from the lumbering local brutes roaming the streets from bar to bar in the depressed little steel town.  She liked the way he dressed as if his appearance was the fragrance that drew the bee.  Not one important thing attracted her but it was easy enough to forget everything she’d heard from mom, the nuns, the priest and her stuffy friends.

Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made.  One by one, Ronnie’s muscular coils wrapped around Joan, soft and warm at first, with the drowsy hunger in their shadows, dreaming of the satisfaction that even animals know comes only at the end of planning and disciplined execution over a stretch of time.  He waited until she was pregnant to marry her.  He waited until they were married before his words got hot and he pushed her around.  He waited until he was her sole source of food and shelter before he experimented with hitting her.  When she blamed herself he knew the way was clear.

She was all his.

She had three kids with another on the way before she ran out of breath and broke the surface into the sunlight of reality.  Echoes of the Catholic faith in which she’d been raised clung tightly to the principles of the Evangelical faith she’d adopted to satisfy his pious family but religion didn’t keep her imprisoned to the beast.  No.  It was the failure that she couldn’t face and the sadness of a loss which was purely imaginary.  Had anything less than survival been at stake she could’ve gone on and on, denying, excusing, pretending.

But survival was at stake.  If there was one thing the cold-blooded grip of the serpent had done for her it was to show her reality and not let her look away.

Now even the glow of the past was a filthy smudge on her mind and soul.  The few kind words he might have said to the kids were hardly even fig leaves for black eyes and twists of verbal knives plunged deep.  She had seen his heart and it wore the grin of the skull as it held out bouquets of flowers already dead upon graves.

She would not take refuge in lies, not even the soothing ones.  She would do nothing but walk the straight line that led through restraining orders, the gossip of neighbors, the recriminations of family, the painstaking plane crash of divorce.

Most of all, she would not permit herself to remember the nights and days when her most private dreams came true.

Now it was all as over as the law could make it.  There was nothing left to do but raise four kids on her own, rehabilitate her reputation on her own, get from here to the other end of life on her own.  But she could do these things now.  She was tested and strengthened.  She had cataloged her resources.  She was free and secure.

But she still felt beneath the pillow every night to make sure the nightstick was there.

She was sound asleep in the exact middle of the night when the drunken monster crashed through the door in the shadows, fortified against the magic spells of court-issued pieces of paper.  Her peaceful dream exploded as a crushing weight dropped upon her bed, hands like claws finding her throat as if drawn by magnets, garbled streams of senseless profanity rushing forth upon whiskey-fouled gales.  She saw oxygen-deprived visions of Heaven before she was even fully awake, with tears squeezed from her failing eyes.

But the stick was in her hand.

An exhausted rag doll conditioned by years of fear and doubt was no match for the wounded pride and muscled rage of a ravenous monster with nothing to lose.  Her hand had found the stick but not even survival could give her the strength to swing it.

Somewhere in the darkness a child cried.  A little boy would see his father choke the life out of his mother before facing the monster himself.

The thought was barely a fragment to her.  Protect.  The stick swung.  Ronnie screamed and rolled to the floor, taking Joan with him.  The stick swung again and the brute stopped moving.

~

It’s empty now.

The room has no memory.  The sunlight finds nothing but the peace of emptiness, the sparkle of floating dust, the endless succession of shadows sliding across slowly crumbling walls.  No stain of cruelty, no halo of love, no eternity to be won or lost.  Such things have always come and gone like the dying echoes of sound and fury, leaving nothing in their wake.

Nothing but ripples in the light.

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Support System

support-system

“Ok George,” read the message posted on the writers’ critique site.  “I’m still waiting for your analysis of my story ‘The Rockets Go Boom!’ but here are my comments about your piece.

“Given that prologues are never a good idea it would be superfluous to say that yours is too long.  What an info dump!  Try to reveal the setting and alien psychology through action rather than dialogue and exposition.  Show, don’t tell!

“Now, to the meat of the thing.  I found your alien protagonist to be rather… androgynous.  Sure, he’s married and all but your descriptions of his ‘luscious indigo eyes veined with silver’ and ‘hair infused with the light of the sun’ leave a definite impression, if you know what I mean.  And why the knock on religion?  Contrasting the enlightened, science-worshipping husband with the raving religious fanatic wife is a little over the top, don’t you think?  I know that kind of thing is all the rage in SJW land but couldn’t you try to be a little more original?  Not new, not sophisticated.

“So here’s what I read.  Reasonable, science-minded protagonist of ambiguous orientation (therefore probably oppressed) is backed into a corner by his greedy old corporate masters and harangued by his shrieking religious harpy wife who he probably married for cover.  Poor thing!  The inevitable result: his noble work is prostituted, his misused invention accidentally erases gravity and the sacred environment is destroyed by marauding capitalism.  Everybody’s fault but his.  Same old ‘traditional society sucks’ message.  Ho hum.  Now go read ‘Rockets!’”

George made some red marks and notes on the hard copy of his story.  He moved on to the next entry on the critique site.

“Hello George, this is Stephanie.  I read your story this morning while I was waiting for Po-Po at the groomer.  It was really good!  I just have a few suggestions, you know, a couple of little tweaks and maybe a question or two.

“I think the part at the beginning might be a little longer and more detailed than it needs to be.  I can’t imagine what ‘magnetic resonance coupling’ or ‘vestigial survival imperatives’ could mean but if they’re important you could show how.  You know, show, don’t tell.

“I have to get a little bit critical because speculative fiction is the literature of ideas so we should talk about ideas, right?  Right!

“Your blonde haired, blue eyed male protagonist is kind of a throwback and, frankly, a little offensive.  We have moved past ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane,’ haven’t we?  And just because it’s set on another planet doesn’t mean the parallels with a certain 20th century dictatorship aren’t obvious.  The only thing worse than the macho Aryan scientist is that wife!  You must’ve really strained your brain to turn a mousey religious ignoramus into the evenhanded voice of reason!  Maybe while she’s so busy being intelligent and logical she could take a minute or two to throw off the stifling patriarchy; then she could be a believable character but your idea that everything would be swell if Herr Science just obeyed little Miss Superstition and her sky daddy?  Puhleez!  Give me a break!!

“A really great story!  Keep up the good work.  Did you get a chance to read my story, ‘The Hard Kisses of My Soft Rage?’  It’s all about…”

George made a few more notes then snapped the cap onto the red pen.  “With Our Own Hands” was his gazillionth story and his first foray into the world of online writer’s groups.  It was destined to be his gazillionth rejection.  Now that he’d retired from teaching he had lots of time to write stories and send them out to dead ends.  Maybe enough was enough already.

“Hi Poppy!” chirped his fifteen-year-old granddaughter Amanda as she walked through the dining room on her way to the kitchen.  She often stopped by on her way home from school.  “Is that your story?  I read that yesterday.”

“Lucky you,” said George.

“I told you to stay off ‘Crit for Crit,’ didn’t I?” said Amanda, picking up the story.

“You sure did,” admitted George.  “All right, Asimov, what’s your analysis?”

“I like the part at the beginning where you explain how the engineers at this company use ‘thought pens’ to draw diagrams with their minds and how that ability developed because of their peculiar culture and psychology.  But some of them use them to play practical jokes or read other people’s minds just because they’re nosy jerks,” she said.

“You like that, huh?”

“Yeah.  People would really do that, wouldn’t they?  And then, the way the scientist discovers the relationship between energy and gravity with the alien scientific method and figures out how to use one to control the other.  I don’t think it would work that way but it’s cool in the story.”

“That’s what counts,” said George.  “Anything else?”

“I felt sorry for his wife.”

“Oh?” said George.  “How come?”

“Well,” said Amanda, “everybody thought she wanted to control him or boss him around but she didn’t.  She just wanted to warn him.  I mean, she didn’t even mind if he disagreed with her, just as long as he listened and understood what she said.  She knew she could be wrong but she could be right, too.  He listened to everybody but her.”

“Let that be a lesson!” said George.

“And at the end,” continued Amanda, “when he knows the world will fly apart in a few seconds and it’s his fault the only thing he wishes is that he could tell his wife he loves her and he’s sorry.  But he can’t.  It’s too late.  It… it made me cry.  A little.”

Yeah, me too thought George.

“And it was all because of pride, right?” she went on.  “I mean, the scientist let himself be overcome by the power of his idea and the influence of people with agendas instead of keeping it all in perspective.  He forgot to be a person.  Until it was too late.”

“So what would you say to Mr. Rocket and Ms. Soft Rage?” asked George, nodding at the screen.

Amanda scrolled through the two critiques.  Then, in a surprisingly convincing imitation of William Powell in Life With Father she said, “I’d tell ‘em… bah!

That caught George off guard and started one of those unstoppable fits of laughter.  “Your mom is making you watch old movies again, is she?” he said.

“She calls it cultural research,” said Amanda.  “Last night it was Dracula.  The book was better.”

“Speaking of which, you were working on a vampire story, weren’t you?” said George.  “When are you gonna let me read it?”

“Like, never!” said Amanda.  “It’s stupid!”

“Are your vampires pretty?  Do they sparkle?”

“Ew!” protested Amanda.  “My vampires are horrible!  They can read minds so they each pick a victim and torture them with their own worst fears until they go insane before they bite them.  Sometimes they don’t even want their blood because they like scaring people so much they forget they need it, so one guy figures out that maybe he can starve his vampire if he can be brave enough to stay afraid…  It’s a lame idea…  Hang on.”  Her purple phone was playing an Ed Sheeran song.

“Hi Mom.  I’m at Nana’s house yappin’ with Poppy.  Okay.”

She handed the story back to her grandfather.  “Gotta go.  See ya, Pops.  Bye, Nan!” she called toward the kitchen.

“Is Amanda here?” called George’s wife Jean from the kitchen.

“You just missed her,” said George, returning to his story.  Maybe the prologue was a bit much at that.  Obviously he needed to clarify some things about his characters.  After all, Mr. Rocket and Ms. Soft Rage both had solid resumes.  A number of their stories appeared in some of his target venues.  They must know a thing or two.  Maybe he should tear it down to the foundations and start over.  Maybe he should put it aside for a while, like all the experts recommended.

Maybe he should act his age and find another hobby.

In any case he owed replies to his two critics.  He found their stories to be virtually indistinguishable from any number of others.  I’m probably reading young work with old eyes, he thought to himself, but now that they’ve reviewed mine anything negative could just look like sour grapes.  Hell, it could even be sour grapes.  What to do?

“What did Amanda have to say?” asked Jean, coming from the kitchen to sit beside him.

“Oh, this and that,” said George.  “We talked about vampires and how they play on your fears as they suck the life out of you and how people should listen to each other.  You know, stuff like that.”

“She is one smart kid,” said Jean.

“Yeah, she is,” agreed George, scanning the critiques as he spoke.  “Hey, honey?  How do you spell bah?”

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