Short Extracted Readings from Reviewed Books
Neither the presence or absence of extracts from books implies the agreement of the author. I am always open to revision or cancellation at any of the authors requests. Extracts are taken with the single objective of encouraging readers interest in these books.
1) Cliffs of Portofino (Ryan Hunter Series) - Karen Donahue & Thomas Donahue ~~[Reviews 1-10]
The suite's butler appeared from the kitchen and opened the door with customary politeness. Upon seeing the visitor's appearance, the servant braced his hand and held the door tightly in place to prevent entry.
"It's okay. Let him in." Volpe ambled over the ancient hardwood floor to the well-appointed bar and poured himself another Scotch, filling the old-fashioned glass to the brim.
The overweight, sleazy-looking man, again wearing a gold crucifix, walked over to the bar. "I'll have a beer," he commanded.
Volpe stared at the man. "You're not here for a social visit."
The heavyset man, who seemed to move with some agility, stared into Volpe and then glanced back at the butler.
"Leave us," Volpe ordered the valet.
After the door closed, the visitor turned to Volpe. "Now, where's that beer?"
Not accustomed to such disrespect, Volpe glared at his visitor. In less than a second, he sensed the latent violence in the man's posture and uncomfortably pointed to the small refrigerator behind the bar.
The Italian visitor, in his half unbuttoned black shirt and wrinkled slacks, popped the top off the bottle of beer and sauntered over to the window. He watched while the crowd below dispersed. "She's a curious I sent two of my best people in for her last night. This morning, reports from the jail are that she took them out by herself. Who is she?" He swirled the bottle in his hand.
"She's a professor from California."
The man stared at Volpe with such intensity that the father felt fear sweeping in. "Right".
Volpe gulped his Scotch and set the glass on the bar. "How'd your people screw it up?"
The man's eyes focused on the mountains to the north of Genoa. "The women who attacked her are in isolation. I'll be communicating with them later to find out what went wrong. Whatever happened, we'll get the job done. I just want to know what kind of person I'm up against." He dropped the empty bottle into the waste basket next to the bar. "Now that she's out of jail, it's going to be a little more difficult. I can assure you she'll be dead before the week's end." A curious expression crossed his face. "How do you think she got out?"
"It's okay. Let him in." Volpe ambled over the ancient hardwood floor to the well-appointed bar and poured himself another Scotch, filling the old-fashioned glass to the brim.
The overweight, sleazy-looking man, again wearing a gold crucifix, walked over to the bar. "I'll have a beer," he commanded.
Volpe stared at the man. "You're not here for a social visit."
The heavyset man, who seemed to move with some agility, stared into Volpe and then glanced back at the butler.
"Leave us," Volpe ordered the valet.
After the door closed, the visitor turned to Volpe. "Now, where's that beer?"
Not accustomed to such disrespect, Volpe glared at his visitor. In less than a second, he sensed the latent violence in the man's posture and uncomfortably pointed to the small refrigerator behind the bar.
The Italian visitor, in his half unbuttoned black shirt and wrinkled slacks, popped the top off the bottle of beer and sauntered over to the window. He watched while the crowd below dispersed. "She's a curious I sent two of my best people in for her last night. This morning, reports from the jail are that she took them out by herself. Who is she?" He swirled the bottle in his hand.
"She's a professor from California."
The man stared at Volpe with such intensity that the father felt fear sweeping in. "Right".
Volpe gulped his Scotch and set the glass on the bar. "How'd your people screw it up?"
The man's eyes focused on the mountains to the north of Genoa. "The women who attacked her are in isolation. I'll be communicating with them later to find out what went wrong. Whatever happened, we'll get the job done. I just want to know what kind of person I'm up against." He dropped the empty bottle into the waste basket next to the bar. "Now that she's out of jail, it's going to be a little more difficult. I can assure you she'll be dead before the week's end." A curious expression crossed his face. "How do you think she got out?"
2) Troubled Waters- Jon Wakeham ~~~~[Reviews 1-1]
It was after Dorkins had left and Godiva had gone to her bed that there was a loud knock at the door. Walter put out his cigarette and went to answer it. As he opened the door it was rudely pushed in at him, and a man stood in the doorway wearing a buttoned up overcoat with raised collar and a silk scarf across his lower face. More unusually, he was holding a revolver that was pointed towards Walter's chest. Walter could have identified any number of makes of shotgun, but handguns were a complete mystery to him. What he did know for certain was that they were made for killing people, and not for any other purpose.
"Get back in!" the man hissed. He was shorter and slimmer than Walter. Had it been a fist fight, Walter would have made short work of him. But the gun decided the matter in the intruder's favour and Walter moved backwards.
"What do you want?" Walter asked. They had edged through the entrance hall and into the centre of the living room in a slow and measured dance, perfectly co-ordinated. "Look, I don't know whose husband you are, or which one of them is employing you, but it is hardly worth shooting me. You are bound to be caught," Walter said rapidly and quietly.
"Shut up. Stop your gabbling and start listening," said the man, "Because I have a message for you."
"Who is this message from?" Walter asked.
"You'll work it out soon enough," the man replied.
"What is the message, then?" asked Walter, playing for time and hoping to distract this man.
"The message is, don't interfere anymore in things that don't concern you, or you will really come to regret it," the gunman hissed.
"I still don't know what you are talking about. Perhaps it would help if you told me who sent you on this fool's errand," Walter said through gritted teeth. He was watching the man's movement, waiting for him to drop his guard.
"Get back in!" the man hissed. He was shorter and slimmer than Walter. Had it been a fist fight, Walter would have made short work of him. But the gun decided the matter in the intruder's favour and Walter moved backwards.
"What do you want?" Walter asked. They had edged through the entrance hall and into the centre of the living room in a slow and measured dance, perfectly co-ordinated. "Look, I don't know whose husband you are, or which one of them is employing you, but it is hardly worth shooting me. You are bound to be caught," Walter said rapidly and quietly.
"Shut up. Stop your gabbling and start listening," said the man, "Because I have a message for you."
"Who is this message from?" Walter asked.
"You'll work it out soon enough," the man replied.
"What is the message, then?" asked Walter, playing for time and hoping to distract this man.
"The message is, don't interfere anymore in things that don't concern you, or you will really come to regret it," the gunman hissed.
"I still don't know what you are talking about. Perhaps it would help if you told me who sent you on this fool's errand," Walter said through gritted teeth. He was watching the man's movement, waiting for him to drop his guard.
3) Demon's Grip- Tahlia Newland ~~~~[Reviews 1-17]
As usual, the sword training class with Tynan was the class Ariel enjoyed most and when Nick turned up, it became even better.
"I need a break," he whispered as he joined her, "and something physical."
She nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. Ariel threw herself into the training as if she could clear away the fire in her veins by pushing her body to the limit. It probably would have worked if the cause of the blaze hadn't been beside her. As it was, his fierce physicality overshadowed every other perception she had. In some ways, it was as if they were the only people in the room. Ariel floated in his aura.
In Demonology class, Ariel added one word to her list of pleasures. Beside the words, physical desire, she wrote- Nick. There, she'd admitted it.
"Ah", the impish teacher said with a grin. "Today we will look at one of the strongest of physical pleasures and one that Emot is extremely skilled at using to lure you into craving."
Ariel grimaced. She wasn't looking forward to this.
"I need a break," he whispered as he joined her, "and something physical."
She nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. Ariel threw herself into the training as if she could clear away the fire in her veins by pushing her body to the limit. It probably would have worked if the cause of the blaze hadn't been beside her. As it was, his fierce physicality overshadowed every other perception she had. In some ways, it was as if they were the only people in the room. Ariel floated in his aura.
In Demonology class, Ariel added one word to her list of pleasures. Beside the words, physical desire, she wrote- Nick. There, she'd admitted it.
"Ah", the impish teacher said with a grin. "Today we will look at one of the strongest of physical pleasures and one that Emot is extremely skilled at using to lure you into craving."
Ariel grimaced. She wasn't looking forward to this.
4) Collider- Chris Hejmanowski ~~~~[Bookpleasures Reviews 11]
"Let's go," he said softly, turning to his grandmother. "I think that we need to leave here." They were standing now, having risen in between their periods of kneeling. Sal felt anxious, or guilty. Either way, the priest's words had struck a chord that was making him uneasy.
"Relax, everything is fine Salvador." She gestured toward Eva where she sat, quietly playing beneath the pew. "After communion we'll stay a bit and talk with Father."
"No. We need to get home." He glanced down at Eva. In the dust that surrounded her, she had scrawled a series of tracings, each one the same as the next, differing from one another only in their size and orientation. Some large, some small, but all were the same symbol.
Sal knelt down again and admired her work. He reached out and softly caressed her long black hair. "What are you drawing, baby?" He asked her quietly.
At first Eva didn't answer. She carefully finished the figure she was working on then looked up at him. "My Daddy."
Surprised at her answer he took a closer look at her scribbling. She hadn't mentioned her father for several months now. Sal scrutinized her collage. The symbols were the composite of a circle with a single line emanating upwards through the centre.
Over and over again she had inscribed these simple figures in the dust wherever her little arms could reach without smearing what she had already drawn.
the remainder of the parish joined Sal in kneeling. His anxiety was mounting.
"Ok, after communion, but then we leave. I don't want to stick around today," Sal whispered.
"Relax, everything is fine Salvador." She gestured toward Eva where she sat, quietly playing beneath the pew. "After communion we'll stay a bit and talk with Father."
"No. We need to get home." He glanced down at Eva. In the dust that surrounded her, she had scrawled a series of tracings, each one the same as the next, differing from one another only in their size and orientation. Some large, some small, but all were the same symbol.
Sal knelt down again and admired her work. He reached out and softly caressed her long black hair. "What are you drawing, baby?" He asked her quietly.
At first Eva didn't answer. She carefully finished the figure she was working on then looked up at him. "My Daddy."
Surprised at her answer he took a closer look at her scribbling. She hadn't mentioned her father for several months now. Sal scrutinized her collage. The symbols were the composite of a circle with a single line emanating upwards through the centre.
Over and over again she had inscribed these simple figures in the dust wherever her little arms could reach without smearing what she had already drawn.
the remainder of the parish joined Sal in kneeling. His anxiety was mounting.
"Ok, after communion, but then we leave. I don't want to stick around today," Sal whispered.
5) Lyon's Legacy- Sandra Ulbrich Almazan ~~~~ [Reviews 3-12]
Pluckenreck stood in front of an ocean mural as she lectured us on what to do once we arrived on the alternate Earth. It wasn't enough to learn how people acted during that time; we had to limit ourselves to their tech and knowledge too. We couldn't tell anyone about our computers or medicine-and we especially couldn't tell people what would happen to them or about upcoming historical events, even if that meant people would die.
"I know it sounds cruel." She put on a frown that probably was supposed to make her seem concerned concerned and sympathetic. Instead, it looked fake. "There are so many people who died in natural disasters or by violence that could be saved if we warned them. But can they really be saved?" She shrugged. "So far everything we've seen indicates that the history of this Earth matches our own in every detail we can compare. Our physisits think the similarity allowed the wormhole to open in the first place. If something significant is changed-like saving a person's life- it could ripple out in ways we can't predict. Maybe the wormhole will be stable; maybe it will collapse, and we'll have to spend the rest of our lives there. No one wants to take that chance. Any questions?"
A guy about my age who was sitting up front stuck out his hand. "How do we know we're not altering the past just by being here?"
"You're not the first group we've allowed to visit the TwenCen Earth. When we started, our missions were much smaller and heavily supervised. We bought as many newspapers and magazines as possible, watched news broadcasts, and listened to whatever we could. But nothing changed; everything still matches our past. We're counting on all of you to keep it that way." She found me (with her stare) again. "No matter who you know who's going to die young."
What an asshole. She was telling me straight out I couldn't save Sean. It hadn't occurred to me before, but now I wanted to, if only to piss Pluckenreck off. But I knew better than to say anything, so I just glared at her.
"I know it sounds cruel." She put on a frown that probably was supposed to make her seem concerned concerned and sympathetic. Instead, it looked fake. "There are so many people who died in natural disasters or by violence that could be saved if we warned them. But can they really be saved?" She shrugged. "So far everything we've seen indicates that the history of this Earth matches our own in every detail we can compare. Our physisits think the similarity allowed the wormhole to open in the first place. If something significant is changed-like saving a person's life- it could ripple out in ways we can't predict. Maybe the wormhole will be stable; maybe it will collapse, and we'll have to spend the rest of our lives there. No one wants to take that chance. Any questions?"
A guy about my age who was sitting up front stuck out his hand. "How do we know we're not altering the past just by being here?"
"You're not the first group we've allowed to visit the TwenCen Earth. When we started, our missions were much smaller and heavily supervised. We bought as many newspapers and magazines as possible, watched news broadcasts, and listened to whatever we could. But nothing changed; everything still matches our past. We're counting on all of you to keep it that way." She found me (with her stare) again. "No matter who you know who's going to die young."
What an asshole. She was telling me straight out I couldn't save Sean. It hadn't occurred to me before, but now I wanted to, if only to piss Pluckenreck off. But I knew better than to say anything, so I just glared at her.
6) Urban Hunters, Books 1 to 3: Billy's Gotta Find Some Girls- Gary Taaffe ~~~~ [Reviews 4-13]
It was Mandu's turn. He'd made a hat from the skin of the Kangaroo's head. He'd flattened and stiffened the upper lips and snout so they stood out at the front like a baseball cap, with the skin from the back of the roo's neck left on for extra protection from the sun. It looked amazing with its long ears that stood tall and proud as if it was alive and alert.
Billy wasn't sure how to put it on as he'd never worn a hat before. Mandu helped him adjust the strap and a Red kangaroo with a smiley black face was born.
"Look in the water,"Mandu said with a satisfied grin.
He did but he wasn't happy with his reflection.
"Them whitefellas gonna shoot me for sure now!"
"Why they shoot you?" Mandu said.
"They gonna think I'm dinner!"
"Nah, them whitefellas don't eat the kangaroos," Cobar said.
"How come?"
"Dunno. They got strange customs. They work all day in the sun so they can eat cow for dinner. They should eat the kangaroos! They everywhere! We hunt them in the morning and then laugh in the shade for the rest of the day."
"Don't tell them how good they taste, will ya, Billy?" Burnam said with a wink. "They gonna eat them all if you do."
"I won't tell them."
"Don't you worry about them whitefellas, Billy," Mallee said, "You just find me some girls, OK?"
Billy wasn't sure how to put it on as he'd never worn a hat before. Mandu helped him adjust the strap and a Red kangaroo with a smiley black face was born.
"Look in the water,"Mandu said with a satisfied grin.
He did but he wasn't happy with his reflection.
"Them whitefellas gonna shoot me for sure now!"
"Why they shoot you?" Mandu said.
"They gonna think I'm dinner!"
"Nah, them whitefellas don't eat the kangaroos," Cobar said.
"How come?"
"Dunno. They got strange customs. They work all day in the sun so they can eat cow for dinner. They should eat the kangaroos! They everywhere! We hunt them in the morning and then laugh in the shade for the rest of the day."
"Don't tell them how good they taste, will ya, Billy?" Burnam said with a wink. "They gonna eat them all if you do."
"I won't tell them."
"Don't you worry about them whitefellas, Billy," Mallee said, "You just find me some girls, OK?"
7) Mystery at Dead Man's Ridge- Mandy Edwards ~~~~ [Reviews 3-14]
Ted gulped noisily from a mug of strong, black tea, handed to him by his wife and squeezed the life out of a large slice of walnut cake before cramming it in his mouth.
“And that’s not the worst of it,” he growled after swallowing with some difficulty.
“The mongrels must have let a dog loose and it ripped the throats out of several lambs and left them for dead.”
Maggie gripped so tightly to her own little dog that he yelped in protest.
“God knows who else has been targeted,” Ted continued. “I guess we’ll find out tonight at the meeting”. He stopped and stared at Luke who couldn’t quite meet the eyes of the angry farmer. “Hello young fella,” said Ted, “Have I met you before? You look
kind of familiar”.
“Er no Sir! I don’t think so.” stammered Luke and Aunt Lizzie took pity on him.
“This is Luke McAlister dear,” she said quickly, “You’ve probably had a few dealings with his dad. They look very alike.”
“Ah yes”, Ted nodded, “our local poacher. Next time he’s out thieving trout from the rivers and pheasants from the bush perhaps he’ll catch the mongrels who are stealing my sheep. That is unless he’s in ...”
Lizzie looked at her husband, shocked. “Ted That’ll do Not in front of the kids. What are you thinking?”
“Sorry lad. Of course your dad’s got nothing to do with it— I’m just damn worried that’s all. What have you done to yourself anyway?”
Between them, Maggie and Tom told him what had happened at Dead Man’s Ridge but left out the bit about finding cigarette butts on the crime scene. Tom wanted to figure that out for himself!
“I thought I told you kids to leave well enough alone.” Ted said. “Damn it Tom these guys are dangerous. If you don’t care enough about your own safety what about your cousin’s?”
“I wanted to go” said Maggie rising to Tom’s defence “It’s not Tom’s fault. We just wanted to help.”
“And that’s not the worst of it,” he growled after swallowing with some difficulty.
“The mongrels must have let a dog loose and it ripped the throats out of several lambs and left them for dead.”
Maggie gripped so tightly to her own little dog that he yelped in protest.
“God knows who else has been targeted,” Ted continued. “I guess we’ll find out tonight at the meeting”. He stopped and stared at Luke who couldn’t quite meet the eyes of the angry farmer. “Hello young fella,” said Ted, “Have I met you before? You look
kind of familiar”.
“Er no Sir! I don’t think so.” stammered Luke and Aunt Lizzie took pity on him.
“This is Luke McAlister dear,” she said quickly, “You’ve probably had a few dealings with his dad. They look very alike.”
“Ah yes”, Ted nodded, “our local poacher. Next time he’s out thieving trout from the rivers and pheasants from the bush perhaps he’ll catch the mongrels who are stealing my sheep. That is unless he’s in ...”
Lizzie looked at her husband, shocked. “Ted That’ll do Not in front of the kids. What are you thinking?”
“Sorry lad. Of course your dad’s got nothing to do with it— I’m just damn worried that’s all. What have you done to yourself anyway?”
Between them, Maggie and Tom told him what had happened at Dead Man’s Ridge but left out the bit about finding cigarette butts on the crime scene. Tom wanted to figure that out for himself!
“I thought I told you kids to leave well enough alone.” Ted said. “Damn it Tom these guys are dangerous. If you don’t care enough about your own safety what about your cousin’s?”
“I wanted to go” said Maggie rising to Tom’s defence “It’s not Tom’s fault. We just wanted to help.”
8) Puppet Parade- Zeinab Alayan ~~~~ [Reviews 3-9]
Sophie winced. "I really have no recollection of the whole thing. You know I wouldn't have given you a difficult time had I been myself. I just hope I didn't hurt you or say something really bad... did I do something of that sort?"
"Don't worry about it. You mainly kicked and punched me, but I won't hold it against you," he said, smiling. "Can you honestly not remember anything? Anything at all? Any bit of information helps."
Sophie strained her memory in an effort to try and remember the events of the previous day, but in vain. It was as if someone had grabbed an eraser and wiped that day clear out of her mind. She sighed and shook her head, and felt rather ashamed at the look of disappointment on Oliver's face.
"I'm sorry, but I really can't remember anything at all."
"It doesn't matter," he assured her. " The important thing is we managed to get you back to our side. From now on we'll try not to stay in these towns for too long. We don't want to get too attached."
She nodded in agreement. She had gotten lucky this time, but who knew if she would be as lucky if this were to happen again? She almost shuddered at the thought.
"Where are we headed now? Do you have an idea?" she asked.
"Yeah, I did some reading on the Parade while we were still in that town, and according to the map I found in the book, we are supposed to be heading to the Violence town now," he said with a grim smile.
"Violence? We'll find Harris and Boris there, won't we?"
"Don't worry about it. You mainly kicked and punched me, but I won't hold it against you," he said, smiling. "Can you honestly not remember anything? Anything at all? Any bit of information helps."
Sophie strained her memory in an effort to try and remember the events of the previous day, but in vain. It was as if someone had grabbed an eraser and wiped that day clear out of her mind. She sighed and shook her head, and felt rather ashamed at the look of disappointment on Oliver's face.
"I'm sorry, but I really can't remember anything at all."
"It doesn't matter," he assured her. " The important thing is we managed to get you back to our side. From now on we'll try not to stay in these towns for too long. We don't want to get too attached."
She nodded in agreement. She had gotten lucky this time, but who knew if she would be as lucky if this were to happen again? She almost shuddered at the thought.
"Where are we headed now? Do you have an idea?" she asked.
"Yeah, I did some reading on the Parade while we were still in that town, and according to the map I found in the book, we are supposed to be heading to the Violence town now," he said with a grim smile.
"Violence? We'll find Harris and Boris there, won't we?"
9) The Last Days of Disco- David F. Ross ~~~~ [Reviews 1-18]
The conversation with Mickey Martin gnawed away like toothache at Fat Franny. He hadn't been able to sleep soundly for the two nights since. Admittedly, the party hadn't gone well, and although he'd initially attempted to defend his 'acts', deep down he knew it had been his fault. There was no question of payment being offered by Mickey Martin given their history, but it was the mention of these new fuckers -Heatwave- that really got to Fat Franny.
"Ah'm gonnae gie these Heatwave boys the shout for the anniversary, big man," he'd said in a phone call yesterday. "It's nothing personal Franny, but that was a fuckin' shambles, mate. Ah'm no fuckin' having it."
"We've kent each other for years, Doc. An' in aw that time, I've never let ye doon afore," pleaded Fat Franny. This didn't come easy for him. Begging wasn't his style.
"Aye mibbe so . . . but we aw need tae move on," said Mickey. "Ah' want tae gie them a shot, wi' the Metropolis comin' up an' that. Ah've heard good things about them , ken?
The mention of the Metropolis cut Fat Franny to the quick. He'd known for a while that Mickey was planning a mega-nightclub with different bars and a resident DJ in place. Mickey was also rumoured to have secured a previously unheard of 4am license. Speculation was that it was now going into the vast spaces under the Foregate car park, and that it would be open five nights a week. This was the Holy Grail to Fat Franny. An opportunity to cut loose all the charlatans who were dragging him down; The Cheezees'; Bert fuckin' Bole; That Sunshine walloper . . . all of them could go an' take a flying fuck to themselves . . . If he landed this gig. Maybe even Hobnail - and the domestic chaos that always seemed to surround him - would be expendable. But at the moment the dream was drifting away from him.
"Franny. Ye still there? Ah' need tae go. Ah'll speak tae ye sometime . . . later." Mickey Martin hung up the phone. Fat Franny was left holding the receiver, staring at it and trying to decipher the significance of the word 'sometime'. Eventually he pulled the bit of paper with the numbers written in red felt pen from the cork pinboard to his left. Time for a word with the new kids on the block.
"Ah'm gonnae gie these Heatwave boys the shout for the anniversary, big man," he'd said in a phone call yesterday. "It's nothing personal Franny, but that was a fuckin' shambles, mate. Ah'm no fuckin' having it."
"We've kent each other for years, Doc. An' in aw that time, I've never let ye doon afore," pleaded Fat Franny. This didn't come easy for him. Begging wasn't his style.
"Aye mibbe so . . . but we aw need tae move on," said Mickey. "Ah' want tae gie them a shot, wi' the Metropolis comin' up an' that. Ah've heard good things about them , ken?
The mention of the Metropolis cut Fat Franny to the quick. He'd known for a while that Mickey was planning a mega-nightclub with different bars and a resident DJ in place. Mickey was also rumoured to have secured a previously unheard of 4am license. Speculation was that it was now going into the vast spaces under the Foregate car park, and that it would be open five nights a week. This was the Holy Grail to Fat Franny. An opportunity to cut loose all the charlatans who were dragging him down; The Cheezees'; Bert fuckin' Bole; That Sunshine walloper . . . all of them could go an' take a flying fuck to themselves . . . If he landed this gig. Maybe even Hobnail - and the domestic chaos that always seemed to surround him - would be expendable. But at the moment the dream was drifting away from him.
"Franny. Ye still there? Ah' need tae go. Ah'll speak tae ye sometime . . . later." Mickey Martin hung up the phone. Fat Franny was left holding the receiver, staring at it and trying to decipher the significance of the word 'sometime'. Eventually he pulled the bit of paper with the numbers written in red felt pen from the cork pinboard to his left. Time for a word with the new kids on the block.
10) Undazzled- Chance Maree ~~~~ [Reviews 2-15]
Jacob looked into the mirror. revulsion like lava bubbled in his stomach, scorching his throat- smothering lava, fiery smoke curling up through that long, scaled, grey snout with nostrils so large he could put his thumb in them- he did that once already. and heating a face that was not, could not, possibly be his. I am a man, not a fiendish beast.
Only a monster having such a face as this, with thick skin, tough as wood, would cut into the body lying on the table in the next room. The native woman's corpse had been flown to Galileo on the military shuttle from Franklin. The circumstance of her death was said to be unknown, but Jacob knew death had not come easy.
To the face in the mirror, "Who are you?" he whispered. "I want my humanity back."
Jacob's human face had been handsome- women, children, and sometimes men would look at him with instant friendship and approval. Jacob tried on a swashbuckler smirk, hoping for a glimpse of the person he'd been, but the reflection showed hunger, viciousness and cold, cold blood theat begged the mystery- with this face, can I have love in my heart?
Tender emotions had withered ever since Pots bolted from his arms that night. Jacob had flashbacks of Pot's desperate flight from the clutches of an evil monster. He had thought to be of comfort to his lover, to show her that despite this horrible ordeal, they could find sanity in one another and that their hearts had not changed. Perhaps Pots saw what he did not. The beast had always been inside- only its chains had been broken.
Jacob slumped, noticing that he felt old and tired. Working for the commander had murdered what little honor he had left. Pots deserted him- with her being a lonely crone, he thought she'd value him more.
Not that Pots was the only women in town. One of the lab biologists had been openly flirting with Jacob. Her face looked like a snake, but her upturned nose was cute. And what about that gecko nurse that had brought him lunch for the past three days? Hell, he was single and unattached. Maybe Celine wasn't putting on an act. He could take her to Socrates for a seafood dinner- she'd like that. Why not? Jacob looked into the mirror once again. I may look like a croc, but a horny toad,I'll be. Fuck it all, and I'll fuck them all!
Only a monster having such a face as this, with thick skin, tough as wood, would cut into the body lying on the table in the next room. The native woman's corpse had been flown to Galileo on the military shuttle from Franklin. The circumstance of her death was said to be unknown, but Jacob knew death had not come easy.
To the face in the mirror, "Who are you?" he whispered. "I want my humanity back."
Jacob's human face had been handsome- women, children, and sometimes men would look at him with instant friendship and approval. Jacob tried on a swashbuckler smirk, hoping for a glimpse of the person he'd been, but the reflection showed hunger, viciousness and cold, cold blood theat begged the mystery- with this face, can I have love in my heart?
Tender emotions had withered ever since Pots bolted from his arms that night. Jacob had flashbacks of Pot's desperate flight from the clutches of an evil monster. He had thought to be of comfort to his lover, to show her that despite this horrible ordeal, they could find sanity in one another and that their hearts had not changed. Perhaps Pots saw what he did not. The beast had always been inside- only its chains had been broken.
Jacob slumped, noticing that he felt old and tired. Working for the commander had murdered what little honor he had left. Pots deserted him- with her being a lonely crone, he thought she'd value him more.
Not that Pots was the only women in town. One of the lab biologists had been openly flirting with Jacob. Her face looked like a snake, but her upturned nose was cute. And what about that gecko nurse that had brought him lunch for the past three days? Hell, he was single and unattached. Maybe Celine wasn't putting on an act. He could take her to Socrates for a seafood dinner- she'd like that. Why not? Jacob looked into the mirror once again. I may look like a croc, but a horny toad,I'll be. Fuck it all, and I'll fuck them all!
11) Sequela- Cleland Smith ~~~~ [Reviews 4-14]
I'm going to be straight with you and get to the point,' Cherry said, sliding her hands under her thighs to stop them from shaking. 'Your colleague Dr Lowe worked on a number of viruses before he left the Institute and my employer would like to get a hold of one or two for demonstrative purposes.'
'Demonstrative?'
'They want to get a hold of them.'
'You know that all the interesting stuff is done off-site right? Secondments. Nothing is held here. You've seen the security – let me guess, he was eating a sandwich?'
Cherry nodded.
'So for starters,' Dee continued, 'all that stuff is protected. It would be illegal to let you have it. And on top of that, we just don't have it. I can't help you.'
'You worked with Dr Lowe on a number of his papers.'
'Yes.'
'Do you think for the right price you could recreate some of his work?'
Dee took a deep breath, looking at Cherry as if she could see the rest of the conversation unfolding before her. Cherry saw an opportunity and jumped in before she could reply.
'I take it that's a "no". I mean, you can't do it without him.'
'Of course I can,' Dee snapped. She slid down from her stool and paced a little before coming back to her bench. Cherry had hit the sweet spot. Her pride.
'Well then we can talk properly,' Cherry said. 'You want the funding for your screen work?'
Dee ignored Cherry's question and stared at her. 'The money in your account,' Cherry said, 'it's not part of the funding.' She waited.
Slowly, the expression on Dee's face changed. Under her pale mask emotions were fighting to get through: panic, excitement, anger, the realisation of the possibilities.
'It's – '
'I know what it is,' Dee snapped, as if she didn't want Cherry to say it out loud.
'Well, just so we're clear, the funding itself can be directed wherever you need – we don't care whether you want to take it through the Institute or if you want to use it to set up and do your research independently. Hell, you can spend it on shoes for all I care. You'll receive it in two payments, one after you deliver each virus.'
Cherry took a printout from her pocket and laid it on the bench next to Dee. 'I'm not going to pretend to be an expert. These are the viruses
we're looking at.'
'Demonstrative?'
'They want to get a hold of them.'
'You know that all the interesting stuff is done off-site right? Secondments. Nothing is held here. You've seen the security – let me guess, he was eating a sandwich?'
Cherry nodded.
'So for starters,' Dee continued, 'all that stuff is protected. It would be illegal to let you have it. And on top of that, we just don't have it. I can't help you.'
'You worked with Dr Lowe on a number of his papers.'
'Yes.'
'Do you think for the right price you could recreate some of his work?'
Dee took a deep breath, looking at Cherry as if she could see the rest of the conversation unfolding before her. Cherry saw an opportunity and jumped in before she could reply.
'I take it that's a "no". I mean, you can't do it without him.'
'Of course I can,' Dee snapped. She slid down from her stool and paced a little before coming back to her bench. Cherry had hit the sweet spot. Her pride.
'Well then we can talk properly,' Cherry said. 'You want the funding for your screen work?'
Dee ignored Cherry's question and stared at her. 'The money in your account,' Cherry said, 'it's not part of the funding.' She waited.
Slowly, the expression on Dee's face changed. Under her pale mask emotions were fighting to get through: panic, excitement, anger, the realisation of the possibilities.
'It's – '
'I know what it is,' Dee snapped, as if she didn't want Cherry to say it out loud.
'Well, just so we're clear, the funding itself can be directed wherever you need – we don't care whether you want to take it through the Institute or if you want to use it to set up and do your research independently. Hell, you can spend it on shoes for all I care. You'll receive it in two payments, one after you deliver each virus.'
Cherry took a printout from her pocket and laid it on the bench next to Dee. 'I'm not going to pretend to be an expert. These are the viruses
we're looking at.'
12) Eternal Destiny- Tahlia Newland ~~~~ [Reviews 1-19]
Nick tried being happy for his brother John, thinking how wonderful it was that he got all the praise and all the treats, but he couldn’t forget that they were all the things the young Nick would have liked. He still thought it unfair that his parents hadn’t treated him and his brother equally, and it still hurt when he thought about it.
Layla had him imagining being all the people in his family, trying to understand what they felt, and why they did what they did, but although Nick understood intellectually, emotionally the hurt of the boy remained within the man, so he practised just feeling the hurt when it rose without thinking about its cause or trying to push it away.
‘I’ve had a lot of practice at this,’ Nick told Layla, ‘but it still comes up.’
She nodded. ‘That’s fine, just remember that the fiercer your emotion, the more power there is for you to throw back at Cogin; you just have to transform it from jealousy to pure Radiant Power. You do have a great capacity to feed him, but you also have a great capacity to destroy him. You have the power, Nick.’
He sighed. ‘I know, and when I get it sorted I am going to give him such a blast.’
Layla grinned. ‘That’s the spirit, but remember that Cogin can make jealousy sneak up on you so it’s hard to see. He can work over time, dangling a little bit of bait now and a little bit later, so subtle that you don’t realise it’s hooked you.’
Nick looked down at the sword by his side and smiled. Now he had a weapon as magical and powerful as Ariel’s dagger. Not only that, but the goddess Aya had made it, or at least remade it, especially for him. That was definitely a good sign, and he couldn’t help feeling an extra boost of confidence.
Layla had him imagining being all the people in his family, trying to understand what they felt, and why they did what they did, but although Nick understood intellectually, emotionally the hurt of the boy remained within the man, so he practised just feeling the hurt when it rose without thinking about its cause or trying to push it away.
‘I’ve had a lot of practice at this,’ Nick told Layla, ‘but it still comes up.’
She nodded. ‘That’s fine, just remember that the fiercer your emotion, the more power there is for you to throw back at Cogin; you just have to transform it from jealousy to pure Radiant Power. You do have a great capacity to feed him, but you also have a great capacity to destroy him. You have the power, Nick.’
He sighed. ‘I know, and when I get it sorted I am going to give him such a blast.’
Layla grinned. ‘That’s the spirit, but remember that Cogin can make jealousy sneak up on you so it’s hard to see. He can work over time, dangling a little bit of bait now and a little bit later, so subtle that you don’t realise it’s hooked you.’
Nick looked down at the sword by his side and smiled. Now he had a weapon as magical and powerful as Ariel’s dagger. Not only that, but the goddess Aya had made it, or at least remade it, especially for him. That was definitely a good sign, and he couldn’t help feeling an extra boost of confidence.
13) Ripple, A Tale of Hope and Redemption- E.L. Farris ~~~~ [Reviews 4-15]
"Ms. White, for how long have you been taking medication to treat depression?"
"About three years."
"And when did you start taking Xanax?"
"Right after I stopped drinking."
"When was that, Ms. White?"
"Christmas of last year."
"And you've taken antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication every day?"
Cassandra shook her head. "Not every day". The attorney paused and Cassandra wondered where she was going with this.
Will she suggest that I'd grown dependent on anti-anxiety medications? Will she delve into the causes of the depression and attack me for needing help? I guess they think I'm a fuck-up for taking meds.
A heaviness pressed on her chest, but she waited.
Tim's attorney fingered a document and Cassandra caught a hint of recklessness in the way she frowned, one hand theatrically placed on her hip.
"Ms. White, why did you stop drinking and go into rehab?"
Cassandra pushed her fear back and replied, "It was affecting my work and my relationships.*
"I'll say."
"Objection, Your Honor!"
"Counselor, really!"
Opposing counsel held up her hands more in supplication than acknowledgement. Then, after the judge raised an eyebrow, Tim's attorney went on: "But Ms. White, isn't it true that you were found in a compromising position with another man at your firm's Christmas party?"
"No!"
"So you're saying that you weren't found unconscious in the ladies bathroom, half-naked?"
Tears rose to Cassandra's eyes and she did not wipe them away as she replied, "It is true I had too much to drink. It is true I passed out. But I was not the one who took off my clothes."
"About three years."
"And when did you start taking Xanax?"
"Right after I stopped drinking."
"When was that, Ms. White?"
"Christmas of last year."
"And you've taken antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication every day?"
Cassandra shook her head. "Not every day". The attorney paused and Cassandra wondered where she was going with this.
Will she suggest that I'd grown dependent on anti-anxiety medications? Will she delve into the causes of the depression and attack me for needing help? I guess they think I'm a fuck-up for taking meds.
A heaviness pressed on her chest, but she waited.
Tim's attorney fingered a document and Cassandra caught a hint of recklessness in the way she frowned, one hand theatrically placed on her hip.
"Ms. White, why did you stop drinking and go into rehab?"
Cassandra pushed her fear back and replied, "It was affecting my work and my relationships.*
"I'll say."
"Objection, Your Honor!"
"Counselor, really!"
Opposing counsel held up her hands more in supplication than acknowledgement. Then, after the judge raised an eyebrow, Tim's attorney went on: "But Ms. White, isn't it true that you were found in a compromising position with another man at your firm's Christmas party?"
"No!"
"So you're saying that you weren't found unconscious in the ladies bathroom, half-naked?"
Tears rose to Cassandra's eyes and she did not wipe them away as she replied, "It is true I had too much to drink. It is true I passed out. But I was not the one who took off my clothes."
14) 11 Oak Street- Graham Cook ~~~~ [Reviews 2-16]
I had managed to sell the rights to my story to the London Daily Telegraph magazine, which meant that I could fund my return and, importantly, pay my child support arrears and the outstanding rent to my landlady in Tiburon. The very first thing I did on the Friday I arrived back in Napa, after checking into my hotel room, was to contact my caseworker at the Child Support Division of the Napa County District Attorney's office to inform him I was back and where I was staying, and assure him I would be down first thing Monday morning to pay my child support arrears. I then called Barbara and left a message saying that pursuant to my court-ordered access I would be picking up my son the next day. Because I suspected there might be problems enforcing my rights under my court order, I contacted the City of Napa Police Department and requested a police officer to be in the background.
When I arrived the next day, the first words Barbara spoke to the police officer were, "What's he doing here when there is a warrant out for him?" When the officer checked, sure enough there was a warrant for my arrest, sworn the day before, charging me with 'child neglect'. Of course it was totally illogical as to how I could be charged with child neglect when at the time I was 7,000 miles away and the instigator of the criminal complaint, Barbara, had the child in her care at the time. But logic did not come into dealing with what was going on in the Napa court system in those days.
Unbelievably, I was handcuffed and taken to the county jail where I stayed for a few hours until my friend Barbara Corotto could get hold of my lawyer John Rothschild. He managed to contact the Napa County weekend duty judge, the Honourable Ron Young, who phoned the county jail and ordered my release by dropping the bail. Barbara and Douglas Smith's plan was that I would remain in the Napa County Jail until any forthcoming trial.
When I returned to Barbara's home late that morning with a police officer in attendance, neither Barbara nor my son was there. But in an egregious encounter outside the courtroom at the first hearing, the Assistant DA, a friend of Douglas Smith, told me he would 'get me whatever it took'.
When I arrived the next day, the first words Barbara spoke to the police officer were, "What's he doing here when there is a warrant out for him?" When the officer checked, sure enough there was a warrant for my arrest, sworn the day before, charging me with 'child neglect'. Of course it was totally illogical as to how I could be charged with child neglect when at the time I was 7,000 miles away and the instigator of the criminal complaint, Barbara, had the child in her care at the time. But logic did not come into dealing with what was going on in the Napa court system in those days.
Unbelievably, I was handcuffed and taken to the county jail where I stayed for a few hours until my friend Barbara Corotto could get hold of my lawyer John Rothschild. He managed to contact the Napa County weekend duty judge, the Honourable Ron Young, who phoned the county jail and ordered my release by dropping the bail. Barbara and Douglas Smith's plan was that I would remain in the Napa County Jail until any forthcoming trial.
When I returned to Barbara's home late that morning with a police officer in attendance, neither Barbara nor my son was there. But in an egregious encounter outside the courtroom at the first hearing, the Assistant DA, a friend of Douglas Smith, told me he would 'get me whatever it took'.
15) Desolation Run- James Snyder ~~~~ [Reviews 3-16]
When Luke pulled off the interstate, into a truck stop to gas up, Oreny went looking for the bathroom. Inside the station they gave him the key, attached to a big wooden stick, and he went around the opposite side of the building. Here were the high canopy and diesel pumps where several of the big trucks were pulled beneath. He began to walk along the side of the building, toward the bathrooms, when he saw Cade talking to one of the truckers.
He was maybe twenty feet away, with his back to him. Orney stood there, staring at the back, disbelieving it, at first thinking the dope was messing with him, but knowing it couldn't be. When he looked closely, he saw the same cheap-ass gray suit Cade always wore and the way Cade stood with his legs apart, and he knew. He turned and quickly moved back the way he came. Inside the station he threw down the key, then walked out the opposite side to where the three were standing beside the van.
Oreny said, "Time we moved on." He began climbing into the back seat.
"What's the matter?" Luke said.
"No time for that. Got to go- now, boy."
Everyone piled into the van, and Luke started the engine.
Orney said, "Go real slow around the corner. Something I want to see."
Slowly, the nose of the van moved around the edge of the station until Oreny said, "Wait up,"
Luke said, "What is it, Orney?"
"Over by that dually maroon pickup near the fence. What's that you see parked beside it?"
"Black Hemi Dodge."
Orney said, "That's right. And the owner's right around that next corner of the station, talking to all them truck drivers, asking them if they just might not have seen one dusky-haired nigger, one jittery little redskin, one real pretty girl, and her scruffy, unkempt boyfriend with a penchant for wraparound sunglasses and B & H Ultra-lights."
"What are you saying, Oreny?" Luke said. "You saying Cade's here? Right now?"
He was maybe twenty feet away, with his back to him. Orney stood there, staring at the back, disbelieving it, at first thinking the dope was messing with him, but knowing it couldn't be. When he looked closely, he saw the same cheap-ass gray suit Cade always wore and the way Cade stood with his legs apart, and he knew. He turned and quickly moved back the way he came. Inside the station he threw down the key, then walked out the opposite side to where the three were standing beside the van.
Oreny said, "Time we moved on." He began climbing into the back seat.
"What's the matter?" Luke said.
"No time for that. Got to go- now, boy."
Everyone piled into the van, and Luke started the engine.
Orney said, "Go real slow around the corner. Something I want to see."
Slowly, the nose of the van moved around the edge of the station until Oreny said, "Wait up,"
Luke said, "What is it, Orney?"
"Over by that dually maroon pickup near the fence. What's that you see parked beside it?"
"Black Hemi Dodge."
Orney said, "That's right. And the owner's right around that next corner of the station, talking to all them truck drivers, asking them if they just might not have seen one dusky-haired nigger, one jittery little redskin, one real pretty girl, and her scruffy, unkempt boyfriend with a penchant for wraparound sunglasses and B & H Ultra-lights."
"What are you saying, Oreny?" Luke said. "You saying Cade's here? Right now?"
16) Losing it All- Marsha Cornelius ~~~~ [Reviews 4-16]
At some point she must have fallen asleep because she jerked awake to a bright light shining in her face.
"What are you doing here?" a man asked.
"I...I..." Chloe stammered.
"You can't sleep here. You need to go to the women's shelter." The man lowered his flashlight, and she saw a police car at the curb, still running, saw the gun holster on the man's hip.
"They won't let me in," she said, and he shined the light back on her. She turned away from the glare.
"They won't let you in?" he chuckled. "What did you do?"
She waved a hand, like she was shooing him away. "You wouldn't believe it if I told you."
Right away she knew that was a mistake, because he got mad. "Come over here."
She moved the kids off her lap. Katie whined but fell right back asleep against Ethan. As Chloe stood, she felt the beam of the flashlight run up and down her body.
The policeman wanted to know who she was, and why she was sleeping in a doorway. She was afraid to tell him about the apartment. Angel might be in jail at that very ent. Instead, she told him how Duane had left her and she had gone to the shelter. She rambled on abot how she couldn't get back in for 90 days, thinking maybe he would feel sorry for her. If he took her to the shelter, Louise would have to let her back in.
"So your husband left you?"
"Yes, sir."
"And with two small children." He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "How long has he been gone?"
When he laid his hand on her shoulder, an alarm went off in her head. The friendly stepfather, just wanting to show he cared.
"Six months." She tried to step away, but he kept his grip. "I've got a job now. We're getting along just fine by ourselves. We had a bit of trouble tonight, but tomorrow..."
"Six months. That's a long time to be without a man." The policeman rubbed his hand halfway down her arm, the reached his thumb over and stroked it along her breast. she jumped back and tripped on the stoop. He stedied her with his other hand.
"What are you doing here?" a man asked.
"I...I..." Chloe stammered.
"You can't sleep here. You need to go to the women's shelter." The man lowered his flashlight, and she saw a police car at the curb, still running, saw the gun holster on the man's hip.
"They won't let me in," she said, and he shined the light back on her. She turned away from the glare.
"They won't let you in?" he chuckled. "What did you do?"
She waved a hand, like she was shooing him away. "You wouldn't believe it if I told you."
Right away she knew that was a mistake, because he got mad. "Come over here."
She moved the kids off her lap. Katie whined but fell right back asleep against Ethan. As Chloe stood, she felt the beam of the flashlight run up and down her body.
The policeman wanted to know who she was, and why she was sleeping in a doorway. She was afraid to tell him about the apartment. Angel might be in jail at that very ent. Instead, she told him how Duane had left her and she had gone to the shelter. She rambled on abot how she couldn't get back in for 90 days, thinking maybe he would feel sorry for her. If he took her to the shelter, Louise would have to let her back in.
"So your husband left you?"
"Yes, sir."
"And with two small children." He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "How long has he been gone?"
When he laid his hand on her shoulder, an alarm went off in her head. The friendly stepfather, just wanting to show he cared.
"Six months." She tried to step away, but he kept his grip. "I've got a job now. We're getting along just fine by ourselves. We had a bit of trouble tonight, but tomorrow..."
"Six months. That's a long time to be without a man." The policeman rubbed his hand halfway down her arm, the reached his thumb over and stroked it along her breast. she jumped back and tripped on the stoop. He stedied her with his other hand.
17) Lumière- Jacqueline Garlick ~~~~ [Reviews 1-20]
Eyelet
"What do you think you're doing?!" Urlick's voice slaps me cold in the back.
I swing around to find him stalking across the room, wrench in hand.
"Nothing," I say, backing up.
His eyes find the wings and then my face, "How did you get in her?"
"I-uh-I . . ."
"Was it Iris?"
"No!"
"Then how?"
He stands so close I smell peppermint tea on his breath, feel the heat of frustration rising off his shirt.
"I followed you," I volunteer-stupidly.
"You did what? How?"
"I jammed the lock with a bit of cloth. Yesterday when you weren't looking."
His expression darkens. He pushes past me across the room.
"I'm sorry-" I trot after him. "I was just curious-"
"Curious!" He jerks around. "So, curiosity gives you the right to impose on my privacy, does it? Tell me, " he juts towards me, "is it customary where you're from to force yourself into people's private spaces, without invitation?"
"Of course not!"
"Ooooh! Well, forgive me, then! thought perhaps it was a cultural difference, not just an Eyelet one!" He throws a fist to the switch on the handlebar, and I jump as the wings contract, snapping briskly back into place within the coffers box- all but the tiny tip of one. Then he turns and stalks away without speaking.
"I don't know why you're so upset." I give chase. "It's not like I caught you with your pants down in the privy." He turns and glares at me. "Well it isn't!"
A tense beat or two skips between us, during which I worry he's going to order me back to the kitchen. I can't let him send me away now. I've come all this way to search for my father's machine, and search for it I will.
Flattery. That should do it. Flattery alwaysworks on men, doesn't it?
"Besides," I say, settling back on my heels. " It's incredible, really-"
"What is?" Urlick snarls.
"The cycle, of course," I gesture to it, letting my hand brush his arm. He moves away. "I've never seen anything quite like it," I continue. "Especially the wings." I tip my head so that the light catches me; I feel it sparkle in my eyes. I play with the curl next to my cheek, like I've seen so many other girls do. "They're truly ingenious," I add.
"What do you think you're doing?!" Urlick's voice slaps me cold in the back.
I swing around to find him stalking across the room, wrench in hand.
"Nothing," I say, backing up.
His eyes find the wings and then my face, "How did you get in her?"
"I-uh-I . . ."
"Was it Iris?"
"No!"
"Then how?"
He stands so close I smell peppermint tea on his breath, feel the heat of frustration rising off his shirt.
"I followed you," I volunteer-stupidly.
"You did what? How?"
"I jammed the lock with a bit of cloth. Yesterday when you weren't looking."
His expression darkens. He pushes past me across the room.
"I'm sorry-" I trot after him. "I was just curious-"
"Curious!" He jerks around. "So, curiosity gives you the right to impose on my privacy, does it? Tell me, " he juts towards me, "is it customary where you're from to force yourself into people's private spaces, without invitation?"
"Of course not!"
"Ooooh! Well, forgive me, then! thought perhaps it was a cultural difference, not just an Eyelet one!" He throws a fist to the switch on the handlebar, and I jump as the wings contract, snapping briskly back into place within the coffers box- all but the tiny tip of one. Then he turns and stalks away without speaking.
"I don't know why you're so upset." I give chase. "It's not like I caught you with your pants down in the privy." He turns and glares at me. "Well it isn't!"
A tense beat or two skips between us, during which I worry he's going to order me back to the kitchen. I can't let him send me away now. I've come all this way to search for my father's machine, and search for it I will.
Flattery. That should do it. Flattery alwaysworks on men, doesn't it?
"Besides," I say, settling back on my heels. " It's incredible, really-"
"What is?" Urlick snarls.
"The cycle, of course," I gesture to it, letting my hand brush his arm. He moves away. "I've never seen anything quite like it," I continue. "Especially the wings." I tip my head so that the light catches me; I feel it sparkle in my eyes. I play with the curl next to my cheek, like I've seen so many other girls do. "They're truly ingenious," I add.
18) Life First- R.J. Crayton ~~~~ [Reviews 2-17]
A half hour later, Dr. Slate returns. This time, he is alone. He brings in a chair, sets it on the floor not far from where I am perched on my rubber block, then sits.
"How are you, Kelsey?"
This has to be a trick question. How is one supposed to be after having her head shaved; being stripped, prodded and given useless medical tests; spending a sleepless night; and being asked a bunch of questions by a doctor who clearly hates her? "As well as can be expected," I murmur.
"I want to ask you a couple more questions, if you don't mind."
I have no idea why he is here or where this is going, but I look him in the eye and nod.
He leans forward, gives a sheepish half smile, looking almost bashful. It's as if he is trying to endear himself to enough that I want to believe him. r himself to me. "I know this is an awkward place to be brought to, and everything seems very harsh, especially us doctors. And sometimes it's hard to feel like you can open up."
He pauses, looks at me as if awaiting a response. I nod, then he continues. "You can trust us here, Kelsey," he says earnestly enough that I want to believe him. It is not true I know. I can't trust him. This is certain, based on our last interaction. I trusted him with the truth; that was a mistake. Now, he wants me to believe I can open up. I nod, a sign to show I accept his lie. He smiles, showing pearly white teeth this time.
"When we asked you before about your reasons for not wanting to follow through with the donation, did you leave anything. out?"
Now, that is an odd question. Not at all what I expected. I think for a moment. Nothing springs to mind. My reasons are clear. "No, " I say, shaking my head.
He nods, sits up straighter, bites his lower lip, thinking some apparently deep, silent thought for several moments. Finally, he leans forward again, looks me in the eye, lowers his voice slightly. "I know your father is a state senator running for governor, and you may not want to embarrass him. If that's the case, don't worry about his career or any impact what you've done will have on that. What you say will stay between us. Just tell me if you have another reason."
This is, by far, the oddest conversation I'd ever had (and that's saying something, given the weirdos I've met at my father's campaign stops). I have no idea what this doctor is talking about. He thinks I have another reason, something unsaid. Something I think would embarrass my father. My mind draws a blank, nothing. It is awful that when you need your brain to work most, to think of logical answers, nothing happens. Is he giving me a second chance? A second bite at the apple to improve my situation. If so I have no idea what to say. I need more help. I study his face looking for clues, Green eyes, auburn hair, strong jaw bone, angular face. Nothing to give me a clue, I look up at the ceiling, then back at him, down to the floor, racking my brain, begging it to give me the right answer. But nothing is forthcoming. Finally, I simply shake my head. No hidden agenda. Besides, what could be worse for a father's career than his daughter fleeing? I basically gave the middle finger salute to the state he is seeking to govern. I can think of nothing worse than that.
"How are you, Kelsey?"
This has to be a trick question. How is one supposed to be after having her head shaved; being stripped, prodded and given useless medical tests; spending a sleepless night; and being asked a bunch of questions by a doctor who clearly hates her? "As well as can be expected," I murmur.
"I want to ask you a couple more questions, if you don't mind."
I have no idea why he is here or where this is going, but I look him in the eye and nod.
He leans forward, gives a sheepish half smile, looking almost bashful. It's as if he is trying to endear himself to enough that I want to believe him. r himself to me. "I know this is an awkward place to be brought to, and everything seems very harsh, especially us doctors. And sometimes it's hard to feel like you can open up."
He pauses, looks at me as if awaiting a response. I nod, then he continues. "You can trust us here, Kelsey," he says earnestly enough that I want to believe him. It is not true I know. I can't trust him. This is certain, based on our last interaction. I trusted him with the truth; that was a mistake. Now, he wants me to believe I can open up. I nod, a sign to show I accept his lie. He smiles, showing pearly white teeth this time.
"When we asked you before about your reasons for not wanting to follow through with the donation, did you leave anything. out?"
Now, that is an odd question. Not at all what I expected. I think for a moment. Nothing springs to mind. My reasons are clear. "No, " I say, shaking my head.
He nods, sits up straighter, bites his lower lip, thinking some apparently deep, silent thought for several moments. Finally, he leans forward again, looks me in the eye, lowers his voice slightly. "I know your father is a state senator running for governor, and you may not want to embarrass him. If that's the case, don't worry about his career or any impact what you've done will have on that. What you say will stay between us. Just tell me if you have another reason."
This is, by far, the oddest conversation I'd ever had (and that's saying something, given the weirdos I've met at my father's campaign stops). I have no idea what this doctor is talking about. He thinks I have another reason, something unsaid. Something I think would embarrass my father. My mind draws a blank, nothing. It is awful that when you need your brain to work most, to think of logical answers, nothing happens. Is he giving me a second chance? A second bite at the apple to improve my situation. If so I have no idea what to say. I need more help. I study his face looking for clues, Green eyes, auburn hair, strong jaw bone, angular face. Nothing to give me a clue, I look up at the ceiling, then back at him, down to the floor, racking my brain, begging it to give me the right answer. But nothing is forthcoming. Finally, I simply shake my head. No hidden agenda. Besides, what could be worse for a father's career than his daughter fleeing? I basically gave the middle finger salute to the state he is seeking to govern. I can think of nothing worse than that.
19) It's Just Lola- Dixiane Hallaj ~~~~ [Reviews 2-18]
They had arrived on Monday, and by Friday night they already felt comfortable. Many of the women had children who lived "back home" with other family members, and they supported their families. Enriquesta told Lola that one advantage of living in a bordello was that no one asked about fathers.
As they were talking, they heard a man shouting outside their door. "Magdalena! Magdalena! why're you hiding from me?" He began rattling the handle. "Magdalena, I know you're in there. If you don't open the door, I'll break it down."
Enriqueta grabbed Lola and her got wide with fright. "Do something, Lola."
Lola's only thought was to keep the babies safe."Quick! Hide the babies in the wicker chest." Enriqueta was shaking with fear, but she obeyed Lola without thinking. Blanca began to cry and Estela followed suit. The man outside was making enough noise to cover any crying. He began banging on the door with his fists, still shouting for Magdalena. Enriqueta's grip on Lola was painfully strong.
"Don't worry. Don't worry." Lola chanted the words like a prayer as the door bulged under the pounding of the man's fists, and the wood began to make splintering sounds.
"The window! We can jump out the window," said Enriqueta. "I'll hold Blanca so she won't fall, and we'll jump out of the window."
"We're on the third floor. you'll both be killed." Lola grabbed her sister and pulled her towards the door. "We have to keep him out, and I need your help."
With a final splintering sound, the lock tore out of the door frame, and enriqueta gave an ear-splitting scream of terror.
The man who filled the doorway was so large Lola thought he might be stuck. She knew there was no way she could fight him off, but they had to try. Yelling for Enriqueta to help her, Lola launched herself at his knees and he staggered backwards unsteadily. She sank her teeth into the man's leg as Enriqueta screamed again. Doors started slamming and feet running. Blanca and Estela added their full-throated cries to the general uproar.
As they were talking, they heard a man shouting outside their door. "Magdalena! Magdalena! why're you hiding from me?" He began rattling the handle. "Magdalena, I know you're in there. If you don't open the door, I'll break it down."
Enriqueta grabbed Lola and her got wide with fright. "Do something, Lola."
Lola's only thought was to keep the babies safe."Quick! Hide the babies in the wicker chest." Enriqueta was shaking with fear, but she obeyed Lola without thinking. Blanca began to cry and Estela followed suit. The man outside was making enough noise to cover any crying. He began banging on the door with his fists, still shouting for Magdalena. Enriqueta's grip on Lola was painfully strong.
"Don't worry. Don't worry." Lola chanted the words like a prayer as the door bulged under the pounding of the man's fists, and the wood began to make splintering sounds.
"The window! We can jump out the window," said Enriqueta. "I'll hold Blanca so she won't fall, and we'll jump out of the window."
"We're on the third floor. you'll both be killed." Lola grabbed her sister and pulled her towards the door. "We have to keep him out, and I need your help."
With a final splintering sound, the lock tore out of the door frame, and enriqueta gave an ear-splitting scream of terror.
The man who filled the doorway was so large Lola thought he might be stuck. She knew there was no way she could fight him off, but they had to try. Yelling for Enriqueta to help her, Lola launched herself at his knees and he staggered backwards unsteadily. She sank her teeth into the man's leg as Enriqueta screamed again. Doors started slamming and feet running. Blanca and Estela added their full-throated cries to the general uproar.
20) Mug's Game- C. J. Swanson ~~~~ [Reviews 2-19]
When I got to the top loft, she was standing by the floor to ceiling window. Behind her was a view of the Golden Gate Bridge and old Fort Mason. It was raining so hard they both looked submerged, as if I was gazing at them through a murky, wind-tossed pond.
I was trying not to meet Greta's gaze, when a guy holding a silver tray stopped in front of me. "Something to drink, young man?"
On the tray were a half-dozen or so small square glasses of orange juice. Another half-dozen wine glasses. The guy was wearing a dark blue blazer bearing the emblem of a local catering company. The blazer didn't fit well, the sleeves were too long.
"I'm not thirsty," I said. "But uh, would the kitchen happen to have any ketchup?"
I'd loaded my plate with steak and crab from the buffet. All around me people were looking for places to perch and chow down. There had been a dozen sauces on the buffet table, the type of sauces bourgeois people like me don't like and can't pronounce correctly. I could forgive Walter Ludlow for that, since I was pretty sure he was in such a state he hadn't noticed. But it bugged me there hadn't been any ketchup.
"I don't believe there is ketchup in the kitchen, sir."
The server was a short guy, Latino, copper-skinned. I thought I knew him actually, last time I'd seen him he'd worn bowling shorts, worked in a music video store called Dr. Boomboom. Either he'd just quit, or he was a temp. Hired by the caterers for the occasion.
"Well . . . uh."
I put down my plate of steak and crab, Smiled.
"Would you mind going to the kitchen to check? Heinz is my favorite, but I'll take any brand."
He didn't answer.
"Here, while you go, I'll take your tray."
I lifted the tray from his hands, Kept lifting, switched to the tips of my fingers when the tray reached my shoulders. When I had the balance right, I dropped one arm and raised it higher, holding it up with one hand as if it were a basketball I was going to dunk.
The dude looked up at the tray and the twinkling glasses on it, looked back at me. To retrieve his tray, he would have to get a ladder, Or punch me in the stomach.
I was acting stupid on purpose of course. Greta was watching and I didn't want her to know how she affected me. I wanted her to think she meant nothing to me.
The guy kept looking from me to the tray over his head. He didn't know what to do. Laugh? Get mad? He was probably wishing he were still working at Dr. Boomboom. Not carrying stupid silver trays around serving insolent rich people.
I was trying not to meet Greta's gaze, when a guy holding a silver tray stopped in front of me. "Something to drink, young man?"
On the tray were a half-dozen or so small square glasses of orange juice. Another half-dozen wine glasses. The guy was wearing a dark blue blazer bearing the emblem of a local catering company. The blazer didn't fit well, the sleeves were too long.
"I'm not thirsty," I said. "But uh, would the kitchen happen to have any ketchup?"
I'd loaded my plate with steak and crab from the buffet. All around me people were looking for places to perch and chow down. There had been a dozen sauces on the buffet table, the type of sauces bourgeois people like me don't like and can't pronounce correctly. I could forgive Walter Ludlow for that, since I was pretty sure he was in such a state he hadn't noticed. But it bugged me there hadn't been any ketchup.
"I don't believe there is ketchup in the kitchen, sir."
The server was a short guy, Latino, copper-skinned. I thought I knew him actually, last time I'd seen him he'd worn bowling shorts, worked in a music video store called Dr. Boomboom. Either he'd just quit, or he was a temp. Hired by the caterers for the occasion.
"Well . . . uh."
I put down my plate of steak and crab, Smiled.
"Would you mind going to the kitchen to check? Heinz is my favorite, but I'll take any brand."
He didn't answer.
"Here, while you go, I'll take your tray."
I lifted the tray from his hands, Kept lifting, switched to the tips of my fingers when the tray reached my shoulders. When I had the balance right, I dropped one arm and raised it higher, holding it up with one hand as if it were a basketball I was going to dunk.
The dude looked up at the tray and the twinkling glasses on it, looked back at me. To retrieve his tray, he would have to get a ladder, Or punch me in the stomach.
I was acting stupid on purpose of course. Greta was watching and I didn't want her to know how she affected me. I wanted her to think she meant nothing to me.
The guy kept looking from me to the tray over his head. He didn't know what to do. Laugh? Get mad? He was probably wishing he were still working at Dr. Boomboom. Not carrying stupid silver trays around serving insolent rich people.
21) King's Warrior- Jenelle Leanne Schmidt ~~~~ [Reviews 2-20]
Kamarie awoke to a sheet of cold rain falling on her face. She pulled her thin blanket up over her head and groaned in dismay. The blanket was soaked through, and the dye was running off her face in little rivers. She could hear Yole off to her left, whimpering under his breath. She looked over at him; he was huddled up in his own sopping wet blanket, gritting his teeth and shaking with cold. Kamarie marveled at his fortitude. He was cold, wet, and miserable, and yet he had not tried to wake her or get her to change her mind about spending the rest of the night in the forest. She wondered, had she been in the same predicament as he, whether or not she would have acted with the same self-control.
Probably not, she decided ruefully. It was very dark, but the Toreth was still low in the sky, meaning that the night was still very young. The prospect of staying where they were made Kamarie cringe. She sighed and looked around. The small shelter they had created was useless against the rain, and there had been no better prospects when they had hunted around earlier for a place to camp. She knew they would find no spot drier than the one they occupied now.
Kamarie stood up slowly, her own teeth chattering with cold, and she went over to where Yole was. “Let’s go,” she said, shaking him by the shoulder, “it is not that late yet, perhaps the owners of that house will let us dry ourselves by their fireplace until this rain lets up a bit.”
As she spoke, lightning began to streak across the sky and thunder rumbled loudly. The rain beat down on them even harder. The two wet and weary travelers held their blankets over their heads to keep the water from soaking them further. They ran as fast as they could to the little house that they had seen earlier and knocked on the door.
Probably not, she decided ruefully. It was very dark, but the Toreth was still low in the sky, meaning that the night was still very young. The prospect of staying where they were made Kamarie cringe. She sighed and looked around. The small shelter they had created was useless against the rain, and there had been no better prospects when they had hunted around earlier for a place to camp. She knew they would find no spot drier than the one they occupied now.
Kamarie stood up slowly, her own teeth chattering with cold, and she went over to where Yole was. “Let’s go,” she said, shaking him by the shoulder, “it is not that late yet, perhaps the owners of that house will let us dry ourselves by their fireplace until this rain lets up a bit.”
As she spoke, lightning began to streak across the sky and thunder rumbled loudly. The rain beat down on them even harder. The two wet and weary travelers held their blankets over their heads to keep the water from soaking them further. They ran as fast as they could to the little house that they had seen earlier and knocked on the door.
22) Life Drawings- Philip Newey ~~~~ [Reviews 3-17]
'There's something else I want to talk about, Tom,' she said afterwards. 'Is there enough blood in your brain for you to be able to concentrate?'
'I think I can manage.'
'Well, there's probably no answer to this question, but I'll ask it anyway. What are we doing exactly?'
'How do you mean?'
'Do you see me, us, as a long term project? Are we just having some fun? Is this just an early experiment?'
'I'm not just having some fun. That I'm sure of. It has been way to painful, these last weeks, to call it fun. This is not just eating a chocolate treat. But I'm also aware that there's a whole truckload of chemicals coursing through our bodies at the moment and that this is leading us to think and feel in a certain way; and that this won't last.'
'You really think that?'
'I absolutely know that for a fact. It's the chemicals that don't let us quite believe it at the moment.'
'So love is about chemicals?'
'Falling in love is about chemicals. Love is about what we do when the chemicals run dry.'
'So are you saying that you love me, Tom?'
'I'm saying that I have, absolutely, without any shadow of a doubt, fallen head over heels, with no hope of rescue, in love with you. I don't know, yet, whether I will love you. The chemicals don't care.'
'We're very young and inexperienced. Maybe too young to love.'
'Possibly.But I know I will never, never forget this time. And probably not have anything like it again. So let's enjoy it while we can.'
'I think I can manage.'
'Well, there's probably no answer to this question, but I'll ask it anyway. What are we doing exactly?'
'How do you mean?'
'Do you see me, us, as a long term project? Are we just having some fun? Is this just an early experiment?'
'I'm not just having some fun. That I'm sure of. It has been way to painful, these last weeks, to call it fun. This is not just eating a chocolate treat. But I'm also aware that there's a whole truckload of chemicals coursing through our bodies at the moment and that this is leading us to think and feel in a certain way; and that this won't last.'
'You really think that?'
'I absolutely know that for a fact. It's the chemicals that don't let us quite believe it at the moment.'
'So love is about chemicals?'
'Falling in love is about chemicals. Love is about what we do when the chemicals run dry.'
'So are you saying that you love me, Tom?'
'I'm saying that I have, absolutely, without any shadow of a doubt, fallen head over heels, with no hope of rescue, in love with you. I don't know, yet, whether I will love you. The chemicals don't care.'
'We're very young and inexperienced. Maybe too young to love.'
'Possibly.But I know I will never, never forget this time. And probably not have anything like it again. So let's enjoy it while we can.'
23) Orphan of the Olive Tree ~~~~ [Reviews 3-18]
For nine hundred years, the townsfolk of Costalpino had venerated Saint Ansano of Siena; a humble man who had survived a brutal scourging prior to his persecutors hurling him into a pot of boiling oil as punishment for converting hundreds to Christianity. On this, his feast day, the townsfolk gathered to celebrate.
At the center of the piazza, Luca Ventura sat with his parents at one end of a table they shared with the Benevento family. Torches blazed around the perimeter, casting a vibrant light against the black canopy of the starlit sky. Boisterous villagers occupied rows of trestle tables laden with pitchers of wine and platters heaped with roasted pork, crusty loaves of brown bread, ravioli stuffed with pounded pork, eggs, cheese, and parsley, and plenty of honey cakes. Children frolicked, throwing sticks for dogs to fetch or tossing and chasing an inflated pig bladder.
Luca glanced at his father, who sat next to Carlo, engaged in conversation about a stallion they wanted bred to one of their mares. He frowned at his father's slurred speech and bloodshot eyes. Luca reached over and moved the wine pitcher away from his father's reach. As usual, his mother and Prudenza sat at opposite ends of the table, far enough away to avoid speaking, but close enough to keep a wary eye on each other, Luca never understood why they disliked each other so much, but it had been that way ever since he could remember.
It felt good to be home after competing at horse races from Rome to Genoa. He tapped his foot to the sound of minstrels. They played a lively tune with flutes, harps, and drums, while people danced. Among them, his betrothed, Giustina Benevento, who smiled and twirled to the lively music accompanied by his brother, Lorenzo. His betrothed since childhood, she was now eighteen years old, definately of marriageable age, but so far, Luca had been able to postpone the marriage.
Although they were twins, Luca and his brother were as different in appearance and personality as two people could be. Lorenzo had blond hair and fair skin, and loved everything to do with nature. The earth and its bountiful promise of splendid grapes, plump olives, and golden wheat enchanted him. He took pride in growing new trees and plants and keeping the vegetables and flowerbeds free of weeds. The one thing they had in common was their mutual love of horses.
At the center of the piazza, Luca Ventura sat with his parents at one end of a table they shared with the Benevento family. Torches blazed around the perimeter, casting a vibrant light against the black canopy of the starlit sky. Boisterous villagers occupied rows of trestle tables laden with pitchers of wine and platters heaped with roasted pork, crusty loaves of brown bread, ravioli stuffed with pounded pork, eggs, cheese, and parsley, and plenty of honey cakes. Children frolicked, throwing sticks for dogs to fetch or tossing and chasing an inflated pig bladder.
Luca glanced at his father, who sat next to Carlo, engaged in conversation about a stallion they wanted bred to one of their mares. He frowned at his father's slurred speech and bloodshot eyes. Luca reached over and moved the wine pitcher away from his father's reach. As usual, his mother and Prudenza sat at opposite ends of the table, far enough away to avoid speaking, but close enough to keep a wary eye on each other, Luca never understood why they disliked each other so much, but it had been that way ever since he could remember.
It felt good to be home after competing at horse races from Rome to Genoa. He tapped his foot to the sound of minstrels. They played a lively tune with flutes, harps, and drums, while people danced. Among them, his betrothed, Giustina Benevento, who smiled and twirled to the lively music accompanied by his brother, Lorenzo. His betrothed since childhood, she was now eighteen years old, definately of marriageable age, but so far, Luca had been able to postpone the marriage.
Although they were twins, Luca and his brother were as different in appearance and personality as two people could be. Lorenzo had blond hair and fair skin, and loved everything to do with nature. The earth and its bountiful promise of splendid grapes, plump olives, and golden wheat enchanted him. He took pride in growing new trees and plants and keeping the vegetables and flowerbeds free of weeds. The one thing they had in common was their mutual love of horses.
24) The Sugar House- Jean Scheffler ~~~~ [Reviews 3-19]
Ray Bernstein's eyes never stopped moving as he spoke to Joe. Ray would look at him in the eye for a mere second and then glance to the left or behind him as he spoke. Joe didn't trust Ray and was frightened of the brutal reputation he and his brothers had. But he knew one other thing. He'd seen the money that had started to flow through Detroit within days of Michigan's new Dry Law, and getting in on the ground floor was his family's only chance at a decent life. Joe made up his mind right there on that park bench.
"You've got yourself an errand boy, Mr. Bernstein," he said. Joe stuck out his hand.
"Mr. Berstein," Ray laughed as he walked away, shaking his head.
Matka was distraught when Joe sat down with her in the kitchen and told her he was quitting school. But her spirit had weakened over the last eighteen months, and she conceded when he told her how much money he'd be bringing home. Frank had started school that fall. This was another financial hardship, as St. Josaphat could not sponsor two boys' tuition. Frank could take over Joe's scholarship, resulting in one less bill for the family. Matka had quit her job at the cigar factory to stay home with Stephan. She took to sewing, and with Joe's contribution the family would be making more than Ojciec had at the Ford factory.
A lot of Joe's time working for the Sugar Factory was just spent sitting around and waiting. He arrived in the mornings at eight and made coffee and ran to the bakery for pastries or donuts and then waited for the men to arrive, usually around nine. To his surprise, Ray wasn't usually around; apparently Ray was only a rung or two above Joe's position as errand boy. The men who worked daily in the office were older, and Ray was definitely not their equal in the pecking order.
At first Joe's responsibilities were to fetch food for the men and occasionally deliver a note to a blind pig-that's what they called an illegal gambling den-in the area. The men told him to always take his wagon, even if he was only delivering a message. He got to know the streets of the city like the back of his hand, and bosses were usually nice to him.
"You've got yourself an errand boy, Mr. Bernstein," he said. Joe stuck out his hand.
"Mr. Berstein," Ray laughed as he walked away, shaking his head.
Matka was distraught when Joe sat down with her in the kitchen and told her he was quitting school. But her spirit had weakened over the last eighteen months, and she conceded when he told her how much money he'd be bringing home. Frank had started school that fall. This was another financial hardship, as St. Josaphat could not sponsor two boys' tuition. Frank could take over Joe's scholarship, resulting in one less bill for the family. Matka had quit her job at the cigar factory to stay home with Stephan. She took to sewing, and with Joe's contribution the family would be making more than Ojciec had at the Ford factory.
A lot of Joe's time working for the Sugar Factory was just spent sitting around and waiting. He arrived in the mornings at eight and made coffee and ran to the bakery for pastries or donuts and then waited for the men to arrive, usually around nine. To his surprise, Ray wasn't usually around; apparently Ray was only a rung or two above Joe's position as errand boy. The men who worked daily in the office were older, and Ray was definitely not their equal in the pecking order.
At first Joe's responsibilities were to fetch food for the men and occasionally deliver a note to a blind pig-that's what they called an illegal gambling den-in the area. The men told him to always take his wagon, even if he was only delivering a message. He got to know the streets of the city like the back of his hand, and bosses were usually nice to him.
25) The Trouble With Celebrity- Charlie Bray ~~~~ [Reviews 3-20]
It may surprise some people to learn that the paparazzi are not always the ones that are pro-active. Celebs have learned to play the game to their advantage. They often set up the poor paps to cover stuff that suits them. I can see your eyebrows arching in amazement. Never!
This is confirmed by top pap, Darryn Lyons in his book, Mr. Paparazzi. You know him. He's the one who struts around looking like a cross between a multi-coloured flamingo and the last of the mohicans. I suppose it helps to keep a low profile when dodging celebrities.
Anyway, he retells many tales of celebs manipulating the press.
Apparently David Beckham and Victoria Beckham were highly skilled at leaking their location, to ensure the public were constantly drip-fed relevant pictures. One such relevant picture was up for grabs when David appeared on a balcony in just his underpants, cleaner than Ronnie Wood's obviously, whilst sporting a pair of Police sunglasses. Probably a coincidence that he had just signed a million dollar contract with the well-known brand of shades, and that the paps had been alerted.
I can remember seeing the balcony shot, and thinking I must re-do the grouting on my kitchen tiles. So that worked well.
I think that the main reason celebrities detest paps is the fact that pap's photos display them in all their glory, wart's and all. They never know when these guys are going to pop up, and what their photos are going to look like when they do. Image is everything to these people. They like to deal in fiction, with doctored images.
This is confirmed by top pap, Darryn Lyons in his book, Mr. Paparazzi. You know him. He's the one who struts around looking like a cross between a multi-coloured flamingo and the last of the mohicans. I suppose it helps to keep a low profile when dodging celebrities.
Anyway, he retells many tales of celebs manipulating the press.
Apparently David Beckham and Victoria Beckham were highly skilled at leaking their location, to ensure the public were constantly drip-fed relevant pictures. One such relevant picture was up for grabs when David appeared on a balcony in just his underpants, cleaner than Ronnie Wood's obviously, whilst sporting a pair of Police sunglasses. Probably a coincidence that he had just signed a million dollar contract with the well-known brand of shades, and that the paps had been alerted.
I can remember seeing the balcony shot, and thinking I must re-do the grouting on my kitchen tiles. So that worked well.
I think that the main reason celebrities detest paps is the fact that pap's photos display them in all their glory, wart's and all. They never know when these guys are going to pop up, and what their photos are going to look like when they do. Image is everything to these people. They like to deal in fiction, with doctored images.
26) Lobo- David Gordon Burke ~~~~ [Review 4-17]
Padre Miguel
God really does work in mysterious ways. I was talking to Antonia and I saw how she is trying to put the loss of Lobo behind her and get on with her life. I couldn't let on that I knew something about the dog. It would be too cruel to allow the child to get her hopes up again, just to have nothing come of it. So I kept my mouth shut. I dislike lying and liars bit what more could I do?
Don Enrique had visited me with some news, He got a call from the woman at the San Pedro Radies Center- her name is Lucia Salazar. It turns out that the center is involved in some kind of scandal that still hasn't been made public. One of the men that worked there was actually selling the dogs out the back door of the place. Police are investigating but so far they haven't been able to prove anything or find out how many employees were involved. The woman called Don Enrique because his number was on the flier that Antonia and I had left at the center when we went to check if Lobo had been picked up.
The woman told him that she had recognized Lobo from the picture that Antonia had given her and that at the time she thought that Lobo had been sacrificed, Now she wasn't so sure. There is a good chance that Lobo was one of the dogs sold and he may still be alive. But I couldn't say anything to Antonia about it. I hope she doesn't hear about this on the news or in the street.
Don Enrique has increased the reward money for finding Lobo and he is putting up new flyers all over the south side of Monterrey. I pray to God that someone finds Lobo and brings him home to us.
God really does work in mysterious ways. I was talking to Antonia and I saw how she is trying to put the loss of Lobo behind her and get on with her life. I couldn't let on that I knew something about the dog. It would be too cruel to allow the child to get her hopes up again, just to have nothing come of it. So I kept my mouth shut. I dislike lying and liars bit what more could I do?
Don Enrique had visited me with some news, He got a call from the woman at the San Pedro Radies Center- her name is Lucia Salazar. It turns out that the center is involved in some kind of scandal that still hasn't been made public. One of the men that worked there was actually selling the dogs out the back door of the place. Police are investigating but so far they haven't been able to prove anything or find out how many employees were involved. The woman called Don Enrique because his number was on the flier that Antonia and I had left at the center when we went to check if Lobo had been picked up.
The woman told him that she had recognized Lobo from the picture that Antonia had given her and that at the time she thought that Lobo had been sacrificed, Now she wasn't so sure. There is a good chance that Lobo was one of the dogs sold and he may still be alive. But I couldn't say anything to Antonia about it. I hope she doesn't hear about this on the news or in the street.
Don Enrique has increased the reward money for finding Lobo and he is putting up new flyers all over the south side of Monterrey. I pray to God that someone finds Lobo and brings him home to us.
27) Courage Matters- R. Scott Mackey ~~~~ [Reviews 4-18]
I made it a half block before a black and white squad car, lights flashing, pulled me over. I glanced over at Ziebell's laptop on the passenger seat next to me. I thought about stashing it under the seat, but the officer had already started toward me. Moving the laptop now would be obvious and suspicious. I rolled down my window when he arrived.
"Good morning, officer."
"Sir," he said in greeting.
"Must be a world record," I said. "I didn't make it a hundred yards before violating a traffic law. Mind telling me which one I broke?"
"Broken tail light," he said. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five, brush cut hair, clean shaven, weightlifter buffed and all business.
"Broken as in cracked?"
"No, broken a in not working."
"Left or right?"
"Left," he said after a pause.
"And you were staked out in this gang-infested neighborhood teeming with criminal activity waiting for the first scalawag to violate the state's well-known reputation for zero tolerance of broken tail lights?"
"Is that a joke?" This guy was practiced in the art of not smiling.
"If you have to ask, then I guess not," I said. "How about this? A catholic, a Jew and a Muslim walk into a bar. Stop me if you've heard it."
"Driver's license."
"Sorry?"
"May I see your driver's license, please?"
I pulled my driver's license from my wallet and handed it to him. Without a word he took it back to his car, where he sat in the driver's seat and worked the computer and then the radio. What seemed like ten minutes later he walked back to my car and returned my license. I started to thank him and say something clever when I noticed in the rearview mirror that a second car had pulled next to the police car. Out of the second car emerged Detective Nick Trijillo, who joined the uniformed officer next to my car.
"Thank you officer," Trujillo said. "You can go now. I'll take it from here."
We both watched the uniform get into his car and drive off. For the second time I thought about staching the laptop, but failed to use the diversion of the cop's leaving to my advantage.
"Good morning, officer."
"Sir," he said in greeting.
"Must be a world record," I said. "I didn't make it a hundred yards before violating a traffic law. Mind telling me which one I broke?"
"Broken tail light," he said. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five, brush cut hair, clean shaven, weightlifter buffed and all business.
"Broken as in cracked?"
"No, broken a in not working."
"Left or right?"
"Left," he said after a pause.
"And you were staked out in this gang-infested neighborhood teeming with criminal activity waiting for the first scalawag to violate the state's well-known reputation for zero tolerance of broken tail lights?"
"Is that a joke?" This guy was practiced in the art of not smiling.
"If you have to ask, then I guess not," I said. "How about this? A catholic, a Jew and a Muslim walk into a bar. Stop me if you've heard it."
"Driver's license."
"Sorry?"
"May I see your driver's license, please?"
I pulled my driver's license from my wallet and handed it to him. Without a word he took it back to his car, where he sat in the driver's seat and worked the computer and then the radio. What seemed like ten minutes later he walked back to my car and returned my license. I started to thank him and say something clever when I noticed in the rearview mirror that a second car had pulled next to the police car. Out of the second car emerged Detective Nick Trijillo, who joined the uniformed officer next to my car.
"Thank you officer," Trujillo said. "You can go now. I'll take it from here."
We both watched the uniform get into his car and drive off. For the second time I thought about staching the laptop, but failed to use the diversion of the cop's leaving to my advantage.
28) Heart of Eternity- N. Jay ~~~~ [Reviews 4-19]
She slowly closed her eyes while wisps of her long, silky, sandy brown hair drifted in front of her eyes in the cool breeze, the sensation created by the rain drops on her skin helping her sooth her whirling thoughts but somewhere in her mind, she was still about her dark prince. She had no idea how long she stood there, trying to draw in the tranquillity of the scene that surrounded her, until her old man's voice rose in her head.
"Your soul is from elsewhere, it has got a story to tell . . . but is seeking expression . . . give it voice . . . I can see in its light even though I am blind . . . can't you?"
In no time, Naida's vision began to enhance; as she journeyed into the deep corners of her soul again, she found herself at the same place from where she had left earlier; the dark side of her soul house.
The loud music, the excited voices, the never ending furore breaking out from the tents became a distant blur . . . as her physical reality dissolved in the throes of conversion, her central reality grew stronger and constant; stepping into the threshold of awareness, Naida withdrew her arms as if waking up from a dream.
It was then when she saw clusters of demons forming a dark smoke that rose from the opening of her subliminal world and in full regalia, landed in the divine center of her soul house in human silhouette form. Wearing a black cloak with a hood, the face of the shadow was hardly visible. While Naida stood there trying to decipher his features in the dark, a beam of luminous light stirred frontward from her heart to that of the shadows; precipitously it grew in its brilliance like a niche containing a well-lit lamp. The light was so bright, it illuminated him completely; bit by bit all the demons started coming off his casing, amidst the blue violet light and then she was granted her soul's True Sight.
The shadow prince was closing the distance between them, fully revealed in Naida's light, appearing like some lustrous god of perfection. It was an image that was already carved indelibly onto her heart beyond the sands of time but was revealed to her just now.
"Your soul is from elsewhere, it has got a story to tell . . . but is seeking expression . . . give it voice . . . I can see in its light even though I am blind . . . can't you?"
In no time, Naida's vision began to enhance; as she journeyed into the deep corners of her soul again, she found herself at the same place from where she had left earlier; the dark side of her soul house.
The loud music, the excited voices, the never ending furore breaking out from the tents became a distant blur . . . as her physical reality dissolved in the throes of conversion, her central reality grew stronger and constant; stepping into the threshold of awareness, Naida withdrew her arms as if waking up from a dream.
It was then when she saw clusters of demons forming a dark smoke that rose from the opening of her subliminal world and in full regalia, landed in the divine center of her soul house in human silhouette form. Wearing a black cloak with a hood, the face of the shadow was hardly visible. While Naida stood there trying to decipher his features in the dark, a beam of luminous light stirred frontward from her heart to that of the shadows; precipitously it grew in its brilliance like a niche containing a well-lit lamp. The light was so bright, it illuminated him completely; bit by bit all the demons started coming off his casing, amidst the blue violet light and then she was granted her soul's True Sight.
The shadow prince was closing the distance between them, fully revealed in Naida's light, appearing like some lustrous god of perfection. It was an image that was already carved indelibly onto her heart beyond the sands of time but was revealed to her just now.
29) Writer- Erec Stebbins ~~~~ [Reviews 4-20]
I rushed over, the water not touching me, the robots unconcerned. "Ambra!"
I knelt down beside her. I hardly recognized her face. She was shivering badly, Her pale skin was so thin that the blood vessels decorated her like some demonic henna art. Muscles and fat were gone. Only transparent skin over a skeleton.
This was what happened to Ambra from the history books and in the art of our age. But all that didn't prepare me for what it was like to be in the presence of near-death starvation. It was horrible.
"Go Nitin," she whispered faintly. I bent closer to hear. "Don't see me like this. Let me die."
Dreams within dreams. She had said I experienced her childhood home because it was close to her heart. I was in the hospital because she was deathly afraid and called to me. And now I was here.
"I won't go. I love you, and you are going to survive this. You know you do. remember that. I don't know where in time and space or your memories we are, but I'm going to stay with you."
She was too weak to answer verbally, but as I cradled her, the fingers of the sticklike hand on my shoulder pressed meekly.
"Good. Don't talk, Ambra. Just feel me here. I'm here I'm here I'm here," I said, rocking her in my arms.
"Don't stop," she managed to mouth silently.
"I won't."
And I sat there on the floor filthy with human waste and dirt, rocking the wrecked form of my beloved, over and over through what seemed to be an ever-slowing rate of the passage of time. Rocking her nearly weightless body pressed to me like a crum(p)led paper bag. Rocking back and forth, stronger and stronger, until we drowned out the screams around us, silenced the roar of water.
They became muffled sounds. Beeping of equipment. Darkness in the rocking. Or was it floating?
Yes, floating in a dark sea. Water everywhere.
I knelt down beside her. I hardly recognized her face. She was shivering badly, Her pale skin was so thin that the blood vessels decorated her like some demonic henna art. Muscles and fat were gone. Only transparent skin over a skeleton.
This was what happened to Ambra from the history books and in the art of our age. But all that didn't prepare me for what it was like to be in the presence of near-death starvation. It was horrible.
"Go Nitin," she whispered faintly. I bent closer to hear. "Don't see me like this. Let me die."
Dreams within dreams. She had said I experienced her childhood home because it was close to her heart. I was in the hospital because she was deathly afraid and called to me. And now I was here.
"I won't go. I love you, and you are going to survive this. You know you do. remember that. I don't know where in time and space or your memories we are, but I'm going to stay with you."
She was too weak to answer verbally, but as I cradled her, the fingers of the sticklike hand on my shoulder pressed meekly.
"Good. Don't talk, Ambra. Just feel me here. I'm here I'm here I'm here," I said, rocking her in my arms.
"Don't stop," she managed to mouth silently.
"I won't."
And I sat there on the floor filthy with human waste and dirt, rocking the wrecked form of my beloved, over and over through what seemed to be an ever-slowing rate of the passage of time. Rocking her nearly weightless body pressed to me like a crum(p)led paper bag. Rocking back and forth, stronger and stronger, until we drowned out the screams around us, silenced the roar of water.
They became muffled sounds. Beeping of equipment. Darkness in the rocking. Or was it floating?
Yes, floating in a dark sea. Water everywhere.
30) The Rescuer's Path- Paula Friedman ~~~~~ [Reviews 5-12]
Of course there must be no delay. Yet, in the new sequential mode of time, there had been real necessity to think through this new truth. To reach past all counts to clarity.
No matter-any move was too great risk. Too late. Sing, choir: too late.
From where he stood above the crevice and the cache, he glanced back toward the tent. Malca was pulling something out, her neck smoothly curved. Those slim legs were well-muscled now, her carriage a young woman's, no longer a horse-crazy girl's. Still fighting fear with courage, but each time more swiftly, still shy but no longer so unsure-- ready to shape her own path through the world.
And finally she trusted him. That she could, even after what he had told her, felt like the world opening. He could barely believe his happiness, here in this pine-shaded universe, since that moment in the dawn-- since her quick brief remark, seeming at first pure psychobabble, "You're still going back to save them. I've never known anybody try so much to save people."
It had taken too long before he understood-- watching the soup rise and fall as he stirred, back and forth like his own familiar dance with death, run run but refusing to save himself and instead, counts entangled with the songs, reaching to save the people or, strands turning taut, to hold together his reality. And when at last he comprehended that those words she struggled forth, shaking with brave fragility, were simply true and all keep back the smiles, silly as that first silly grin this early morning-- kept smiling here on this ledge even now while he lashed thin cloths around the dull dried lake-fish and, tying swift knots, secured them to the pole. Those shrinks had spoken what might seem the same words, there among the metal walls, of course- but as something to be cured of. But she knew. She knew him.
To bring back the dead. As if he climbed a chasm with the ocean pouring below, gripping the slippery rock sides to bear the people out, time after time, and always struggling not to stay under, nor to hang in the wave, but to lift each person and himself to safety. As the tiny girl had dragged him up the bank.
No matter-any move was too great risk. Too late. Sing, choir: too late.
From where he stood above the crevice and the cache, he glanced back toward the tent. Malca was pulling something out, her neck smoothly curved. Those slim legs were well-muscled now, her carriage a young woman's, no longer a horse-crazy girl's. Still fighting fear with courage, but each time more swiftly, still shy but no longer so unsure-- ready to shape her own path through the world.
And finally she trusted him. That she could, even after what he had told her, felt like the world opening. He could barely believe his happiness, here in this pine-shaded universe, since that moment in the dawn-- since her quick brief remark, seeming at first pure psychobabble, "You're still going back to save them. I've never known anybody try so much to save people."
It had taken too long before he understood-- watching the soup rise and fall as he stirred, back and forth like his own familiar dance with death, run run but refusing to save himself and instead, counts entangled with the songs, reaching to save the people or, strands turning taut, to hold together his reality. And when at last he comprehended that those words she struggled forth, shaking with brave fragility, were simply true and all keep back the smiles, silly as that first silly grin this early morning-- kept smiling here on this ledge even now while he lashed thin cloths around the dull dried lake-fish and, tying swift knots, secured them to the pole. Those shrinks had spoken what might seem the same words, there among the metal walls, of course- but as something to be cured of. But she knew. She knew him.
To bring back the dead. As if he climbed a chasm with the ocean pouring below, gripping the slippery rock sides to bear the people out, time after time, and always struggling not to stay under, nor to hang in the wave, but to lift each person and himself to safety. As the tiny girl had dragged him up the bank.
31) The Experiment- Cristian A. Solari ~~~~ [Reviews 5-13]
Amun recited in vain one of the passages of the Cuom Book as a way of honoring those amazing creatures that would soon be gone. He obviously knew that no member needed those teachings.
He continued, "Let's do it swiftly. The Universe might not realize that a small part of it is gone."
Anubis said, "Geb is waiting outside the interference curtain. I will inform him the decision and tell him to return home. We can then proceed with the termination."
Maat said, "The meeting is adjourned."
Maat had no doubt about the decision, and knew it was the right one to make, but he felt it was unnatural, as if they were terminating some integral part of themselves.
While in limbo between the two world, Geb took advantage of the situation and meditated, emptying and resetting his neural network; he did not have the chance to do so in the Experiment. Anubis reconnected with him, but communicated without any neural images; his mandibles started clicking.
"Geb, you did your job well, as instructed. All the information gathered by you is extremely valuable.
"The council has decided that the Experiment needs to be terminated. the cooperative-selfish behavioural genetic complex has a primitive epigenetic background. Their cultural structure is still too primitive to accelerate their evolution. The ratio between the probability of developing hyperspace travel in the next fifty years and high intelligence is over one-thousand. the ratio between the reproductive rate of preintelloids and the highest reproductive rate of a member is about two-hundred. As a life form researcher, you know that termination is unavoidable.
"It is a sad moment for all of us. While on your way back, we will be working on the preparations for the procedure. Have a good journey."
The only thing left for Geb to do was to set the hyperspace parameters of the spaceship to the first destination that would get him closer to home.
He continued, "Let's do it swiftly. The Universe might not realize that a small part of it is gone."
Anubis said, "Geb is waiting outside the interference curtain. I will inform him the decision and tell him to return home. We can then proceed with the termination."
Maat said, "The meeting is adjourned."
Maat had no doubt about the decision, and knew it was the right one to make, but he felt it was unnatural, as if they were terminating some integral part of themselves.
While in limbo between the two world, Geb took advantage of the situation and meditated, emptying and resetting his neural network; he did not have the chance to do so in the Experiment. Anubis reconnected with him, but communicated without any neural images; his mandibles started clicking.
"Geb, you did your job well, as instructed. All the information gathered by you is extremely valuable.
"The council has decided that the Experiment needs to be terminated. the cooperative-selfish behavioural genetic complex has a primitive epigenetic background. Their cultural structure is still too primitive to accelerate their evolution. The ratio between the probability of developing hyperspace travel in the next fifty years and high intelligence is over one-thousand. the ratio between the reproductive rate of preintelloids and the highest reproductive rate of a member is about two-hundred. As a life form researcher, you know that termination is unavoidable.
"It is a sad moment for all of us. While on your way back, we will be working on the preparations for the procedure. Have a good journey."
The only thing left for Geb to do was to set the hyperspace parameters of the spaceship to the first destination that would get him closer to home.
32) The Dance of the Spirits ~~~~ [Reviews 5-14]
Deng, the windswept old soldier from a barren village in north China, was delighted when he first saw the pretty, young woman doctor coming into his office. He had always secretly envied his friends who were able to take a southern city belle as a wife. He poured tea for this young lady with fine creamy skin and regarded the pretty lady's visit as a rare moment of pleasure in the boredom of living and dealing with hundreds of prisoners who pestered him for better food, better rooms, better medicine. He was eager to talk nostalgically with Jasmine about the pear trees that grew in his village, his personal heroic stories from the civil war, and his two small daughters whom he hadn't seen for two years.
But, the women's brain seemed not as smart as per face. The enthusiasm she showed when listening to him was not as strong as the old soldier expected. When he waited for her encouraging inquiry, she came with a surprising plea, leading their thoughts and conversation back to those annoying prisoners again. After five minutes of listening to her, Deng could not hide his vexation, disappointment, and mortification at realizing the woman was not interested in him. Deng's face tightened and lengthened, giving him a mule's look.
"They don't have this; they don't have that ... What can I do? You haven't seen how the North Koreans treat their captives." He drew a cigarette. "After we took them over from Korean hands, we never beat them. We let them live in a house with roof and walls. Do you know, before I joined the army, I never slept in a house with a complete roof and walls? As a matter of fact, there was not a single house in my village that had all of that. No coal? I only got this much ration; I have so many people here. Our own soldiers fighting at the front don't even have coal. No medicine for the captives? I cannot produce medicine, our medicine is not even enough for our own soldiers. Look at my leg: I still have a piece of shell in it. No doctor treated me, and I never complained to our leader and never insisted to see a doctor like them. No food? We give them sorghum and millet; you eat it; I have eaten it since I was a child; all our soldiers eat it, but these imperialists just refuse to eat it. Ask my superior for sweet potatoes, vegetables, and medicine? A good soldier only does what his superior tells him to do- he should never ask, never cause his superior any trouble!"
But, the women's brain seemed not as smart as per face. The enthusiasm she showed when listening to him was not as strong as the old soldier expected. When he waited for her encouraging inquiry, she came with a surprising plea, leading their thoughts and conversation back to those annoying prisoners again. After five minutes of listening to her, Deng could not hide his vexation, disappointment, and mortification at realizing the woman was not interested in him. Deng's face tightened and lengthened, giving him a mule's look.
"They don't have this; they don't have that ... What can I do? You haven't seen how the North Koreans treat their captives." He drew a cigarette. "After we took them over from Korean hands, we never beat them. We let them live in a house with roof and walls. Do you know, before I joined the army, I never slept in a house with a complete roof and walls? As a matter of fact, there was not a single house in my village that had all of that. No coal? I only got this much ration; I have so many people here. Our own soldiers fighting at the front don't even have coal. No medicine for the captives? I cannot produce medicine, our medicine is not even enough for our own soldiers. Look at my leg: I still have a piece of shell in it. No doctor treated me, and I never complained to our leader and never insisted to see a doctor like them. No food? We give them sorghum and millet; you eat it; I have eaten it since I was a child; all our soldiers eat it, but these imperialists just refuse to eat it. Ask my superior for sweet potatoes, vegetables, and medicine? A good soldier only does what his superior tells him to do- he should never ask, never cause his superior any trouble!"
33) Peripheral Involvement- Bob Waldner ~~~~ [Reviews 5-15]
“Jack, you have a Mr. Parker on the line.”
Jack, trying not to appear flustered, carefully put his pencil down on his desk and said, simply, “OK. I’ll take it.” Once Val had gone, Jack turned toward the phone, staring at the flashing red light that signified that someone was holding on the line. He took a deep breath before he picked up the receiver, pushed the button, and greeted his semi-mysterious caller: “Jack Caulfield.”
Jack hoped with all of his might that the voice on the other end of the line would prove to be other than that of the Parker he knew, but as soon as he heard the first syllables come back at him, he had no doubt that he was talking to the same guy. “Mr. Caufield … thank you for taking my call,” Parker began in his Southern-accented baritone.
“Of course ,” Jack replied, sensing his muscles tightening in anticipation of the bad news that he was certain would swiftly follow. “
I wasn’t sure that you’d, uh, remember me after all this time.”
“Not sure I’ll ever forget. Strange days, back then.”
“Strange days indeed… I hope you’re, uh, doing well?”
The small talk was throwing Jack off a bit, although his lasting impression of Parker was that he had always been extremely polite, so he reminded himself that these niceties shouldn’t have surprised him. After the briefest hesitation, he replied, “Yes, uh, everything’s fine. With you, too, I hope?”
“Can’t complain,” Parker drawled. “Well, actually, I suppose I could, but nobody wants to hear it…”
Jack gave an obligatory chuckle before he tried to move the conversation along. “Agent Parker, I gotta say that I’m pretty surprised to be hearing from you after all these years.”
“Yeah, I was wondering if your secretary had told you that I called a couple of weeks ago.”
“She did . And I wondered whether or not it was you or just somebody with the same name.”
Parker chuckled. “No such luck. It was me.”
“Well, like I said, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again. Have you, uh, figured out anything new about… um… what happened back then?”
Parker was silent for a moment before he replied. “Actually… yes. Yes I have. I’ve figured out a lot of things since we last spoke. Some things I’d like to share with you now, if you’re interested in hearing them. That’s why I reached out to you.”
Jack tensed up even further upon hearing this. “Well… yeah… I mean, of course… I, uh, never expected to hear anything new after all this time.”
“Uh huh. You have some time to get together?”
“You mean… meet you somewhere?”
“Yeah… I’d rather we talked in person.”
“OK… sure. When?”
“There’s a pub… on Greenwich Street just south of the World Trade Center site…”
“Yeah, I know it… O’Harah’s.”
“Right. Can you meet me there in about an hour?” Jack looked at the clock on his computer, which read 2: 38 P.M. “Sure. That’s right by my office.”
“OK. I’ll be there around three-thirty.”
“All right. See you then.” After he hung up, Jack tried, fruitlessly, to turn back to his work, but he couldn’t focus on anything other than his approaching reunion with Parker. After a few minutes, he hopped the elevator down for a cigarette.
Jack, trying not to appear flustered, carefully put his pencil down on his desk and said, simply, “OK. I’ll take it.” Once Val had gone, Jack turned toward the phone, staring at the flashing red light that signified that someone was holding on the line. He took a deep breath before he picked up the receiver, pushed the button, and greeted his semi-mysterious caller: “Jack Caulfield.”
Jack hoped with all of his might that the voice on the other end of the line would prove to be other than that of the Parker he knew, but as soon as he heard the first syllables come back at him, he had no doubt that he was talking to the same guy. “Mr. Caufield … thank you for taking my call,” Parker began in his Southern-accented baritone.
“Of course ,” Jack replied, sensing his muscles tightening in anticipation of the bad news that he was certain would swiftly follow. “
I wasn’t sure that you’d, uh, remember me after all this time.”
“Not sure I’ll ever forget. Strange days, back then.”
“Strange days indeed… I hope you’re, uh, doing well?”
The small talk was throwing Jack off a bit, although his lasting impression of Parker was that he had always been extremely polite, so he reminded himself that these niceties shouldn’t have surprised him. After the briefest hesitation, he replied, “Yes, uh, everything’s fine. With you, too, I hope?”
“Can’t complain,” Parker drawled. “Well, actually, I suppose I could, but nobody wants to hear it…”
Jack gave an obligatory chuckle before he tried to move the conversation along. “Agent Parker, I gotta say that I’m pretty surprised to be hearing from you after all these years.”
“Yeah, I was wondering if your secretary had told you that I called a couple of weeks ago.”
“She did . And I wondered whether or not it was you or just somebody with the same name.”
Parker chuckled. “No such luck. It was me.”
“Well, like I said, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again. Have you, uh, figured out anything new about… um… what happened back then?”
Parker was silent for a moment before he replied. “Actually… yes. Yes I have. I’ve figured out a lot of things since we last spoke. Some things I’d like to share with you now, if you’re interested in hearing them. That’s why I reached out to you.”
Jack tensed up even further upon hearing this. “Well… yeah… I mean, of course… I, uh, never expected to hear anything new after all this time.”
“Uh huh. You have some time to get together?”
“You mean… meet you somewhere?”
“Yeah… I’d rather we talked in person.”
“OK… sure. When?”
“There’s a pub… on Greenwich Street just south of the World Trade Center site…”
“Yeah, I know it… O’Harah’s.”
“Right. Can you meet me there in about an hour?” Jack looked at the clock on his computer, which read 2: 38 P.M. “Sure. That’s right by my office.”
“OK. I’ll be there around three-thirty.”
“All right. See you then.” After he hung up, Jack tried, fruitlessly, to turn back to his work, but he couldn’t focus on anything other than his approaching reunion with Parker. After a few minutes, he hopped the elevator down for a cigarette.
34) Frontier Justice- Charles Ray ~~~~ [Reviews 5-16]
As Bass turned to go, he noticed two faces in the back of the crowd. He recognized two other men on his list of warrants- Jake Radburn and Monroe Conway. They hung back, worried eyes on Bass. He walked into the crowd, and right up to Conway. Radburn was standing about six feet away, trying to melt into the crowd. Bass put a large dark hand on Conway's shoulder.
"They's two more wanted men here," he said. "This here's Monroe Conway. He's wanted for beatin' up his boss." He pointed at Radburn. "That fella there; he's Jake Radburn. He done set fire to his neighbor's burn and kilt one of his cows. Now, you two fellas can either come peaceably with me, or you can go the way of Chamberlain here. Choice is yours." He drew his Colt with his right hand. "Just in case you wonderin', I can shoot this thing as good with my right hand as my left."
The crowd began to melt away from the two men. They looked around, but found no one willing to come to their rescue. They looked up at Bass's stony face, and then down at the still body of Chamberlain, face down in a pool of his own blood, which was beginning to turn dark as it soaked into the dry dirt.
Bass saw them calculating the odds, and realizing that they all stacked against them. The two men meekly raised their hands and stepped forward.
13.
Riding behind them with his Winchester across his lap, Bass made the two outlaws walk to the camp site, where they joined Tuck Walker in chains.
"Too bad you had to kill that fella," Steppin said, after Bass had finished his story of what happened in the settlement. "But I reckon he didn't give you no choice, drawin' down on you like that?"
"Word gits out 'bout that though," Jackson said from his squatting position across the cook fire, "Next desperado's gonna think twice 'bout slappin' leather agin you."
"They's two more wanted men here," he said. "This here's Monroe Conway. He's wanted for beatin' up his boss." He pointed at Radburn. "That fella there; he's Jake Radburn. He done set fire to his neighbor's burn and kilt one of his cows. Now, you two fellas can either come peaceably with me, or you can go the way of Chamberlain here. Choice is yours." He drew his Colt with his right hand. "Just in case you wonderin', I can shoot this thing as good with my right hand as my left."
The crowd began to melt away from the two men. They looked around, but found no one willing to come to their rescue. They looked up at Bass's stony face, and then down at the still body of Chamberlain, face down in a pool of his own blood, which was beginning to turn dark as it soaked into the dry dirt.
Bass saw them calculating the odds, and realizing that they all stacked against them. The two men meekly raised their hands and stepped forward.
13.
Riding behind them with his Winchester across his lap, Bass made the two outlaws walk to the camp site, where they joined Tuck Walker in chains.
"Too bad you had to kill that fella," Steppin said, after Bass had finished his story of what happened in the settlement. "But I reckon he didn't give you no choice, drawin' down on you like that?"
"Word gits out 'bout that though," Jackson said from his squatting position across the cook fire, "Next desperado's gonna think twice 'bout slappin' leather agin you."
35) Few Are Chosen- M.T. McGuire ~~~~ [Reviews 5-17]
"You took your time, you little scrote," Big Merv told the Pan, his antennae waving in irritation, "Your friend here wants us to undertake the most daring bank heist ever!" The Pan noted, gloomily how his eyes were shining. Doubtless the old man's moronic idea appealed to his vanity. Big Merv had a dangerous bent towards flashiness and ostentation.
"He's not my friend," said the Pan shortly, "and it's a suicide mission."
"Oh dear," The sense of innocent hurt and confusion emanating from the old man was touching and in The Pan's view, completely unscrupulous, " as I understand it, you had a different view when we spoke the other day."
"Yer," said Big Merv. He jerked his thumb in the old man's direction, "he says you told him you'd walk the driving."
"No," said The Pan patiently, "I never said I'd drive and I told him it was a suicide mission, too."
"But you agreed to do it," said the old man feebly. The Pan shook his head, speechless. The cheek of the old get!
"No, I agreed to talk to Big Merv, which is whatI came here to do today," said the Pan flatly. Big Merv was glaring at him. It was a weighing-up kind of glare, as in the amout of concrete required and size of box. "Merv-sir- you're not serious are you?" he finally managed to gasp. "You don't actually believe robbing the Bank of Grongolia, in Grongolia, itself, would ever be a piece of cake?"
Everyone turned to the old man. His face was the picture of septuagenarian innocence. The Pan, on the other hand, wore an expression of controlled panic. He knew what would be happening. Big Merv would be realising that he had seen that expression before, on the faces of people who were saying 'I would never grass on you' a few hours before doing so.
"Maybe," said Big Merv, " I hear you was boasting down the pub."
"And you believe that?" asked The Pan, "Are you mad?"
"He can tell me things only you, me and the boys here were witness to. He can talk about them like he was there."
"He did that to me too," retorted The Pan, "It doesn't mean he was. It isn't real. Look at him!" He gestured to the old man who was wearing even more yellow than on the previous occasion they'd met, "He's a Nimmist! You heard the rumours, he's reading your mind or something."
All three of the Mervinettes simultaneously turned their heads and stared at The Pan, their leather coats creaking in unison.
"He's reading your mind," growled Big Merv, "not mine."
"It doesn't matter whose mind it is does it? It's not normal and it gives him an unfair advantage!"
"He's not my friend," said the Pan shortly, "and it's a suicide mission."
"Oh dear," The sense of innocent hurt and confusion emanating from the old man was touching and in The Pan's view, completely unscrupulous, " as I understand it, you had a different view when we spoke the other day."
"Yer," said Big Merv. He jerked his thumb in the old man's direction, "he says you told him you'd walk the driving."
"No," said The Pan patiently, "I never said I'd drive and I told him it was a suicide mission, too."
"But you agreed to do it," said the old man feebly. The Pan shook his head, speechless. The cheek of the old get!
"No, I agreed to talk to Big Merv, which is whatI came here to do today," said the Pan flatly. Big Merv was glaring at him. It was a weighing-up kind of glare, as in the amout of concrete required and size of box. "Merv-sir- you're not serious are you?" he finally managed to gasp. "You don't actually believe robbing the Bank of Grongolia, in Grongolia, itself, would ever be a piece of cake?"
Everyone turned to the old man. His face was the picture of septuagenarian innocence. The Pan, on the other hand, wore an expression of controlled panic. He knew what would be happening. Big Merv would be realising that he had seen that expression before, on the faces of people who were saying 'I would never grass on you' a few hours before doing so.
"Maybe," said Big Merv, " I hear you was boasting down the pub."
"And you believe that?" asked The Pan, "Are you mad?"
"He can tell me things only you, me and the boys here were witness to. He can talk about them like he was there."
"He did that to me too," retorted The Pan, "It doesn't mean he was. It isn't real. Look at him!" He gestured to the old man who was wearing even more yellow than on the previous occasion they'd met, "He's a Nimmist! You heard the rumours, he's reading your mind or something."
All three of the Mervinettes simultaneously turned their heads and stared at The Pan, their leather coats creaking in unison.
"He's reading your mind," growled Big Merv, "not mine."
"It doesn't matter whose mind it is does it? It's not normal and it gives him an unfair advantage!"
36) Monsters All The Way Down- Ryan McSwain ~~~~ [Reviews 5-18]
"I'm not enjoying our little roadkill trip," Joan said.
Joan and Brennan sat facing each other in the red vinyl diner booth. Their finished plates were neatly stacked to the side. Joan liked to do what she could for servers at restaurants; she had worked as a waitress in college, just long enough to realize how much she hated doing it. An untouched slice of cherry pie sat in front of her, its scoop of ice cream slowly melting. Brennan sipped a cup of coffee.
"I don't know," he said. "It has its moments."
"We're spree killers, Brennan. In our biopic, we'll be played by Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis.
"Roadkill Road Trip," Brennan said. "That would actually make a hell of a movie title. Sounds like it ran at a drive-in in the 70s."
"It would make a great double feature with Cloned Killers."
He laughed, but then frowned. "I'm sorry, Joan. I know this is not who you are or what you want to be doing. It's definitely not what I want for you."
Joan turned her plate back and forth, examining her dessert from different angles. "I wanted to be a doctor once. I worked so hard. I wanted to stand in front of everyone and take an oath, you know, 'to do no harm'. I was on the right track; my life was what I wanted. Then that monster had to kill my friends . . . " She sighed. "Everything just fell apart."
Brennan stared down at his cup. The creamer he poured spun and swirled in the coffee.
She continued, "It's all so fucked up- I just wish I was saving people, not killing them."
Brennan took her hands and stared into her eyes. "Those things are not people. Not after what they've done. Maybe they never were.By putting them down you're avenging everyone else they've killed, and protecting, saving everyone else they would have killed. You're saving us." He gave her hands a squeeze and let them go.
She smiled at him, It's not a total nightmare. At least I found you."
Joan and Brennan sat facing each other in the red vinyl diner booth. Their finished plates were neatly stacked to the side. Joan liked to do what she could for servers at restaurants; she had worked as a waitress in college, just long enough to realize how much she hated doing it. An untouched slice of cherry pie sat in front of her, its scoop of ice cream slowly melting. Brennan sipped a cup of coffee.
"I don't know," he said. "It has its moments."
"We're spree killers, Brennan. In our biopic, we'll be played by Woody Harrelson and Juliette Lewis.
"Roadkill Road Trip," Brennan said. "That would actually make a hell of a movie title. Sounds like it ran at a drive-in in the 70s."
"It would make a great double feature with Cloned Killers."
He laughed, but then frowned. "I'm sorry, Joan. I know this is not who you are or what you want to be doing. It's definitely not what I want for you."
Joan turned her plate back and forth, examining her dessert from different angles. "I wanted to be a doctor once. I worked so hard. I wanted to stand in front of everyone and take an oath, you know, 'to do no harm'. I was on the right track; my life was what I wanted. Then that monster had to kill my friends . . . " She sighed. "Everything just fell apart."
Brennan stared down at his cup. The creamer he poured spun and swirled in the coffee.
She continued, "It's all so fucked up- I just wish I was saving people, not killing them."
Brennan took her hands and stared into her eyes. "Those things are not people. Not after what they've done. Maybe they never were.By putting them down you're avenging everyone else they've killed, and protecting, saving everyone else they would have killed. You're saving us." He gave her hands a squeeze and let them go.
She smiled at him, It's not a total nightmare. At least I found you."
37) Rise To Power- Uvi Poznansky ~~~~ [Reviews 5-19]
How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever? How Long will you hide your face from me?
The first ray of sun has just come in through the window, and it reaches in over here, a touch there, lifting the darkness spot by spot until- coming to touch the tip of my sword- it seemed to catch fire.
I remember that day, when I faced my first enemy and released him of his life and his weapon. I am, I am not, the slayer of Goliath. This blade of his has been hanging here over my had for ages. And now, in a flash- in the blinding light reflected back from the steely surface- I can spot myself in it.
Is it me, really? Who is this decrepit creature, clinging to the corner of a blanket to wipe his face, curled here in a fetal position, with his back to the faceless girl?
Come morning I should ask her name. Joav might have told me, but at this moment I cannot bring myself to remember it. Remembering has become too much of an effort, especially when it comes to the present.
There is only one thing I seem to know: her future. She is, and will always remain, untouched.
*
And at the last moment before my eyes close, before it is time to sleep, the light grows stronger. It bursts out with a shine brighter than anything I have seen, anything I have imagined before. A gentle wind starts blowing into the silk curtains overhead, filling them till they become pregnant with air. In one breath they open wide apart, to reveal naked walls. A minute later, the entire palace crumbles to dust, and from it a great valley breaks open.
It is then that I realize one thing: I must have been mistaken. It is not an old man that is reflected here, in the metallic surface. Instead it is someone else, someone I wish I could become one more time.
There is David, a young boy with sharp eyes. Morning breeze plays with his curls. It whispers words of hope and promise to his ear. Yet unscarred by battle, his arms are smooth, his hands- strong. They are the hands of a killer.
There is David. Focusing his eyes across the valley, the boy is looking for a way to become larger than life. There he stands, ready for his enemy. ready to kill.
I am his future, but he is oblivious to me. I smile at him.
He is slow to smile back.
The first ray of sun has just come in through the window, and it reaches in over here, a touch there, lifting the darkness spot by spot until- coming to touch the tip of my sword- it seemed to catch fire.
I remember that day, when I faced my first enemy and released him of his life and his weapon. I am, I am not, the slayer of Goliath. This blade of his has been hanging here over my had for ages. And now, in a flash- in the blinding light reflected back from the steely surface- I can spot myself in it.
Is it me, really? Who is this decrepit creature, clinging to the corner of a blanket to wipe his face, curled here in a fetal position, with his back to the faceless girl?
Come morning I should ask her name. Joav might have told me, but at this moment I cannot bring myself to remember it. Remembering has become too much of an effort, especially when it comes to the present.
There is only one thing I seem to know: her future. She is, and will always remain, untouched.
*
And at the last moment before my eyes close, before it is time to sleep, the light grows stronger. It bursts out with a shine brighter than anything I have seen, anything I have imagined before. A gentle wind starts blowing into the silk curtains overhead, filling them till they become pregnant with air. In one breath they open wide apart, to reveal naked walls. A minute later, the entire palace crumbles to dust, and from it a great valley breaks open.
It is then that I realize one thing: I must have been mistaken. It is not an old man that is reflected here, in the metallic surface. Instead it is someone else, someone I wish I could become one more time.
There is David, a young boy with sharp eyes. Morning breeze plays with his curls. It whispers words of hope and promise to his ear. Yet unscarred by battle, his arms are smooth, his hands- strong. They are the hands of a killer.
There is David. Focusing his eyes across the valley, the boy is looking for a way to become larger than life. There he stands, ready for his enemy. ready to kill.
I am his future, but he is oblivious to me. I smile at him.
He is slow to smile back.
38) Sunspots- Karen S. Bell ~~~~ [Reviews 5-20]
From the moment we said “hello,” it was apparent that Mr. Alessandro Cordeiro and Isa Cordeiro secreted their true selves behind separate fences of emotional barbed wire. There was no eye contact between them, no acknowledgement of each other’s presence, and their coldness clung like a damp fog on our well-placed table for four. Isa sipped her Portuguese wine and moved a busy fork around her full plate attempting to camouflage her refusal to put food to and in her mouth. Her octopus arms were like the tendrils of an Auschwitz victim or Hollywood starlet and betrayed her eating disorder along with her protruding skeletal structure where normal deposits of fat soften one’s contours. She wore her hair in a sleek bun that emphasized her thick eyebrows and sallow eyes. Her mouth was a large smear across her face, the apparent result of a surgeon’s mildly skillful attempt at tightening the toffee-colored skin on her chin and cheeks. The essence of her youthful beauty had become a faded echo whose remnants ended in empty silence. She was the sum total of her neuroses and vanity. A soulless, woebegone middle-aged aristocrat and she gave me the creeps.
Mr. Alessandro Cordeiro, a personage whose full name suited him more completely than just a first or last name, devoured his food and the space around him. He talked incessantly to Jake between and during sloppy bites of food, a giveaway to his underclass roots. He talked business and then about soccer, masculine topics to exclude female participation and never glanced my way. His short, stocky frame was squeezed into a well-tailored tan linen suit that framed a colorful silk shirt that he chose to wear unbuttoned to nearly his waist revealing a soft, flabby and furry chest. A Saturday Night Live nightmare version of the already gauche “wild and crazy guy.”
I tried to control a shiver of repulsion whenever my eyes propelled themselves, out of a perverse attraction, to his anatomy. His face was quite grotesque with pockmarked skin and a cauliflower nose that seemed to set his distasteful personality but his jet-black pompadour did not suit him and appeared artificial and was perhaps an expensive hairpiece. Naturally, there were lifts in his shoes and his stubby and hairy fingers were bedecked with gold and diamond rings. Had he not been someone with whom Jake did business, I would have thought he was a drug dealer—perhaps he secretly was—or part of some crime ring. The wisdom of Jake’s involvement with him left me perplexed and nervous.
Mr. Alessandro Cordeiro, a personage whose full name suited him more completely than just a first or last name, devoured his food and the space around him. He talked incessantly to Jake between and during sloppy bites of food, a giveaway to his underclass roots. He talked business and then about soccer, masculine topics to exclude female participation and never glanced my way. His short, stocky frame was squeezed into a well-tailored tan linen suit that framed a colorful silk shirt that he chose to wear unbuttoned to nearly his waist revealing a soft, flabby and furry chest. A Saturday Night Live nightmare version of the already gauche “wild and crazy guy.”
I tried to control a shiver of repulsion whenever my eyes propelled themselves, out of a perverse attraction, to his anatomy. His face was quite grotesque with pockmarked skin and a cauliflower nose that seemed to set his distasteful personality but his jet-black pompadour did not suit him and appeared artificial and was perhaps an expensive hairpiece. Naturally, there were lifts in his shoes and his stubby and hairy fingers were bedecked with gold and diamond rings. Had he not been someone with whom Jake did business, I would have thought he was a drug dealer—perhaps he secretly was—or part of some crime ring. The wisdom of Jake’s involvement with him left me perplexed and nervous.
39) Dark Witness- Rebecca Forster ~~~~ [Reviews 1-21]
"No, I think Duncan was the big cheese because that lady talked to him. Didn't I tell you he was weird? Didn't I, Hannah?"
"Maybe Pea is weird," she shot back. "I mean, what kind of person only talks to one person?"
Hannah looked at her nails. She had broken them all over the last few months. In the last week while she lay in bed, they had started to grow back. Funny how seeing those little white half moons made her feel well. She dropped her hands.
"Do you think he's keeping her a prisoner?" Hannah asked.
Billy shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think so. Maybe. I mean he locked the door when he left me that first night. He said it was an accident, but maybe not. Maybe he's locked her in."
"Nobody locks my door," Hannah said.
"Like they couldn't hear you coming?"
"Good point," Hannah said.
"We would have been able to tell if there was something really bad like that going on, don't you think? I mean, we would have felt it, wouldn't we?"
"Yes. I suppose," she said. "Do you think they'll let you stay in here, tonight?"
"No choice." Billy moved around again, trying to get comfortable on the narrow mattress. "I'm moving in. That's just . . ."
Billy stopped talking. He put his finger to his lips. He inclined his head towards the door. Hannah looked, but there was nothing to see. She listened and that's when she heard the doorknob jiggle. Billy got off the bed slowly, and Hannah sat up straighter. She threw the skirt down over her knees and buttoned up her blouse again.
"Billy . . ." she whispered.
"Shhh," he hissed.
Tiptoeing across the room, he stopped long enough to take the pitcher off the dresser and emptied it into the bowl where it was nestled. For a second it seemed whoever it was had gone away but then the knob jiggled again. Billy scooted the last few feet and flattened himself against the wall. He held the heavy pitcher high with one hand and reached across his body for the doorknob with the other.
"Maybe Pea is weird," she shot back. "I mean, what kind of person only talks to one person?"
Hannah looked at her nails. She had broken them all over the last few months. In the last week while she lay in bed, they had started to grow back. Funny how seeing those little white half moons made her feel well. She dropped her hands.
"Do you think he's keeping her a prisoner?" Hannah asked.
Billy shrugged. "I don't know. I don't think so. Maybe. I mean he locked the door when he left me that first night. He said it was an accident, but maybe not. Maybe he's locked her in."
"Nobody locks my door," Hannah said.
"Like they couldn't hear you coming?"
"Good point," Hannah said.
"We would have been able to tell if there was something really bad like that going on, don't you think? I mean, we would have felt it, wouldn't we?"
"Yes. I suppose," she said. "Do you think they'll let you stay in here, tonight?"
"No choice." Billy moved around again, trying to get comfortable on the narrow mattress. "I'm moving in. That's just . . ."
Billy stopped talking. He put his finger to his lips. He inclined his head towards the door. Hannah looked, but there was nothing to see. She listened and that's when she heard the doorknob jiggle. Billy got off the bed slowly, and Hannah sat up straighter. She threw the skirt down over her knees and buttoned up her blouse again.
"Billy . . ." she whispered.
"Shhh," he hissed.
Tiptoeing across the room, he stopped long enough to take the pitcher off the dresser and emptied it into the bowl where it was nestled. For a second it seemed whoever it was had gone away but then the knob jiggled again. Billy scooted the last few feet and flattened himself against the wall. He held the heavy pitcher high with one hand and reached across his body for the doorknob with the other.
40) Prunella Smith: Worlds Within Worlds- Tahlia Newland ~~~~ [Reviews 2-21]
Another email with Dita as sender lurks in my inbox. I swore I would not open another from him, but curiosity wins. I can’t resist. It’s just words, I tell myself; I can handle it.
I click.
Email accounts are easy to break into. All your friends will be exposed. If you care for them, take the review down.
I drop my head into my hands and groan. I have to calm myself with steady breaths, but I’m glad I checked the email— forewarned and all that. I’m not angry, it’s just getting tiresome now. Perhaps I should just take the review down, but principles are at stake here— mine. No, I won’t bow to the bully. He will get sick of hounding me eventually. In the meantime, I just have to do what has to be done.
I change the passwords on my various email accounts and google how to block someone’s emails from showing up in my box. While the results are loading, I browse some more emails. There’s one from Tanya Kahn, Kelee’s author:
How’s the editing coming along? Is there any chance you could get it finished ahead of schedule? We’re cutting it really fine at the moment.
I grit my teeth. I can’t reply right now— my annoyance would likely flavour my words. I decide that deleting an email is less time consuming than learning how to do it automatically. Dita’s interruptions don’t just take time, they take away from the focus I need to get this work finished by the deadline. I have to shake the irritation out of me before I can settle back to work.
I turn on some dance music— loud. After five minutes of throwing myself around to the beat, I feel much better, but I can’t stop the feeling that my life is turning into a bad novel.
Merlin jumps onto my lap and gives me a smooch. I give him a cuddle and bury my face in his fur. He purrs, and though I’m holding him in my arms, this trusting little creature embraces my heart with a big hug.
Tring tring.
Damn; I was just about to start work.
Tring tring.
I lift the receiver.
Silence.
I click.
Email accounts are easy to break into. All your friends will be exposed. If you care for them, take the review down.
I drop my head into my hands and groan. I have to calm myself with steady breaths, but I’m glad I checked the email— forewarned and all that. I’m not angry, it’s just getting tiresome now. Perhaps I should just take the review down, but principles are at stake here— mine. No, I won’t bow to the bully. He will get sick of hounding me eventually. In the meantime, I just have to do what has to be done.
I change the passwords on my various email accounts and google how to block someone’s emails from showing up in my box. While the results are loading, I browse some more emails. There’s one from Tanya Kahn, Kelee’s author:
How’s the editing coming along? Is there any chance you could get it finished ahead of schedule? We’re cutting it really fine at the moment.
I grit my teeth. I can’t reply right now— my annoyance would likely flavour my words. I decide that deleting an email is less time consuming than learning how to do it automatically. Dita’s interruptions don’t just take time, they take away from the focus I need to get this work finished by the deadline. I have to shake the irritation out of me before I can settle back to work.
I turn on some dance music— loud. After five minutes of throwing myself around to the beat, I feel much better, but I can’t stop the feeling that my life is turning into a bad novel.
Merlin jumps onto my lap and gives me a smooch. I give him a cuddle and bury my face in his fur. He purrs, and though I’m holding him in my arms, this trusting little creature embraces my heart with a big hug.
Tring tring.
Damn; I was just about to start work.
Tring tring.
I lift the receiver.
Silence.
41) Kings of Delusion- E. J. Findorff ~~~~ [Reviews 3-21]
After leaving the Titan at the elevated garage and being shuttled back, Evan met Andrew at their vehicle and they hit the road as dawn approached, armed with their guns, power bars, and water, almost immediately taking a call. Dispatch gave them a family in Gentilly that wanted their ninety-year-old grandmother taken to Charity for shelter. She was on oxygen, had COPD and Alzheimer's. While on the way, the ambulance swayed left and right as if a giant cat was playfully swatting it.
"We're five minutes out," Andrew said to dispatch.
"so, I think I have a foster kid."
"What the F?" Andrew kept his eyes on the road.
"Angela. She showed up on my doorstep yesterday evening like a waif. What could I do? She's at the LSU Building right now."
"I'm warning you, dude ... "
"Stop. That's a bad rumor to start."
"So, she wants you as her new parent?"
"I'm not that old."
"You know what I mean. Either that, or she's in love with her savior."
"Something like that."
"Did she come on to you last night in her panties and lace nightie?" Andrew mimicked porn music.
"You don't know how immature you sound."
"I'm just a guy that can recognize potential hotness. Don't pretend you don't."
"I think you have a crush on her. You do, don't you?"
*Stuck on an island, I couldn't ask for more, but in the real world ... in my world ... I couldn't bring her around my friends, They'd never accept her without piercings or tats."
"Or colored hair."
Their discussion went on like that until they arrived at the call, A young, black girl greeted them on the front steps of a light blue house with many missing sections of aluminium siding. "Dank Gawd. You have to get my mom to Charity."
Evan surveyed the broken gutters, cracked windows, and cinder blocks the structure balanced on. With Katrina coming, it may as well have been constructed with toothpicks. It was hard to feel bad for the poverty stricken when they made up the majority. He tried not to be affected by the two little children peeking through the open doorway.
Evan said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the hospitals are only for emergency cases. There isn't room for shelter. We'd be glad to check her vitals and make sure she's stable, but we can't take her."
"You should really evacuate your mother and the rest of the family," Andrew added.
The woman's attitude reversed with just a cocking of her head, "Look at us, you tattooed freak. Do we look like we got money? We got no car. We ride the bus for everything." She folded her meaty arms, daring them to argue.
Evan's eyebrows arched. "There's nothing we can do for your mother, ma'am."
"Get the fuck off my property," she yelled and flipped her middle finger.
"We're five minutes out," Andrew said to dispatch.
"so, I think I have a foster kid."
"What the F?" Andrew kept his eyes on the road.
"Angela. She showed up on my doorstep yesterday evening like a waif. What could I do? She's at the LSU Building right now."
"I'm warning you, dude ... "
"Stop. That's a bad rumor to start."
"So, she wants you as her new parent?"
"I'm not that old."
"You know what I mean. Either that, or she's in love with her savior."
"Something like that."
"Did she come on to you last night in her panties and lace nightie?" Andrew mimicked porn music.
"You don't know how immature you sound."
"I'm just a guy that can recognize potential hotness. Don't pretend you don't."
"I think you have a crush on her. You do, don't you?"
*Stuck on an island, I couldn't ask for more, but in the real world ... in my world ... I couldn't bring her around my friends, They'd never accept her without piercings or tats."
"Or colored hair."
Their discussion went on like that until they arrived at the call, A young, black girl greeted them on the front steps of a light blue house with many missing sections of aluminium siding. "Dank Gawd. You have to get my mom to Charity."
Evan surveyed the broken gutters, cracked windows, and cinder blocks the structure balanced on. With Katrina coming, it may as well have been constructed with toothpicks. It was hard to feel bad for the poverty stricken when they made up the majority. He tried not to be affected by the two little children peeking through the open doorway.
Evan said, "I'm sorry, ma'am, but the hospitals are only for emergency cases. There isn't room for shelter. We'd be glad to check her vitals and make sure she's stable, but we can't take her."
"You should really evacuate your mother and the rest of the family," Andrew added.
The woman's attitude reversed with just a cocking of her head, "Look at us, you tattooed freak. Do we look like we got money? We got no car. We ride the bus for everything." She folded her meaty arms, daring them to argue.
Evan's eyebrows arched. "There's nothing we can do for your mother, ma'am."
"Get the fuck off my property," she yelled and flipped her middle finger.
42) Mindclone- David T. Wolf ~~~~ [Reviews 4-21]
Raxton took a seat at the head of the table.
The assistant ushered in the two investment bankers from Goldman Sachs. Gordon, the gray eminence of the team, looked dapper in Brookes Brothers. Smythe, a Brit who'd attended all the right schools, spoke with the posh tones of near-royalty. He was resplendent in Savile Row nattiness. The assistant brought the coffee tray over from the sideboard and set it on the table before the visitors.
Raxton waited until they'd dosed themselves. "What I'm about to divulge cannot leave this room. In particular, no emails of any kind, including internal. If there's a leak, I'll know the source." He didn't have to utter a threat. They understood their careers would end, along with their lifestyles and possibly their marriages. As To his concerns about emails, he knew that Memento Amor's new AI program had access that rivaled the NSA's. Hence his restriction of all communications about the takeover to face-to-face or hand-written notes.
"You're wondering why I'd even consider going after an outfit like Memento Amor. Selling hope and a promise to the credulous masses."
Gordon was smugly disapproving. "I'm sure you have your reasons, but they certainly aren't apparent. Their claims are widely regarded as a scam. Frankly ..."
Raxton didn''t let him finish. "The fact is, their lab has some of the best scientists in cognitive research. they've achieved a major breakthrough in Artificial General Intelligence. they've developed a program fully equal to human comprehension of the world. And it's blindingly fast. It seems The Singularity has arrived. For real."
Smythe almost choked on his coffee, He set his cup down with a clatter and coughed.
Gordon leaned back in his chair. "I haven't heard a word about this development."
"You've heard of its activities, though. The super-hacker vigilante?"
"Good Lord." The bankers exchanged shocked looks.
"Imagine that power working for all law enforcement in the country. Imagine hundreds or thousands of these Digital Intelligence Agents helping local police departments, the CIA, the FBI, military intelligence, Homeland Security, the NSA. Other outfits you've never heard of. Imagine if Dynasine were the sole source of these agents-in-a-chip. The profit potential is vast." He glanced at his colleague. "General Wysocki recently joined Dynasine from the NSA. How receptive would the government be to such agents, General?"
Wysock's eyes flicked to the bankers. "This one program is already sampling much of the world's emails in a dozen languages--in real time, with full comprehension. It instantly 'connects the dots0. It masters new languages at the rate of four or five a week, To put things in perspective, its product exceeds the capacity of our entire intelligence community. Not in quantity, but in a far more important metric comprehension.
"The nation's spending on intelligence is larger than the entire gross national product of all but the top 15 or twenty nations. If one unit is worth more than that, what's the value of hundreds of such units? Or thousands?" The general eyed the two bankers.
"Monetary value, of course, is nothing compared to the security value: the savings in lives and property when we prevent the next 9/11 or worse."
The investment bankers looked like they needed drool cups.
The assistant ushered in the two investment bankers from Goldman Sachs. Gordon, the gray eminence of the team, looked dapper in Brookes Brothers. Smythe, a Brit who'd attended all the right schools, spoke with the posh tones of near-royalty. He was resplendent in Savile Row nattiness. The assistant brought the coffee tray over from the sideboard and set it on the table before the visitors.
Raxton waited until they'd dosed themselves. "What I'm about to divulge cannot leave this room. In particular, no emails of any kind, including internal. If there's a leak, I'll know the source." He didn't have to utter a threat. They understood their careers would end, along with their lifestyles and possibly their marriages. As To his concerns about emails, he knew that Memento Amor's new AI program had access that rivaled the NSA's. Hence his restriction of all communications about the takeover to face-to-face or hand-written notes.
"You're wondering why I'd even consider going after an outfit like Memento Amor. Selling hope and a promise to the credulous masses."
Gordon was smugly disapproving. "I'm sure you have your reasons, but they certainly aren't apparent. Their claims are widely regarded as a scam. Frankly ..."
Raxton didn''t let him finish. "The fact is, their lab has some of the best scientists in cognitive research. they've achieved a major breakthrough in Artificial General Intelligence. they've developed a program fully equal to human comprehension of the world. And it's blindingly fast. It seems The Singularity has arrived. For real."
Smythe almost choked on his coffee, He set his cup down with a clatter and coughed.
Gordon leaned back in his chair. "I haven't heard a word about this development."
"You've heard of its activities, though. The super-hacker vigilante?"
"Good Lord." The bankers exchanged shocked looks.
"Imagine that power working for all law enforcement in the country. Imagine hundreds or thousands of these Digital Intelligence Agents helping local police departments, the CIA, the FBI, military intelligence, Homeland Security, the NSA. Other outfits you've never heard of. Imagine if Dynasine were the sole source of these agents-in-a-chip. The profit potential is vast." He glanced at his colleague. "General Wysocki recently joined Dynasine from the NSA. How receptive would the government be to such agents, General?"
Wysock's eyes flicked to the bankers. "This one program is already sampling much of the world's emails in a dozen languages--in real time, with full comprehension. It instantly 'connects the dots0. It masters new languages at the rate of four or five a week, To put things in perspective, its product exceeds the capacity of our entire intelligence community. Not in quantity, but in a far more important metric comprehension.
"The nation's spending on intelligence is larger than the entire gross national product of all but the top 15 or twenty nations. If one unit is worth more than that, what's the value of hundreds of such units? Or thousands?" The general eyed the two bankers.
"Monetary value, of course, is nothing compared to the security value: the savings in lives and property when we prevent the next 9/11 or worse."
The investment bankers looked like they needed drool cups.
43) Clear Line of Sight- D. C. Black ~~~~ [Reviews 5-21]
"We're not looking for problems here Bill." Quantic said carefully. "But what do you mean by strange?"
"Ok it's like this. All of his tablet browsing history suggests he lies a bit of pornography of the legal variety. All pretty classic footprint, late night browsing on a device that he can easily control access to. Nothing at all on the work computer which makes total sense as you'd have to be suicidal to surf the wrong places on a home office secured laptop. Then the home computer accessible by the rest of the family and at right around tea time on a school night and he's downloading extreme images of children."
"But we've got him banged to rights on the credit card transactions." Clyde jumped in.
"I know but that doesn't make sense either." Mackie ploughed on. "Redmond was the Home Secretary ..."
"Even politicians can be perverts!" Jack Trowden interjected angrily, an east Londoner and ex vice squad office(r) before he joined Quantic's team was well known for his quick temper.
But Mackie was not eaily dissuaded from his point of view. "I'm not saying that but as Home sec. he attended numerous briefings on cyber-crime. One of them I presented at myself. There's no way that he wouldn't know that he would be traced back on his credit card. He was certainly at least aware of most of the techniques available to at least make our life difficult." said Mackie his own voice now raised.
"All I'm saying, is that based on the forensic evidence it was as if he suddenly sat down at his computer one night, found some illegal images, downloaded them and then sat back and said here I am come and get me!"
"Ok it's like this. All of his tablet browsing history suggests he lies a bit of pornography of the legal variety. All pretty classic footprint, late night browsing on a device that he can easily control access to. Nothing at all on the work computer which makes total sense as you'd have to be suicidal to surf the wrong places on a home office secured laptop. Then the home computer accessible by the rest of the family and at right around tea time on a school night and he's downloading extreme images of children."
"But we've got him banged to rights on the credit card transactions." Clyde jumped in.
"I know but that doesn't make sense either." Mackie ploughed on. "Redmond was the Home Secretary ..."
"Even politicians can be perverts!" Jack Trowden interjected angrily, an east Londoner and ex vice squad office(r) before he joined Quantic's team was well known for his quick temper.
But Mackie was not eaily dissuaded from his point of view. "I'm not saying that but as Home sec. he attended numerous briefings on cyber-crime. One of them I presented at myself. There's no way that he wouldn't know that he would be traced back on his credit card. He was certainly at least aware of most of the techniques available to at least make our life difficult." said Mackie his own voice now raised.
"All I'm saying, is that based on the forensic evidence it was as if he suddenly sat down at his computer one night, found some illegal images, downloaded them and then sat back and said here I am come and get me!"
44) Troubles- Ian J. Miller ~~~~ [Reviews 1-22]
Schreyer viewed this new assignment with a certain lack of enthusiasm. Babysitting an amateur was simply dangerous, particularly when the amateur had the bit between her teeth. When she appeared he was beginning to despair. She was dressed in very loose-fitting black combat gear, she had heavy boots on, a jacket with a hood up over her head, and she was carrying a large handbag.
"What's in the bag?" he asked.
"Chocolate."
"Chocolate?" he asked in sheer surprise.
"Also a machine pistol and ammunition clips," she added with a shrug. she pulled out a map and said, "I think we should park here, and I think we need someone to guard the car. I intend to approach through these buildings and I hope to find some of the squatters, which is why I have the chocolate."
"And the gun?"
"In case there's someone else there that doesn't deserve to keep living, or in case sooner or later I need to intimidate someone."
"Do you know how to use that gun?"
"I'm still alive,"she said tersely, "and people from where I come from that don't know how to use a gun tend not to be."
"I'll get a couple of people to guard the car, then," he said. "I'd better come with you."
They drove to the designated spot and to Schreyer's surprise, Susan insisted on choosing the route. To his greater surprise, it was a very efficient route, it did not go directly to their destination, but instead they came up on the rear of one of the rooms near where the bomb had been placed. She studied the area carefully before getting out of the car, then she walked purposefully towards a door. She opened it, and keeping close to the wall and in the darker zones, she made he way cautiously and very silently through the various rooms, stopping to talk to anyone she met.
Whenever she found them, Susan asked the squatters there if they had seen anybody, and promised them a reward fro information. Even if they knew nothing, she gave them chocolate. Then she had some luck.
"What's in the bag?" he asked.
"Chocolate."
"Chocolate?" he asked in sheer surprise.
"Also a machine pistol and ammunition clips," she added with a shrug. she pulled out a map and said, "I think we should park here, and I think we need someone to guard the car. I intend to approach through these buildings and I hope to find some of the squatters, which is why I have the chocolate."
"And the gun?"
"In case there's someone else there that doesn't deserve to keep living, or in case sooner or later I need to intimidate someone."
"Do you know how to use that gun?"
"I'm still alive,"she said tersely, "and people from where I come from that don't know how to use a gun tend not to be."
"I'll get a couple of people to guard the car, then," he said. "I'd better come with you."
They drove to the designated spot and to Schreyer's surprise, Susan insisted on choosing the route. To his greater surprise, it was a very efficient route, it did not go directly to their destination, but instead they came up on the rear of one of the rooms near where the bomb had been placed. She studied the area carefully before getting out of the car, then she walked purposefully towards a door. She opened it, and keeping close to the wall and in the darker zones, she made he way cautiously and very silently through the various rooms, stopping to talk to anyone she met.
Whenever she found them, Susan asked the squatters there if they had seen anybody, and promised them a reward fro information. Even if they knew nothing, she gave them chocolate. Then she had some luck.
45) Blood for Blood- D. S. Allen ~~~~ [Reviews 2-22]
The magistrate cleared his throat. "I am Sir Matthew Hart. I am the Chief Magistrate for this county. I will hear both parties, and then forward your statements to the Jury. After presenting your statements, a decision will then be made as to whether the evidence warrents a trial against the accused. This is neither the time nor the place for arguments. Is that clear?" The magistrate scribbles a few notes. "Commissioner Hugo, you may proceed with your statement."
Johanna folds her arms. What lies would spew from his mouth this time?
Hugo nodded. "Thank you, Magistrate. It will be clear from the evidence presented that Johanna Davenport, being a witch, has committed murder against an innocent child."
Hart glanced up from his notes. "Go on."
"The Commission has the testimony of Mrs. Ruth Bide-" Manfred glanced at Johanna"- whose newborn was murdered by this witch. My assistants have also examined her and found witch-marks."
We always find something. The crone'smocking words thudded into Johanna's memory.
"Ludicrous!" Mr. Leitham said.
Hart glared at Leitham. "Sir, would you have me remove you?"
"That will not be necessary, Magistrate."
"Continue, Mr. Hugo."
"She used tonics with the pretence of healing, when, in fact, they were a draught of poison."
"And you have no more witnesses?" The magistrate asked as he peered up from his notes.
"Yes ... my assistant, Edward Mabb, has also observed her familiars."
"And you have no more witnesses?" The magistrate asked.
"I have no need of them, Magistrate. The evidence is overwhelming."
Hart raised his eyebrows at the remark before finishing his notes. "Miss Davenport, have you anything to say in your defense?"
Johanna folds her arms. What lies would spew from his mouth this time?
Hugo nodded. "Thank you, Magistrate. It will be clear from the evidence presented that Johanna Davenport, being a witch, has committed murder against an innocent child."
Hart glanced up from his notes. "Go on."
"The Commission has the testimony of Mrs. Ruth Bide-" Manfred glanced at Johanna"- whose newborn was murdered by this witch. My assistants have also examined her and found witch-marks."
We always find something. The crone'smocking words thudded into Johanna's memory.
"Ludicrous!" Mr. Leitham said.
Hart glared at Leitham. "Sir, would you have me remove you?"
"That will not be necessary, Magistrate."
"Continue, Mr. Hugo."
"She used tonics with the pretence of healing, when, in fact, they were a draught of poison."
"And you have no more witnesses?" The magistrate asked as he peered up from his notes.
"Yes ... my assistant, Edward Mabb, has also observed her familiars."
"And you have no more witnesses?" The magistrate asked.
"I have no need of them, Magistrate. The evidence is overwhelming."
Hart raised his eyebrows at the remark before finishing his notes. "Miss Davenport, have you anything to say in your defense?"
46) Missing You- Michael Robert Jennings ~~~~ [Reviews 3-22]
"Why are you checking out my ex?" Shimie asks, with a note of indignation in her voice.
"Sorry, poor choice of words. I had asked the investigator, if he could even get there, to inform your ex of the circumstances surrounding his daughter. I know you aren't exactly fond of him, but he's still her father. Besides, if he really loves his daughter, maybe he'll do some searching on his own."
"I seriously doubt that he loves my daughter. It was a bitter divorce ... he wanted custody only because it mean't that I would be paying support to him ... I can only assume he wanted the money for his drug habits. When the judge awarded me full custody, plus $800 a month support, he was lived. I've seen him angry before, but not like that one day in court. With his lawyers still sitting there, he got up and walked out."
"I'm just curious ... and yet you married him."
"He was a different person when we were dating ... only displaying his good side. He had a good job as an insurance salesman and didn't hold back on the flowers and chocolates. He was a smooth talker. I saw a future in him. I was obviously very naïve ... too trusting."
"Displaying his good side ... the reason for so many divorces and relationship breakups," Brent piggybacks on her statement.
"It won't happen again ... if there is a next time."
"You're too caring and beautiful to remain single. You'll find the right man when you least expect it. But enough of this, I'm heading outside to swim and lie by the pool."
"Mind if I join you?" Shimie asks, not wanting to be alone.
"I thought you would never ask. And yes, I would love the company, but only if you wear that Band Aid bikini again," he adds with a big grin.
"Have you ever been called a male tramp before?"
"Probably ... but not to my face. And congratulations, you're the first person to recognize me for what I am. So much for keeping it a secreet from you, though I do recall a certain shower seduction," he throws back at her with a smile.
Taking his outstretched hand, she quickly places her hand in his and allows him to help her up from the couch.
47) Redemption- Jacklyn A. Lo ~~~~ [Reviews 4-22]
As she pushed her way through the bead curtain, the old lady's voice came from a room somewhere in the back of the house.
"Go on in, Ann. I'll be there in a minute."
How does she always know? Ann wondered, but opened the door to her right without a word and sat down on the couch. A few minutes later the psychic appeared carrying a tray with two cups and a steaming teapot.
"Cup of tea, my dear?" asked the psychic.
"Tea?" said Ann, surprised. "I can't say I'm much of a tea drinker. Coffee's more my thing."
"Oh, but this is a special tea." The old woman gave her a mysterious look. "It'll help you relax."
"Fine. I'll give it a shot."
She sat there, growing increasingly impatient, as the psychic slowly stirred the contents of the tea and poured it, little by little, through a strainer, first into one cup and then into the other. At last, she picked up a cup and place dit on a saucer before inching it towards Ann with a shaky hand.
Taking a sip, Ann immediately felt refreshed and calmed. She hadn't realizedquite how uptight and tense she had been feeling until, as if by magic, the feeling dropped away from her.
"What's in this stuff?" she asked.
"Tea, of course. Just like I said."
Ann narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Is that all?"
The psychic nodded as Ann took another sip. "Tea, yes. And a little cocaine."
Ann almost spat out the tea and began to choke. "Cocaine?" she managed to say between coughs.
"Just my little joke," said the old woman, her eyes sparkling mischivevously. "It's just tea and a few herbs. Legal herbs! It'll help you relax, my dear, and rest after your day's ordeals."
"I won't ask you how you know about my day," said Ann, finally recovering from her coughing fit. "But I certainly do feel more relaxed. I want to have a better understanding of my life stream and where I'm at in that reincarnation chain."
The psychic looked at her over the rim of her teacup. "I see, " she said. "You want to know if your life has purpose, yes?"
"I guess so. Purpose and progress."
"Go on in, Ann. I'll be there in a minute."
How does she always know? Ann wondered, but opened the door to her right without a word and sat down on the couch. A few minutes later the psychic appeared carrying a tray with two cups and a steaming teapot.
"Cup of tea, my dear?" asked the psychic.
"Tea?" said Ann, surprised. "I can't say I'm much of a tea drinker. Coffee's more my thing."
"Oh, but this is a special tea." The old woman gave her a mysterious look. "It'll help you relax."
"Fine. I'll give it a shot."
She sat there, growing increasingly impatient, as the psychic slowly stirred the contents of the tea and poured it, little by little, through a strainer, first into one cup and then into the other. At last, she picked up a cup and place dit on a saucer before inching it towards Ann with a shaky hand.
Taking a sip, Ann immediately felt refreshed and calmed. She hadn't realizedquite how uptight and tense she had been feeling until, as if by magic, the feeling dropped away from her.
"What's in this stuff?" she asked.
"Tea, of course. Just like I said."
Ann narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Is that all?"
The psychic nodded as Ann took another sip. "Tea, yes. And a little cocaine."
Ann almost spat out the tea and began to choke. "Cocaine?" she managed to say between coughs.
"Just my little joke," said the old woman, her eyes sparkling mischivevously. "It's just tea and a few herbs. Legal herbs! It'll help you relax, my dear, and rest after your day's ordeals."
"I won't ask you how you know about my day," said Ann, finally recovering from her coughing fit. "But I certainly do feel more relaxed. I want to have a better understanding of my life stream and where I'm at in that reincarnation chain."
The psychic looked at her over the rim of her teacup. "I see, " she said. "You want to know if your life has purpose, yes?"
"I guess so. Purpose and progress."
48) Tannion- Wayne Elsner ~~~~ [Reviews 5-22]
Tannion was getting used to the routine and it was still as much fun each day as it was the first day. Walk into a bar and look around. Talk up a few people and find out what he could, and once a decision was made, release the virus. In some bars it was as many as half a dozen or more, and there was one bar where he didn't touch anyone. It didn't take much to make the decision he needed, he knew all the marks were bad and the world would be better off without them.
Each night Tannion would get back to his place and look at himself in the mirror and know it had been a good night. He would fall asleep without a care in the world. He still had lots of cash so a job wasn't a worry and he was still enjoying himself, so there was no need to move on or get a job. Life was good.
It was Friday night and the bar was pretty full. The crowd was lively and there were quite a few from a bike gang- they looked very promising. They were good and loud but weren't causing any real trouble. Several of them were wrestling each other and anyone else who would be willing. Tannion saw his chance.
"I've never seen a good bike gang, " Tannion thought. "Maybe I can get the lot of them. They're probably a big part of the hooker and drug movement in the area, and this might be a lucky night for the neighbourhood."
A table near the gang came free and Tannion sat down, As soon as he sat down, one of the gang members looked him up and down and then came over and sat down in the other chair at the table.
"Hey, you look like a tough enough character," he said. "Do you think you can take the winner of the next round?" He then introduced himself to Tannion as Spider.
Tannion knew that even though you couldn't see it, there was a pecking order to the match ups and the betting was done on the side. Time to get started.
"How about I start slow and work my way up. I haven't done this in a long time."
"Sure,"Spider said. "We've got all sorts here. You can start with anyone as long as we get a chance to make money off one of you."
Each night Tannion would get back to his place and look at himself in the mirror and know it had been a good night. He would fall asleep without a care in the world. He still had lots of cash so a job wasn't a worry and he was still enjoying himself, so there was no need to move on or get a job. Life was good.
It was Friday night and the bar was pretty full. The crowd was lively and there were quite a few from a bike gang- they looked very promising. They were good and loud but weren't causing any real trouble. Several of them were wrestling each other and anyone else who would be willing. Tannion saw his chance.
"I've never seen a good bike gang, " Tannion thought. "Maybe I can get the lot of them. They're probably a big part of the hooker and drug movement in the area, and this might be a lucky night for the neighbourhood."
A table near the gang came free and Tannion sat down, As soon as he sat down, one of the gang members looked him up and down and then came over and sat down in the other chair at the table.
"Hey, you look like a tough enough character," he said. "Do you think you can take the winner of the next round?" He then introduced himself to Tannion as Spider.
Tannion knew that even though you couldn't see it, there was a pecking order to the match ups and the betting was done on the side. Time to get started.
"How about I start slow and work my way up. I haven't done this in a long time."
"Sure,"Spider said. "We've got all sorts here. You can start with anyone as long as we get a chance to make money off one of you."
49) They Call Me Crazy- Kelly Stone Gamble ~~~~ [Reviews 1-23]
"Why do you think Clay prefers to be alone?" he asks after a few bites.
"Maybe it gives him time to think. Maybe if he's alone, he can do whatever makes him happy. Maybe he doesn't really want to be around a lot of people."
He takes a drink of his Diet Pepsi. "Sounds like you, doesn't it?"
Yeah, maybe it does.
He finishes his sandwich and wipes his hands on the single sheet of paper towel that came with the meal. "So back to your question. Are you getting better? Being alone at your home outside of town gave you time. You were taking too much medicine, and that sometimes made the world a little fuzzy. But your mind was working. What were you thinking about, Cass?"
I still have half of my sandwich left. "Toward the end? That's easy." I pull a piece of wilted lettuce that hangs from the corner under the crust and put it back in the wrapper.
Doc Button looks at me over his tiny glasses.
I stare him dead in the eyes."I thought about how much I hated Roland. How everything had been a lie. How I wanted out. To be away from him. Away from the hill. And how the only way that would ever happen was if he were dead."
I hear the big door up top swing open and heavy footsteps on the stairs. I can tell it's Benny and that he has someone with him.
When they get to the cell, I see that his companion is Richard. My lawyer presses his palms together softly as though he's clapping.
Benny says, "Let's go, cass. Get your things. It's over."
"It's about damn time, Benny,"I say. "Hell, I told you it was an accident."
Richard chuckles. "No Cass. He means it's all over. The fire and Roland. We just came from the coroner's office."
I glance at Dr. Button, then at Benny, and back to Richard. Benny doesn't appear too happy, but Richard's smile is a crescent moon. Benny stands there, not saying another word, waiting for me to get up and move.
"Maybe it gives him time to think. Maybe if he's alone, he can do whatever makes him happy. Maybe he doesn't really want to be around a lot of people."
He takes a drink of his Diet Pepsi. "Sounds like you, doesn't it?"
Yeah, maybe it does.
He finishes his sandwich and wipes his hands on the single sheet of paper towel that came with the meal. "So back to your question. Are you getting better? Being alone at your home outside of town gave you time. You were taking too much medicine, and that sometimes made the world a little fuzzy. But your mind was working. What were you thinking about, Cass?"
I still have half of my sandwich left. "Toward the end? That's easy." I pull a piece of wilted lettuce that hangs from the corner under the crust and put it back in the wrapper.
Doc Button looks at me over his tiny glasses.
I stare him dead in the eyes."I thought about how much I hated Roland. How everything had been a lie. How I wanted out. To be away from him. Away from the hill. And how the only way that would ever happen was if he were dead."
I hear the big door up top swing open and heavy footsteps on the stairs. I can tell it's Benny and that he has someone with him.
When they get to the cell, I see that his companion is Richard. My lawyer presses his palms together softly as though he's clapping.
Benny says, "Let's go, cass. Get your things. It's over."
"It's about damn time, Benny,"I say. "Hell, I told you it was an accident."
Richard chuckles. "No Cass. He means it's all over. The fire and Roland. We just came from the coroner's office."
I glance at Dr. Button, then at Benny, and back to Richard. Benny doesn't appear too happy, but Richard's smile is a crescent moon. Benny stands there, not saying another word, waiting for me to get up and move.
50) One Two Buckle My Shoe- E.J. Lamprey ~~~~ [Reviews 2-23]
"She's definately gone." Kirsty accepted a shop bought muffin and a cup of tea, kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet under her in the chair. "And once we'd got the copy from your Hamish, we showed him the one the solicitor got. He says it looks like his signature but it isn't the Will he signed. So- don't spread this around too much, right, we really don't want the media getting this yet? Promise? Then we ran the name Helen Webster through the records and she died five years ago! Next stop the agency, which luckily has quite strict screening procedures, including taking fingerprints from their employees. It turns out Helen Webster is actually Helen Spencer, who did five years for forgery. I don't need to tell you which prison, do I?"
"Ouch." Edge winced. "So she's back to her old tricks, sets up a nice five thousand pound legacy for herself, gets assigned a new apartment to clean and walks straight into someone who knows not only who she really is but what she really is. But still - you'd think she'd just melt away and give up on the five thousand. Not murder Betsy!"
"Aye, but you're forgetting the murder Miz Campbell called us about. Helen has to have killed the old fellow in the first place. Far from fade away, she probably has some kind of run in on Wednesday with Betsy- who by the way phoned the cleaning agency on Wednesday afternoon to ask if the Trust knew they were being sent ex-cons, but went all mysterious about it, wouldn't actually name names. The women who runs the agency said that because of that she didn't know who was being accused, as of course they don't know who gets assigned to which apartment. The whole team reported for duty as usual on Thursday, while the agency were going to double check their records and references. Some time between signing in that morning and the team being collected that afternoon, Helen murdered Betsy and took off. The actual details - whether Betsy let Helen in, got a confession out of her, then rang the police, or whether Helen let herself in, having stolen a key the day before - well, we've got an alert out asking for her to help with our enquires and we'll learn the details soon enough when she's picked up. But at least that mystery is largely cleared up."
"Ouch." Edge winced. "So she's back to her old tricks, sets up a nice five thousand pound legacy for herself, gets assigned a new apartment to clean and walks straight into someone who knows not only who she really is but what she really is. But still - you'd think she'd just melt away and give up on the five thousand. Not murder Betsy!"
"Aye, but you're forgetting the murder Miz Campbell called us about. Helen has to have killed the old fellow in the first place. Far from fade away, she probably has some kind of run in on Wednesday with Betsy- who by the way phoned the cleaning agency on Wednesday afternoon to ask if the Trust knew they were being sent ex-cons, but went all mysterious about it, wouldn't actually name names. The women who runs the agency said that because of that she didn't know who was being accused, as of course they don't know who gets assigned to which apartment. The whole team reported for duty as usual on Thursday, while the agency were going to double check their records and references. Some time between signing in that morning and the team being collected that afternoon, Helen murdered Betsy and took off. The actual details - whether Betsy let Helen in, got a confession out of her, then rang the police, or whether Helen let herself in, having stolen a key the day before - well, we've got an alert out asking for her to help with our enquires and we'll learn the details soon enough when she's picked up. But at least that mystery is largely cleared up."
51) The Darkest of Suns Will Rise- Brian Sfinas ~~~~ [Reviews 3-23]
In the 23rd century, we as a species possess a literally inhuman wealth of knowledge. While not even a hundred years ago, the secrets of the universe were unknowable, now we are on the precipice of understanding all. It is a truly impressive time to be alive.
When it comes to religion it's like they came up with a solution to a problem and now can't show their work. With the evidence so overwhelmingly in the favor of their gods being merely figments of the minds of ancient dreamers, only the most terrifyingly blind still believe. These cults are not numerous, but they are dangerous. In the past they used to just commit suicide. Now they seem determined to take the unbelieving with them.
My emotional availability is a lie.
I have never feared the Prognosticate. Allow those out there to read my thoughts: I fear you not. If anyone asks, I am infinite and indestructible. you remain on this side of history.
won't. They won't come after me. I remember when I was first Assessed. I made it perfectly clear then. They may have modified me, but they said they didn't. I have this theory that if they can read the electronic pathways in the human brain, then they can probably inhibit them as well. Inconclusive.
I am born to take from them what they have taken from us: Sovereignty.
I do not know why, but for whatever unfathomable reason, I am not to be ruled by these new gods. The woo they've pulled over my kind's eyes is not a reflection on me. Honestly, I much prefer to deal with the human-created ones. At Least you can kill an Orphan and according to the ancient rules their fictitious gods will give you a break. The Prognosticate are not so easy.
I have lived in fear for the majority of my life. When I get cornered, I strike. When I get ganged-up on, I take as many of them as I can with me. It has always and will always be this way.
I wage a war psychological.
Some may call me egotistical, But I am the best at what I do. Not leading, not military procedures, not even genetics- I am simply the best at lying. Tell me the truth; I'll make you believe that it's false.
I love you, Clarrisa said. She wrote it in shoddy hexadecimal all over the wall.
I almost find myself envying her ability to believe in the powerfully impossible.
When it comes to religion it's like they came up with a solution to a problem and now can't show their work. With the evidence so overwhelmingly in the favor of their gods being merely figments of the minds of ancient dreamers, only the most terrifyingly blind still believe. These cults are not numerous, but they are dangerous. In the past they used to just commit suicide. Now they seem determined to take the unbelieving with them.
My emotional availability is a lie.
I have never feared the Prognosticate. Allow those out there to read my thoughts: I fear you not. If anyone asks, I am infinite and indestructible. you remain on this side of history.
won't. They won't come after me. I remember when I was first Assessed. I made it perfectly clear then. They may have modified me, but they said they didn't. I have this theory that if they can read the electronic pathways in the human brain, then they can probably inhibit them as well. Inconclusive.
I am born to take from them what they have taken from us: Sovereignty.
I do not know why, but for whatever unfathomable reason, I am not to be ruled by these new gods. The woo they've pulled over my kind's eyes is not a reflection on me. Honestly, I much prefer to deal with the human-created ones. At Least you can kill an Orphan and according to the ancient rules their fictitious gods will give you a break. The Prognosticate are not so easy.
I have lived in fear for the majority of my life. When I get cornered, I strike. When I get ganged-up on, I take as many of them as I can with me. It has always and will always be this way.
I wage a war psychological.
Some may call me egotistical, But I am the best at what I do. Not leading, not military procedures, not even genetics- I am simply the best at lying. Tell me the truth; I'll make you believe that it's false.
I love you, Clarrisa said. She wrote it in shoddy hexadecimal all over the wall.
I almost find myself envying her ability to believe in the powerfully impossible.
52) The Way Things Were- J. R. Rogers ~~~~ [Reviews 4-23]
The darkness springs from the room as I push open the door and step over the threshold. The sun at our backs precedes us, barges in ahead, and invades the space.
The weak, disembodied voice that responds to our repeated knocking is a woman's. I can see her now shrunken frail and very old, swaddled in black, lying ceremoniously on a high four poster bed in a large empty tomb-like room. A cooking fire burns low in the hearth the overhead tobacco-colored beams stained by the smoke. she is immobile, silent, judging our approach.
As we draw nearer, she struggles to her elbows to get a better look.
We step beyond the shaft of light and now I can see she is wearing a lace headdress and an old traditional costume: a plain black dressbeneath a brilliant satin apron richly brocaded. We are not from the village; the old woman sees that at once.
A frightened look darts across her wizened face when she calls out plaintively a man's name. "Henri?".
We pause expectantly, but there is no answer; only the front door creaks lazily on it's hinges, the house disturbed. As we approach, my father clears his throat uncertain how to proceed.
My younger brother, Marc, moves to investigate dense bundles of sticks and branches bound together and propped against the nearest walls.
I can smell their decay, a smell not unlike that of the house itself.
He signals to me. He points to a dark winding staircase, the landing barricaded against whom or what I cannot imagine.
The weak, disembodied voice that responds to our repeated knocking is a woman's. I can see her now shrunken frail and very old, swaddled in black, lying ceremoniously on a high four poster bed in a large empty tomb-like room. A cooking fire burns low in the hearth the overhead tobacco-colored beams stained by the smoke. she is immobile, silent, judging our approach.
As we draw nearer, she struggles to her elbows to get a better look.
We step beyond the shaft of light and now I can see she is wearing a lace headdress and an old traditional costume: a plain black dressbeneath a brilliant satin apron richly brocaded. We are not from the village; the old woman sees that at once.
A frightened look darts across her wizened face when she calls out plaintively a man's name. "Henri?".
We pause expectantly, but there is no answer; only the front door creaks lazily on it's hinges, the house disturbed. As we approach, my father clears his throat uncertain how to proceed.
My younger brother, Marc, moves to investigate dense bundles of sticks and branches bound together and propped against the nearest walls.
I can smell their decay, a smell not unlike that of the house itself.
He signals to me. He points to a dark winding staircase, the landing barricaded against whom or what I cannot imagine.
53) The Elements of Active Prose- Tahlia Newland ~~~~ [Reviews 5-23]
Everyone has a different answer to the question of what makes good writing , but all point to the same elements: a smooth read with nothing that pulls you out of the story or makes you aware that you’re reading, well-chosen words and no extraneous ones, and a variety of sentence structures with a clear meaning and interesting rhythm. What isn’t good writing is anything that makes you go ‘eh?’ or ‘huh?’ or that seems clumsy . Anything that makes you aware of the words is not good writing , and that includes anything that comes across as pretentious. That’s why writing coaches advise not to try to impress and not to use big words when simple ones will do. The next question is: How do you write good prose? But answering this question raises a few issues, because as soon as you start to lay out guidelines, people will turn them into rules and stick by them even when they aren’t appropriate, so we need to address this first.
Rules or Guidelines? The human mind has a tendency to see things dualistically. We assume that if this thing is good, then its opposite must be bad , and if this thing is bad, it must always be bad. We also have a tendency to solidify ideas so that a general suggestion, in our mind, becomes a hard and fast rule. If we are to avoid these traps, we need to examine our assumptions. Writing is an area where we can see this at work. Don't consider these principles as prescriptive rules to be followed slavishly. They are guidelines to help us make our prose better, and they can be ignored when character voice dictates that it would sound wrong. If you think of these tips as rules, you may find them restrictive. You may feel that if you pay them too much attention your creativity will be compromised, but the restriction is in your mind, not in the guidelines themselves. The idea is to use these guidelines in a way that will help, not hinder you. Don’t concern yourself with them on your first draft when you’re just trying to get the story out while the inspiration is flowing. Use them at the self -editing stage to turn your telling into showing, to tighten up your prose and make it more interesting , and use them as a diagnostic tool to help you work out why a scene isn’t as powerful as it should be.
Rules or Guidelines? The human mind has a tendency to see things dualistically. We assume that if this thing is good, then its opposite must be bad , and if this thing is bad, it must always be bad. We also have a tendency to solidify ideas so that a general suggestion, in our mind, becomes a hard and fast rule. If we are to avoid these traps, we need to examine our assumptions. Writing is an area where we can see this at work. Don't consider these principles as prescriptive rules to be followed slavishly. They are guidelines to help us make our prose better, and they can be ignored when character voice dictates that it would sound wrong. If you think of these tips as rules, you may find them restrictive. You may feel that if you pay them too much attention your creativity will be compromised, but the restriction is in your mind, not in the guidelines themselves. The idea is to use these guidelines in a way that will help, not hinder you. Don’t concern yourself with them on your first draft when you’re just trying to get the story out while the inspiration is flowing. Use them at the self -editing stage to turn your telling into showing, to tighten up your prose and make it more interesting , and use them as a diagnostic tool to help you work out why a scene isn’t as powerful as it should be.
54) Mexican Mutts, Tequila Pups & Chili Dogs- David Gordon Burke ~~~~ [Reviews 1- 24]
I pulled my pick-up into an empty space in front of our clinic and parked. While opening the front door I heard the screech of tires and saw a car speed into the lot. The driver braked - through the windscreen I could see it was a young girl, maybe seventeen years old. Distress was written all over her face.
"Please, help," was all she said. She jumped out and opened the back door of the vehicle and saw the problem. It was a female Cocker Spaniel, lying in the back seat. I could see that the dog's injury could only have been caused by being run over by a car.
"I can't believe it. She ran out of the yard so fast. I didn't see her until it was too late," the girl said. "She was just so happy to see me."
I quickly got the lights on in the clinic and then came back for the dog. I carried her into the emergency area and started my examination.
The dog's hindquarters were in a bad shape. It looked like both legs were broken, maybe in more than one place and there was definite damage to the hips. I gave the dog a shot to ease her pain and in a few minutes the dog went under.
"I'm Doctor Francisco Javier Mendoza," I told her as I continued to examine the dog. "What's your name?"
"Karina Vargas. This is my dog Perla."
"Nice to meet you Karina - I wish it was under different circumstances. This is a very serious injury and Perla might never walk again. You really need to decide now what you want to do."
"Is there any chance she could get better?" Karina asked.
"It's too early to know for sure - I will know more after I examine her and do ex-rays but I have to be honest - it looks bad."
"I don't want to lose her unless there is no hope at all," Karina told me, "Please try to save her."
"I'll try."
I worked on perla all that afternoon, first to stabilize her and then to figure out how much damage had been done. The x-ray showed that the damage wasn't as bad as I had at first imagined. My prognosis was that the dog would need casts on both back legs and an operation to place a titanium plate into the hip. All told a pretty serious price-tag even for a pure-blooded Cocker.
I left the examination room and returned to the waiting area where I had left Karina.
"It's what I suspected. Both back legs are broken. The right leg has a closed fracture and the left has a hairline fracture. The hip is what worries me. The only way to repair it is with an operation to place a plate in there. If Perla were an older dog I'd worry that she wouldn't survive the operation," I told her.
"What are her chances? Will she walk again?" Karina asked.
"Please, help," was all she said. She jumped out and opened the back door of the vehicle and saw the problem. It was a female Cocker Spaniel, lying in the back seat. I could see that the dog's injury could only have been caused by being run over by a car.
"I can't believe it. She ran out of the yard so fast. I didn't see her until it was too late," the girl said. "She was just so happy to see me."
I quickly got the lights on in the clinic and then came back for the dog. I carried her into the emergency area and started my examination.
The dog's hindquarters were in a bad shape. It looked like both legs were broken, maybe in more than one place and there was definite damage to the hips. I gave the dog a shot to ease her pain and in a few minutes the dog went under.
"I'm Doctor Francisco Javier Mendoza," I told her as I continued to examine the dog. "What's your name?"
"Karina Vargas. This is my dog Perla."
"Nice to meet you Karina - I wish it was under different circumstances. This is a very serious injury and Perla might never walk again. You really need to decide now what you want to do."
"Is there any chance she could get better?" Karina asked.
"It's too early to know for sure - I will know more after I examine her and do ex-rays but I have to be honest - it looks bad."
"I don't want to lose her unless there is no hope at all," Karina told me, "Please try to save her."
"I'll try."
I worked on perla all that afternoon, first to stabilize her and then to figure out how much damage had been done. The x-ray showed that the damage wasn't as bad as I had at first imagined. My prognosis was that the dog would need casts on both back legs and an operation to place a titanium plate into the hip. All told a pretty serious price-tag even for a pure-blooded Cocker.
I left the examination room and returned to the waiting area where I had left Karina.
"It's what I suspected. Both back legs are broken. The right leg has a closed fracture and the left has a hairline fracture. The hip is what worries me. The only way to repair it is with an operation to place a plate in there. If Perla were an older dog I'd worry that she wouldn't survive the operation," I told her.
"What are her chances? Will she walk again?" Karina asked.
55) Fatal Eclipse- Dermot Davis ~~~~ [Reviews 2-24]
"That story melts my heart," Peter said, looking genuinely touched.
"I never believed in a soul mate connection before, have you?*
"Quite honestly, I haven't."
"With Jonathan and I, it's like we have this deep connection, this psychic connection, as if we can feel each other, on some subconscious level, I don't know," Maria said thoughtfully, as if it was the first time she was trying to explain it.
*You got better?" Peter asked, not wanting to dwell on the soul mate hocus pocus.
"They did put me in a loony bin," Maria said, smiling. "Put me on medication and I've been in and out a few times since but hopefully, I'm done with all that now."
"So what? It's Jonathan's turn to be crazy?" Peter joked and immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. That was in poor taste."
"You think he's going crazy?" Maria asked reasonably.
"No, of course not."
"Then what do you think?"
"Think about what?" Peter answered uncomfortably.
"Peter, I just shared with you the biggest secret of my life."
Yeah," Peter said, thinking hard about what he should share.
"We're all he's got, you and me. You've seen it. Ever since we got married he has been acting a bit crazy. If he needs help ..." Maria said with imploring eyes.
"I never believed in a soul mate connection before, have you?*
"Quite honestly, I haven't."
"With Jonathan and I, it's like we have this deep connection, this psychic connection, as if we can feel each other, on some subconscious level, I don't know," Maria said thoughtfully, as if it was the first time she was trying to explain it.
*You got better?" Peter asked, not wanting to dwell on the soul mate hocus pocus.
"They did put me in a loony bin," Maria said, smiling. "Put me on medication and I've been in and out a few times since but hopefully, I'm done with all that now."
"So what? It's Jonathan's turn to be crazy?" Peter joked and immediately regretted it. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. That was in poor taste."
"You think he's going crazy?" Maria asked reasonably.
"No, of course not."
"Then what do you think?"
"Think about what?" Peter answered uncomfortably.
"Peter, I just shared with you the biggest secret of my life."
Yeah," Peter said, thinking hard about what he should share.
"We're all he's got, you and me. You've seen it. Ever since we got married he has been acting a bit crazy. If he needs help ..." Maria said with imploring eyes.
56) One Before Bedtime- N. S. Johnson ~~~~ [Reviews 3-24]
Following Mama's exit, Sarah vowed a new, more efficient management at White Cliffs. The economy was rocky, so those lazy employees would be worked harder now, with a lower annual wage hike.
The White Cliff chef for five years, Jimmy St. George, was a popular guy; he'd been the Inn's chef and enjoyed wide latitude on the menus, having established the legendary St. George breakfasts. Each morning he'd make a theatrical appearance:
"Today, my friends, we've prepared Canadian bacon, sausages, ham and eggs, hot and cold cereals, fresh fruits, home fries and hash browns," he'd announce from the kitchen door. *May we also tempt you with our magnificent array of light and dark toast, jams, juices and jellies? None of that continental cuisine wish-wash here!" Guests applauded.
One morning after the dining room had emptied, Sarah stopped Jimmy with one of her let's-have-a-chat looks her employees had grown to loathe. "Hey Jimmy, how much breakfast you reckon we waste every day?" She said.
Jimmy had never been asked such a question, and was unaware of the consequences his careless answer would bring. "Oh, sometimes we chuck the scrambled eggs and leftover toast; staff grabs whatever's not eaten in the bacon and sausage department. My doggies get the rest."
"Sarah was not amused. "Food has become expensive, Jimmy, and I'd hate to lower wages because we can't control costs. Find out how we can start saving, OK?* Sarah figured her classes in home economics would pay off- she had a new Macbook and calculated that she'd have this inn sorted out straight away. Dad would be so proud; Mum could go stuff it.
The White Cliff chef for five years, Jimmy St. George, was a popular guy; he'd been the Inn's chef and enjoyed wide latitude on the menus, having established the legendary St. George breakfasts. Each morning he'd make a theatrical appearance:
"Today, my friends, we've prepared Canadian bacon, sausages, ham and eggs, hot and cold cereals, fresh fruits, home fries and hash browns," he'd announce from the kitchen door. *May we also tempt you with our magnificent array of light and dark toast, jams, juices and jellies? None of that continental cuisine wish-wash here!" Guests applauded.
One morning after the dining room had emptied, Sarah stopped Jimmy with one of her let's-have-a-chat looks her employees had grown to loathe. "Hey Jimmy, how much breakfast you reckon we waste every day?" She said.
Jimmy had never been asked such a question, and was unaware of the consequences his careless answer would bring. "Oh, sometimes we chuck the scrambled eggs and leftover toast; staff grabs whatever's not eaten in the bacon and sausage department. My doggies get the rest."
"Sarah was not amused. "Food has become expensive, Jimmy, and I'd hate to lower wages because we can't control costs. Find out how we can start saving, OK?* Sarah figured her classes in home economics would pay off- she had a new Macbook and calculated that she'd have this inn sorted out straight away. Dad would be so proud; Mum could go stuff it.
57) King's Table- Travis Daniel Bow ~~~~ [Reviews 4-24]
Nick planned to rest his army in the fields outside the town. They would stay for a day, drilling and waiting for reinforcements and supplies from the farm country surrounding. Then they would move on, northward, keeping the momentum that had so far sustained them.
He sat at a fire before his tent, chewing on a large slab of cornbread and wondering if there was any hope. He was sitting so, lost in his own thoughts, when Gary approached him.
"Sir," he said.
Nick sat up straight. Something in his right-hand man's tone or posture told him that Gary was not just stopping by to chat by the fire.
"Yes, Captain?"
"There's a rider, here to see you. She came down the road from the north, riding like hell, a couple minutes ago. Her horse's all foamed up and acting like it's going to die. Sentries stopped her in town. Almost shot her, she was riding so fast. She said she needed to talk to Wolf. I checked her for weapons. She seems OK."
"Who is she?"
"Don't know. She said her name was Diane, and she needed to see the Wolf immediately."
Nick stopped chewing and set his cornbread down.
"So you will see her?" Gary said. Nick realized he was on his feet already.
"Yes, he said. "Where is she?"
Gary's brows narrowed at Nick's suddenly anxious tone, but he answered. "Up in town. I can have someone bring her …"
"No, take me there."
Gary's brow dropped further and he looked at Nick from the sides of his eyes, but he obeyed. Nick mounted up and followed him, trying not to speculate.
It was Diane, and she looked haggard. When Nick saw her, sitting on the steps before the inn between two of his men, with lantern light gleaming off the dried sweat on her forehead and steam rising from her horse, he broke into a grin. Dismounting, he walked as quickly as the commander of an army could walk. She stood up to greet him.
"You're the Wolf?" she said, before he had fully reached the lantern light.
He sat at a fire before his tent, chewing on a large slab of cornbread and wondering if there was any hope. He was sitting so, lost in his own thoughts, when Gary approached him.
"Sir," he said.
Nick sat up straight. Something in his right-hand man's tone or posture told him that Gary was not just stopping by to chat by the fire.
"Yes, Captain?"
"There's a rider, here to see you. She came down the road from the north, riding like hell, a couple minutes ago. Her horse's all foamed up and acting like it's going to die. Sentries stopped her in town. Almost shot her, she was riding so fast. She said she needed to talk to Wolf. I checked her for weapons. She seems OK."
"Who is she?"
"Don't know. She said her name was Diane, and she needed to see the Wolf immediately."
Nick stopped chewing and set his cornbread down.
"So you will see her?" Gary said. Nick realized he was on his feet already.
"Yes, he said. "Where is she?"
Gary's brows narrowed at Nick's suddenly anxious tone, but he answered. "Up in town. I can have someone bring her …"
"No, take me there."
Gary's brow dropped further and he looked at Nick from the sides of his eyes, but he obeyed. Nick mounted up and followed him, trying not to speculate.
It was Diane, and she looked haggard. When Nick saw her, sitting on the steps before the inn between two of his men, with lantern light gleaming off the dried sweat on her forehead and steam rising from her horse, he broke into a grin. Dismounting, he walked as quickly as the commander of an army could walk. She stood up to greet him.
"You're the Wolf?" she said, before he had fully reached the lantern light.
58) Detour Trail- Joy V. Smith ~~~~ [Reviews 5-24]
She did make their server put their food on a tray and carry it up to them. When he put it on the old dresser, she clapped her hands in glee and stood by the door to encourage him to leave. Then she closed and locked the door. "Unfortunately, we can't eat it. It could be poisoned," she explained to Dennis. And, of course, they'll have keys. If I'd thought of it sooner, I'd have brought some cheese and jerky from our packs. I'm going to be really hungry by the morning."
Dennis saw that she was chatting to relieve the tension, and he looked at the bed. "So that's why you wanted one room. I should have guessed, but you had the bit in your teeth, and I had to let you run."
She nodded. " Want to take turns jumping up and down on the bed?"
He looked at her surprised and then blushed. "I'm not going to do the moaning and groaning, I swear!"
"Just grunt. A lot of men do that, or so I'm told. Then we'll go to bed early 'cause we're really tired; we'll have to keep watch." Lorrie was keyed up. She hoped they wouldn't have to wait long, but she remembered that she couldn't get too excited. This wasn't a game or a hunting trip. Not exactly, anyway.
After Dennis' first tentative jump, the bed squeaked and rocked. "I don't think it can take much activity," he told her. And blushed again.
She nodded and studied the walls, the dresser, the floor, and the bed carefully. "No bullet holes," she said thoughtfully. "Well, there wouldn't be, would there?"
"Why not?"
"Proof," she said. "They'd have to be careful."
"The poison would be a good idea,"he said, looking regretfully at the congealed food.
"I think they'll have backup. I would. There appears to be only one door. Check the walls." They examined all the walls, and Dennis crawled along the floor and peeked under the bed too. "I think one of us should be on each side of the door, we'll have to be careful not to shoot each other."
He was tempted to ask her if she was as confident as she sounded, but decided against it. "I think I'll just lie down for a while." Then he looked at the bed suspiciously. "Is it safe?"
"I don't know. Good question. The bedclothes should be safe," she added thoughtfully, pulling them carefully off the bed. They split the blankets between them and put out the lamp.
Dennis saw that she was chatting to relieve the tension, and he looked at the bed. "So that's why you wanted one room. I should have guessed, but you had the bit in your teeth, and I had to let you run."
She nodded. " Want to take turns jumping up and down on the bed?"
He looked at her surprised and then blushed. "I'm not going to do the moaning and groaning, I swear!"
"Just grunt. A lot of men do that, or so I'm told. Then we'll go to bed early 'cause we're really tired; we'll have to keep watch." Lorrie was keyed up. She hoped they wouldn't have to wait long, but she remembered that she couldn't get too excited. This wasn't a game or a hunting trip. Not exactly, anyway.
After Dennis' first tentative jump, the bed squeaked and rocked. "I don't think it can take much activity," he told her. And blushed again.
She nodded and studied the walls, the dresser, the floor, and the bed carefully. "No bullet holes," she said thoughtfully. "Well, there wouldn't be, would there?"
"Why not?"
"Proof," she said. "They'd have to be careful."
"The poison would be a good idea,"he said, looking regretfully at the congealed food.
"I think they'll have backup. I would. There appears to be only one door. Check the walls." They examined all the walls, and Dennis crawled along the floor and peeked under the bed too. "I think one of us should be on each side of the door, we'll have to be careful not to shoot each other."
He was tempted to ask her if she was as confident as she sounded, but decided against it. "I think I'll just lie down for a while." Then he looked at the bed suspiciously. "Is it safe?"
"I don't know. Good question. The bedclothes should be safe," she added thoughtfully, pulling them carefully off the bed. They split the blankets between them and put out the lamp.
59) Eden Green- Fiona van Dahl ~~~~ [Reviews 1-25]
I want to ... to be able ... to decide? ... no, control, the ... circumstances? ... of my death.
My breath shudders in and out of my lungs, but that rabbit-terror is going down.
What frightened me to my core the previous night wasn't the ex attack, the wound it gave me, the blood I lost, the pain I endured. It was the knowledge that if it had kept on mindlessly attacking me, and if more of its friends had shown up to overpower me, I would have been trapped, at their mercy, forever. Not for the rest of a delicate human life -anywhere from ten minutes to eighty years- but forever-
I could be crushed under a collapsed building, unable to move, injuries ever healing. I could sink to the bottom of the ocean. I could survive through the destruction of civilization, the reddening of the sun, and the heat death of the universe.
That would be my afterlife: trapped, alone, crushed, cold, forever.
No.
I will not quietly endure while my memories are overwritten, my body is maimed and mutated, and my mind deteriorates. I will not suffer as Tedrin has, and I will not become like him. Suddenly, discovering a way for he and I and Ron to die seems less a method of revenge and more an act of love.
But it's not like, once the method is in my hand or standing before me, it's not like I'll kill us immediately. It's not that I want to die right now; let's be precise. I want to be able to choose the circumstances of my death. If, a few months down the line, my reason abandons me and I begin to lose track of my identity, perhaps I'll end the process then. The option is what matters.
I slowly resume sorting.
The supreme irony is that I've always been against euthanasia.
Snicker.
I put on a load of laundry and start on my full sink of dirty dishes. By the time the washer buzzes, the sink is empty. I switch the load of wet clothes to the dryer, start a new load in the washer, sweep the kitchen floor, vacuum the living room, set my bed, put away random objects I've used in the past few days, wipe down my computer desk, switch out the washer and dryer, carry the dry clothes towards the bedroom to put away-
I stand in the living room, a laundry basket at my hip, and look around at my clean apartment. It looks unlived-in.
This is what it looks like when someone sets their affairs in order.
I place the basket in my room, then go back to the computer. My 'life story' document is still open, though in the 'offline' mode. Whatever changes I make won't sync until my internet connection is restored. I edit the paragraph at the beginning.
If you are the bearer of this document, and you've been feeling a little confused lately, and your head is made of needles, and you appear to be immortal- let me ask you this: do you remember the deer stand? If so keep reading; I've detailed as much as I can. Hope it helps. Also, your name is Eden Green.
My breath shudders in and out of my lungs, but that rabbit-terror is going down.
What frightened me to my core the previous night wasn't the ex attack, the wound it gave me, the blood I lost, the pain I endured. It was the knowledge that if it had kept on mindlessly attacking me, and if more of its friends had shown up to overpower me, I would have been trapped, at their mercy, forever. Not for the rest of a delicate human life -anywhere from ten minutes to eighty years- but forever-
I could be crushed under a collapsed building, unable to move, injuries ever healing. I could sink to the bottom of the ocean. I could survive through the destruction of civilization, the reddening of the sun, and the heat death of the universe.
That would be my afterlife: trapped, alone, crushed, cold, forever.
No.
I will not quietly endure while my memories are overwritten, my body is maimed and mutated, and my mind deteriorates. I will not suffer as Tedrin has, and I will not become like him. Suddenly, discovering a way for he and I and Ron to die seems less a method of revenge and more an act of love.
But it's not like, once the method is in my hand or standing before me, it's not like I'll kill us immediately. It's not that I want to die right now; let's be precise. I want to be able to choose the circumstances of my death. If, a few months down the line, my reason abandons me and I begin to lose track of my identity, perhaps I'll end the process then. The option is what matters.
I slowly resume sorting.
The supreme irony is that I've always been against euthanasia.
Snicker.
I put on a load of laundry and start on my full sink of dirty dishes. By the time the washer buzzes, the sink is empty. I switch the load of wet clothes to the dryer, start a new load in the washer, sweep the kitchen floor, vacuum the living room, set my bed, put away random objects I've used in the past few days, wipe down my computer desk, switch out the washer and dryer, carry the dry clothes towards the bedroom to put away-
I stand in the living room, a laundry basket at my hip, and look around at my clean apartment. It looks unlived-in.
This is what it looks like when someone sets their affairs in order.
I place the basket in my room, then go back to the computer. My 'life story' document is still open, though in the 'offline' mode. Whatever changes I make won't sync until my internet connection is restored. I edit the paragraph at the beginning.
If you are the bearer of this document, and you've been feeling a little confused lately, and your head is made of needles, and you appear to be immortal- let me ask you this: do you remember the deer stand? If so keep reading; I've detailed as much as I can. Hope it helps. Also, your name is Eden Green.
60) Murder in Plain Sight- Nikki Broadwell ~~~~ [Reviews 2-25]
"Hi Sis, how ya doin'?"
I felt the blood drain from my face. "Fine, Randall. Did you sleep here last night by chance?"
He smirked and then adjusted something on his belt. "Didn't think you'd mind. How about we get out of here for a while?"
When I looked close I saw a gun hidden under his jacket. My heartbeat quickened as I tried to maintain calm. "The store is open- I can't leave."
Randall came close and grabbed me by the arm. "I think you can. We have unfinished business to attend to and with me along there'll be no more fooling around."
I tried to pull away but his grip was strong and now the gun was pointed at my middle. "What are you talking about?" I asked, stalling for time.
"I'm talking about the money, moron. We're going to the bank together." He dragged me out the door toward a rusted-out beater parked across the street.
"I've got to lock up!"
He scoffed. "None of your clientele would think to steal anything. You'll be back to close up if all goes according to plan."
He pushed me into the passenger side of his car and then went to the driver's side, all the while pointing the gun at me. To say I was scared was an understatement- the look in his eyes was not normal. "Are you taking drugs?"
He laughed, a nasty sound. "I've sampled this and that. The pharmacist, Brent, keeps me on track." He turned the key and the car sputtered a couple of times before coming to life. It backfired as we pulled away from the curb and then Randall put his foot on the gas heading in the direction of town.
"Did you kill Serena?"
"You mean that woman that got poisoned? That's not my style. I prefer my victims to suffer for a while."
I was staring out the window trying to think whether to jump from the car when he suddenly veered off and headed in another direction. "You know on second thought I think kidnapping you might afford me a bigger payout. What do you think?"
I felt the blood drain from my face. "Fine, Randall. Did you sleep here last night by chance?"
He smirked and then adjusted something on his belt. "Didn't think you'd mind. How about we get out of here for a while?"
When I looked close I saw a gun hidden under his jacket. My heartbeat quickened as I tried to maintain calm. "The store is open- I can't leave."
Randall came close and grabbed me by the arm. "I think you can. We have unfinished business to attend to and with me along there'll be no more fooling around."
I tried to pull away but his grip was strong and now the gun was pointed at my middle. "What are you talking about?" I asked, stalling for time.
"I'm talking about the money, moron. We're going to the bank together." He dragged me out the door toward a rusted-out beater parked across the street.
"I've got to lock up!"
He scoffed. "None of your clientele would think to steal anything. You'll be back to close up if all goes according to plan."
He pushed me into the passenger side of his car and then went to the driver's side, all the while pointing the gun at me. To say I was scared was an understatement- the look in his eyes was not normal. "Are you taking drugs?"
He laughed, a nasty sound. "I've sampled this and that. The pharmacist, Brent, keeps me on track." He turned the key and the car sputtered a couple of times before coming to life. It backfired as we pulled away from the curb and then Randall put his foot on the gas heading in the direction of town.
"Did you kill Serena?"
"You mean that woman that got poisoned? That's not my style. I prefer my victims to suffer for a while."
I was staring out the window trying to think whether to jump from the car when he suddenly veered off and headed in another direction. "You know on second thought I think kidnapping you might afford me a bigger payout. What do you think?"
61) Tales of Byzantium- Eileen Stephenson ~~~~ [Reviews 1-26]
She arrived at the great hall, her breath issuing in puffs of frosty white. From a distance, she watched eunuchs and servants passing in and out of the building until she saw one she recognized and thought she could trust.
"Demitrius," she hissed at him to get his attention.
The old eunuch looked around, confused until she caught his eye.
"I need you to find my husband and tell him I must speak with him here,"she said, trying not to appear too anxious. "Please don't disturb anyone else when you speak with him."
The servant disappeared into the golden throne room, and a few minutes later, Constantine emerged, wondering what she needed.
Helena pulled him around from the side entrance and sank into his arms, enjoying the warmth he emanated.
"I just wanted to see you," she said. "That's all. Is it so bad that a woman should want to see her husband?"
"I think you must be the boldest woman I've ever known,"he said, kissing her. "Boldest, or maybe the most foolhardy. I'm not sure which it is."
"Foolhardy is what I think it is, for both of you" said a voice behind them. "Would you mind telling me what is going on here?" Emperor Romanus glared at them.
Constantine stiffened at the sound of his father-in-law's-the usurper's-voice. A protective arm around Helena, he turned defiantly to Romanus and said, "I'm kissing the wife you gave me." Helena put a cautionary hand on his arm before he could say more.
"Father, can we talk about this?" she asked.
"I think we need to," Romanus answered, scowling at his daughter. He stood before them, red-faced and angry, his fists on his hips. He jerked his head at Constantine. "You, back inside. I'll speak with you," indicating Helena, "later:"
Constantine did not move; he only glared at Romanus: He was about to speak when Helena said, "Constantine and I both need to speak with you."
"Demitrius," she hissed at him to get his attention.
The old eunuch looked around, confused until she caught his eye.
"I need you to find my husband and tell him I must speak with him here,"she said, trying not to appear too anxious. "Please don't disturb anyone else when you speak with him."
The servant disappeared into the golden throne room, and a few minutes later, Constantine emerged, wondering what she needed.
Helena pulled him around from the side entrance and sank into his arms, enjoying the warmth he emanated.
"I just wanted to see you," she said. "That's all. Is it so bad that a woman should want to see her husband?"
"I think you must be the boldest woman I've ever known,"he said, kissing her. "Boldest, or maybe the most foolhardy. I'm not sure which it is."
"Foolhardy is what I think it is, for both of you" said a voice behind them. "Would you mind telling me what is going on here?" Emperor Romanus glared at them.
Constantine stiffened at the sound of his father-in-law's-the usurper's-voice. A protective arm around Helena, he turned defiantly to Romanus and said, "I'm kissing the wife you gave me." Helena put a cautionary hand on his arm before he could say more.
"Father, can we talk about this?" she asked.
"I think we need to," Romanus answered, scowling at his daughter. He stood before them, red-faced and angry, his fists on his hips. He jerked his head at Constantine. "You, back inside. I'll speak with you," indicating Helena, "later:"
Constantine did not move; he only glared at Romanus: He was about to speak when Helena said, "Constantine and I both need to speak with you."
62) Jersey Justice- Vinnie Sorce ~~~~ [Reviews 1-27]
Her first day on the job, she cut off Gil Jacob's pinky with a pair of pinking shears because he was six hours late with a C note payment. Granted, Gilbert Jacobs was a degenerate gambler who never won a bet in his sad, sorry life, but after that no one dared make any trouble. Plus, Tony Micelli now had enormous respect for her. She didn't kick directly up to the big guy, but she did buy protection.
Sam was somebody I could go for. Tall and blonde with a body to kill for. I'd known that body once- just once. She was still just bookkeeping at the time. My credit was in the crapper then and I borrowed five grand from Samuel to buy a car. He was pretty good about the vig and I made sure all my payments were on time because of it. The night I made the last payment, Samantha was alone in the shop and looking amazing. It was July, and Jersey had hit the hundred degree mark with just as much humidity. With the heat so high, it made Sam's cleavage very low. Her breasts were perfection on steroids.
She caught me staring. She looked up and smiled. "You wanna touch them, don't you?" She asked in a throaty, sultry voice.
I was caught without a word in my mouth. She moved a step closer. I didn't know what was going on. There had been no apparent attraction before. Not from her, at least. Me, I got hard just at the sight of her.
"So ... You gonna or not, Jimmy?"
"Um, gonna, um, what?" I stammered out like a school boy.
"Touch 'em silly." She took another step closer. She was my height and I could feel her warm breath on my face.
It was an amazing night. I was a little worried about her father. He was very overprotective. But she never gave me another look. I was just another notch on her bedpost, or in this case, deli counter.
Sam was somebody I could go for. Tall and blonde with a body to kill for. I'd known that body once- just once. She was still just bookkeeping at the time. My credit was in the crapper then and I borrowed five grand from Samuel to buy a car. He was pretty good about the vig and I made sure all my payments were on time because of it. The night I made the last payment, Samantha was alone in the shop and looking amazing. It was July, and Jersey had hit the hundred degree mark with just as much humidity. With the heat so high, it made Sam's cleavage very low. Her breasts were perfection on steroids.
She caught me staring. She looked up and smiled. "You wanna touch them, don't you?" She asked in a throaty, sultry voice.
I was caught without a word in my mouth. She moved a step closer. I didn't know what was going on. There had been no apparent attraction before. Not from her, at least. Me, I got hard just at the sight of her.
"So ... You gonna or not, Jimmy?"
"Um, gonna, um, what?" I stammered out like a school boy.
"Touch 'em silly." She took another step closer. She was my height and I could feel her warm breath on my face.
It was an amazing night. I was a little worried about her father. He was very overprotective. But she never gave me another look. I was just another notch on her bedpost, or in this case, deli counter.
63) Paw-Prints of the Gods- Steph Bennion ~~~~ [Reviews 1-28]
Tau Ceti had set by the time the rattling transport clambered unsteadily up the receding slopes of the valley. Their journey past the charred horrors of the canyon was tense but in the end uneventful, thought Kedesh, Ravana, Artorius and the greys remained on edge until the headlamps once again fell upon the road. They emerged just just a few kilometres north of the airstrip, but the scanner revealed some good news in that the Que Qiao police cruiser had gone. When the navigation consule finally managed to link with the Falsafah's satellite, it revealed the blip of a small spacecraft, high above the mountains, halfway between themselves and the Arallu Wastes.
Kedesh had by now cleaned herself up after her battle with the spiders and swapped places with Ravana at the controls, leaving Artorius and the greys to doze in the cabin behind. The depot ahead at the end of the road slowely resolved into a squat grey dome, similar to the Dhusarian enclave that Ravana, Artorius and the greys had left behind over two Terran days ago. The dome nestled in a natural hollow and the surrounding dunes were littered with an astonishing profusion of solar panals, far more than would be expected to power a small outpost on a planet relatively near to its sun. The gravel road led straight to a large airlock in the side of the dome that lit up beneath the light of a red warning beacon as they drew near, awakened to their presence by automatic sensors.
The airlock entrance slid open. Kedesh guided the clattering transport into a crescendo of noise from the labouring engine and brought the transport to a halt. The door behind closed. After a short pause, the inner door opened and she drove onwards into the dome, brought the transport to a stop next to the remains of another dilapidated vehicle and killed the engine. Ravana stared blankly through the cracked windscreen at the surrounding hangar, subdued by the silence. Beside her, Kedesh slumped back in her seat and wearily rubbed her eyes.
"I thought you said this place was abandoned," murmured Ravana.
"Years ago," the women replied. She lowered her hands. "Oh no: Not again."
At the far end of the hangar, regarding them coolly, a dark-haired woman leaned casually in the exit doorway. Tall and slim with olive-hued skin, she wore a long coat of black and silver fur totally inappropriate for the utilitarian surroundings of the hangar. Yet what captivated Ravana's attention were the woman's piercing yellow eyes, which scrutinised the transport in the manner of a cat contemplating a bowl of cream. As their gazes met, the woman gave a knowing smile and promptly vanished right before their eyes. Ravana caught a glimpse of something small and furry leaping lightly away through the open door and then it too was gone. The door slid closed with a hiss.
Kedesh had by now cleaned herself up after her battle with the spiders and swapped places with Ravana at the controls, leaving Artorius and the greys to doze in the cabin behind. The depot ahead at the end of the road slowely resolved into a squat grey dome, similar to the Dhusarian enclave that Ravana, Artorius and the greys had left behind over two Terran days ago. The dome nestled in a natural hollow and the surrounding dunes were littered with an astonishing profusion of solar panals, far more than would be expected to power a small outpost on a planet relatively near to its sun. The gravel road led straight to a large airlock in the side of the dome that lit up beneath the light of a red warning beacon as they drew near, awakened to their presence by automatic sensors.
The airlock entrance slid open. Kedesh guided the clattering transport into a crescendo of noise from the labouring engine and brought the transport to a halt. The door behind closed. After a short pause, the inner door opened and she drove onwards into the dome, brought the transport to a stop next to the remains of another dilapidated vehicle and killed the engine. Ravana stared blankly through the cracked windscreen at the surrounding hangar, subdued by the silence. Beside her, Kedesh slumped back in her seat and wearily rubbed her eyes.
"I thought you said this place was abandoned," murmured Ravana.
"Years ago," the women replied. She lowered her hands. "Oh no: Not again."
At the far end of the hangar, regarding them coolly, a dark-haired woman leaned casually in the exit doorway. Tall and slim with olive-hued skin, she wore a long coat of black and silver fur totally inappropriate for the utilitarian surroundings of the hangar. Yet what captivated Ravana's attention were the woman's piercing yellow eyes, which scrutinised the transport in the manner of a cat contemplating a bowl of cream. As their gazes met, the woman gave a knowing smile and promptly vanished right before their eyes. Ravana caught a glimpse of something small and furry leaping lightly away through the open door and then it too was gone. The door slid closed with a hiss.
64) I Am Sleepless Sim 299- Johan Twiss ~~~~ [Reviews 2-26]
Dixon slid the door open to leave and suddenly jumped backwards a step.
"What the batmonkeys!" he swore in surprise.
The massive form of General Estrago stood behind the door, filling the entryway.
"Uhmm, General Estrago, sir." Dixon hastily recovered, coming to attention. The rest of the cadets followed suit and saluted the general.
General Estrago gave a slight nod of recognition, seemingly unsurprised to see Dixon and Zana in Aidan's room. "Pardon the interruption," he said in his deep voice, gently pulling on his beard with one hand. "But there is a matter of urgency that must be addressed."
The young primes eyed one another, wondering what General Estrago knew about their preparations for sim 299.
"I shall get right to the point. Cadets Aidan, Palomas, and Fig, I would like to introduce you to the newest member of your coterie."
General Estrago stepped into the room, revealing a boy with scarlet skin, standing behind him in the doorway. The boy looked about Aidan's age and had fiery red hair that stood straight up like a flame. He wore a red Rthos Army uniform and his face was a mask of seriousness. The only hint of emotion he showed was a slight arch of his left eyebrow as his eyes scanned the room, taking in Aidan and his fellow cadets.
"This is Masay. As you can see, he is a vigori. Very rare. He has been transferred here from one of our distant training facilities in the north, specifically to join your coterie. I ask that you take him to class with you and help him become acquainted with Mount Fegorio. Treat him as one of your own, since he is now an official member of your coterie."
General Estrago paused to let the news settle while Aidan, Fig and Palomas stood stunned.
"I understand you have a new trial this evening," General Estrago continued. "Masay should prove quite the asset during your battles."
Masay did not smile or frown, trying to keep a serious face. His bright red hair, uniform and skin stood out against the gray walls of Aidan's room like a burning flame.
Polomas narrowed her eyes. The newcomer commanded attention. Without saying a word, she could tell he was a natural leader. He reminded her of Aidan, but different. There was no gentleness in eyes.
"Hello," Masay said, offering his hand to Ajdan. "It's good to meet you."
"What the batmonkeys!" he swore in surprise.
The massive form of General Estrago stood behind the door, filling the entryway.
"Uhmm, General Estrago, sir." Dixon hastily recovered, coming to attention. The rest of the cadets followed suit and saluted the general.
General Estrago gave a slight nod of recognition, seemingly unsurprised to see Dixon and Zana in Aidan's room. "Pardon the interruption," he said in his deep voice, gently pulling on his beard with one hand. "But there is a matter of urgency that must be addressed."
The young primes eyed one another, wondering what General Estrago knew about their preparations for sim 299.
"I shall get right to the point. Cadets Aidan, Palomas, and Fig, I would like to introduce you to the newest member of your coterie."
General Estrago stepped into the room, revealing a boy with scarlet skin, standing behind him in the doorway. The boy looked about Aidan's age and had fiery red hair that stood straight up like a flame. He wore a red Rthos Army uniform and his face was a mask of seriousness. The only hint of emotion he showed was a slight arch of his left eyebrow as his eyes scanned the room, taking in Aidan and his fellow cadets.
"This is Masay. As you can see, he is a vigori. Very rare. He has been transferred here from one of our distant training facilities in the north, specifically to join your coterie. I ask that you take him to class with you and help him become acquainted with Mount Fegorio. Treat him as one of your own, since he is now an official member of your coterie."
General Estrago paused to let the news settle while Aidan, Fig and Palomas stood stunned.
"I understand you have a new trial this evening," General Estrago continued. "Masay should prove quite the asset during your battles."
Masay did not smile or frown, trying to keep a serious face. His bright red hair, uniform and skin stood out against the gray walls of Aidan's room like a burning flame.
Polomas narrowed her eyes. The newcomer commanded attention. Without saying a word, she could tell he was a natural leader. He reminded her of Aidan, but different. There was no gentleness in eyes.
"Hello," Masay said, offering his hand to Ajdan. "It's good to meet you."
65) The Prophet of Marathon- Bob Waldner ~~~~ [Reviews 3-25]
When I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep at night, it wasn't Wainwright's face, or even Jill's, that haunted me. It was Liz's. Of all the things I'd discovered about Wainwright, it was the idea of him selling young women to old men that made me sick. At first, I tried to convince myself that it hadn't really happened. After all, Jill was the one who'd told me about it, and her word had proven less than trustworthy. As much as I wanted to dismiss it, though, I couldn't discount what I'd seen with my own eyes. There was Liz, wide-eyed and chattering away as I delivered her to that truck stop in Georgia, and Barbara mopping the floor of a house that she co-owned with a man forty years her senior. And even if Jill had fabricated the story about her father trying to marry her off to the old codger with the oxygen tank, I knew that Wainwright had, at the very least, been willing to pimp her into a sexual relationship with me in order to further his money- making scheme. There was too much there to ignore.
The realization that Jill's father had ordered her into my bed so that he could make half a million bucks ensured that I'd probably never figure out exactly how I felt about her.She might not have been damaged in the way that she's told me, but it was hard not to see her as having been used badly by Wainwright. Even so, I struggled to gin up the sympathy that her situation seemed to demand. I'd never been in love before, and learning that the whole thing had been nothing more that play-acting on her part stung. Fair or not, I found myself unable to put all of the blame on the old man.
Liz, though, was another story. I was the one who'd fetched Wainwright's money from Miami, and I was the one who'd taken her to Georgia and watched her get driven away in that silver Lincoln. It wasn't just a question of figuring out if Wainwright had done something terrible to her. Her pedicament was on me as well. Before I could get on with my life, I was going to have to figure out what we'd done to Liz.
The realization that Jill's father had ordered her into my bed so that he could make half a million bucks ensured that I'd probably never figure out exactly how I felt about her.She might not have been damaged in the way that she's told me, but it was hard not to see her as having been used badly by Wainwright. Even so, I struggled to gin up the sympathy that her situation seemed to demand. I'd never been in love before, and learning that the whole thing had been nothing more that play-acting on her part stung. Fair or not, I found myself unable to put all of the blame on the old man.
Liz, though, was another story. I was the one who'd fetched Wainwright's money from Miami, and I was the one who'd taken her to Georgia and watched her get driven away in that silver Lincoln. It wasn't just a question of figuring out if Wainwright had done something terrible to her. Her pedicament was on me as well. Before I could get on with my life, I was going to have to figure out what we'd done to Liz.
66) Idyll- James Derry ~~~~ [Reviews 4-25]
Each evening, as the sun flattened itself against the gauzy horizon, Samuel squeezed a circle of accelerant gel onto the hard packed dirt and set it ablaze. The interminable heat of the day was whisked away into the darkening sky, and the stars rained down their ice-cold light. Miriam and Virginia huddled around the campfire and talked with Walt. Occasionally the sisters (mostly Virginia) would tell interesting stories about their lives in Belleterre, but Walt seemed to do most of the talking, prattling on and on about ecology or medicine or history.
One night Walt tipped his head back and said, "Look at all those stars."
"They're beautiful," Miriam said.
Samuel had been watching the wing moon and the fin moon; both of them had waned to chubby crescent shapes, so that they resembled their namesakes. The wing moon resembled an eagle's wing, soaring effortlessly over the flats. The fin moon was a green blade, slicing through the night like a fish through frigid water.
Virginia cleared her throat. "Think about it, the starlight we see right now happened before the Lullaby started."
Walt nodded, "Nearly all of this starlight has been traveling through space for longer that we've been alive. This vista is older than we are. It's the ancient past."
"No wonder it doesn't carry any heat." Samuel watched an ember of dust rise out of the fire. It drifted upward in the wind, its glow mournfully fading to nothing.
"What?" Walt asked. "Do you understand what we mean Sam?"
Virginia quickly interjected, "I wonder if any of those stars we see are more than 617 lightyears away? We could be seeing the light from before the settlers left Earth."
Walt blinked and smiled, "I'm afraid it's more complicated than that. You see, Mother Earth isn't 617 lightyears away."
"I know..."Virginia said.
"It's about thirteen lightyears away. But Marathon couldn't travel as fast as light- not nearly- so the voyage took 617 years."
"Here's another interesting thing to consider: Marathon was travelling so fast that it spent most of the voyage slowly creating fuel that it then used to fire retro-thrusters. Marathon spent over 400 years breaking."
One night Walt tipped his head back and said, "Look at all those stars."
"They're beautiful," Miriam said.
Samuel had been watching the wing moon and the fin moon; both of them had waned to chubby crescent shapes, so that they resembled their namesakes. The wing moon resembled an eagle's wing, soaring effortlessly over the flats. The fin moon was a green blade, slicing through the night like a fish through frigid water.
Virginia cleared her throat. "Think about it, the starlight we see right now happened before the Lullaby started."
Walt nodded, "Nearly all of this starlight has been traveling through space for longer that we've been alive. This vista is older than we are. It's the ancient past."
"No wonder it doesn't carry any heat." Samuel watched an ember of dust rise out of the fire. It drifted upward in the wind, its glow mournfully fading to nothing.
"What?" Walt asked. "Do you understand what we mean Sam?"
Virginia quickly interjected, "I wonder if any of those stars we see are more than 617 lightyears away? We could be seeing the light from before the settlers left Earth."
Walt blinked and smiled, "I'm afraid it's more complicated than that. You see, Mother Earth isn't 617 lightyears away."
"I know..."Virginia said.
"It's about thirteen lightyears away. But Marathon couldn't travel as fast as light- not nearly- so the voyage took 617 years."
"Here's another interesting thing to consider: Marathon was travelling so fast that it spent most of the voyage slowly creating fuel that it then used to fire retro-thrusters. Marathon spent over 400 years breaking."
67) The Theory of Irony- Erik Von Norden ~~~~ [Reviews 4-26]
"Evil Prince John," it should be known, was not fully evil, though he is accurately remembered as one of the worst monarchs in British history (for mostly different reasons). Prince John did not actually lead a tyrannical coup during King Richard's absence as in all those Hollywood movies. What he did, at risk of oversimplifying, was depose Richard's "Justiciar" - sort of a medieval second in command - and temporarily took over the City of London. The truth is that the Justiciar was even more hated than John and the City had basically demanded such action. The Prince was not evil, time would prove, but incompetent and in fact the bumbling John was forgiven by his brother and would soon become King anyway (Shakespeare wrote a play about him, too). Good King Richard, as showcased in those same movies, did spend an aweful lot of time swash-buckling about the Middle East, and though it is almost never made fully explicit on the screen, he was then off fighting in something called the Third Crusade, which lasted from 1189-1192. And while the real Richard did partake in that unique adventure, he was only one of several prominent Kings that went along on the trip.
Among them rode veteran Holy Roman Emperor, Freserick "the Great" Barbarossa (effective reign, 1152-1190) who may be one of history's most overrated figures. He gained fame fighting back in the Second Crusade, as hagiographers never tired of reminding us, but those same writers often failed to mention that effort was a complete disaster. Later, Frederick came to rule a German Empire basically masquerading as a "Holy Roman" one and as such, invaded Italy about a half-dozen times trying to assert power there. He was best known for heading up the German wing of the Third Crusade, marching overland as twice before, except now actually winning a series of battles against the Turks. Had the Emperor continued as planned the Crusades might have ended after almost a century in a stunning military victory with a resurgent Christian Europe overrunning all the Middle East. But just as Saladin was getting understandably skittish, Frederick fell off his horse while crossing a river, he sank like a rock swaddled in armour and never came up for air. His army responded to the news in various ways - some panicked and fled, some deserted to the other side, some committed suicide on the spot and a small number linked up with the French and English.
Nevertheless, Holy Roman Emperor Frederick Barbarossa evolved into something of a legend in European history. He was depicted in Medieval myths returning from death to battle the anti-Christ and he was portrayed by writers of the Romantic Movement as kind of a reincarnated Charlemagne.
Among them rode veteran Holy Roman Emperor, Freserick "the Great" Barbarossa (effective reign, 1152-1190) who may be one of history's most overrated figures. He gained fame fighting back in the Second Crusade, as hagiographers never tired of reminding us, but those same writers often failed to mention that effort was a complete disaster. Later, Frederick came to rule a German Empire basically masquerading as a "Holy Roman" one and as such, invaded Italy about a half-dozen times trying to assert power there. He was best known for heading up the German wing of the Third Crusade, marching overland as twice before, except now actually winning a series of battles against the Turks. Had the Emperor continued as planned the Crusades might have ended after almost a century in a stunning military victory with a resurgent Christian Europe overrunning all the Middle East. But just as Saladin was getting understandably skittish, Frederick fell off his horse while crossing a river, he sank like a rock swaddled in armour and never came up for air. His army responded to the news in various ways - some panicked and fled, some deserted to the other side, some committed suicide on the spot and a small number linked up with the French and English.
Nevertheless, Holy Roman Emperor Frederick Barbarossa evolved into something of a legend in European history. He was depicted in Medieval myths returning from death to battle the anti-Christ and he was portrayed by writers of the Romantic Movement as kind of a reincarnated Charlemagne.
68) A Tale of Moral Corruption- Marsha Cornelius ~~~~ [Reviews 2-27]
I squat down next to Evan. "Look how she uses her trunk to eat. That's so different from how we eat. But different is okay. Right Buddy?"
He seems mesmerized by the animals. Then he opens his mouth, and for a second, I think he's going to cough.
"Eh-fant."
I'm stunned. He won't look at me, but I can tell by the hunch of his shoulders that he's waiting for my reaction. I pull him into my arms and hug him tight.
"Oh, Evan. Thank you so much for talking to me."
Instead of making a big production out of it, I tousle his hair. "You ready to see some parakeets?"
We wander on, and he does a pretty good job of saying 'boods' for birds.He's not getting the 'r' yet, but most of our three-year-olds are struggling with that. when I point to a parakeet and ask him what color it is, he says 'boo' for blue. But when I ask him to identify green, he won't.
"It's green," I say, but he won't repeat it.
I pick him up and hold him right in front of my face. "Are you afraid to talk because your words don't sound like mine?"
He put's on a sad face.
"Hey, I don't care how you sound. I care about you. And I'd love to talk to you."
His bottom lip trembles, and my eyes get all misty. I think seeing me so emotional gets to him. He holds his breath, moves his lips all around, and says 'peen'.
"That's right," I laugh and give him a squeeze. "Green. Good job."
"I put him down and grab his hand. "Come on you little faker. You're going to tell me what every one of these animals is."
He beams as he trots along beside me.
By the end of our adventure, I've got a pretty good idea of his articulation problems. He has mastered his 'Ps' and 'Bs', and he's doing really good with 'Ms' and 'Ns' which is amazing considering he doesn't talk. His biggest problem seems to be the 'Gs' and'Ks'.
I can't wait to talk to Sylvia about it back at the daycare.
He seems mesmerized by the animals. Then he opens his mouth, and for a second, I think he's going to cough.
"Eh-fant."
I'm stunned. He won't look at me, but I can tell by the hunch of his shoulders that he's waiting for my reaction. I pull him into my arms and hug him tight.
"Oh, Evan. Thank you so much for talking to me."
Instead of making a big production out of it, I tousle his hair. "You ready to see some parakeets?"
We wander on, and he does a pretty good job of saying 'boods' for birds.He's not getting the 'r' yet, but most of our three-year-olds are struggling with that. when I point to a parakeet and ask him what color it is, he says 'boo' for blue. But when I ask him to identify green, he won't.
"It's green," I say, but he won't repeat it.
I pick him up and hold him right in front of my face. "Are you afraid to talk because your words don't sound like mine?"
He put's on a sad face.
"Hey, I don't care how you sound. I care about you. And I'd love to talk to you."
His bottom lip trembles, and my eyes get all misty. I think seeing me so emotional gets to him. He holds his breath, moves his lips all around, and says 'peen'.
"That's right," I laugh and give him a squeeze. "Green. Good job."
"I put him down and grab his hand. "Come on you little faker. You're going to tell me what every one of these animals is."
He beams as he trots along beside me.
By the end of our adventure, I've got a pretty good idea of his articulation problems. He has mastered his 'Ps' and 'Bs', and he's doing really good with 'Ms' and 'Ns' which is amazing considering he doesn't talk. His biggest problem seems to be the 'Gs' and'Ks'.
I can't wait to talk to Sylvia about it back at the daycare.
69) The Lost Thorn- Joshua P. Aguayo ~~~~ [Reviews 4-27]
I made my way to the indicated bench, and after a few minutes of fumbling with my thumbs, a well trimmed, tall man in an elegant violet suit sat next to me. I noticed we were on the blind spot of one of the nearby cameras and conveniently, also out of Kiri's sight.
"What's up?" I asked after a few seconds.
"So you want to buy?"
Damn, no foreplay? I hate guys like this. "Yeah, how much per drop?"
"Twenty-five."
"Really!?" I pretended to obnoxiously jump in excitement. "I thought they were fifty."
He scanned my expression and then flashed a charming smile. "Those are scams."
"Yeah... I figured that bitch in my school was insane." I frowned and pulled out a display and pretended to log in to some BitCredit wallet. Then I pretended to be nervous and uncomfortable. Well, maybe I wasn't pretending that part.
"Problem?" The man asked gently.
"Yeah, it's a shared wallet so I need to call my sister, but I'm out of change, can I borrow a call?"
"Are you serious?" His tone suddenly turned sour.
"Yeah, Look, I'm sorry. But maybe I can buy some more if I talk her into it? You know, for the trouble?"
"Just make it quick." He pulled a display from his own P.A.D."
"Ah. sorry. No audi-neural link." I pointed towards my ear.
"Just make sure you clean it afterwards." He nailed an auricular to my hand. "Number?"
I gave him Marcus' number and walked away a few steps. I met eyes with the stone lion at the base of the monument to freedom.
"Who's this?" Came his martial thundering voice, on the other side of the line.
"It's me. Listen. I don't have a lot of time."
"What's the matter?"
"You wanted your outside dealers? You got them. The guy is selling Obsidian at twenty-five. Now tell me, where did you get that thing on your basement? Quick." Hopefully he would understand what I was talking about, Kiri once told me that all calls are randomly recorded, so it's a good idea to avoid explicit questions and names when possible.
"Mama's Boy's. That's a rival gang.
"Where did they get it?" I looked back, suit man was getting evidently impatient. "Hurry."
"The Brink. Some accident." Probably the Boys provoked the 'accident' themselves.
"What was the closest airport?"
"I don't have all day sweetie!" Suit man yelled from behind me.
"What's up?" I asked after a few seconds.
"So you want to buy?"
Damn, no foreplay? I hate guys like this. "Yeah, how much per drop?"
"Twenty-five."
"Really!?" I pretended to obnoxiously jump in excitement. "I thought they were fifty."
He scanned my expression and then flashed a charming smile. "Those are scams."
"Yeah... I figured that bitch in my school was insane." I frowned and pulled out a display and pretended to log in to some BitCredit wallet. Then I pretended to be nervous and uncomfortable. Well, maybe I wasn't pretending that part.
"Problem?" The man asked gently.
"Yeah, it's a shared wallet so I need to call my sister, but I'm out of change, can I borrow a call?"
"Are you serious?" His tone suddenly turned sour.
"Yeah, Look, I'm sorry. But maybe I can buy some more if I talk her into it? You know, for the trouble?"
"Just make it quick." He pulled a display from his own P.A.D."
"Ah. sorry. No audi-neural link." I pointed towards my ear.
"Just make sure you clean it afterwards." He nailed an auricular to my hand. "Number?"
I gave him Marcus' number and walked away a few steps. I met eyes with the stone lion at the base of the monument to freedom.
"Who's this?" Came his martial thundering voice, on the other side of the line.
"It's me. Listen. I don't have a lot of time."
"What's the matter?"
"You wanted your outside dealers? You got them. The guy is selling Obsidian at twenty-five. Now tell me, where did you get that thing on your basement? Quick." Hopefully he would understand what I was talking about, Kiri once told me that all calls are randomly recorded, so it's a good idea to avoid explicit questions and names when possible.
"Mama's Boy's. That's a rival gang.
"Where did they get it?" I looked back, suit man was getting evidently impatient. "Hurry."
"The Brink. Some accident." Probably the Boys provoked the 'accident' themselves.
"What was the closest airport?"
"I don't have all day sweetie!" Suit man yelled from behind me.
70) As If It's Real- Jeff Maehre ~~~~ [Reviews 5-25]
James was meditating when Elliot arrived, so Elliot and I decided to take a walk in the chilly, damp afternoon. The road we lived on was more that ten miles long, parallel to a busy train track that spanned half the country. There was only one cross street nearby, so our route was mostly down our road and back. Often James and I would walk past Zeeb Road to where ours turned to dirt, keep on for fifty yards or so, and turn back, as though we'd decided our shoes and socks had taken too much mud. Today it would be especially soppy, and Elliot was the type to not notice the mud until he'd tracked it back to Detroit and into his apartment. I wondered how Elizabeth reacted to things like that. The one time I'd met her, she'd seemed an even match for El, juggling her present life with one in a parallel universe.
We crossed in front of Delancey's house, which was conspicuous in its absence of the many willowy children who were forever charging in and out of their front door.
"So," I said, "How's the-I mean, normally an mother would ask her son about his job at this point."
"But since I don't have one." Elliot smiled at this. "Or are you asking about a job search that may or may not be under-way?"
"Well, I'm trying to ask about the card playing, I mean, how it's going - but it's like having a son who's an actor or writer. If you ask, 'hey, have anything published yet?' Well, if the answer was yes he would've already told you."
"Excellent point. I'm just here to give you your early Mother's Day present, which I have in the car, to get some walking in without risking injury on busted concrete, and to wave hello to the Amtracks."
"They tell me they miss you," I returned. "Isn't there a station in Detroit?"
"There is. And in Royal Oak. But, you know, when I see and Amtrak in Detroit, it doesn't occur to me it's the same one that went past an hour before. I mean it doesn't occur to me at all. Not until now."
We crossed in front of Delancey's house, which was conspicuous in its absence of the many willowy children who were forever charging in and out of their front door.
"So," I said, "How's the-I mean, normally an mother would ask her son about his job at this point."
"But since I don't have one." Elliot smiled at this. "Or are you asking about a job search that may or may not be under-way?"
"Well, I'm trying to ask about the card playing, I mean, how it's going - but it's like having a son who's an actor or writer. If you ask, 'hey, have anything published yet?' Well, if the answer was yes he would've already told you."
"Excellent point. I'm just here to give you your early Mother's Day present, which I have in the car, to get some walking in without risking injury on busted concrete, and to wave hello to the Amtracks."
"They tell me they miss you," I returned. "Isn't there a station in Detroit?"
"There is. And in Royal Oak. But, you know, when I see and Amtrak in Detroit, it doesn't occur to me it's the same one that went past an hour before. I mean it doesn't occur to me at all. Not until now."
71) Gypsyroad- Graeme Shanks ~~~~ [Reviews 5-26]
The episode at the pub wasn't the only time that someone had recently died near me. I had been working for the company for over ten months and summer had come and gone (I think it fell on a Tuesday). There had been an incident in Ledbury and another in Birmingham where someone had collapsed and died as well. On both times I knew that I had come into contact with them moments beforehand and was able to make a hasty retreat and, in both situations, the people were relatively old and the deaths weren't surprising... But still.
On previous occasions when employed and there had been a few deaths in the work environment, I thought it a good idea to leave and go and find employment somewhere else as it alleviated any questions that might arise about my involvement. On this occasion, working in England, I found myself very happy with my work and situation and I wanted to keep working for a while longer. Because a couple of the deaths happened away from the company's location, I assumed word hadn't got back to the management.. but I was wrong.
A few days after the person has died at the Snooty Fox a secretary at the office casually mentioned to me, "Boy... people sure know how to die when you're around. "
It was then that I knew it was time to leave. These deaths brought back some harsh reality into my life. I had secretly hoped that the 'magic water' from Glastonbury that I had covered myself in might stop them although even then, I had my doubts. Maybe the real message from Glastonbury was that the deaths were definitely related to me and they would keep happening no matter where I went. This, mixed with answers that I received at Findhorn, meant that now I had to do all that I could to find out the reasons.
I hoped that there might be some other sort of other mystical answers to be found in England and that spending time in some of the old towns would help...
On previous occasions when employed and there had been a few deaths in the work environment, I thought it a good idea to leave and go and find employment somewhere else as it alleviated any questions that might arise about my involvement. On this occasion, working in England, I found myself very happy with my work and situation and I wanted to keep working for a while longer. Because a couple of the deaths happened away from the company's location, I assumed word hadn't got back to the management.. but I was wrong.
A few days after the person has died at the Snooty Fox a secretary at the office casually mentioned to me, "Boy... people sure know how to die when you're around. "
It was then that I knew it was time to leave. These deaths brought back some harsh reality into my life. I had secretly hoped that the 'magic water' from Glastonbury that I had covered myself in might stop them although even then, I had my doubts. Maybe the real message from Glastonbury was that the deaths were definitely related to me and they would keep happening no matter where I went. This, mixed with answers that I received at Findhorn, meant that now I had to do all that I could to find out the reasons.
I hoped that there might be some other sort of other mystical answers to be found in England and that spending time in some of the old towns would help...
72) The Stratosphere: The Birth of Nostradamus- Brian Cox ~~~~ [Reviews 5-27]
The Boss well knew of this defensive advantage and was so confident in the futility of an attack he had not dealt with the poor discipline with gate duty. Enforcing discipline took self-discipline, and the Boss was more interested in spending his energies in the Strat. He told himself and others he was a "relaxed" Boss, but the truth was he was just as lazy as everyone else, and he found that turning his back on tardiness paid him a personal dividend of laziness, which he banked for his own use. With every towns' population so sparse, the risks for any potential attacker were too high, and the rewards too thin.
Nancy had not considered of any of these issues, Normally she did not care for military matters, and today, even less so. Today Nancy's mind wandered a path far removed from logic and objectivity. As she stood on duty at the gate, enveloped by darkness, with a bracing cold wind blowing hard enough to cut through her jacket, Nancy reran the tormented thoughts that kept her up all night. The thoughts ran and reran until they became quiet voices, eventually disappearing. Exhaustion sapped her mind of the will to churn over things it could not solve, and once her brain stopped trying, her body could finally relax.
Her mind empty, Nancy drifted into a trance like state. As she stared up, Nancy focused on the pinpricks of light puncturing the blackness, and nothing else. She stood there, watching for eons, until she sensed the Earth rotating under her as the stars crawled in an arc across the night sky. Her legs became heavier and heavier, until they felt at one with the plate steel on which her feet were planted, rigid and immovable. The world around her assumed a remote quality, as if she was viewing it through the wrong end of a set of binoculars. She became her own detached observer, looking at herself, not being herself. t was a strange sensation, and it would have made her anxious if she was not so disconnected. Time passed as if in eternity. Nancy observed herself as she observed the stars. She contemplated these far-flung balls of burning gas, other worlds, light years from this one, stars that could never be reached. Maybe, if there was life out there, it was doing better than they were on Earth.
Nancy had not considered of any of these issues, Normally she did not care for military matters, and today, even less so. Today Nancy's mind wandered a path far removed from logic and objectivity. As she stood on duty at the gate, enveloped by darkness, with a bracing cold wind blowing hard enough to cut through her jacket, Nancy reran the tormented thoughts that kept her up all night. The thoughts ran and reran until they became quiet voices, eventually disappearing. Exhaustion sapped her mind of the will to churn over things it could not solve, and once her brain stopped trying, her body could finally relax.
Her mind empty, Nancy drifted into a trance like state. As she stared up, Nancy focused on the pinpricks of light puncturing the blackness, and nothing else. She stood there, watching for eons, until she sensed the Earth rotating under her as the stars crawled in an arc across the night sky. Her legs became heavier and heavier, until they felt at one with the plate steel on which her feet were planted, rigid and immovable. The world around her assumed a remote quality, as if she was viewing it through the wrong end of a set of binoculars. She became her own detached observer, looking at herself, not being herself. t was a strange sensation, and it would have made her anxious if she was not so disconnected. Time passed as if in eternity. Nancy observed herself as she observed the stars. She contemplated these far-flung balls of burning gas, other worlds, light years from this one, stars that could never be reached. Maybe, if there was life out there, it was doing better than they were on Earth.
74) Murder and More- Gerald W. Darnell ~~~~ [Reviews 3-26]
Honey was a little older than most of Nickie's new waitresses I'd encountered, and I don't mean in a negative way. She was cute, well put together and her actions demonstrated the 'experience' that comes from spending too many days and nights in places like Chief's. Tan skin showed appreciation of the outdoors and her blond hair appeared to be real, not colored. It was neatly bundled over her ears and held in place by pink netting that covered most of the top of her head. A narrow waist was dwarfed by large breasts that seemed to be screaming 'release me' to the undersized waitress uniform.
"What a lovely name," I smiled and nodded at her nametag.
"Mister," her smile left. "Find a new line, that one was used up a long time ago."
"I... I." Her comment left me speechless.
"What kin' I get you?" she repeated. "We're busy and I ain't got all day to wait on you to make up your mind.
"It... it wasn't a line- honest. I mean, it really is a lovely name. You should be proud of it." I was trying to dig my way out.
"Look mister," she frowned and shook her head. "I understand men and I should- I've been married to four of them. So, unless you're from Venus or Mars don't start your pitch with that crap about my 'lovely name."
"Sure," she replied surly. "My parents were real comedians; I've been thanking Mr. and Mrs. Bunch since I was old enough to talk."
"Honey Bunch," I said quietly to myself.
"Yes, and let's just leave it at that. Now, did you come her to eat, drink or pick up a woman? The kitchen is already overloaded, it won't be long before I'm serving warm beer, and if you're looking for a woman try the dance floor and leave the help alone. So, for the third time, what kin' I get you?"
I sat silently and stared at Honey Bunch for a moment before responding. "Ah, yes... please bring me a Jack Daniel's/Coke, and ask Nickie to come see me."
She straightened her posture, and gave me a strange glare before answering. "Nickie ain't here, Why do you need to see her?"
"What a lovely name," I smiled and nodded at her nametag.
"Mister," her smile left. "Find a new line, that one was used up a long time ago."
"I... I." Her comment left me speechless.
"What kin' I get you?" she repeated. "We're busy and I ain't got all day to wait on you to make up your mind.
"It... it wasn't a line- honest. I mean, it really is a lovely name. You should be proud of it." I was trying to dig my way out.
"Look mister," she frowned and shook her head. "I understand men and I should- I've been married to four of them. So, unless you're from Venus or Mars don't start your pitch with that crap about my 'lovely name."
"Sure," she replied surly. "My parents were real comedians; I've been thanking Mr. and Mrs. Bunch since I was old enough to talk."
"Honey Bunch," I said quietly to myself.
"Yes, and let's just leave it at that. Now, did you come her to eat, drink or pick up a woman? The kitchen is already overloaded, it won't be long before I'm serving warm beer, and if you're looking for a woman try the dance floor and leave the help alone. So, for the third time, what kin' I get you?"
I sat silently and stared at Honey Bunch for a moment before responding. "Ah, yes... please bring me a Jack Daniel's/Coke, and ask Nickie to come see me."
She straightened her posture, and gave me a strange glare before answering. "Nickie ain't here, Why do you need to see her?"
75) The Locksmith's Secret- Tahlia Newland ~~~~ [Reviews 1- 29]
I sit on the edge of the veranda and stare at the stars, brilliant against the darkness. The night is perfectly still, not a whisper of breeze and only the occasional sound of a night creature. Even the frogs are silent now the rain has stopped. I shiver; the autumn chill has settled over the land- a good time to go to England. But it's so far away- twenty-two gruelling hours on a plane- and I'm not sure I'm wanted. No, let's face it. I'm not wanted. He even told me not to come. He also told me he missed me. And I believed him. Was that stupid?
Something deep inside tells me that I'll go, and I'll have to go, that I owe it to myself to find out what Jamie is hiding and to see if the Jamie in England is the same Jamie I know. So what if his mother doesn't like me?
It's Jamie that's important. I don't have time to waste. I have to find out whether this relationship is worth pursuing or not. I'd rather no kids and old age alone than a relationship with a man I can't trust.
I think.
I cast a last look at the Southern Cross constellation, the mark of the great southern sky, burning bright against the ribbon of the Milky Way, then I wonder back inside. What will I find on the other side of the world? Daniel hasn't replied. Do I wait or go anyway?
Merlin looks up from his place on the couch and casts a calculating eye on me, as if to ask what I was doing outside at night and why he isn't allowed out.
"It's the law," I tell him. "Cat's aren't allowed outside at night in Australia- not anywhere. Even in towns."
Merlin yawns and stares at me.
"Too many little native creatures with no defence against predators like you."
He rolls over and shows his tummy. All white and soft.
"You're a mean, lean, killing machine." I him and stroke his belly. He purrs in appreciation.
With a sigh, I get up, get my laptop and start checking prices on tickets to London. I find the cheapest ticket, but I can't bring myself to press the button to actually buy one. Not tonight. Perhaps it isn't a good idea after all. I shake the thought from my head and go to bed. Merlin follows a few minutes later and curls up against my thigh. I fall asleep accompanied by a soft purring.
Something deep inside tells me that I'll go, and I'll have to go, that I owe it to myself to find out what Jamie is hiding and to see if the Jamie in England is the same Jamie I know. So what if his mother doesn't like me?
It's Jamie that's important. I don't have time to waste. I have to find out whether this relationship is worth pursuing or not. I'd rather no kids and old age alone than a relationship with a man I can't trust.
I think.
I cast a last look at the Southern Cross constellation, the mark of the great southern sky, burning bright against the ribbon of the Milky Way, then I wonder back inside. What will I find on the other side of the world? Daniel hasn't replied. Do I wait or go anyway?
Merlin looks up from his place on the couch and casts a calculating eye on me, as if to ask what I was doing outside at night and why he isn't allowed out.
"It's the law," I tell him. "Cat's aren't allowed outside at night in Australia- not anywhere. Even in towns."
Merlin yawns and stares at me.
"Too many little native creatures with no defence against predators like you."
He rolls over and shows his tummy. All white and soft.
"You're a mean, lean, killing machine." I him and stroke his belly. He purrs in appreciation.
With a sigh, I get up, get my laptop and start checking prices on tickets to London. I find the cheapest ticket, but I can't bring myself to press the button to actually buy one. Not tonight. Perhaps it isn't a good idea after all. I shake the thought from my head and go to bed. Merlin follows a few minutes later and curls up against my thigh. I fall asleep accompanied by a soft purring.
76) Extraordinary Temptation- Patrick McCusker ~~~~ [Reviews 2-28]
All the while they argued the surrogate woman, with her massive arms folded across her huge chest, fixed her eyes on the patio doors, finding more interest in the storm outside than in the bickering between the two men.
"Larry, Dr Salker," Bronoski said, fighting to grab ground back from the scientist. "You've been under intense stress. Who wouldn't be! I'm sure it's..."
"You're not listening, mister. There was something in the lab with us."
"Well, I still think it was stress. And you accuse me of holding back. Sometimes it's best to do so for the success of the project."
"Not in science it isn't. You need all the facts and then some."
"Look, Salker, you wouldn't have been able to do the science if you'd known the origin of the donor. Trust me on that."
"Trust you, Bronoski? Trust you?"
Caughlin said in a buttoned-down voice. "So whose tissue was it?"
Even now, he couldn't tell them. "That project cost me close to six million dollars," he said, trying to bury the question.
"Damn you, this has nothing to do with money!" Salker shouted. "There was something in the laboratory guiding everything we did. There was something there that none of us understood: that none of use wanted to understand. Two of our best young guys couldn't take it. They walked. The youngest blew his face off the following day. Cops called it an accident. I know it to be different."
Bill Bronoski raised and lowered his shoulders.
"These things happen. Kids kill themselves. It didn't have to be connected to the job."
"You son-of-a-bitch. A bright young geneticist, and next day he blew his brains off."
"So what do yo want to say?"
Bronoski shouted. "The guy folded under pressure. Read the statistics. It goes with the territory."
"Bronoski, I stayed with the company for the bravery I saw there. But always there was the unspoken understanding that we were a team. An argumentative group certainly, but always a team. You broke that trust. The biggest project imaginable and you held back on us. Yet still we delivered. By God did we ever! Now you get to live with the consequences."
Without another word he flung open the patio doors and stepped out into the roar of the storm with Caughlin following close behind.
Moments later lights on the car winked mockingly. Bronski slammed closed the doors and turned to confront the hideous woman.
"Larry, Dr Salker," Bronoski said, fighting to grab ground back from the scientist. "You've been under intense stress. Who wouldn't be! I'm sure it's..."
"You're not listening, mister. There was something in the lab with us."
"Well, I still think it was stress. And you accuse me of holding back. Sometimes it's best to do so for the success of the project."
"Not in science it isn't. You need all the facts and then some."
"Look, Salker, you wouldn't have been able to do the science if you'd known the origin of the donor. Trust me on that."
"Trust you, Bronoski? Trust you?"
Caughlin said in a buttoned-down voice. "So whose tissue was it?"
Even now, he couldn't tell them. "That project cost me close to six million dollars," he said, trying to bury the question.
"Damn you, this has nothing to do with money!" Salker shouted. "There was something in the laboratory guiding everything we did. There was something there that none of us understood: that none of use wanted to understand. Two of our best young guys couldn't take it. They walked. The youngest blew his face off the following day. Cops called it an accident. I know it to be different."
Bill Bronoski raised and lowered his shoulders.
"These things happen. Kids kill themselves. It didn't have to be connected to the job."
"You son-of-a-bitch. A bright young geneticist, and next day he blew his brains off."
"So what do yo want to say?"
Bronoski shouted. "The guy folded under pressure. Read the statistics. It goes with the territory."
"Bronoski, I stayed with the company for the bravery I saw there. But always there was the unspoken understanding that we were a team. An argumentative group certainly, but always a team. You broke that trust. The biggest project imaginable and you held back on us. Yet still we delivered. By God did we ever! Now you get to live with the consequences."
Without another word he flung open the patio doors and stepped out into the roar of the storm with Caughlin following close behind.
Moments later lights on the car winked mockingly. Bronski slammed closed the doors and turned to confront the hideous woman.
77) The Marijuana Project- Brian Laslow ~~~~ [Reviews 1-30]
"Hi, Daddy."
Sam's phone was buzzing with a text from Amy's phone. "Where are you?"
Sam paused outside the strip club entrance. "Busy busy, honey," he typed. "Will call later."
Sam rolled his eyes. He was familiar with the strip club scene from when he used to install CCTV systems for a couple of them. Later on, as a consultant, he had come into contact with the industry again, since establishments such as strip clubs invariably became involved in litigation involving assault, lewdness and many other legal matters. Sam's forensic security consultant colleagues often testified in court both for and against strip clubs, and Sam sometimes provided assistance by evaluating the quality of their security systems.
Over the years, Sam had also been to more than a few strip clubs for bachelor parties and social gatherings hosted by a client or colleague who thought- for reasons unknown to Sam- that it would be a good idea to do such a thing. As a form of social entertainment, the whole scene was not his thing.
Houston strip clubs were different when it came to the degree of touching and "grinding" allowed. In most parts of the country, that was closely watched and regulated. Sex acts were forbidden and the dancers were often offended if even a suggestion was made that a sex act was something to be purchased. That was the case even for clubs in Vegas, probably because one could legally purchase sex just a short drive away. But a dancer in a Houston club once told Sam that strip clubs in that city were "glorified whore houses." Sam knew nothing about that from personal experience, as he had never cheated on Amy or even thought about it. There were no college students trying to cover tuition here. The women who worked in these places were pros who would do anything for money.
That's exactly what I'm counting on.
As Sam entered the club, he gave the bouncer a ten-dollar cover. The place was typical, with black lights, music playing way too loud, the smell of smoke and cheap perfume, a large bar area, a main stage and two smaller side stages, complete with stripper poles, chairs around the stages and plenty of tables all around.
Sam adjusted his eyes to the lighting and began looking for his target. The place was packed with dancers and customers so it took a few minutes to find the man. He was seated at one of the side stages, watching an almost completely naked dancer gyrate around a pole.
Sam's phone was buzzing with a text from Amy's phone. "Where are you?"
Sam paused outside the strip club entrance. "Busy busy, honey," he typed. "Will call later."
Sam rolled his eyes. He was familiar with the strip club scene from when he used to install CCTV systems for a couple of them. Later on, as a consultant, he had come into contact with the industry again, since establishments such as strip clubs invariably became involved in litigation involving assault, lewdness and many other legal matters. Sam's forensic security consultant colleagues often testified in court both for and against strip clubs, and Sam sometimes provided assistance by evaluating the quality of their security systems.
Over the years, Sam had also been to more than a few strip clubs for bachelor parties and social gatherings hosted by a client or colleague who thought- for reasons unknown to Sam- that it would be a good idea to do such a thing. As a form of social entertainment, the whole scene was not his thing.
Houston strip clubs were different when it came to the degree of touching and "grinding" allowed. In most parts of the country, that was closely watched and regulated. Sex acts were forbidden and the dancers were often offended if even a suggestion was made that a sex act was something to be purchased. That was the case even for clubs in Vegas, probably because one could legally purchase sex just a short drive away. But a dancer in a Houston club once told Sam that strip clubs in that city were "glorified whore houses." Sam knew nothing about that from personal experience, as he had never cheated on Amy or even thought about it. There were no college students trying to cover tuition here. The women who worked in these places were pros who would do anything for money.
That's exactly what I'm counting on.
As Sam entered the club, he gave the bouncer a ten-dollar cover. The place was typical, with black lights, music playing way too loud, the smell of smoke and cheap perfume, a large bar area, a main stage and two smaller side stages, complete with stripper poles, chairs around the stages and plenty of tables all around.
Sam adjusted his eyes to the lighting and began looking for his target. The place was packed with dancers and customers so it took a few minutes to find the man. He was seated at one of the side stages, watching an almost completely naked dancer gyrate around a pole.
78) Inevitable Ascension- V. K. McAlister ~~~~ [Reviews 2-29]
Lux appeared to be patrolling her route without issue. Now was the time. Violina made her way towards the tower but felt something acidic land on her face. Looking to the sky, she realized it had begun to rain. The clouds were a toxic green and even the droplets themselves seemed to glow as they fell.
The tower sat atop a structure surrounded by a foreboding razor wire fence, Violina found it amusing that they would protect a building with razor wire, yet leave the gated entrance wide open. Taking advantage of their stupidity, she waltzed right into the inner enclosure. The next stepwas to get to the roof. He search led her to a ladder bolted into the wall. When she saw it, she had to keep herself from laughing. It was covered by a locked iron grating, clearly with the intention of preventing unauthorized would-be climbers. Whose brilliant idea was that? The holes in the grating made perfect footholds and she scaled straight up without difficulty.
Violena now had a solid view of the compound, which also meant the compound had a solid view of her. She approached the narrow central spire and took hold of the slippery rusted bars that ran up its side. As she climbed, the noxious rain increased the intensity of its assault. The spire seemed to ascend into infinity, and as if the weight of her pack wasn't already enough of a hinderence, the wind soon turned blustering. With the crests of the cliff walls below her, nothing remained to shield her from the storm. Why in the world couldn't Lux have just picked scissors?
As a frenzy of green lightning darted from cloud to cloud around her, the tall, soaking iron tower was quickly losing rank on Violina's list of places she wanted to be at that moment. She had the sense to consider turning back, but there wasn't a snowflake's chance in a crematorium that she could find Kali in time to stop her barrage. Torrents of stinging water pelted her face as she started upwards, desperately hoping to see her destination soon. The ground was so distant that it was no longer visible in the storm. She was totally alone now.
At last, Violina made out a box bolted into the pole just above her. It was no wonder that the Separatists chose to install the system so high up as the signal could reach even Eden from this height. Clutching the ladder with one hand, she used the other to tear the old system from the box and let it fall back to earth. An uncomfortable amount of time passed before she heard it collide with the roof below-
The tower sat atop a structure surrounded by a foreboding razor wire fence, Violina found it amusing that they would protect a building with razor wire, yet leave the gated entrance wide open. Taking advantage of their stupidity, she waltzed right into the inner enclosure. The next stepwas to get to the roof. He search led her to a ladder bolted into the wall. When she saw it, she had to keep herself from laughing. It was covered by a locked iron grating, clearly with the intention of preventing unauthorized would-be climbers. Whose brilliant idea was that? The holes in the grating made perfect footholds and she scaled straight up without difficulty.
Violena now had a solid view of the compound, which also meant the compound had a solid view of her. She approached the narrow central spire and took hold of the slippery rusted bars that ran up its side. As she climbed, the noxious rain increased the intensity of its assault. The spire seemed to ascend into infinity, and as if the weight of her pack wasn't already enough of a hinderence, the wind soon turned blustering. With the crests of the cliff walls below her, nothing remained to shield her from the storm. Why in the world couldn't Lux have just picked scissors?
As a frenzy of green lightning darted from cloud to cloud around her, the tall, soaking iron tower was quickly losing rank on Violina's list of places she wanted to be at that moment. She had the sense to consider turning back, but there wasn't a snowflake's chance in a crematorium that she could find Kali in time to stop her barrage. Torrents of stinging water pelted her face as she started upwards, desperately hoping to see her destination soon. The ground was so distant that it was no longer visible in the storm. She was totally alone now.
At last, Violina made out a box bolted into the pole just above her. It was no wonder that the Separatists chose to install the system so high up as the signal could reach even Eden from this height. Clutching the ladder with one hand, she used the other to tear the old system from the box and let it fall back to earth. An uncomfortable amount of time passed before she heard it collide with the roof below-
79) Love's Long Road- G. D. Harper ~~~~ [Reviews 2-30]
I'd noticed a hairdresser's on the way to the hostel from the tube station and the next morning I walked back to it. 'Cut it Short,' I said. 'And dye it blonde.' The hairdresser huffed I hadn't made an appointment but I promised her a tip. I wanted it done immediately, so as few people as possible at the hostel would see my old look. I'd tell Cynthia she was my inspiration, she'd like that. As my long, dark, curly hair fell to the floor, a new me was beginning to emerge. When the hairdresser finished I stared into the mirror. A stranger stared back at me.
At the hostel, Cynthia did a double-take when she saw my haircut and gave me a peculiar grin. I wondered into the dorm and looked around. Who to trust, who to believe? Two girls were in the beds across from me. They couldn't have been older than sixteen and were chatting away excitedly,congratulating themselves on getting this far. They had a rural accent. West Country, if I had to guess, but I'd only heard an accent like that on TV before. They were talking about the same issue that was on my mind, money and how to get it. A skeletally thin woman, dressed head to toe in black, was lying on the bed next to them, skin as pale as candle, flickering through an Ernest Hemingway novel and dragging heavily on a cigarette. She looked irritated, and kept frowning at the girls. They were disturbing her concentration.
'If I might suggest, head off to the hotels in Mayfair and ask if they need chambermaids,' she said. Her voice had a flat tone of resignation, of someone drifting through life. 'Or Fulham. Lots of new restaurants opening. They're always looking for waitresses.' And go off and do it now and give me some peace, said the look in her face.
Taking her word as gospel, the girl's bounced off down the hall to live out their adventure.
'I'm not sure kids like that should be on their own in London,' I said to her, to make it clear I was not so much an innocent abroad as they were. 'I'm looking for somewhere to work down here too. Are those my best option?'
'Yes, I was like them once,' she replied. A smile faded and died on her lips. 'Came here looking for the summer of love. Never quite worked out. Yes, waitressing is a good gig to get started. Pay'scrap and they'll work you to the bone, but that's why turnover's so high. I'd get over to Fulham. I hear that's where it's happening at the moment.'
She turned to her book again and I could see that she wanted to be left alone. Probably just as well. I needed to think carefully before I let anyone get to know me here.
At the hostel, Cynthia did a double-take when she saw my haircut and gave me a peculiar grin. I wondered into the dorm and looked around. Who to trust, who to believe? Two girls were in the beds across from me. They couldn't have been older than sixteen and were chatting away excitedly,congratulating themselves on getting this far. They had a rural accent. West Country, if I had to guess, but I'd only heard an accent like that on TV before. They were talking about the same issue that was on my mind, money and how to get it. A skeletally thin woman, dressed head to toe in black, was lying on the bed next to them, skin as pale as candle, flickering through an Ernest Hemingway novel and dragging heavily on a cigarette. She looked irritated, and kept frowning at the girls. They were disturbing her concentration.
'If I might suggest, head off to the hotels in Mayfair and ask if they need chambermaids,' she said. Her voice had a flat tone of resignation, of someone drifting through life. 'Or Fulham. Lots of new restaurants opening. They're always looking for waitresses.' And go off and do it now and give me some peace, said the look in her face.
Taking her word as gospel, the girl's bounced off down the hall to live out their adventure.
'I'm not sure kids like that should be on their own in London,' I said to her, to make it clear I was not so much an innocent abroad as they were. 'I'm looking for somewhere to work down here too. Are those my best option?'
'Yes, I was like them once,' she replied. A smile faded and died on her lips. 'Came here looking for the summer of love. Never quite worked out. Yes, waitressing is a good gig to get started. Pay'scrap and they'll work you to the bone, but that's why turnover's so high. I'd get over to Fulham. I hear that's where it's happening at the moment.'
She turned to her book again and I could see that she wanted to be left alone. Probably just as well. I needed to think carefully before I let anyone get to know me here.
80) In the Garden of Weeia- Elle Boca ~~~~ [Reviews 3-27]
"This is for you," Jack said.
Seeing the appetizing food I realized I was hungry. While Jack and Romeo chatted about some invoices for kitchen supplies, I tucked into the food. After what Sylvester had said I was cautious at first, but before I knew it I had emptied the plate. No sooner had I put the last bite in my mouth than Romeo was by my side.
"So, what do you think of my food?" he said.
I remembered Sylvester's warning during our drive over and all but choked. That was what the marshal had told me Sylvester would ask. Food was a source of reward and punishment at my old school. I had no fond memories around it. For an instant fear flashed through my body, making my heart race and filling me with an old dread. I noticed there was a glass of water in front of my plate and gulped down some, hoping it would help. Instead it made things worse.
"Take it easy," Romeo said, towering over me. His eyes knitted together in a concerned expression. " Your face is red and you're sweating."
I started coughing. I felt strong hands pat my back several times in a firm yet soothing motion. Fear had been my faithful companion on many occasions in my old school. It had kept me safe for the most part. A certain leftover anxiety from those memories was still with me.It must have shown in my face. Jack's mouth was open in a surprised dumb expression.
"Dude, what's the matter with you?" he said. "Romeo's food isn't that bad."
He broke into a nervous guffaw. Romeo shot him an annoyed look.
Turning back to me he said, "I'm not upset. I can tell you liked my food. You don't have to tell me how it was.It's just a gag we play on newbies. We didn't know you would react like this. It's never happened before."
My breathing slowed down, my heartbeat too.It was a joke, I repeated to myself. When I looked up the two men were focused on me.
"I'm okay," I managed in a ragged voice.
Romeo's eyes stayed on me. Jack fidgeted with the Plate he had set down on the counter.
"If you're okay, I have to get back," he said, walking away in the direction we had come.
I was glad he had left. His awkwardness made me uncomfortable, Now that it was over I felt silly and embarrassed. They had played a harmless joke that was all.
Romeo took the stool next to me. He was less intimidating when he sat down. I hated to admit it to myself, but big men like him reminded me too much of the bullies in my past. I wanted to be rid of the baggage I had brought from my old school. It was harder than I thought.
Seeing the appetizing food I realized I was hungry. While Jack and Romeo chatted about some invoices for kitchen supplies, I tucked into the food. After what Sylvester had said I was cautious at first, but before I knew it I had emptied the plate. No sooner had I put the last bite in my mouth than Romeo was by my side.
"So, what do you think of my food?" he said.
I remembered Sylvester's warning during our drive over and all but choked. That was what the marshal had told me Sylvester would ask. Food was a source of reward and punishment at my old school. I had no fond memories around it. For an instant fear flashed through my body, making my heart race and filling me with an old dread. I noticed there was a glass of water in front of my plate and gulped down some, hoping it would help. Instead it made things worse.
"Take it easy," Romeo said, towering over me. His eyes knitted together in a concerned expression. " Your face is red and you're sweating."
I started coughing. I felt strong hands pat my back several times in a firm yet soothing motion. Fear had been my faithful companion on many occasions in my old school. It had kept me safe for the most part. A certain leftover anxiety from those memories was still with me.It must have shown in my face. Jack's mouth was open in a surprised dumb expression.
"Dude, what's the matter with you?" he said. "Romeo's food isn't that bad."
He broke into a nervous guffaw. Romeo shot him an annoyed look.
Turning back to me he said, "I'm not upset. I can tell you liked my food. You don't have to tell me how it was.It's just a gag we play on newbies. We didn't know you would react like this. It's never happened before."
My breathing slowed down, my heartbeat too.It was a joke, I repeated to myself. When I looked up the two men were focused on me.
"I'm okay," I managed in a ragged voice.
Romeo's eyes stayed on me. Jack fidgeted with the Plate he had set down on the counter.
"If you're okay, I have to get back," he said, walking away in the direction we had come.
I was glad he had left. His awkwardness made me uncomfortable, Now that it was over I felt silly and embarrassed. They had played a harmless joke that was all.
Romeo took the stool next to me. He was less intimidating when he sat down. I hated to admit it to myself, but big men like him reminded me too much of the bullies in my past. I wanted to be rid of the baggage I had brought from my old school. It was harder than I thought.
81) Dead Down East- Carl Schmidt ~~~~ [Reviews 3-28]
"We have a few options. You can stay here, and we can keep your car in the garage where it is now. At least it is out of sight. Or you could move to another location. I can ask my mother to let you stay with her. She has a two-bedroom home in town, and she has a garage to hide your car from view. The third option is for you to go to the FBI."
"For the time being I'd rather stay here. Will that be OK?"
"Sure. We'll keep a close eye on our surveillance cameras. I think they would try looking for you at home first. If we see any suspicious activity there, we can rethink our plan."
"I'm OK with that,"Cynthia said.
A Beach Boys' tune started running through my mind... "Help me Rhonda, help, help me Rhonda. Help me Rhonda, help, help me Rhonda..."
Once a tune like that gets into your head, it's damn near impossible to get it out. It was time to dust off my .38 Special and get her loaded. I'd be sleeping with Rhonda tonight.
Cynthia decided to make something for us to eat. I watched the news and checked my email periodically. The pictures of Justin and Travis arrived just after we finished supper.
There were fifteen pictures in all, taken from several different angles. Most of them showed only the back of Justin's head, but there were three very good side shots, and two excellent full-face views. I was also pleased to see that in some of the pictures Justin's right hand was normal, but in two of them it was bandaged. That helped to corroborate Travis' story. Now I needed to decide what to do with the photographs.
What I wanted to do was give them to the Maine State Police and FBI, and tell them about the bloodstains on the shirt. They were a lot better equipped to find this guy than I was. But that would almost certainly violate the 'Joint Defense Privilege' statute. The information about the fishing trip came from Travis, and he had the right to not share that information with the authorities.
I was trapped somewhere between a rock and a hard place. I decided to sit on the rock for the time being.
I gave Angele a call.
"What's up, sweetie," she said, picking up the phone on the first ring.
"That was quick," I said. "Tell me, Angele, are you sitting down?"
"What position do you want me in Jesse?" she asked. I could have sworn I heard her wink as she spoke.
"You've put me on the spot, honey," I said.
"That's where I want you, honey," she replied.
My attention was beginning to wander. I was no longer between a rock and a hard place. The rock had rolledout of the picture, and the hard place was asserting its dominance.
"For the time being I'd rather stay here. Will that be OK?"
"Sure. We'll keep a close eye on our surveillance cameras. I think they would try looking for you at home first. If we see any suspicious activity there, we can rethink our plan."
"I'm OK with that,"Cynthia said.
A Beach Boys' tune started running through my mind... "Help me Rhonda, help, help me Rhonda. Help me Rhonda, help, help me Rhonda..."
Once a tune like that gets into your head, it's damn near impossible to get it out. It was time to dust off my .38 Special and get her loaded. I'd be sleeping with Rhonda tonight.
Cynthia decided to make something for us to eat. I watched the news and checked my email periodically. The pictures of Justin and Travis arrived just after we finished supper.
There were fifteen pictures in all, taken from several different angles. Most of them showed only the back of Justin's head, but there were three very good side shots, and two excellent full-face views. I was also pleased to see that in some of the pictures Justin's right hand was normal, but in two of them it was bandaged. That helped to corroborate Travis' story. Now I needed to decide what to do with the photographs.
What I wanted to do was give them to the Maine State Police and FBI, and tell them about the bloodstains on the shirt. They were a lot better equipped to find this guy than I was. But that would almost certainly violate the 'Joint Defense Privilege' statute. The information about the fishing trip came from Travis, and he had the right to not share that information with the authorities.
I was trapped somewhere between a rock and a hard place. I decided to sit on the rock for the time being.
I gave Angele a call.
"What's up, sweetie," she said, picking up the phone on the first ring.
"That was quick," I said. "Tell me, Angele, are you sitting down?"
"What position do you want me in Jesse?" she asked. I could have sworn I heard her wink as she spoke.
"You've put me on the spot, honey," I said.
"That's where I want you, honey," she replied.
My attention was beginning to wander. I was no longer between a rock and a hard place. The rock had rolledout of the picture, and the hard place was asserting its dominance.
82) The Lives and the Times- Amit Verma ~~~~ [Reviews 3-29]
"Where am I? What happened?"
"You are perfectly okay. There is nothing to be alarmed at."
"But where am I? And who are you? Wait a minute! I know you. You are Anil."
"How wonderful!Your memory, it seems, has returned after rather a long walk. Yes, you are absolutely correct. And the place that you find yourself in happens to be my apartment."
"What am I doing here? I am so confused," June said, feeling truly lost and haggard.
"That's good. To be confused is the only correct state to be in."
"What?"
"I said that it is good that you are confused, for that is the mark of a true human being, or rather it should be. That should be the propensity."
"Why?"
"Why? It is interesting that you should ask. I reached this conclusion by conjecture. You see, I believe that to so simplify things is the mark of an incapable mind. To complicate things is the mark of a paranoid mind. To try to change things is the mark of a delusional mind. And to take things as they come is the mark of a mind given over to cowardice. Therefore, a confused state must be the correct state. So my friend, enjoy this feeling while it lasts! The world will not allow it to last for too long."
"And what makes you think I'll subscribe to your view?" June asked, flabbergasted.
"Do you know how much I suffer because I find it difficult to subscribe to my own views?" Anil replied while keeping his palm to his chest. "How can I ask you to accept my views? I merely suggest that you are doing fine.."
"Probably," June replied, getting up from the expensive-looking, all-leather sofa. "What time is it? More correctly, what day is it? And what happened? How come I don't remember coming with you to your apartment?"
"So many questions!" You are indeed quite curious," Anil replied with a smile. "I don't exactly know what happened. As I was coming out of the airport, I saw you looking lost and very agitated. At first I took it as a natural reaction to a person visiting the city for the first time. When I tried to enter into conversation with you, that's when I realized there was something wrong. You kept on repeating that everything is fine! But how could everything be fine? After all, we are still alive! So I decided to bring you here. By the way, my apartment is on Elphinstone Road, and you were in that state for about three hours"
"Oh? Then I should thank you for your kind generosity.
"Mention not!" Anil beamed. "Well, what do you know? It's lunchtime. Why don't you have something to eat and then I can drop you to wherever you were originally headed to?"
"Thank you so much, again," June replied with genuine appreciation. "I don't quite understand it. This has never happened before. I, perhaps, need some medical help."
"You are perfectly okay. There is nothing to be alarmed at."
"But where am I? And who are you? Wait a minute! I know you. You are Anil."
"How wonderful!Your memory, it seems, has returned after rather a long walk. Yes, you are absolutely correct. And the place that you find yourself in happens to be my apartment."
"What am I doing here? I am so confused," June said, feeling truly lost and haggard.
"That's good. To be confused is the only correct state to be in."
"What?"
"I said that it is good that you are confused, for that is the mark of a true human being, or rather it should be. That should be the propensity."
"Why?"
"Why? It is interesting that you should ask. I reached this conclusion by conjecture. You see, I believe that to so simplify things is the mark of an incapable mind. To complicate things is the mark of a paranoid mind. To try to change things is the mark of a delusional mind. And to take things as they come is the mark of a mind given over to cowardice. Therefore, a confused state must be the correct state. So my friend, enjoy this feeling while it lasts! The world will not allow it to last for too long."
"And what makes you think I'll subscribe to your view?" June asked, flabbergasted.
"Do you know how much I suffer because I find it difficult to subscribe to my own views?" Anil replied while keeping his palm to his chest. "How can I ask you to accept my views? I merely suggest that you are doing fine.."
"Probably," June replied, getting up from the expensive-looking, all-leather sofa. "What time is it? More correctly, what day is it? And what happened? How come I don't remember coming with you to your apartment?"
"So many questions!" You are indeed quite curious," Anil replied with a smile. "I don't exactly know what happened. As I was coming out of the airport, I saw you looking lost and very agitated. At first I took it as a natural reaction to a person visiting the city for the first time. When I tried to enter into conversation with you, that's when I realized there was something wrong. You kept on repeating that everything is fine! But how could everything be fine? After all, we are still alive! So I decided to bring you here. By the way, my apartment is on Elphinstone Road, and you were in that state for about three hours"
"Oh? Then I should thank you for your kind generosity.
"Mention not!" Anil beamed. "Well, what do you know? It's lunchtime. Why don't you have something to eat and then I can drop you to wherever you were originally headed to?"
"Thank you so much, again," June replied with genuine appreciation. "I don't quite understand it. This has never happened before. I, perhaps, need some medical help."
83) These Thy Gifts- Vincent Panettiere ~~~~ [Reviews 3-30]
Steve watched Madeline leave the table to answer the phone when it rang in the entry hall.
"For you," she said to Steve, who inhaled a glob of mashed potatoes before leaving the table.
"Hello?" Steve wispered into the phone.
discussion was never a possibility. Few words passed his lips before Steve returned to the dining room.
Three pairs of eyes followed his path.
"This is very good, Madeline," he said, resuming his meal while the others watched, not daring to guess what horror had changed the demeanor of this young man in the space of two minutes. "I've always loved your roast pork. Do you remember it was the first dish you made for me?"
All waited to hear what was unsaid.
"This is my last supper with you."
"Of Course," Madeline said. "You'll be up at the priest house. Surely we'll see you once a week or so."
"I'm being transferred."
"But they can't do that!" Elaine was ready to mount the barricades. "That's unfair. It's like... like..."
"Shh, Elaine. They can transfer me anywhere they want.And Barillo told me they have."
"Did Barillo tell you where?" Elaine asked.
"The Tombs."
"A cemetery? Whatever for? You'll never get that congregation to stand up, sit down, or kneel. Easier to build a church from scratch." Madeline laughed at her own appraisal, and the others found themselves joining her.
"The Tombs is the Manhattan House of Detention. For men. I'll be one of the chaplains."
"Surely they can put your brilliance to better use," Madeline said.
"I'll go where they send me."
"What about the XS guy? The one who pisses vodka? Why can't they send him away?" Madeline was not willing to release Steve without a struggle.
"He'll help the new guy." Steve was blasé about the new priest, someone named Hegan or Hagan. Steve tried to control his voice, not only to conceal his disappointment, which he knew could festerinto bitterness, but also to keep himself from losing control of his emotions.
"But why?" Elaine asked.
"It's not my place to question. Like the Army. Shut up and follow orders."
Madeline and Elaine wanted to keep whittling away until they reached a logical explanation for the decision, but Steve had to pack.
After breakfast the next morning, Madeline made Steve two sandwiches of leftover toast and a thermos of coffee. Bobby would drive him to makethe 10:05 train to Manhatten. She pressedthe thermos on him when he resisted, not knowing how it could be returned.
"You'll take the thermos, or I'llbang it on your skull."
Steve wondered aloud if Madeline had ever met his mother. "We're all alike" was her rapid reply before she and Elaine hugged him and watched the car leave.
84) Christiana of Chibok- David Damey ~~~~ [Reviews 4-28]
"You have shrunken," Gimbiya said to Christiana. " When you first came, you were like a ripe orange. Shining yellow skin. Juicy. You look like the rest of us now."
"If I stay here as long as you have," Christiana said, "I'll probably die."
"Not eating the good food Bukar brings, em?" Gimbiya gazed at her. "He gets first or second pick of the booty. Even the Amir doesn't get half the goodies you get."
"Man shall not live by bread alone..."
"Indeed." Gimbiya nodded. " If you die tomorrow, it won't be from starvation, a bullet or a machete. It'll be from anxiety."
Bukar pushed open the door and entered the room carrying a sack on his head. He dropped it at Christiana's feet.
"Clothes to last for two lifetimes," he said, beaming.
"Thank you."
She curtsied, dragged the sack to a corner, leaned on the wall and folded her arms over her chest.
"I'm yet to taste your cooking. Why eat from the communal pot when I have you. Doesn't make sense."
"You forbade me from taking my turn in the--"
"I brought pots, plates, spoons, everything that should be in your proper kitchen. A gas stove too."
He went out and returned with the items, dropped them at a corner and walked out of the room. One after the other, he brought in a bag of rice, meat in two black polythene bags and two cartons of bottled water.
"No more well water," he said, grinning. "Can you prepare fried rice?"
She shook her head. That meal was unheard of in the smoky kitchen of the village vicarage she lived in. Rice was a Sunday/Christmas meal. It was boiled and served with a sprinkle of tomato sauce and the occasional fried beef or fried fish garnish. Tuwon dawa, a sorghum meal, and miyan kuka, a dried baobab leaf soup, were the staple food in most homes in the north of Nigeria.
"I'll show you how," Bukar said.
He went out and returned with a basket full of carrots, lettuce, onions. A transparent wrap of condiments sat on the vegetables.
"You're not a village boy, are you?"
Bukar shook his head.
"If I stay here as long as you have," Christiana said, "I'll probably die."
"Not eating the good food Bukar brings, em?" Gimbiya gazed at her. "He gets first or second pick of the booty. Even the Amir doesn't get half the goodies you get."
"Man shall not live by bread alone..."
"Indeed." Gimbiya nodded. " If you die tomorrow, it won't be from starvation, a bullet or a machete. It'll be from anxiety."
Bukar pushed open the door and entered the room carrying a sack on his head. He dropped it at Christiana's feet.
"Clothes to last for two lifetimes," he said, beaming.
"Thank you."
She curtsied, dragged the sack to a corner, leaned on the wall and folded her arms over her chest.
"I'm yet to taste your cooking. Why eat from the communal pot when I have you. Doesn't make sense."
"You forbade me from taking my turn in the--"
"I brought pots, plates, spoons, everything that should be in your proper kitchen. A gas stove too."
He went out and returned with the items, dropped them at a corner and walked out of the room. One after the other, he brought in a bag of rice, meat in two black polythene bags and two cartons of bottled water.
"No more well water," he said, grinning. "Can you prepare fried rice?"
She shook her head. That meal was unheard of in the smoky kitchen of the village vicarage she lived in. Rice was a Sunday/Christmas meal. It was boiled and served with a sprinkle of tomato sauce and the occasional fried beef or fried fish garnish. Tuwon dawa, a sorghum meal, and miyan kuka, a dried baobab leaf soup, were the staple food in most homes in the north of Nigeria.
"I'll show you how," Bukar said.
He went out and returned with a basket full of carrots, lettuce, onions. A transparent wrap of condiments sat on the vegetables.
"You're not a village boy, are you?"
Bukar shook his head.
85) Dark Web Rising- Eugene T Schurter ~~~~ [Reviews 4-29]
"Stewart, I apologize. I didn't mean to make you feel like I was mad or attacking you. I will admit, I did feel jealous when I saw that Cray sitting there. Hell, what programmer wouldn't? I understand now that you didn't even ask for it and, quite frankly, even if you had, well then there's a reason why you actually have it. The folks around here are too smart to make a mistake like that. Which is another reason why I popped, becuase it's obvious you're a much better programmer than I and well, I wish I was as good as you."
Stewart at first listened to Reyanna with his head down but as she continued with the obvious point of setting things back to rights, his head rose so he could face her.
"Let's reboot this mess, and try again. Hi, my name is Reyanna. I hear you're a smart programmer and that you can show me some things about the security of our network, which I am very interested in, so I'm all eyes and ears, maestro- show me your magic."
It was not long before Ansel and Jarod moved away from Stewart and Reyanna back to their video game. After Reyanna had deftly defused the emotionally charged cloud between her and Stewart, the pair had quickly slipped into the bits and bytes of the programming world. Soon they were immersed in the gory details of account security, domain security, methods of hacking and preventing hacks, and on into details the other boys had no clue as what they were talking about. When Stewart and Reyanna began rebuilding the Egg, together, with a new 'hack proof' model they invented as they went, Ansel and Jarod left them alone.
With the afternoon winding into evening, the Egg went online again.
Sitting back in his chair, smiling, Stewart looked ar Reyanna. The 'lock and key' algorithm built into the Egg assured them an unauthorized person could not enter the chat room. Encased within the security system of Ican, it was virtually impenetrable. Stewart did not believe a legion of the best programmers in the world, all with Cray's like him, stood even the remotest of chance at hacking the newly laid Egg.
Stewart at first listened to Reyanna with his head down but as she continued with the obvious point of setting things back to rights, his head rose so he could face her.
"Let's reboot this mess, and try again. Hi, my name is Reyanna. I hear you're a smart programmer and that you can show me some things about the security of our network, which I am very interested in, so I'm all eyes and ears, maestro- show me your magic."
It was not long before Ansel and Jarod moved away from Stewart and Reyanna back to their video game. After Reyanna had deftly defused the emotionally charged cloud between her and Stewart, the pair had quickly slipped into the bits and bytes of the programming world. Soon they were immersed in the gory details of account security, domain security, methods of hacking and preventing hacks, and on into details the other boys had no clue as what they were talking about. When Stewart and Reyanna began rebuilding the Egg, together, with a new 'hack proof' model they invented as they went, Ansel and Jarod left them alone.
With the afternoon winding into evening, the Egg went online again.
Sitting back in his chair, smiling, Stewart looked ar Reyanna. The 'lock and key' algorithm built into the Egg assured them an unauthorized person could not enter the chat room. Encased within the security system of Ican, it was virtually impenetrable. Stewart did not believe a legion of the best programmers in the world, all with Cray's like him, stood even the remotest of chance at hacking the newly laid Egg.
86) The Secret Sex Life of Angels- I.J. Weinstock ~~~~ [Reviews 4-30]
Though it was the middle of the night, Adam paced in frontof the bookcase that hid the secret elevator in his private study. He'd awokenfrom his dream both elated and disorientated. After summoning Merlin, he'd thrown on some clothes but hadn't bothered to comb his hair. At 3:33 am, the bookcase dropped away and the elevatordoor opened.
"I'm sorry,but this couldn't wait," Adam apologized, ushering Merlin into the room and offering him a chair.
Merlin was tired and perplexed. Hehadn't heard from the Presidentsince their last conversation and concluded that Adam had gotten cold feet. Heblamed himself for having overwhelmed him with too much too soon; he'd forgotten how difficult it was for the uninitiated to be cofronted with such radical ideas. He told himself that everything happened for a reason. If this President wasn't ready for initiation, so be it. Notting Adam's agitation, he waited expectantly to hear why he'd been summoned.
Adam ran his hands through his already disheveled hair trying to decide where to begin.Taking a deep breath, he launched into his explanation."I told you lasttime I wanted out. "But I had a dream tonight."
Despite the late hour, Merlin's tired eyes brightened. "A dream?"
Adam nodded and the look in his eyes spoke volumes.
"I see..." The hint of a smile creased Merlin's face.
"One helluva dream!" Adam declared.
"Tell me about it."
Adam bit his lip and looked off intothe distance as if he could still see the dream there. "It was the strangest, most bizarre dream I've ever had."
"Was it about sex?" Merlin asked.
"How'dyou know?"
"Just a... wild guess."
"Yeah. I mean yes and no. It was about sex. But not like any sex I've ever had. It wasn't a ... wet dream, if you know what I mean."
Merlin nodded in understanding.
"This was different. I was in a forest and I was lost..." As he described his encounter with the woman on the bridge, his voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, as if such an otherworldly experience couldn't be spoken of. He told Merlin how, instead of running away, she'd welcomed him. "What do you make of that?"
"Sounds like you were given permission."
"Permission?"
"To satisfy your desire."
"Yeah... It was like she was saying, "Yes... Of course... I've been waiting a long time for you to..."
"Meet your destiny?"
"Hmm... hadn't thought of it that way." Adam tried to describe what it was like to enter her, how it seemed to take a lifetime and felt like a continuous orgasm. It was so hard to put into words.
87) An Aching Kind of Growing- Brittany Rowland ~~~~ [Reviews 5-28]
She waited to approach Mark at his locker before the next class. Covertly, she thought. I'm meeting Mark Covert covertly.
"Hey," she said softly. He didn't hear her. She cleared her throat and tried again.
Mark turned around surprised at her voice. Taking her in at a glance, he broke into an incredulous half-smile. Natalie knew what he was thinking: what was a puny freshman girl whose name he didn't even know doing addressing the great Mark Covert?
Natalie faltered for only a second. "I can write your paper for you."
"Huh?" he said, still smirking stupidly. His gaze darted from one person passing them to another. He kept his eyes everywhere but on her, in fact, and she suddenly felt as small and pesky as a gnat, buzzing in the football player's ear. She raised her voice.
"This is a business offer. I'm offering my services--writing, I mean. You need a good paper to pass English. Am I right? You're willing to fork over a lot of cash to some website, and you don't even know what you'll get back. Why not work with me? I work fast, I'm cheaper, and you know me." She spoke quickly, knowing she had to hook him fast before he was called over to join his jock posse.
Mark's eyes finally met hers, and she forced herself to hold steady. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, "Do I know you?" You're not in my grade even. How do I know you can write this for me?"
That was easy. Natalie had the paper pulled out of her bag in a flash. She held it out to him, the ninety-six emblazoned at the top in fluorescent purple ink. Ms. Harberson liked her purple grading pens. She also liked Natalie's writing, which surprised the girl given her otherwise lackluster performance in every other subject.
Mark took the paper and studied it. He's nearsighted, Natalie realized, seeing the way he held it up close to his nose. Too macho even for contact lenses? He caught her staring at him but didn't flush self-consciously the way Natalie would have; rather, he stared back at her, a challenge in his face.
"You can read Withering Heights and write the paper in the next two weeks? he asked.
"Yes. And it's Wuthering Heights."
"Huh?"
"Wuthering."
He gave her an annoyed look. "Uh-huh. As if that's even a word."
The bell rang, and Mark swung his locker door shut. "Okay", he said, "meet me at my car after last bell, and we'll work out the details. 'Kay?"
She nodded, too excited for words. Mark had already turned his focus onto a gaggle of cheerleaders prancing down the hall and laughing shrilly. He strode away, pressing the paper into Natalie's fumbling hands as he passed. She tucked the crumpled pages into her bag and felt her scalp tingle pleasurably. She had made her first deal. She pictured herself holding a wad of cash, counting it out, and buying stuff with it. Her own stuff. Food. As much food as she wanted. Drunk with the fantasy, she was halfway down the hall before she realized she was heading in the wrong direction.
"Hey," she said softly. He didn't hear her. She cleared her throat and tried again.
Mark turned around surprised at her voice. Taking her in at a glance, he broke into an incredulous half-smile. Natalie knew what he was thinking: what was a puny freshman girl whose name he didn't even know doing addressing the great Mark Covert?
Natalie faltered for only a second. "I can write your paper for you."
"Huh?" he said, still smirking stupidly. His gaze darted from one person passing them to another. He kept his eyes everywhere but on her, in fact, and she suddenly felt as small and pesky as a gnat, buzzing in the football player's ear. She raised her voice.
"This is a business offer. I'm offering my services--writing, I mean. You need a good paper to pass English. Am I right? You're willing to fork over a lot of cash to some website, and you don't even know what you'll get back. Why not work with me? I work fast, I'm cheaper, and you know me." She spoke quickly, knowing she had to hook him fast before he was called over to join his jock posse.
Mark's eyes finally met hers, and she forced herself to hold steady. Out of the corner of his mouth, he said, "Do I know you?" You're not in my grade even. How do I know you can write this for me?"
That was easy. Natalie had the paper pulled out of her bag in a flash. She held it out to him, the ninety-six emblazoned at the top in fluorescent purple ink. Ms. Harberson liked her purple grading pens. She also liked Natalie's writing, which surprised the girl given her otherwise lackluster performance in every other subject.
Mark took the paper and studied it. He's nearsighted, Natalie realized, seeing the way he held it up close to his nose. Too macho even for contact lenses? He caught her staring at him but didn't flush self-consciously the way Natalie would have; rather, he stared back at her, a challenge in his face.
"You can read Withering Heights and write the paper in the next two weeks? he asked.
"Yes. And it's Wuthering Heights."
"Huh?"
"Wuthering."
He gave her an annoyed look. "Uh-huh. As if that's even a word."
The bell rang, and Mark swung his locker door shut. "Okay", he said, "meet me at my car after last bell, and we'll work out the details. 'Kay?"
She nodded, too excited for words. Mark had already turned his focus onto a gaggle of cheerleaders prancing down the hall and laughing shrilly. He strode away, pressing the paper into Natalie's fumbling hands as he passed. She tucked the crumpled pages into her bag and felt her scalp tingle pleasurably. She had made her first deal. She pictured herself holding a wad of cash, counting it out, and buying stuff with it. Her own stuff. Food. As much food as she wanted. Drunk with the fantasy, she was halfway down the hall before she realized she was heading in the wrong direction.
88) Falling in Death and Love- Magnus Stanke ~~~~ [Reviews 5-29]
It was late. Maria had been riding her Vespa for nearly an hour. Most of the way to Son Reartes the land was flat, climbing only for the last ten kilometres or so once she left the main road. From here on the majority of the land was divided into private properties of varying size.The one lane road, fenced in on both sides by low brick walls and strategically planted vegetation, got increasingly narrow as it wound its way through the boundaries of the bordering posesiónes. Two cars had a hell of time getting past the other wherever they met, never mind two buses, but traffic was sparse today and Maria enjoyed the ride.
There was a short-cut - a dirt track too narrow for any car, that could shave some twenty minutes off the journey, but Maria decided to stay on the main road. It was less dusty and she didn't mind the fact that getting to the property took time. Let the Jacksons wait, if only to remind them that they couldn't do without her. The thought of staying here as live-in caretaker didn't bother her at all, remote as it was. There would always be enough to do to keep her busy.
Right now the land that belonged to Son Reartes wasn't cultivated but with proper care it could feed a small army. The olive trees and oi press would have to be worked again - the pure, delicious liquid was worth its weight in gold, or nearly so if you knew how to extract it. There was also a small vineyard and even some brick buildings to house workers if they didn't live locally. A little further away were pens for chickens, rabbits and goats. If the Jacksons so wished they could become self-sufficient and provide full-time employment for several pairs of hands besides Maria's. It was also conceivable that they had enough money to just live and relax on Son Reartes without the need for any further income or occupation. Either way, they would still need - Maria would make sure of that. As long as she managed to keep certain chores exclusively to herself they wouldn't be able to do without her. However, one thing was certain: a murderer and kidnapper on the loose was bad for everybody on the island, not just the victims. Let's hope the police catch him before the Jacksons here the news.
Maria finally reached the fence that ran around the Jackson's property. She was almost there. The owners would most likely have arrived already which was just as well - let them tryto begin without her. She smiled to herself but closed her mouth quickly when a fly drifted between her lips. Spitting the insect back out she remembered how she had made sure the generator wouldn't start unless somebody screwed the spark plug back in first. To do that somebody would have to think to look for it in the small mound of soil where Maria had buried it first, only a few paces from the generator hut.
Yes, that somebody'd better be me. Indispensable you want? I'll give you indispensable.
She reached the main gate and saw with satisfaction that the chain lock was hanging from it, open. Somebody with a key had gone in before her, presumably the Jacksons. Confirmation at last. They were already here.
The temperature kept climbing, the afternoon had started. She drove the last hundred metres through the grounds without seeing anybody in the olive orchard. They were likely to be inside the cooler main building, awaiting her and wanting electricity, if only to run the fridge.
89) The Gatekeeper- Michael A. Sisti ~~~~ [Reviews 5-30]
Ben, it's Woody. This is bad, seriously bad. That angry bitch Rothenberg has built a file on her husband that you wouldn't believe. She has notes on his every move for the past three years. Phone records, hotel bills, plus all of the statements from Billy Rothenberg's accounts. She has even documented how much toilet paper he uses when he shits. And you are up to your ass in it, because so much in the accounts traces back to you. She must have hired a snoop, and a good one."
Ben was still in the Bahamas, at Horvath's Key West style mansion on his private cay. What Woody was telling him confirmed his worst fears.
"Woody, how can we make this go away? Who do we have to take care of? If she has as much as you say, I'll be facing years on the farm, and my banking empire will collapse. My entire life's work flushed down the drain because of one vindictive bitch.
"How much does she want? I'll pay whatever it takes to get her to recant her story, and say the files are bogus."
"Benm this is not about money, not yet. You just don't understand women. Right now she wants to crush Rothenberg's cojones into a hamburger patty and fry it. She then wants to humiliate the crap out of him, and put him in jail. After thatm she'll be thinking about the money.
"This cat is out of the bag, and Pippinger is a no-nonsense investigator. He is not letting go. He's an obscure prosecutor that's been passed over his entire career. And now he has the case of a lifetime with national news coverage, and the chance to bring down tow highly visible public figures. You can bet he's planning on trading in his cubicle in Newark for a corner office at Justice in Washington.
"Ben, there's no way out. Come home and face the music, and let's see if we can cut a deal with Pippinger, pay a fat fine and get a minimum sentence. I will try to make any deal contingent on you not getting banned from banking."
Ben was still in the Bahamas, at Horvath's Key West style mansion on his private cay. What Woody was telling him confirmed his worst fears.
"Woody, how can we make this go away? Who do we have to take care of? If she has as much as you say, I'll be facing years on the farm, and my banking empire will collapse. My entire life's work flushed down the drain because of one vindictive bitch.
"How much does she want? I'll pay whatever it takes to get her to recant her story, and say the files are bogus."
"Benm this is not about money, not yet. You just don't understand women. Right now she wants to crush Rothenberg's cojones into a hamburger patty and fry it. She then wants to humiliate the crap out of him, and put him in jail. After thatm she'll be thinking about the money.
"This cat is out of the bag, and Pippinger is a no-nonsense investigator. He is not letting go. He's an obscure prosecutor that's been passed over his entire career. And now he has the case of a lifetime with national news coverage, and the chance to bring down tow highly visible public figures. You can bet he's planning on trading in his cubicle in Newark for a corner office at Justice in Washington.
"Ben, there's no way out. Come home and face the music, and let's see if we can cut a deal with Pippinger, pay a fat fine and get a minimum sentence. I will try to make any deal contingent on you not getting banned from banking."
90) Anya and the Power Crystal- N. A. Cauldron ~~~~ [Reviews 1-31]
Anya was alone at home eating supper at the time. Her parents had gone out for a night together, and Terrence was with his slayer buddies, probably including Gevin again. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Her mouth full of a fresh bite, she got up to answer it. It was Taika. "Anya, I've got some bad news."
Anya quit chewing. Taika better not say what she was thinking right now.
"I can't make it tonight, but Methuselah has agreed to go with you instead."
Anya promptly shot chewed food out of her mouth and all over Taika. Somewhat pleased with this bit of justice, Anya watched her pick it from her face before screaming, "No!" at Taika and preparing to slam the door.
Taika quickly put her hand on the door to prevent it from shutting. "Oh Anya, please!"
Anya yelled back, "You do it! If you want to know her secret so badly, you go and listen. Personally I'd rather let the Queen kill me than go down that cesspool again."
"I can't do it!" Taika desperately pleaded with her. "Tonight's Mingan and Ciqala's birthday dinner, and I can't possibly miss it."
Ciqala was Mingan's twin and no, Anya couldn't ask her to miss that. She almost wanted to go herself, but they hadn't invited her, else she would've known to expect this lovely visit. "Why didn't you mention this sooner?" Anya was yelling at her.
"I didn't know sooner."
Anya gave her a disbelieving stare.
"Honestly! I didn't!" Taika pleaded. "I was just about to leave when Mom stopped me from going. She only let me out long enough to cancel our plans."
"Well, what about Gevin?" She knew the answer already, but she was getting desperate.
Taika looked down at her hands. "I already tried."
"And?"
"He wasn't home. He was out practicing his sword fighting with--
"--with Terrence. Yeah, I got it. Well what about next month. She does this every month, right?"
"Anya! You want to hang around Cupola for another month!"
No. She didn't. She couldn't. Although her mother would surely relish the thought, they had been there too long as it was and really needed to get going again.
Anya closed her eyes and clinched her fists. She hated Taika so much right now. She hated her for being right. She hated her for having two twin brothers that had a birthday on the same day of the year that she had to go swimming in the castle's crap creek with a crazy man to find out how the maniacal Queen wants to kill them all.
Taika backed up. She looked a little afraid. "Anya?"
Anya was gripping her spoon so hard that her entire hand had turned white. Through her teeth, she forced out the words, "Fine. I'll do it."
Anya quit chewing. Taika better not say what she was thinking right now.
"I can't make it tonight, but Methuselah has agreed to go with you instead."
Anya promptly shot chewed food out of her mouth and all over Taika. Somewhat pleased with this bit of justice, Anya watched her pick it from her face before screaming, "No!" at Taika and preparing to slam the door.
Taika quickly put her hand on the door to prevent it from shutting. "Oh Anya, please!"
Anya yelled back, "You do it! If you want to know her secret so badly, you go and listen. Personally I'd rather let the Queen kill me than go down that cesspool again."
"I can't do it!" Taika desperately pleaded with her. "Tonight's Mingan and Ciqala's birthday dinner, and I can't possibly miss it."
Ciqala was Mingan's twin and no, Anya couldn't ask her to miss that. She almost wanted to go herself, but they hadn't invited her, else she would've known to expect this lovely visit. "Why didn't you mention this sooner?" Anya was yelling at her.
"I didn't know sooner."
Anya gave her a disbelieving stare.
"Honestly! I didn't!" Taika pleaded. "I was just about to leave when Mom stopped me from going. She only let me out long enough to cancel our plans."
"Well, what about Gevin?" She knew the answer already, but she was getting desperate.
Taika looked down at her hands. "I already tried."
"And?"
"He wasn't home. He was out practicing his sword fighting with--
"--with Terrence. Yeah, I got it. Well what about next month. She does this every month, right?"
"Anya! You want to hang around Cupola for another month!"
No. She didn't. She couldn't. Although her mother would surely relish the thought, they had been there too long as it was and really needed to get going again.
Anya closed her eyes and clinched her fists. She hated Taika so much right now. She hated her for being right. She hated her for having two twin brothers that had a birthday on the same day of the year that she had to go swimming in the castle's crap creek with a crazy man to find out how the maniacal Queen wants to kill them all.
Taika backed up. She looked a little afraid. "Anya?"
Anya was gripping her spoon so hard that her entire hand had turned white. Through her teeth, she forced out the words, "Fine. I'll do it."
91) Sherlock Holmes and the Nine-Dragon Sigil- Tim Symonds ~~~~ [Reviews 1-32]
'What if it's a conspiracy dreampt up by the Emperor himself?'
I gave the General an incredulous stare.
I asked, 'Why in Heaven's name would the Emperor organize an assassination attempt against his own person...?'
'Because the Son of Heaven has been simmering since the Old Buddha demoted him to the unhappy lackey you see before you. This is the Middle Kingdom. If this is a plot there may be method in their madness. There are many who look to put China's long and backward past behind her. It's not impossible he hopes to regain authority by prompting a violent uprising against the Conservatives. A damaged eardrum might be worth enduring in return for the untrammelled power he once possessed.'
He gave a small jerk of his chin towards the Empress Dowager.
'If this gets out and hotheads among the Moderates and Progressives interpret it as a premeditated attack on the Emperor's life, they will become inflamed. They will blame the August Mother. They will say she's trying to rid China of their figurehead once and for all.'
'General,' I countered, raising my voice, 'you have just heard the opinion of the greatest Consulting Detective in Europe. A cruel past-time gone wrong. Probably some eunuchs at play, nothing more.'
As intended, the Empress Dowager caught my reassuring words. With a curious choking laugh she said, 'But say this was not a game - say it was an assassination attempt. It failed, but that does not mean they are not amongst us, here in Peking, ready to try their hand again. They are cunning beyond compare! Tomorrow I shall send out an order to kill every crow across the whole of the Empire, destroy every one of their nests, cut down every tree they nest atop. This new weapon must never be employed in my Emoir again.'
She pointed at the beizi.
"Take it off,' she commanded the Emperor. 'I shall have it destroyed. Otherwise I will always associate it with the misfortune you've just endured.'
His Majesty glanced quickly at my companion. Holmes gave the smallest of nods. Without exposing the blackened side of his facethe Emperor slipped off the clock and held it out to his aunt.
It was time to leave. We backed away towards the exit. Reaching the door I found myself alone. Holmes had fallen a pace or two behind. He was staring back with rapt attention at my patient. The Emperor was almost obscured behind the bent-over figures of the Empress Dowager and the General. The Son of Heaven's hand jutted out from between them, clenched except for the index finger. The finger was moving round and round, tracing a circle in the air.
Seconds later Holmes and I were back outside.
I gave the General an incredulous stare.
I asked, 'Why in Heaven's name would the Emperor organize an assassination attempt against his own person...?'
'Because the Son of Heaven has been simmering since the Old Buddha demoted him to the unhappy lackey you see before you. This is the Middle Kingdom. If this is a plot there may be method in their madness. There are many who look to put China's long and backward past behind her. It's not impossible he hopes to regain authority by prompting a violent uprising against the Conservatives. A damaged eardrum might be worth enduring in return for the untrammelled power he once possessed.'
He gave a small jerk of his chin towards the Empress Dowager.
'If this gets out and hotheads among the Moderates and Progressives interpret it as a premeditated attack on the Emperor's life, they will become inflamed. They will blame the August Mother. They will say she's trying to rid China of their figurehead once and for all.'
'General,' I countered, raising my voice, 'you have just heard the opinion of the greatest Consulting Detective in Europe. A cruel past-time gone wrong. Probably some eunuchs at play, nothing more.'
As intended, the Empress Dowager caught my reassuring words. With a curious choking laugh she said, 'But say this was not a game - say it was an assassination attempt. It failed, but that does not mean they are not amongst us, here in Peking, ready to try their hand again. They are cunning beyond compare! Tomorrow I shall send out an order to kill every crow across the whole of the Empire, destroy every one of their nests, cut down every tree they nest atop. This new weapon must never be employed in my Emoir again.'
She pointed at the beizi.
"Take it off,' she commanded the Emperor. 'I shall have it destroyed. Otherwise I will always associate it with the misfortune you've just endured.'
His Majesty glanced quickly at my companion. Holmes gave the smallest of nods. Without exposing the blackened side of his facethe Emperor slipped off the clock and held it out to his aunt.
It was time to leave. We backed away towards the exit. Reaching the door I found myself alone. Holmes had fallen a pace or two behind. He was staring back with rapt attention at my patient. The Emperor was almost obscured behind the bent-over figures of the Empress Dowager and the General. The Son of Heaven's hand jutted out from between them, clenched except for the index finger. The finger was moving round and round, tracing a circle in the air.
Seconds later Holmes and I were back outside.
93) One Sip at a Time- Keith Van Sickle ~~~~ [Reviews 1-33]
The French take their melons seriously. And the best are the famous melons de Cavaillon. The people of Cavaillon are so proud that they have erected a giant melon statue at the entrance to the city.
It was melon season and we ate them all the time. And, in the proper French fashion, we became very picky.
One day we were at a restaurant where I ordered melon and prosciutto as a starter. When it arrived, something didn't look...quite right. Time to test out my French.
"This is melon de Cavaillon, isn't it?" I asked suspiciously.
The waiter started shuffling his feet nervously."I...I'm sorry, monsieur," he stammered, " our supplier made a mistake today and brought melons from the Languedoc. But I assure you that they are delicious."
I poked at the melon, cut of a piece, sniffed it. It seemed perfectly fine but, let's be honest, it was not a melon de Cavaillon. "We'll see," I said, and glowered at the waiter as he scurried off.
You can bet that we wouldn't eat at this restaurant again. If the chef didn't use the proper ingredients for a simple melon dish, who knew what he would put in his coq au vin?
(Extra short extract- this is a very short book)
It was melon season and we ate them all the time. And, in the proper French fashion, we became very picky.
One day we were at a restaurant where I ordered melon and prosciutto as a starter. When it arrived, something didn't look...quite right. Time to test out my French.
"This is melon de Cavaillon, isn't it?" I asked suspiciously.
The waiter started shuffling his feet nervously."I...I'm sorry, monsieur," he stammered, " our supplier made a mistake today and brought melons from the Languedoc. But I assure you that they are delicious."
I poked at the melon, cut of a piece, sniffed it. It seemed perfectly fine but, let's be honest, it was not a melon de Cavaillon. "We'll see," I said, and glowered at the waiter as he scurried off.
You can bet that we wouldn't eat at this restaurant again. If the chef didn't use the proper ingredients for a simple melon dish, who knew what he would put in his coq au vin?
(Extra short extract- this is a very short book)
94) Mervyn vs Dennis- Niels Saunders ~~~~ [Reviews 1-34]
After lunch, Alis came over. "Dennis wants to see you. He's waiting on the roof."
"Should I be worried?"
Her eyes said: always. "He's in a good mood. For him, at least."
My team wished me luck. Why on the roof? Had he twigged I wasn't racist? As I headed up the stairwell, it wasn't just his happiness that scared me but how far he'd crash when happiness ran out. The roof was flat and speckled with vents and broken solar panels. Dennis was standing at the fare end, hands upon the waist-high ledge, gazing out at Hove. He must've heard me coming but didn't turn to greet me until I was right beside him.
I've been thinking, Mervyn." The bright sun on his greyish skin did not bring it to life. Somehow it made it look deader, like bad makeup on a corpse. "About us."
Sometimes he sounded like he was about to propose. "Go on."
"I want you to meet Glenda, and she wants to meet you."
He didn't need to push me- I was ready to leap. "Right."
"You'll come to my house for dinner and we'll have a jolly time."
I'd learned from my mistakes. This time I was prepared. "I'm afraid I can't come, Dennis."
"A busy bee, are we? You can't be buzzing all the time."
"It's my dad." I pretended to falter, overcome with grief. "He's dying of gastric cancer. Too much Spam, the doctor said. He's terminal. He's got such little time left, I want to make the most of it."
"Cancer, eh? Try homeopathy. It's the only way I keep my allergies in check."
"I'll do that, Dennis, thank you." Fucking homeopathy. "Maybe there's still hope."
"It really is a shame. I had a special evening project lined up just for you."
"Oh?"
"The money's good. It's easy work. You could do it all from home. But you need to be beside your father. Be a good son. Keep the vigil."
I'd nearly paid off my credit cards but still had a maxed-out overdraft. "Well he normally sleeps at midnight. I might be able to squeeze in some work before bed."
A ghastly smile wormed its way across his wan face. "Such a trooper, aren't you? Never letting down the people who love you."
Somebody walked over my grave. "Love?"
"You love your father, don't you? I understand: we're men. We keep things bottled up. It's only natural." A dark cloud passed across the sun and turned the world grey. "Women are the mawkish ones. Too yielding, too soft. They have their uses, naturally. Why must they fight their nature?"
"Just tell me about the project."
"It's why I'm up here, actually. Unlike your idle colleagues, I don't indulge myself in screen breaks or languid pub lunches. When I take a breather, it's because I've achieved." If he'd done something he was proud of, why was he so bitter? "And so I came up here to enjoy the view. The last time was a year ago. That's how often I take breaks." Had he not realised? We were standing right above his office, the view he had come up to admire was the same as from his window. "And that's the price you have to pay in order to succeed. That's the price you have to pay in order to strike a deal with Square Enix."
"Square who?"
"They make the boring Final Fantasy games." If he thought they were boring they were probably masterpieces. "Im closing a QA deal but they're also looking for somebody like you."
" Somebody like me?"
"Someone who sucks. All their in-house testers are too good for their own good. What they need are more beginners to evaluate accessibility. The problem is beginners don't stay beginners forever. All people improve if they do something for long enough. All people, that is, except you.
"Should I be worried?"
Her eyes said: always. "He's in a good mood. For him, at least."
My team wished me luck. Why on the roof? Had he twigged I wasn't racist? As I headed up the stairwell, it wasn't just his happiness that scared me but how far he'd crash when happiness ran out. The roof was flat and speckled with vents and broken solar panels. Dennis was standing at the fare end, hands upon the waist-high ledge, gazing out at Hove. He must've heard me coming but didn't turn to greet me until I was right beside him.
I've been thinking, Mervyn." The bright sun on his greyish skin did not bring it to life. Somehow it made it look deader, like bad makeup on a corpse. "About us."
Sometimes he sounded like he was about to propose. "Go on."
"I want you to meet Glenda, and she wants to meet you."
He didn't need to push me- I was ready to leap. "Right."
"You'll come to my house for dinner and we'll have a jolly time."
I'd learned from my mistakes. This time I was prepared. "I'm afraid I can't come, Dennis."
"A busy bee, are we? You can't be buzzing all the time."
"It's my dad." I pretended to falter, overcome with grief. "He's dying of gastric cancer. Too much Spam, the doctor said. He's terminal. He's got such little time left, I want to make the most of it."
"Cancer, eh? Try homeopathy. It's the only way I keep my allergies in check."
"I'll do that, Dennis, thank you." Fucking homeopathy. "Maybe there's still hope."
"It really is a shame. I had a special evening project lined up just for you."
"Oh?"
"The money's good. It's easy work. You could do it all from home. But you need to be beside your father. Be a good son. Keep the vigil."
I'd nearly paid off my credit cards but still had a maxed-out overdraft. "Well he normally sleeps at midnight. I might be able to squeeze in some work before bed."
A ghastly smile wormed its way across his wan face. "Such a trooper, aren't you? Never letting down the people who love you."
Somebody walked over my grave. "Love?"
"You love your father, don't you? I understand: we're men. We keep things bottled up. It's only natural." A dark cloud passed across the sun and turned the world grey. "Women are the mawkish ones. Too yielding, too soft. They have their uses, naturally. Why must they fight their nature?"
"Just tell me about the project."
"It's why I'm up here, actually. Unlike your idle colleagues, I don't indulge myself in screen breaks or languid pub lunches. When I take a breather, it's because I've achieved." If he'd done something he was proud of, why was he so bitter? "And so I came up here to enjoy the view. The last time was a year ago. That's how often I take breaks." Had he not realised? We were standing right above his office, the view he had come up to admire was the same as from his window. "And that's the price you have to pay in order to succeed. That's the price you have to pay in order to strike a deal with Square Enix."
"Square who?"
"They make the boring Final Fantasy games." If he thought they were boring they were probably masterpieces. "Im closing a QA deal but they're also looking for somebody like you."
" Somebody like me?"
"Someone who sucks. All their in-house testers are too good for their own good. What they need are more beginners to evaluate accessibility. The problem is beginners don't stay beginners forever. All people improve if they do something for long enough. All people, that is, except you.
95) Rarity from the Hollow- Robert Eggleton ~~~~~ [Reviews 1-35]
"What the heck is a bustle anyway?" Dwayne asked the next morning. They were back on Earth and he had experienced a fun night with an energetic Jenny.
"I'll look it up on the internet," Lacy Dawn went into her bedroom.
Jenny shrugged. The answer took one minute.
"It's to make a woman's butt look bigger."
"Your Mum sure doesn't need thIIt."
Jenny pouted, smiled, and punched. Lacy Dawn giggled.
"We need to get all that stuff unloaded and into the barn. I've got to get back to work in a couple of hours," he said.
Lacy Dawn gave a thumbs up.
Daddy sure sounds like management material.
"Next weekend or the next, let's have a yard sale," Lacy Dawn said.
"I can put up signs all over the hollow now that I've got my learners permit," Jenny agreed.
"You couldn't even get that old truck started, much less drive it," Dwayne said.
"Bull crap," Jenny headed out the back door with keys in hand.For ten minutes, they listened to the loud muffler as she drove up and down, up and down, and up and down the hollow. She came back to cold eggs and jingled the keys before she hung them back on the nail in the door frame.
"All right, I was teasing anyway, "Dwayne said, "Just don't get busted when you hang the signs for the yard sale. A licensed driver is supposed to be in the vehicle with you when you drive with a learners permit. I'll come home early Friday. Be ready to take your driver's test in the company car. It has a legal inspection sticker. Why don't you try it out just to get used to it a little?" He tossed her the car keys, went to the living room, rolled a fatty, and called Tom. Lacy Dawn went to the front porch to watch her mom pull out of the driveway. Jenny floored it. Gravel from the driveway hit the side of the house.
"So you don't mind if she takes her driver's test in the company car?" Dwayne asked Tom on the telephone.
"Dude, you're super cool-- don't worry. You don't need my permission about anything. I thought we had an understanding. You run the shit and I count the profits."
"Maybe I'm paranoid. For the first time since high school, my life is going in the right direction. I just don't want to piss you off."
I shouldn't have called Tom.
"Dwayne, chill. You're a permanent player like a rock. I've been thinking about how to sell you the shops for cheap as a birthday present to Lacy Dawn."
"Cool. But, the real reason I called is that I've got a lot of stuff to move into the barn and wanted to know if I could borrow your four-wheeler and trailer for a couple of hours"
Good cover. I've come to my senses after a few hits.
"Sure, if you can get it back from Harold. He borrowed it last week. I'll call him. What kind of shit do you want to move?"
"It's stuff for the yard sale. You might get off. Come over and look at it. It's very unusual."
"What kind of stuff?"
"All kinds-- I got from this dude. He laid it on me. There are a lot of collector's items-- not good for a yard sale in the hollow-- no baby clothes or toys, but there could be a dollar or two in it. If you can sell it, at least it'll be out of my barn."
"I'll look it up on the internet," Lacy Dawn went into her bedroom.
Jenny shrugged. The answer took one minute.
"It's to make a woman's butt look bigger."
"Your Mum sure doesn't need thIIt."
Jenny pouted, smiled, and punched. Lacy Dawn giggled.
"We need to get all that stuff unloaded and into the barn. I've got to get back to work in a couple of hours," he said.
Lacy Dawn gave a thumbs up.
Daddy sure sounds like management material.
"Next weekend or the next, let's have a yard sale," Lacy Dawn said.
"I can put up signs all over the hollow now that I've got my learners permit," Jenny agreed.
"You couldn't even get that old truck started, much less drive it," Dwayne said.
"Bull crap," Jenny headed out the back door with keys in hand.For ten minutes, they listened to the loud muffler as she drove up and down, up and down, and up and down the hollow. She came back to cold eggs and jingled the keys before she hung them back on the nail in the door frame.
"All right, I was teasing anyway, "Dwayne said, "Just don't get busted when you hang the signs for the yard sale. A licensed driver is supposed to be in the vehicle with you when you drive with a learners permit. I'll come home early Friday. Be ready to take your driver's test in the company car. It has a legal inspection sticker. Why don't you try it out just to get used to it a little?" He tossed her the car keys, went to the living room, rolled a fatty, and called Tom. Lacy Dawn went to the front porch to watch her mom pull out of the driveway. Jenny floored it. Gravel from the driveway hit the side of the house.
"So you don't mind if she takes her driver's test in the company car?" Dwayne asked Tom on the telephone.
"Dude, you're super cool-- don't worry. You don't need my permission about anything. I thought we had an understanding. You run the shit and I count the profits."
"Maybe I'm paranoid. For the first time since high school, my life is going in the right direction. I just don't want to piss you off."
I shouldn't have called Tom.
"Dwayne, chill. You're a permanent player like a rock. I've been thinking about how to sell you the shops for cheap as a birthday present to Lacy Dawn."
"Cool. But, the real reason I called is that I've got a lot of stuff to move into the barn and wanted to know if I could borrow your four-wheeler and trailer for a couple of hours"
Good cover. I've come to my senses after a few hits.
"Sure, if you can get it back from Harold. He borrowed it last week. I'll call him. What kind of shit do you want to move?"
"It's stuff for the yard sale. You might get off. Come over and look at it. It's very unusual."
"What kind of stuff?"
"All kinds-- I got from this dude. He laid it on me. There are a lot of collector's items-- not good for a yard sale in the hollow-- no baby clothes or toys, but there could be a dollar or two in it. If you can sell it, at least it'll be out of my barn."
96) Coyote Sunrise- Nikki Broadwell ~~~~ [Reviews 2-31]
"Sara, there's a sick coyote lying under the palo verde in the front yard."
"What?" Sara pulled the towel off her wet hair and fluffed it with her fingers, peering over Rosie's shoulder. It had been two months since her last encounter with Istaga. Nearly every day she'd hoped and prayed he would turn up at the door with their baby. "I hope that isn't Istaga."
"Whoever it is looks to be on his last legs. I've never seen a coyote that thin."
Sara carefully opened the door and headed slowly toward the animal, trying not to frighten it, but the sleeping coyote didn't even look up as she approached. Once she reached it she put a tentative hand out to touch the lank fur, her fingers feeling bone beneath the slack skin. When the animal opened its eyes she knew immediately who it was. "Instiga? Can you shift?"
The coyote closed its eyes again, letting out a low moan. Sara hurried into the house to fetch a bowl of water. "It's Istaga but he either can't or won't shift. I don't know what's wrong with him."
"Looks like he hasn't been eating. Why don't you take him a leg of chicken we had last night?"
Sara went to the refrigerator and pulled out the Pyrex dish. She ripped a leg away from the carcass and carried it and a bowl of water out to the coyote. She placed the water by his nose and then held out the bone. "Here you go."
He opened his yellow eyes and then turned away to retch, but nothing came up.
"Rosie, he's sick! We need a vet!" she yelled.
Rosie came to join her, her worried gaze going to be prominent, the dull fur.
"John is the only vet I know and I'd rather not take this particular coyote to him, but I don't think we have a choice. Let's get him into the back of the truck.
"What?" Sara pulled the towel off her wet hair and fluffed it with her fingers, peering over Rosie's shoulder. It had been two months since her last encounter with Istaga. Nearly every day she'd hoped and prayed he would turn up at the door with their baby. "I hope that isn't Istaga."
"Whoever it is looks to be on his last legs. I've never seen a coyote that thin."
Sara carefully opened the door and headed slowly toward the animal, trying not to frighten it, but the sleeping coyote didn't even look up as she approached. Once she reached it she put a tentative hand out to touch the lank fur, her fingers feeling bone beneath the slack skin. When the animal opened its eyes she knew immediately who it was. "Instiga? Can you shift?"
The coyote closed its eyes again, letting out a low moan. Sara hurried into the house to fetch a bowl of water. "It's Istaga but he either can't or won't shift. I don't know what's wrong with him."
"Looks like he hasn't been eating. Why don't you take him a leg of chicken we had last night?"
Sara went to the refrigerator and pulled out the Pyrex dish. She ripped a leg away from the carcass and carried it and a bowl of water out to the coyote. She placed the water by his nose and then held out the bone. "Here you go."
He opened his yellow eyes and then turned away to retch, but nothing came up.
"Rosie, he's sick! We need a vet!" she yelled.
Rosie came to join her, her worried gaze going to be prominent, the dull fur.
"John is the only vet I know and I'd rather not take this particular coyote to him, but I don't think we have a choice. Let's get him into the back of the truck.
97) Finding Freedom- Brittany Nicole Lewis ~~~~ [Reviews 2-32]
That night after dinner, Mr. Martin and David led the majority of the discussion on how they could possibly get to their destinations and what their travel options were. After a good while of talking of finances and the pros and cons of each option, the men had seemed to decide on a course of action.
"We only have about a thousand dollars right now," said Mr. Martin. "We need to use the money very wisely... there are planes, buses and trains we can take. This may only be enough to get us to where we are going, though..."
"Planes would be easiest," David stated. "Bus and train tickets would cost probably about the same amount except the trip would take several days rather than several hours."
"A very good point," agreed Mr. Martin. He looked over at Martha and then at Katie. The two women remained silent.
"I already looked up some flight information," David said, surprising Katie. "I used Stephen's computer," he added hurriedly, giving her a small smile. "The cheapest flights from Portland to Manchester, New Hampshire are $216 per person, and the cheapest flights from Portland to Tampa, Florida are $306 per person... so... ahem..." David cleared his throat as he looked at the crumpled wad of paper he had shoved into his pocket earlier that day. "The total comes to 1,044 dollars, so we still need forty-four dollars to be able to cover the flights." He noticed Katie's worried expression and quickly added, " Which definitely won't be a problem, because we still have two more full weeks of work, and we got those extra hours."
"But this would just get us to the final airport," mentioned Mr. Martin.
"Right... we would still need a way to get to the actual dwell-houses..." David said, rubbing his hands over his face. Katie could see he was drained.
"Well... let's just focus on working hard for now. I can call both locations to see if people could meet us at the airports and bring us to where we need to be," Mr. Martin said, trying to be an encouragement to everyone.
"I can call the New Hampshire location, Sir," David stated.
Mr. Martin saw the look of courage and determination in the boy's eyes that seemed to be glowing more and more as of late and gave him a quick nod. "Right, tomorrow then. Now, I'd say it'd be best to try to get some rest and wind down for the night."
"We only have about a thousand dollars right now," said Mr. Martin. "We need to use the money very wisely... there are planes, buses and trains we can take. This may only be enough to get us to where we are going, though..."
"Planes would be easiest," David stated. "Bus and train tickets would cost probably about the same amount except the trip would take several days rather than several hours."
"A very good point," agreed Mr. Martin. He looked over at Martha and then at Katie. The two women remained silent.
"I already looked up some flight information," David said, surprising Katie. "I used Stephen's computer," he added hurriedly, giving her a small smile. "The cheapest flights from Portland to Manchester, New Hampshire are $216 per person, and the cheapest flights from Portland to Tampa, Florida are $306 per person... so... ahem..." David cleared his throat as he looked at the crumpled wad of paper he had shoved into his pocket earlier that day. "The total comes to 1,044 dollars, so we still need forty-four dollars to be able to cover the flights." He noticed Katie's worried expression and quickly added, " Which definitely won't be a problem, because we still have two more full weeks of work, and we got those extra hours."
"But this would just get us to the final airport," mentioned Mr. Martin.
"Right... we would still need a way to get to the actual dwell-houses..." David said, rubbing his hands over his face. Katie could see he was drained.
"Well... let's just focus on working hard for now. I can call both locations to see if people could meet us at the airports and bring us to where we need to be," Mr. Martin said, trying to be an encouragement to everyone.
"I can call the New Hampshire location, Sir," David stated.
Mr. Martin saw the look of courage and determination in the boy's eyes that seemed to be glowing more and more as of late and gave him a quick nod. "Right, tomorrow then. Now, I'd say it'd be best to try to get some rest and wind down for the night."
98) The Last Detective- Brian Cohn ~~~~ [Reviews 2-33]
First Avenue is like a stake driven through the heart of the city. It runs all the way from the Fringe in the west to where it ends abruptly at the muddy banks of the river in the east. St. Xavier's Catholic Church sits near the halfway point, an old, squat building made from stone that looks as if it was mined by the druids and wood that Noah might have used to build his precious ark. It sits like a stooped, elder statesman among younger, stronger upstarts, who nevertheless maintain a reverential distance, separated from the church by a wide horseshoe of dead, brown scrub grass.
Katherine and I get out of the car in front of the church around noon, the sun casting miniature shadows that scramble on the concrete before us. Three men and three women stand on the sidewalk out front wearing black hoodies, one of them holding a sign that reads, "Where is God now?" One of the men tries to hand me a flyer as I walk past but I shove his hand away, staring down the others as they glare at me. We walk by the group and I mutter, "Fucking Abandoned," loud enough that they can hear. Katherine cracks a smile and keeps walking.
At the top of stone steps, the large wooden doors of the church sit closed. They don't give when I put my weight against them.
"What kind of church locks it's doors?" I ask. Katherine shrugs.
A narrow stone path leads around the left side of the church to a wrought iron gate. The gate creeks as it swings open, allowing us access to a small garden and the vestry, which sticks out from the bulk of the church lie an unformed appendage- I try the door, knowing it's locked before my hand touches it. It seems the church isn't the inviting place I had imagined.
I knock, wait a minute, knock again.
A few seconds later the door opens and an Asian man in black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt with a cleric's collar stands peering out. He's short but has an athletic build. He looks to be in his early fifties, but could easily pass for a much younger man were it not for the salt and pepper fuzz on his chin, a couple of days growth. He doesn't smile, but looks suspiciously at Katherine instead, eyeing her insignia.
"If you're here about the soup kitchen, don't bother," he barks in an Irish accent I wasn't expecting, a brogue as smooth as a bottle of eighteen-year-old-whiskey. "Your men already came by last week. We've shut down as you insisted."
Katherine and I get out of the car in front of the church around noon, the sun casting miniature shadows that scramble on the concrete before us. Three men and three women stand on the sidewalk out front wearing black hoodies, one of them holding a sign that reads, "Where is God now?" One of the men tries to hand me a flyer as I walk past but I shove his hand away, staring down the others as they glare at me. We walk by the group and I mutter, "Fucking Abandoned," loud enough that they can hear. Katherine cracks a smile and keeps walking.
At the top of stone steps, the large wooden doors of the church sit closed. They don't give when I put my weight against them.
"What kind of church locks it's doors?" I ask. Katherine shrugs.
A narrow stone path leads around the left side of the church to a wrought iron gate. The gate creeks as it swings open, allowing us access to a small garden and the vestry, which sticks out from the bulk of the church lie an unformed appendage- I try the door, knowing it's locked before my hand touches it. It seems the church isn't the inviting place I had imagined.
I knock, wait a minute, knock again.
A few seconds later the door opens and an Asian man in black pants and a long-sleeved black shirt with a cleric's collar stands peering out. He's short but has an athletic build. He looks to be in his early fifties, but could easily pass for a much younger man were it not for the salt and pepper fuzz on his chin, a couple of days growth. He doesn't smile, but looks suspiciously at Katherine instead, eyeing her insignia.
"If you're here about the soup kitchen, don't bother," he barks in an Irish accent I wasn't expecting, a brogue as smooth as a bottle of eighteen-year-old-whiskey. "Your men already came by last week. We've shut down as you insisted."
99) The Nosferatu Chronicles: Origins- Susan Hamilton ~~~~ [Reviews 2-34]
The wind picked up on the plain and furiously beat about his face. Unfazed, he continued forward at a snail's pace. After what seemed an eternity, he stood at the bottom of the cliff row and the arrow indicated he was directly below his destination. Turning the scanner off, he placed it in his pocket and began to climb. Minutes later he found himself on the ledge in front of Kevak's cave.
I made it!
As he walked through the cave, it looked like a human hermit's home. There was no indication of the stasis pod Kevak spoke of or any other Vambir technology. Some books were stacked in a shelf carved out with a lasgun and he laid his burlap bag full of harvested hemo-crops next to them. Something caught his eye. The wall at the back of the cave was covered in murals. At its base sat a collection of colored chalky material and a bowl of murky water with a rag next to it. He stood aghast as his eyes scanned each image: a spaceship flying away from a devastated planet, two dark-skinned humans being chased by wolves, and a dark-skinned baby cradled in the arms of a smiling white figure with pointed ears and fangs with the names 'J'Vor' anf 'Father' written beneath them.
The child of Iroto and Soueti! Kevak saved him from the wolves that killed his parents and raised him as his own son!
It was patently obvious now why Kevak would not allow Chaluxi to recover with him in the his cave. The human J'Vor would never be safe around him.
I am no longer a threat to the child. All will be well.
Chaluxi could hardly contain his glee. Kevak would be return soon with Emanui, Tariq and Jasper. Together with J'Vor, they would live here in safety while formulating a plan of attack against any surviving Vambir. Humans would live on in blissfull isolation, never realizing that they owed everything to the reviled Nosferatu.
As he stood engrossed in his thoughts, a familiar smell wafted through his nostrils.
Humans!
He quickly removed the bio-scanner from his pocket and changed the settings to detect human signals. The readout was devastating: a group of over fifty was directly beneath him at the base of the cliffs. He had not smelled them while crossing the plain because of the strong winds. So intent had he been on locating Kevak's cave, that he had not thought to consider if anyone had seen the red blinking light emitted from the bio-scanner. Living in isolation for so long, he had assumed no humans would be out and about this far away from Bazna.
When he ran out on the ledge to see if any of them were scaling the cliffs, the crowd let out a collective gasp.
"It is Nosferatu!" yelled one. "Just as Nicolae described."
I made it!
As he walked through the cave, it looked like a human hermit's home. There was no indication of the stasis pod Kevak spoke of or any other Vambir technology. Some books were stacked in a shelf carved out with a lasgun and he laid his burlap bag full of harvested hemo-crops next to them. Something caught his eye. The wall at the back of the cave was covered in murals. At its base sat a collection of colored chalky material and a bowl of murky water with a rag next to it. He stood aghast as his eyes scanned each image: a spaceship flying away from a devastated planet, two dark-skinned humans being chased by wolves, and a dark-skinned baby cradled in the arms of a smiling white figure with pointed ears and fangs with the names 'J'Vor' anf 'Father' written beneath them.
The child of Iroto and Soueti! Kevak saved him from the wolves that killed his parents and raised him as his own son!
It was patently obvious now why Kevak would not allow Chaluxi to recover with him in the his cave. The human J'Vor would never be safe around him.
I am no longer a threat to the child. All will be well.
Chaluxi could hardly contain his glee. Kevak would be return soon with Emanui, Tariq and Jasper. Together with J'Vor, they would live here in safety while formulating a plan of attack against any surviving Vambir. Humans would live on in blissfull isolation, never realizing that they owed everything to the reviled Nosferatu.
As he stood engrossed in his thoughts, a familiar smell wafted through his nostrils.
Humans!
He quickly removed the bio-scanner from his pocket and changed the settings to detect human signals. The readout was devastating: a group of over fifty was directly beneath him at the base of the cliffs. He had not smelled them while crossing the plain because of the strong winds. So intent had he been on locating Kevak's cave, that he had not thought to consider if anyone had seen the red blinking light emitted from the bio-scanner. Living in isolation for so long, he had assumed no humans would be out and about this far away from Bazna.
When he ran out on the ledge to see if any of them were scaling the cliffs, the crowd let out a collective gasp.
"It is Nosferatu!" yelled one. "Just as Nicolae described."
100) Thread and Other Stories- Eric Halpenny ~~~~ [Reviews 2-35]
October in England was dismal, November worse, and December worse yet. By January, after months of hard training by day and little sleep during cold nights, John had had enough of waiting. He hadn't joined the army to perform endless maneuvers- he wanted to fight. Greg felt the same, as did the rest of the men in the unit. He spoke to all of them regularly, providing upbeat and hopeful rhetoric on their futures as soldiers of the Crown. January 1915 brought hope as preparations were clearly underway for departure to the only destination he could dream of- France.
John supposed February was not the best month to visit France, considering the heavy rains and through his mind as he recalled the people cheering from the dock, waving hats and handkerchiefs at the departing soldiers. In some of the faces, he had imagined he could see regret at being denied the glory of the War. They were being left behind for some reason or other- age, frailty, gender, or perhaps unseen cowardice- he couldn't know why, but he knew that he was lucky to be one of those who was worthy and able to go.
Still, even the memory of Quebec City did not cheer him. That was not his home. Neither had been Valcartier, Quebec, where they trained from August to October. No, it was Kelowna, and thoughts of the Rocky Mountains, that raised his spirits. He missed the cliffs and canyons. He had walked over and through the wilderness of British Columbia during his youth, and it was only with fondness that he thought back on those days.
Now, though, he was ready to grow up and be a man. At nineteen years old, he had been carried away enough by the flightiness of his youth. He had found it impossible to ignore the call to arms once Canada had declared war on Germany. This was his duty, he knew, and his right. And Greg, who had been with him through every hike in the mountains and every day at school, had been with him at the conscription station as well, just as true friends would.
And now, side by side on the train in France, heading directly towards the fight at last, they could leave boyhood and childishness, naivety and innocence, behind.
John supposed February was not the best month to visit France, considering the heavy rains and through his mind as he recalled the people cheering from the dock, waving hats and handkerchiefs at the departing soldiers. In some of the faces, he had imagined he could see regret at being denied the glory of the War. They were being left behind for some reason or other- age, frailty, gender, or perhaps unseen cowardice- he couldn't know why, but he knew that he was lucky to be one of those who was worthy and able to go.
Still, even the memory of Quebec City did not cheer him. That was not his home. Neither had been Valcartier, Quebec, where they trained from August to October. No, it was Kelowna, and thoughts of the Rocky Mountains, that raised his spirits. He missed the cliffs and canyons. He had walked over and through the wilderness of British Columbia during his youth, and it was only with fondness that he thought back on those days.
Now, though, he was ready to grow up and be a man. At nineteen years old, he had been carried away enough by the flightiness of his youth. He had found it impossible to ignore the call to arms once Canada had declared war on Germany. This was his duty, he knew, and his right. And Greg, who had been with him through every hike in the mountains and every day at school, had been with him at the conscription station as well, just as true friends would.
And now, side by side on the train in France, heading directly towards the fight at last, they could leave boyhood and childishness, naivety and innocence, behind.
101) Drip (a gothic bromance)- Andrew Montlack ~~~~ [Reviews 3-31]
"Great!" The sales manager placed the papers in his leather bound folder, went over to the fake restaurant front and opened a real door. "Now if you'll please follow me, I'll show you to the assessment room."
The group followed him inside.
"A little bit of history," he called over his shoulder as he led the customers down a long flight of steps. "The Brew-Mart Citizen Discount program was created by BrewCorp's C:E:O and founding father, Billy Hall."
At the bottom of the steps, the wall mural (traditional-uniformed chefs tossing pizzas, slicing tomatoes, and waving to the passers bye) transitioned to sterile white, as the group entered a long corridor.
"Billy believed that people are the world's greatest resource, and he wanted to reward individuals who worked to improve the community."
The lighting became dimmer and intermittent. J.D. glanced around; the fluorescent bulbs were buzzing flickering, and, in some places, missing; water stains and drywall cut outs increasingly marred the walls; and the floor's previously smooth concrete had become a crumbling, irregular patchwork of bad repairs.
J.D. reached into his shirt pocket and tapped his phone. With a muffled beep, it started recording.
"What kinda discount program take people down some creepy basement?" the old lady protested. She pulled the young boy close to her and instructed her two girls, "We going back."
"I'm sorry ma'am," the sales manager apologized, as he approached a dead bolted door. "I should have explained our appearance; we're undergoing renovation."
He twisted the lock's knob until it clicked open, and he turned to face the group. "Hundreds of ordinary folks come down here every day.You see, here at BrewCorp, we understand that you're working to build a better life, and we think you deserve some recognition." He stood to one side and pulled open the door.
The group followed him inside.
"A little bit of history," he called over his shoulder as he led the customers down a long flight of steps. "The Brew-Mart Citizen Discount program was created by BrewCorp's C:E:O and founding father, Billy Hall."
At the bottom of the steps, the wall mural (traditional-uniformed chefs tossing pizzas, slicing tomatoes, and waving to the passers bye) transitioned to sterile white, as the group entered a long corridor.
"Billy believed that people are the world's greatest resource, and he wanted to reward individuals who worked to improve the community."
The lighting became dimmer and intermittent. J.D. glanced around; the fluorescent bulbs were buzzing flickering, and, in some places, missing; water stains and drywall cut outs increasingly marred the walls; and the floor's previously smooth concrete had become a crumbling, irregular patchwork of bad repairs.
J.D. reached into his shirt pocket and tapped his phone. With a muffled beep, it started recording.
"What kinda discount program take people down some creepy basement?" the old lady protested. She pulled the young boy close to her and instructed her two girls, "We going back."
"I'm sorry ma'am," the sales manager apologized, as he approached a dead bolted door. "I should have explained our appearance; we're undergoing renovation."
He twisted the lock's knob until it clicked open, and he turned to face the group. "Hundreds of ordinary folks come down here every day.You see, here at BrewCorp, we understand that you're working to build a better life, and we think you deserve some recognition." He stood to one side and pulled open the door.
102) Edging- Michael Schutz ~~~~ [Reviews 3-32]
"Mary? It's Rick."
"Good morning, Mr. Carlson."
"I'm gonna be late today. Have to see the kids off."
"No problem, I'll cover for you."
He stood on the verge of grass out by the sidewalk, waiting with Tim and Tammy for their bus- the one with the little orange and white cartoon tiger on the door. Upstairs, Trish had pretended to sleep.Now he felt her glare through the window, eyes boring into his back.
When he hung up his phone, he placed a hand on each of the kid's heads. Carefully, as if they'd been hurt. He petted them, soothing both them and himself.
Last night he had almost cried, looking into their wounded eyes.
"Did Mommy scare you?" he'd asked.
Tammy sputtered, but Tim simply nodded miserably. Rick held them, each of their heads to one of his shoulders, and as one, they rocked in comfort.
Now he asked himself the same question he had last night as he'd lain awake in bed:
The answer was simple: cut Trish loose.
That was easy to say, but how does a married couple even begin to sever their ties?
When the twins safely boarded the bus and headed to school, rick drove to work.
He heard the shouts before he pushed open the lobby door.
Inside, Benjamin Zimmerman leaned precariously over into Mary's works-pace. His dark hair stood up in manic cowlicks. One thick arm gesticulated while he shouted.
When Mary saw Rick, the look of relief in her eyes was palpable.
"Hello, Ben," he said.
Benjamin whirled around. His hazel eyes gleamed dark today. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. Rick turned to Mary for some kind of explanation, some hint as to what he'd walked in on.
Benjamin, too, looked back to Mary. Her cheeks flushed under scrutiny. She rolled her eyes and half shrugged, a confusion of expression that explained everything.
"Come on, Ben, let's sit down."
The kid's skin had gone sallow. His fleshy cheeks hung limp as if he's lost internal weight but his outside hadn't caught up. His meaty arms hung slack; his chubby hands, dry and cracked. Rick walked over and clapped a hand on Benjamin's back-on the padded wing of one shoulder blade- intending to steer him towards the bank of visitor's chairs.
Benjamin jerked away from Rick's hand. "Don't touch me!"
"Calm down, Ben."
"Don't tell me to calm down!" Sweat beads glistened along his hairline. A heavy odor of sour laundry and dirty hair wafted off of him. "And it's Benjamin! Why do people keep calling me Ben?"
"Good morning, Mr. Carlson."
"I'm gonna be late today. Have to see the kids off."
"No problem, I'll cover for you."
He stood on the verge of grass out by the sidewalk, waiting with Tim and Tammy for their bus- the one with the little orange and white cartoon tiger on the door. Upstairs, Trish had pretended to sleep.Now he felt her glare through the window, eyes boring into his back.
When he hung up his phone, he placed a hand on each of the kid's heads. Carefully, as if they'd been hurt. He petted them, soothing both them and himself.
Last night he had almost cried, looking into their wounded eyes.
"Did Mommy scare you?" he'd asked.
Tammy sputtered, but Tim simply nodded miserably. Rick held them, each of their heads to one of his shoulders, and as one, they rocked in comfort.
Now he asked himself the same question he had last night as he'd lain awake in bed:
The answer was simple: cut Trish loose.
That was easy to say, but how does a married couple even begin to sever their ties?
When the twins safely boarded the bus and headed to school, rick drove to work.
He heard the shouts before he pushed open the lobby door.
Inside, Benjamin Zimmerman leaned precariously over into Mary's works-pace. His dark hair stood up in manic cowlicks. One thick arm gesticulated while he shouted.
When Mary saw Rick, the look of relief in her eyes was palpable.
"Hello, Ben," he said.
Benjamin whirled around. His hazel eyes gleamed dark today. His mouth worked, but no sound came out. Rick turned to Mary for some kind of explanation, some hint as to what he'd walked in on.
Benjamin, too, looked back to Mary. Her cheeks flushed under scrutiny. She rolled her eyes and half shrugged, a confusion of expression that explained everything.
"Come on, Ben, let's sit down."
The kid's skin had gone sallow. His fleshy cheeks hung limp as if he's lost internal weight but his outside hadn't caught up. His meaty arms hung slack; his chubby hands, dry and cracked. Rick walked over and clapped a hand on Benjamin's back-on the padded wing of one shoulder blade- intending to steer him towards the bank of visitor's chairs.
Benjamin jerked away from Rick's hand. "Don't touch me!"
"Calm down, Ben."
"Don't tell me to calm down!" Sweat beads glistened along his hairline. A heavy odor of sour laundry and dirty hair wafted off of him. "And it's Benjamin! Why do people keep calling me Ben?"
103) Fidget Spinners Destroyed My Family- George Billions ~~~~ [Reviews 3-33]
It's funny what specific details burn themselves into your brain when something horrific happens. The worst days you always remember as a confused blur of events, plus one moment of perfect, superhuman clarity.
We were in the living room, Emma was on on end of the couch, wrapped up in a knockoff Burberry blanket Kevin's dad tried to impress me with one Mother's Day. I was letting her watch some cartoon she was into, even though she was having trouble staying awake. The two of us had just eaten dinner, fish sticks which I paired with a 2008 Bertani Pinot Grigio. The fresh pear and floral character of the wine was such a perfect match to the battered mystery fish that I let Emma have a little taste. She could detect neither fruit nor flowers.
I was on the other end of the couch, treating myself to another glass of the pinot. On its own, the wine took on other dimensions. The stone fruit taste became more crisp, the acidity refreshing. I had my iPad in my lap, and I was looking up FaceBook. I was logged in as Kevin, who still used the same password I'd used to set up the account for him: our wedding anniversary. It seemed like he hadn't logged in for months. His messages and notifications were building up, and the posts on his page were all things other people had tagged him in.
Everything seemed fine, really, Kevin was out again, working another late night, ostensibly to pay for John's legal defense. Naturally, this made me a little nervous so I logged into FaceBook to put myself (at) ease. I think his absence from social media may have given me a false sense of security, making the ensuing minutes that much worse.
On the TV, a group of animals in people clothes sang a cheerful song about perseverance. The hook was, "Never gonna give up until I reach the top. I know I can do it, so I'll never stop."
I scrolled through Kevin-tagged posts. His parents left a few links to things they wanted him to see, like some crazy story about venomous snakes in fast-food ball pits. We never let our kids play in those germ factories anyway. There were a couple family photos I'd taken and tagged Kevin in, and a lot of spam. My husband apparently accepted any friend request he got, which meant he was tagged in almost daily posts offering fake sunglasses or live, sexually deviant webcam shows.
I wasn't sure who among my husband's associates knew what was going on in our family, but there were a couple of fidget spinner posts. One was from a friend Kevin hadn't seen since college, a link to some local news story on the spinner fad. Another was some guy I didn't recognize but who worked for the same company as Kevin. He'd written the word "Favorite" and posted the Fidget Blender video. It had seven likes, and none of them was Dina, which felt great.
We were in the living room, Emma was on on end of the couch, wrapped up in a knockoff Burberry blanket Kevin's dad tried to impress me with one Mother's Day. I was letting her watch some cartoon she was into, even though she was having trouble staying awake. The two of us had just eaten dinner, fish sticks which I paired with a 2008 Bertani Pinot Grigio. The fresh pear and floral character of the wine was such a perfect match to the battered mystery fish that I let Emma have a little taste. She could detect neither fruit nor flowers.
I was on the other end of the couch, treating myself to another glass of the pinot. On its own, the wine took on other dimensions. The stone fruit taste became more crisp, the acidity refreshing. I had my iPad in my lap, and I was looking up FaceBook. I was logged in as Kevin, who still used the same password I'd used to set up the account for him: our wedding anniversary. It seemed like he hadn't logged in for months. His messages and notifications were building up, and the posts on his page were all things other people had tagged him in.
Everything seemed fine, really, Kevin was out again, working another late night, ostensibly to pay for John's legal defense. Naturally, this made me a little nervous so I logged into FaceBook to put myself (at) ease. I think his absence from social media may have given me a false sense of security, making the ensuing minutes that much worse.
On the TV, a group of animals in people clothes sang a cheerful song about perseverance. The hook was, "Never gonna give up until I reach the top. I know I can do it, so I'll never stop."
I scrolled through Kevin-tagged posts. His parents left a few links to things they wanted him to see, like some crazy story about venomous snakes in fast-food ball pits. We never let our kids play in those germ factories anyway. There were a couple family photos I'd taken and tagged Kevin in, and a lot of spam. My husband apparently accepted any friend request he got, which meant he was tagged in almost daily posts offering fake sunglasses or live, sexually deviant webcam shows.
I wasn't sure who among my husband's associates knew what was going on in our family, but there were a couple of fidget spinner posts. One was from a friend Kevin hadn't seen since college, a link to some local news story on the spinner fad. Another was some guy I didn't recognize but who worked for the same company as Kevin. He'd written the word "Favorite" and posted the Fidget Blender video. It had seven likes, and none of them was Dina, which felt great.
104) The Master of The Name- Tavi Florescu ~~~~ [Reviews 3-34]
Sal got out of his car carrying a briefcase and approached the building cautiously, checking the addresses painted on the street curb. When he found the number he was looking for, he approached the entry and made a phone call. He kept on talking until an elderly lady came out of the building struggling to restrain her leashed dog. Sal stepped into the building casually looking as if he had every right to be there.
As soon as Sal had entered the building, Detective Gray got out of his car, and walked toward the building's entrance to get a better look, then jotted down the building's address. Moments later he walked to the street corner, took out his phone and made a call.
"Hello, Liz, I know it's late, but could you do me a favor?"
"Go ahead, detective, for you I'm working swing shifts, too."
"I promise I won't make it a habit. Please check for me one address, eleven eighty-one Green St., on the Russian Hill, and let me know who lives there. It looks like an apartment building so you'll probably come up with multiple names. You don't have to do it right now, but when you get the result, please leave it on my desk."
"All right, detective. I'm on it... and since you've saved me the trouble of calling you, the suspect's car has just been found in a parking lot near the 1-80 exit to Sacramento," she informed him.
"That's great! Have the tech team search it ASAP. I will follow up on this first thing in the morning. And run the facial recognition program on the nearby traffic cameras. It's just a matter of time until we get him."
"Consider it done, detective. And have a nice evening."
"You, too, Liz. You, too," Gray ended the conversation and resumed his watch.
Had he known Sal's real intentions, Detective Gray would have entered the building, knocked him down and handcuffed him without pausing to read him his rights. Walking up the stairs in the apartment building, Sal hoped that his face did not betray his intentions.
Will she open the door for me or not? He was unsure of himself but finally steeled himself to go ahead with his plan.
He has a photocopy of Sefer ha-Shem with him intending to offer it to Maggy as a gift, a Trojan (rather Hebrew) horse to gain entry into her apartment and, eventually, into that sexy, sassy, and sultry citadel- the fucking cunt called Maggy. Timeo danaos et dona ferentes, that was one thing he had learned from his Latin classes eons ago. She wouldn't know that, millennials don't do Latin, Qui prodest? Advantage Sal.
He had promised Maggy the book. Bringing it personally, at such a late hour, might seem corny or a bit strange, but it was on his way home, so what the heck.
If Maggy opened the door, he would enter, give her the book and try to be nice. They would chat, drink some tea, maybe even have some dinner together, get to know each other better, and become friends, intimate friends, why not.
As soon as Sal had entered the building, Detective Gray got out of his car, and walked toward the building's entrance to get a better look, then jotted down the building's address. Moments later he walked to the street corner, took out his phone and made a call.
"Hello, Liz, I know it's late, but could you do me a favor?"
"Go ahead, detective, for you I'm working swing shifts, too."
"I promise I won't make it a habit. Please check for me one address, eleven eighty-one Green St., on the Russian Hill, and let me know who lives there. It looks like an apartment building so you'll probably come up with multiple names. You don't have to do it right now, but when you get the result, please leave it on my desk."
"All right, detective. I'm on it... and since you've saved me the trouble of calling you, the suspect's car has just been found in a parking lot near the 1-80 exit to Sacramento," she informed him.
"That's great! Have the tech team search it ASAP. I will follow up on this first thing in the morning. And run the facial recognition program on the nearby traffic cameras. It's just a matter of time until we get him."
"Consider it done, detective. And have a nice evening."
"You, too, Liz. You, too," Gray ended the conversation and resumed his watch.
Had he known Sal's real intentions, Detective Gray would have entered the building, knocked him down and handcuffed him without pausing to read him his rights. Walking up the stairs in the apartment building, Sal hoped that his face did not betray his intentions.
Will she open the door for me or not? He was unsure of himself but finally steeled himself to go ahead with his plan.
He has a photocopy of Sefer ha-Shem with him intending to offer it to Maggy as a gift, a Trojan (rather Hebrew) horse to gain entry into her apartment and, eventually, into that sexy, sassy, and sultry citadel- the fucking cunt called Maggy. Timeo danaos et dona ferentes, that was one thing he had learned from his Latin classes eons ago. She wouldn't know that, millennials don't do Latin, Qui prodest? Advantage Sal.
He had promised Maggy the book. Bringing it personally, at such a late hour, might seem corny or a bit strange, but it was on his way home, so what the heck.
If Maggy opened the door, he would enter, give her the book and try to be nice. They would chat, drink some tea, maybe even have some dinner together, get to know each other better, and become friends, intimate friends, why not.
105) Surfing with Snakes & Dragons and Other Tales of Suburbia- Roger J. Couture ~~~~ [Reviews 3-35]
From his vantage point on the edge of the red-brick curb, the idle man looks north along the tabletop-flat street into the near distance and sees the specks of automobiles busily traversing the raised freeway that connects symmetrically laid out tract homes with air-conditioned shopping malls. As it is physically above and thus disconnected from this five-corner roundabout, none shall venture his way. Only an occasional car on the way to somewhere else slowly cruises through their intersection. Glancing in the opposite direction, the man can see sporadic pedestrian traffic in the near distance enter the local espresso shop, the only daytime bohemian preserve in an otherwise dull and quiet vortex of an agricultural-based downtown. Behind him, he is aware of the regional bus hub that is the domestic reserve of a common community living in leisurely repose. The chronically dispossessed lounge idly all day upon benches under the terminal's awning shade, curiously watching buses come and go. Not one enters or exits the buses as they arrive and depart the connecting hub; the buses only pass on to somewhere else, for someone else. These watchers idly snooze while reclining on all their worldly possessions, which they use as comforting pillows under their heads.
Simple pleasures... in simple times... for simple people. The nattily tailored man takes satisfaction in having all that he requires within walking distance under free and open skies as his concrete-cold blood now pumps warm from his short time in the sun. His predatory instincts alertly catch movement approaching from behind him at a distance down the street. "Huh, now don't that beat all?" the man reflexively says aloud to himself as he turns and eyes a single male pedestrian walking towards him from midway down the street on the doorless side of the utility building. "Ain't that an odd duck outta water, yep?" he adds to himself after another moment of inspecting the isolated stroller. "Hep! Boys, ya wanna have some wake-up fun?"
"Huh? Yeah, sure, whatever you want," Kyle says, drawing his eyes from the red brick to look at the patient man on the corner's edge who still gazes down the sidewalk. "Why, what's up, Silver?" Having used all of his energy to come up momentarily from his still-hungover daze, Kyle places his chin back into his waiting hands supported by elbows resting on knees, to stare at the ground with open eyes not seeing.
Jake, as expected, says nothing. He takes a last puff on his cigarette stub and then flicks the butt in a high arc into the street gutter before following suit to look down the sidewalk.
"Don't know as o'yet, but maybe we gettin' us selves somethin' and maybe not. Can't tells as yet," Silver replies as he sizes up the lean, stylish dressed gentleman walking towards him. "Now that ain't right," he curiously questions himself, focusing on the black satchel over the refined fellow's shoulder. The notebook-size bag hangs to the man's waist, with his thumb and fingers hooked around the forward strap to support his right arm. Instinctively, Silver feels the heat of being stared at from behind the dark, reflective sunglasses of the approaching man. Shrewdly, the experienced predator surveys his surrounding environment, taking in angles, lines, numbers, innate power, and, most importantly, exits. Feeling safe within his marked territory and within the presence of his back-covering companions, Silver steps into the middle of the sidewalk and hails the approaching stroller in his friendly drawl: "Say Capt'n, what's up?"
Simple pleasures... in simple times... for simple people. The nattily tailored man takes satisfaction in having all that he requires within walking distance under free and open skies as his concrete-cold blood now pumps warm from his short time in the sun. His predatory instincts alertly catch movement approaching from behind him at a distance down the street. "Huh, now don't that beat all?" the man reflexively says aloud to himself as he turns and eyes a single male pedestrian walking towards him from midway down the street on the doorless side of the utility building. "Ain't that an odd duck outta water, yep?" he adds to himself after another moment of inspecting the isolated stroller. "Hep! Boys, ya wanna have some wake-up fun?"
"Huh? Yeah, sure, whatever you want," Kyle says, drawing his eyes from the red brick to look at the patient man on the corner's edge who still gazes down the sidewalk. "Why, what's up, Silver?" Having used all of his energy to come up momentarily from his still-hungover daze, Kyle places his chin back into his waiting hands supported by elbows resting on knees, to stare at the ground with open eyes not seeing.
Jake, as expected, says nothing. He takes a last puff on his cigarette stub and then flicks the butt in a high arc into the street gutter before following suit to look down the sidewalk.
"Don't know as o'yet, but maybe we gettin' us selves somethin' and maybe not. Can't tells as yet," Silver replies as he sizes up the lean, stylish dressed gentleman walking towards him. "Now that ain't right," he curiously questions himself, focusing on the black satchel over the refined fellow's shoulder. The notebook-size bag hangs to the man's waist, with his thumb and fingers hooked around the forward strap to support his right arm. Instinctively, Silver feels the heat of being stared at from behind the dark, reflective sunglasses of the approaching man. Shrewdly, the experienced predator surveys his surrounding environment, taking in angles, lines, numbers, innate power, and, most importantly, exits. Feeling safe within his marked territory and within the presence of his back-covering companions, Silver steps into the middle of the sidewalk and hails the approaching stroller in his friendly drawl: "Say Capt'n, what's up?"
106) Caligation- Bhri Stokes ~~~~ [Reviews 4-31]
"So," yawned one of the men, Jonathon, striding on over to Ripley with hands in pockets, "this boot better be good enough for Valerie to have gotten us out of bed."
"Boat," murmured Ripley off-handedly and shrugged. "You said you didn't believe me about it so I thought I'd prove it."
Val's curly hair was sleep-worn and she covered a yawn as she approached. She was chewing gum, even at this hour. "You just wanna win that bet. So where is it?"
"That was a deal, and as for the boat," he turned to face where the rocks led off into the water and the boat slowly shifted in their direction, it was far off, but well within sight.
Silence fell across the group as they looked out past Ripley and into the gloomy night. Then, one by one they slowly looked back to him.
"What are we meant to be seeing?" Jonathon looked from the water, to Ripley, and back again.
"The boat."
"...yeah.Where is it?"
Ripley turned, thinking it might have somehow vanished back into the fog but, no, it hovered out in the water like a wraith. He pointed- it was hard to spot but it wasn't impossible. Valerie moved up to his side to get a better angle and stared intently out past Ripley.
"There's nothing out there," she started after a moment, frowning at him.
"Is... this some sort of joke?" He frowned at the group, frustrated.
"That's what we should be fuckin' asking," growled one of the men whose name Ripley had yet to learn. He stepped forward and glared down at Ripley, far too close for comfort.
Valerie slid her small form between them and shoved her friend lightly in the chest. "Back the fuck off, man. I don't think he's just here to screw with us." Despite her aggressive words, she glanced apprehensively at Ripley and then behind him at the sea.
"Right there," Ripley tried, frustrated, his tone pleading."The thing out in the water. With the lights!"
Unimpressed silence fell across the group.
"Oh for fuck's sack." Ripley drew a hand up into his hair and turned away from the group. It wasn't because he thought they were playing with him, but because he could see the genuine confusion on their features.
"Boat," murmured Ripley off-handedly and shrugged. "You said you didn't believe me about it so I thought I'd prove it."
Val's curly hair was sleep-worn and she covered a yawn as she approached. She was chewing gum, even at this hour. "You just wanna win that bet. So where is it?"
"That was a deal, and as for the boat," he turned to face where the rocks led off into the water and the boat slowly shifted in their direction, it was far off, but well within sight.
Silence fell across the group as they looked out past Ripley and into the gloomy night. Then, one by one they slowly looked back to him.
"What are we meant to be seeing?" Jonathon looked from the water, to Ripley, and back again.
"The boat."
"...yeah.Where is it?"
Ripley turned, thinking it might have somehow vanished back into the fog but, no, it hovered out in the water like a wraith. He pointed- it was hard to spot but it wasn't impossible. Valerie moved up to his side to get a better angle and stared intently out past Ripley.
"There's nothing out there," she started after a moment, frowning at him.
"Is... this some sort of joke?" He frowned at the group, frustrated.
"That's what we should be fuckin' asking," growled one of the men whose name Ripley had yet to learn. He stepped forward and glared down at Ripley, far too close for comfort.
Valerie slid her small form between them and shoved her friend lightly in the chest. "Back the fuck off, man. I don't think he's just here to screw with us." Despite her aggressive words, she glanced apprehensively at Ripley and then behind him at the sea.
"Right there," Ripley tried, frustrated, his tone pleading."The thing out in the water. With the lights!"
Unimpressed silence fell across the group.
"Oh for fuck's sack." Ripley drew a hand up into his hair and turned away from the group. It wasn't because he thought they were playing with him, but because he could see the genuine confusion on their features.
107) Kings of Paradise- Richard Nell ~~~~ [Reviews 4-32]
The girl smiled, her free hand opening and closing as if it were cramped. She was no older than the other girls, but so drawn and dried she seemed a decade more. Dala knew her life was no doubt an unbroken tale of misery, that she was not so different than Meesha and could still be loved and saved.
But her eyes. Her eyes.
They were bright blue like Birmun's, and they were eager. They held no fear or distaste. She didn't look back at her master for a nod or a sliver more of courage.
"I'll think I'll rip off that dress and see yer teats, first. Then I'll cut and slide off yer pretty scalp." She looked at Dala's hair, "You'll make a lovely wig."
Reds and greens flickered on the girl's features as she started up the stairs. Dala's mouth went dry. Her head felt heavy and her vision swam as it had when the wolf killed her boys. This can't be happening, it's not possible.
She wanted to call out for Birmun but knew in her heart he wasn't coming now, that he was dead or running and failed her, and she was truly alone.
She'd never been in a fight. She hadn't remotely conceived of the depth of Tabaya's blasphemy- the depth of her corruption. She hadn't planned for this. Her fingers felt cold as they reached up to touch the ugly scar on her cheek, and her jaw clenched.
You won't have me, Noss, damn you. Curse you. You've failed so far, you've failed at every turn and here I stand. You'll fail again today.
She felt the trappings of her whole life of misery binding her as if in some awful dream. A trembling rage rose from some deep pit she didn't know she had, messy and aimed at nothing and everything- anger at Tabaya, at this wretched creature with the knife, anger for a life of setbacks and hardships and near success never bearing fruit. I curse you and your evil children, Noss, yes I say your name again without fear, and you won't have your victory now or ever while I draw breath.
Her hands balled and she stopped on a wide stone platform that connected the two stairwells. There was no railing. There was only a hard wall to her left and a harsh drop to flat stone on her right. She waited till the murderess came close- till her last few steps would bring her to the platform.
Dala felt the knot in her throat break all at once, bursting like a dam as a river flowed through. These women... these things betrayed their sex, their sister,their God. It was beyond blasphemy, it was contempt for everything good and holy and sacred that kept the world from chaos.
But her eyes. Her eyes.
They were bright blue like Birmun's, and they were eager. They held no fear or distaste. She didn't look back at her master for a nod or a sliver more of courage.
"I'll think I'll rip off that dress and see yer teats, first. Then I'll cut and slide off yer pretty scalp." She looked at Dala's hair, "You'll make a lovely wig."
Reds and greens flickered on the girl's features as she started up the stairs. Dala's mouth went dry. Her head felt heavy and her vision swam as it had when the wolf killed her boys. This can't be happening, it's not possible.
She wanted to call out for Birmun but knew in her heart he wasn't coming now, that he was dead or running and failed her, and she was truly alone.
She'd never been in a fight. She hadn't remotely conceived of the depth of Tabaya's blasphemy- the depth of her corruption. She hadn't planned for this. Her fingers felt cold as they reached up to touch the ugly scar on her cheek, and her jaw clenched.
You won't have me, Noss, damn you. Curse you. You've failed so far, you've failed at every turn and here I stand. You'll fail again today.
She felt the trappings of her whole life of misery binding her as if in some awful dream. A trembling rage rose from some deep pit she didn't know she had, messy and aimed at nothing and everything- anger at Tabaya, at this wretched creature with the knife, anger for a life of setbacks and hardships and near success never bearing fruit. I curse you and your evil children, Noss, yes I say your name again without fear, and you won't have your victory now or ever while I draw breath.
Her hands balled and she stopped on a wide stone platform that connected the two stairwells. There was no railing. There was only a hard wall to her left and a harsh drop to flat stone on her right. She waited till the murderess came close- till her last few steps would bring her to the platform.
Dala felt the knot in her throat break all at once, bursting like a dam as a river flowed through. These women... these things betrayed their sex, their sister,their God. It was beyond blasphemy, it was contempt for everything good and holy and sacred that kept the world from chaos.
108) Matriarchs: Eliza's Revenge- Susan McDonough-Wachtman ~~~~ [Reviews 4-33]
"Providentially, the barely functional organization called the United Nations proposed the Migrations. It was clear to even the most conservative Earth-firsters by then that the New Environmental Program would never be successful until there was a drastic reduction in population. Some thought it was too late anyway."
"For some parts of the world it was." Rif remembered the tours he had taken of the sites of nuclear accidents, the deserts where a rain forest had once been, the polluted bodies of water. They had learned to contain the devastation, but only time would heal it -- in many cases, time on a scale that was meaningless to humans.
"The women of the Susan B. Anthony commune decided to participate in the Great Migration.They couldn't all go, naturally, nor did they all want to. But they all committed to contributing to the planning and support of a migratory colony. It was an enormous venture. They spent years raising the money, accumulating supplies, choosing and training the colonists. And in the process, a decision was reached to send only women and children."
Rif lifted his head from the berry confection he had been enjoying and stared at her.
Winga was looking out the windows again. The sun had set and the trees surrounding the restaurant were a barely visible jagged line. "It's hard for me to imagine the world those women had grown up in, a world where men were still essentially in control. Concessions had been made in the past which allowed women to participate in government and make other decisions for themselves, but the obstacles placed before them were still considerable.
"The women of the colony wished to leave that mindset behind, and to ensure that would be so, they determined to have no men in their settlement for the first few years. Male children under ten were to be taken, and, of course, a plentiful supply of frozen sperm to ensure a good assortment of genes for the future."
"Wait, wait. You're telling me the only males settling Gaia were children?"
"That is correct," Winga smiled. "And animals. Although they were very careful about such imports. Animals brought from Earth are still kept closely monitored to be sure they do not devastate the indigenous life here."
Rif shook his head, uninterested in the animals. "But-- I have a great respect for the capacities of women -- but was that really necessary?"
"Monitoring the animals?"
"No, no, the women only thing!"
"Oh, I do not know, Rif. I was not there. I do know generations of patriarchal societies had brought Earth to the brink of environmental and economic collapse."
"Hunh." Rif scraped absently at his empty plate.
"At any rate, those were the Gaian Foremothers. They fought hard with the United Nations Settlement Bureau until they received a guarantee only their own people would be allowed on Gaia. They did not want to find themselves at war some day with a patriarchal society. They brought to Gaia their memories and their determination to create a new society on their new planet."
"For some parts of the world it was." Rif remembered the tours he had taken of the sites of nuclear accidents, the deserts where a rain forest had once been, the polluted bodies of water. They had learned to contain the devastation, but only time would heal it -- in many cases, time on a scale that was meaningless to humans.
"The women of the Susan B. Anthony commune decided to participate in the Great Migration.They couldn't all go, naturally, nor did they all want to. But they all committed to contributing to the planning and support of a migratory colony. It was an enormous venture. They spent years raising the money, accumulating supplies, choosing and training the colonists. And in the process, a decision was reached to send only women and children."
Rif lifted his head from the berry confection he had been enjoying and stared at her.
Winga was looking out the windows again. The sun had set and the trees surrounding the restaurant were a barely visible jagged line. "It's hard for me to imagine the world those women had grown up in, a world where men were still essentially in control. Concessions had been made in the past which allowed women to participate in government and make other decisions for themselves, but the obstacles placed before them were still considerable.
"The women of the colony wished to leave that mindset behind, and to ensure that would be so, they determined to have no men in their settlement for the first few years. Male children under ten were to be taken, and, of course, a plentiful supply of frozen sperm to ensure a good assortment of genes for the future."
"Wait, wait. You're telling me the only males settling Gaia were children?"
"That is correct," Winga smiled. "And animals. Although they were very careful about such imports. Animals brought from Earth are still kept closely monitored to be sure they do not devastate the indigenous life here."
Rif shook his head, uninterested in the animals. "But-- I have a great respect for the capacities of women -- but was that really necessary?"
"Monitoring the animals?"
"No, no, the women only thing!"
"Oh, I do not know, Rif. I was not there. I do know generations of patriarchal societies had brought Earth to the brink of environmental and economic collapse."
"Hunh." Rif scraped absently at his empty plate.
"At any rate, those were the Gaian Foremothers. They fought hard with the United Nations Settlement Bureau until they received a guarantee only their own people would be allowed on Gaia. They did not want to find themselves at war some day with a patriarchal society. They brought to Gaia their memories and their determination to create a new society on their new planet."
109) Execution of Justice- Patrick Dent ~~~~ [Reviews 4-34]
She rounded another corner and was awestruck by the landscape. Huge trees decked with orchids were contrasted with giant victoria-regia, lilies, bromeliads, royal poincianas and tropical foliage. Lupe breathed deeply, the mixed aromas evoking random memories from her childhood. Once, a dove lit on a branch just a few feet from her. It was the purest white she had ever seen. When she reached out to touch it, the dove flew away. After nearly two hours of exploring the local flora, the girls found themselves a bit disorientated.
"Where the hell are we?" Becky asked.
"I'm not sure, but come to think of it, I haven't seen another soul in a while," Lupe answered.
They were in a maze of hedges, and due to the height of the bushes, could not see the sun to get a bearing on direction. They decided to keep moving, taking a right at each juncture. This method was unlikely to take them to an exit, but at least it was consistent. The girls figured they would reach either the center or and edge eventually. Besides, they would certainly come across other people in the process.
"What was that?" Becky asked.
"What was what?" Lupe replied.
"I swear I heard someone walking nearby."
"Hello! Can you help us please? We're lost. Hello!" Lupes hails went unanswered.
"Becky, I didn't hear a thing, and no one is answering. I'm sure we'd get an answer, even if it wasn't in English," Lupe said. She was exasperated, hot and tired. Her sundress was soaked in sweat and she wanted a shower. She had no idea her next bath would be administered with a fire hose.
Even as Lupe spoke her words of reassurance, she heard the soft sound of leather-soled shoes on dirt just around the next corner of the maze. She ran towards the source of the sound, taking an abrupt left at the intersection. When she rounded the corner, she tripped on some kind of branch or log. As she stood, she had several milliseconds to realize the log was actually a human leg. As she drew a deep breath to cry out, she detected a strong chemical odor. The last thing she saw was a dripping handkerchief converging on her nose and mouth. The world receded into blackness as the chloroform was carried by her red blood cells to her brain, rendering her unconscious within two seconds of contact.
"Where the hell are we?" Becky asked.
"I'm not sure, but come to think of it, I haven't seen another soul in a while," Lupe answered.
They were in a maze of hedges, and due to the height of the bushes, could not see the sun to get a bearing on direction. They decided to keep moving, taking a right at each juncture. This method was unlikely to take them to an exit, but at least it was consistent. The girls figured they would reach either the center or and edge eventually. Besides, they would certainly come across other people in the process.
"What was that?" Becky asked.
"What was what?" Lupe replied.
"I swear I heard someone walking nearby."
"Hello! Can you help us please? We're lost. Hello!" Lupes hails went unanswered.
"Becky, I didn't hear a thing, and no one is answering. I'm sure we'd get an answer, even if it wasn't in English," Lupe said. She was exasperated, hot and tired. Her sundress was soaked in sweat and she wanted a shower. She had no idea her next bath would be administered with a fire hose.
Even as Lupe spoke her words of reassurance, she heard the soft sound of leather-soled shoes on dirt just around the next corner of the maze. She ran towards the source of the sound, taking an abrupt left at the intersection. When she rounded the corner, she tripped on some kind of branch or log. As she stood, she had several milliseconds to realize the log was actually a human leg. As she drew a deep breath to cry out, she detected a strong chemical odor. The last thing she saw was a dripping handkerchief converging on her nose and mouth. The world receded into blackness as the chloroform was carried by her red blood cells to her brain, rendering her unconscious within two seconds of contact.
110) When a Stranger Comes- Karen S. Bell ~~~~ [Reviews 5-31]
Before I went out yesterday, I called Margaret. After several attempts, I just left a message telling her I really needed to see her and that I was back. "Come up as soon as you can, I'll be here waiting," I said in a desperate voice. Maybe between the two of us, we can figure out how I can get out of this strangle-hold on me. I don't want the vast sums of money that I thought I wanted. I don't want to be number one on the best-sellers' list. I just want my old life back. My old life blissfully innocent of all the weirdness that can be accessed by associating with the wrong people. All I have are regrets. Every day and every waking minute. Firing Margaret could be at the top of the list of regrets. Why I did it is beyond my comprehension. Dazzled by the glitter of wealth and seduced by promises of the superficial. Chasing rainbows that turned into storm clouds and my ruin. A life lesson learned the hard way.
It's weird that she hasn't called me back, even when I tell her she doesn't have to call, she always calls. Margaret. I picture her cute face and wide smile with gleaming white, straight teeth. A poster child for the expensive braces she wore as a child to achieve that perfection. I was so comfortable with her right from the start. She was so relaxed and mellow taking all my shit with no complaints. She idolized me and was my first fan. Totally psyched at the mega success of my debut and thrilled to be a part of it. She was always there for me. She helped me with writer's block, with thorny plot problems. Pulled all nighters to make my deadlines. Cooked me breakfast. Cooked me dinner.
Margaret Hathaway. A card-playing member of the one percent. Her real name, not a made-up name like mine. She abhorred shortening her name to Marge or heaven forbid, Peggy. Never call her anything but Margaret. Never. So this fragile-looking petite young woman, always laid back, would become brazen, bold, and threatening if someone tried to call her Peggy. I was tempted to call her Peggy because Margaret seemed to imposing for her sprite-like appearance, but she would always give me that stare when she heard the lette, "p", about to come out of my mouth. So I would finesse and change it. "Margaret, Margaret. Okay, okay, I know. I'm sorry." That was her only area of contention. Otherwise she was a bubble, a sparkling dancing light. May sweet and lovely Margaret. Why she said nothing when Alex called her, Peggy, is probably the spell these people hod on everyone.
Being the recluse I am, she was also a social buddy. We looked so funny going to bars on the prowl together, especially when I put on my stiletto heels and towered over her. Me, from the mythical island of Amazon women, she, tiny, slender, Peter Pan. Flat soft shoes, leggings and a tunic are her staples. It made me self-conscious to be so big in comparison, but I felt sexy in heels and only wore my comfy flats for daily errands and such. Most of the time, I walked ahead of her and sat down at the bar first. One time I made her put on Louboutins for fun, to entice her to think about adding some height when she went clubbing. First of all, they were giant on her small feet, so that was a big mistake. Luckily, we were in a carpeted bedroom because she fell so hard she almost broke her ankle. She hopped around for nearly a week having sprained it so badly it turned blue. I was mortified that I was responsible, but she brushed it off, as always.
It's weird that she hasn't called me back, even when I tell her she doesn't have to call, she always calls. Margaret. I picture her cute face and wide smile with gleaming white, straight teeth. A poster child for the expensive braces she wore as a child to achieve that perfection. I was so comfortable with her right from the start. She was so relaxed and mellow taking all my shit with no complaints. She idolized me and was my first fan. Totally psyched at the mega success of my debut and thrilled to be a part of it. She was always there for me. She helped me with writer's block, with thorny plot problems. Pulled all nighters to make my deadlines. Cooked me breakfast. Cooked me dinner.
Margaret Hathaway. A card-playing member of the one percent. Her real name, not a made-up name like mine. She abhorred shortening her name to Marge or heaven forbid, Peggy. Never call her anything but Margaret. Never. So this fragile-looking petite young woman, always laid back, would become brazen, bold, and threatening if someone tried to call her Peggy. I was tempted to call her Peggy because Margaret seemed to imposing for her sprite-like appearance, but she would always give me that stare when she heard the lette, "p", about to come out of my mouth. So I would finesse and change it. "Margaret, Margaret. Okay, okay, I know. I'm sorry." That was her only area of contention. Otherwise she was a bubble, a sparkling dancing light. May sweet and lovely Margaret. Why she said nothing when Alex called her, Peggy, is probably the spell these people hod on everyone.
Being the recluse I am, she was also a social buddy. We looked so funny going to bars on the prowl together, especially when I put on my stiletto heels and towered over her. Me, from the mythical island of Amazon women, she, tiny, slender, Peter Pan. Flat soft shoes, leggings and a tunic are her staples. It made me self-conscious to be so big in comparison, but I felt sexy in heels and only wore my comfy flats for daily errands and such. Most of the time, I walked ahead of her and sat down at the bar first. One time I made her put on Louboutins for fun, to entice her to think about adding some height when she went clubbing. First of all, they were giant on her small feet, so that was a big mistake. Luckily, we were in a carpeted bedroom because she fell so hard she almost broke her ankle. She hopped around for nearly a week having sprained it so badly it turned blue. I was mortified that I was responsible, but she brushed it off, as always.
111) Life Unfinished- Martin White ~~~~ [Reviews 5-32]
The two other songs are slower and more reflective: To the Distant Lover, which is full of tenderness and remorse, and By the River, which portrays a gentle stream carrying songs to oblivion. Yet it is here more than elsewhere that danger lurks, for the very remorse and oblivion drag Schubert back towards his own darkness, and the gentler pace gives scope for wayward thoughts - for thoughts of "trifles". He survives their siren voices, but after the forth song, as he stands to cheers and stamping, a swirl of blackness enters the vacuum left by his music. Only a smiling mask of acknowledges and reflects the admiration of his hearers, whilst a pinprick throbs, begins to bleed. Are these songs merely "trifles" too? Is Schober right?
As this venom courses through Schubert's veins, it is Schwind now who scrambles on to the stage, bursting with eagerness to play his own part in the evening's entertainment. He first applauds then embraces Schubert, before looking with expectation towards him for the announcement of their duet. Words tumble through the rictus of Schubert's mask, and they are flecked with poison:
"Ladies, gentlemen, friends, I thank you for your most kind acknowledgment of my latest scribblings. Herr Moritz von Schwind and I will now play another small trifle: my Marche Militaire in D.
Schubert hears some of the audience laugh at the perceived pleasantry, though others including Schwind look baffled, and Schober blanches. The piece proceeds. It is a work written four years previously- at Zseliz in fact - and is well known and loved amongst Schubert's friends. He knows Schwind will experience the excitement of his first performance of the piece in public, but for himself its music, almost engrained in his psyche now, requires little thought, and so leaves his mind to further putrefy, leaves what he now feels to be an ulcerous slight the space to ooze vitriol.
The march performed, adulation expressed, and Schwind once more back in his seat, Schubert's anguish continues to well within him:
"Once more, dear friends, I thank you. Unfortunately, a slight cold afflicts me and I must curtail the musical content of the evening rather sooner than I would have wished. However, as a final offering on my part, I will perform a further new song to the words of Goethe, though unrelated to those "trifles" you have already heard. This is one of the Harper's songs from Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship: who Has Never Eaten His Bread With Tears. I trust you will enjoy your supper."
"He who has never eaten his bread in tears,
Who has never wept upon his bed
Throughout the sorrow-filled night,
Does not know you, your heavenly powers.
You bring us into being,
You let the unfortunate suffer guilt,
Then you surrender them to suffering:
Since all guilt is avenged on Earth."
As Schubert sings these words, anger and injury build to a climax. His heart rails at Schober, at his cold words, his insult, his undeserved good health, at his own life of trifling nonentity. But as fury peaks its hollow pointlessness implodes within him, crumbles before the reality of his true predicament, as the chancre, the sickbed, the stench of illness re-erupts in his imagination.
As this venom courses through Schubert's veins, it is Schwind now who scrambles on to the stage, bursting with eagerness to play his own part in the evening's entertainment. He first applauds then embraces Schubert, before looking with expectation towards him for the announcement of their duet. Words tumble through the rictus of Schubert's mask, and they are flecked with poison:
"Ladies, gentlemen, friends, I thank you for your most kind acknowledgment of my latest scribblings. Herr Moritz von Schwind and I will now play another small trifle: my Marche Militaire in D.
Schubert hears some of the audience laugh at the perceived pleasantry, though others including Schwind look baffled, and Schober blanches. The piece proceeds. It is a work written four years previously- at Zseliz in fact - and is well known and loved amongst Schubert's friends. He knows Schwind will experience the excitement of his first performance of the piece in public, but for himself its music, almost engrained in his psyche now, requires little thought, and so leaves his mind to further putrefy, leaves what he now feels to be an ulcerous slight the space to ooze vitriol.
The march performed, adulation expressed, and Schwind once more back in his seat, Schubert's anguish continues to well within him:
"Once more, dear friends, I thank you. Unfortunately, a slight cold afflicts me and I must curtail the musical content of the evening rather sooner than I would have wished. However, as a final offering on my part, I will perform a further new song to the words of Goethe, though unrelated to those "trifles" you have already heard. This is one of the Harper's songs from Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship: who Has Never Eaten His Bread With Tears. I trust you will enjoy your supper."
"He who has never eaten his bread in tears,
Who has never wept upon his bed
Throughout the sorrow-filled night,
Does not know you, your heavenly powers.
You bring us into being,
You let the unfortunate suffer guilt,
Then you surrender them to suffering:
Since all guilt is avenged on Earth."
As Schubert sings these words, anger and injury build to a climax. His heart rails at Schober, at his cold words, his insult, his undeserved good health, at his own life of trifling nonentity. But as fury peaks its hollow pointlessness implodes within him, crumbles before the reality of his true predicament, as the chancre, the sickbed, the stench of illness re-erupts in his imagination.
112) Ape Mind, Old Mind, New Mind- John Wylie ~~~~ [Reviews 5-33]
EMOTIONS AND MOTIVATIONS, A NEW NARRATIVE OF HUMAN EVOLUTION.
Major psychiatric illnesses can be understood as the breakdown of key emotional functions that have remained stable since they arose to play decisive roles in human evolution. Through an understanding of the motivational component of ancient social behaviors, a new “inner” evolutionary narrative emerges that is consistent with scientific know-ledge in paleoanthropology and related fields—and as a bonus, a humanistic understanding of the mentally ill is enlightened.
By means of a process akin to Darwin’s conception of sexual selection, the dominance–submission interaction between ape individuals was rendered into the singular group function of obedience to authority. Under threat of extinction, the defining phenomenon of authority arose in our earliest human ancestors as the nascent capacity to share their pooled motivations to survive as a single creature.
Human authority was then submitted to classical natural selection, not for the fitness of individuals or groups, but for the most just relationships, because, whether it be a pair-bond or a nation, justice is the most productive social system imaginable. Over millions of years, the struggle for justice proceeded to sanction the evolution of the most fundamental human adaptation: the coordination of divided labor.
HUMAN NATURE DESCENDS FROM THE STRUGGLE FOR JUSTICE.
Major psychiatric illnesses can be understood as the breakdown of key emotional functions that have remained stable since they arose to play decisive roles in human evolution. Through an understanding of the motivational component of ancient social behaviors, a new “inner” evolutionary narrative emerges that is consistent with scientific know-ledge in paleoanthropology and related fields—and as a bonus, a humanistic understanding of the mentally ill is enlightened.
By means of a process akin to Darwin’s conception of sexual selection, the dominance–submission interaction between ape individuals was rendered into the singular group function of obedience to authority. Under threat of extinction, the defining phenomenon of authority arose in our earliest human ancestors as the nascent capacity to share their pooled motivations to survive as a single creature.
Human authority was then submitted to classical natural selection, not for the fitness of individuals or groups, but for the most just relationships, because, whether it be a pair-bond or a nation, justice is the most productive social system imaginable. Over millions of years, the struggle for justice proceeded to sanction the evolution of the most fundamental human adaptation: the coordination of divided labor.
HUMAN NATURE DESCENDS FROM THE STRUGGLE FOR JUSTICE.
113) El Cajon- Joel Shapiro ~~~~ [Reviews 5-34]
Now, I didn't really care for either of these detective yahoos. Hell I hated most cops, and for good reason, but for a moment it felt we were finally on the same side. All I could do was nod. A nod for Maria's identity, but also a nod to confirm what I felt and what he knew I felt. A nod to tell him exactly what I was going to do. He knew what I was thinking because he tried to touch me on the shoulder.
"Baker, look, we're going to find out who did this." He then reached into his pocket and held out his business card. "Call me if you need to, For any reason."
I took the card and it was all I could do to not grab his hand, twist it, pulling his two fingers back until they snapped. But he wasn't the bad guy this time. I looked at Maria again, and began to stroke her hair, then I decided to close her sad, fuming eyes in a final farewell. Like this would somehow give her some semblance of peace. Then the rage boiled up.I needed to take this out on someone.
"You know," I suddenly glared back at him, "If she was still a cop, she wouldn't have had to buy this piece of shit bookstore, mortgage her house, spend her savings and lose her life through a hole in her uterus and out through her spine. He tried to reply but I wouldn't let him. "So you can stick that shit up your arse."
He thought about saying something else but wisely shut his mouth and went over to pow-wow with Uglestead.
I decided to focus on task. I started to let the anger and residual fear and dread and all the black stuff burn away and I took a breath, letting in oxygen so I could actually start to think and do something about this.
I remembered another one of my many rehab stints. This one met in an old church in Greenwich Village. It was led by this tall, skinny, vegan guy, Doctor Mike Holleran, a long-haired substance-abuse-expert-PhD-whatever who was also some sort of Yoga guru priest. He used to try to get us to imagine this white light entering our bodies during meditation.- while we expelled all of our darkness on the exhale. He insisted that it was the Light of God that was purifying the heavens that holds us down and feeds on our addictions, a darkness that we all held onto, and if we would just expel it and replace it with the White Energy of God Universe or whatever- astream of imagined light enveloping our spirit-then our addictions would eventually dissipate because the pain that cries out in our souls has pleaded out for help and darkness has answered the call and we've embraced it because we think pain is what we deserve and all that crap, but according to Doc Holleran, the calming Light of God replaces that with love and isn't it better to find love with God, and peace and then you don't need the drugs and the sex and the booze? I always thought: "isn't that all a load of bullshit.*
Needless to say, Holleran's rehab didn't take to me. I enjoyed the booze and the drugs and the sex and the pain, and when I meditated it was for Karate class to center my mind so I could kick some ass in Kumate and I didn't do it to replace all my addictions and the darkness that fed on them and I wasn't going to be a peaceful White Light vegan granola yogurt yoga pansy pussy guy because I knew God or whomever it is up there put me here for another purpose and how I realized that that purpose was to murder the motherfucker who butchered my best friend.
But, hell, I tried to let in a little white light as I took my breath, and for a moment I let my hands unclench and my teeth unclench and I felt my jaw unhinge and I relaxed enough to let the neurons start to zip around in my tired brain.
I played back the last ten minutes and it suddenly didn't make sense. I stepped over to Opp and pulled him aside.
"What do you mean no one was home at her house? Tonight's Tuesday, and that's lasagna night and no fucking way would Sheila not be home because she'll have made lasagna, and..." Oh shit.
I was already out the door before Opp made the call to get units on the scene to 9790 Shadow Road.
"Baker, look, we're going to find out who did this." He then reached into his pocket and held out his business card. "Call me if you need to, For any reason."
I took the card and it was all I could do to not grab his hand, twist it, pulling his two fingers back until they snapped. But he wasn't the bad guy this time. I looked at Maria again, and began to stroke her hair, then I decided to close her sad, fuming eyes in a final farewell. Like this would somehow give her some semblance of peace. Then the rage boiled up.I needed to take this out on someone.
"You know," I suddenly glared back at him, "If she was still a cop, she wouldn't have had to buy this piece of shit bookstore, mortgage her house, spend her savings and lose her life through a hole in her uterus and out through her spine. He tried to reply but I wouldn't let him. "So you can stick that shit up your arse."
He thought about saying something else but wisely shut his mouth and went over to pow-wow with Uglestead.
I decided to focus on task. I started to let the anger and residual fear and dread and all the black stuff burn away and I took a breath, letting in oxygen so I could actually start to think and do something about this.
I remembered another one of my many rehab stints. This one met in an old church in Greenwich Village. It was led by this tall, skinny, vegan guy, Doctor Mike Holleran, a long-haired substance-abuse-expert-PhD-whatever who was also some sort of Yoga guru priest. He used to try to get us to imagine this white light entering our bodies during meditation.- while we expelled all of our darkness on the exhale. He insisted that it was the Light of God that was purifying the heavens that holds us down and feeds on our addictions, a darkness that we all held onto, and if we would just expel it and replace it with the White Energy of God Universe or whatever- astream of imagined light enveloping our spirit-then our addictions would eventually dissipate because the pain that cries out in our souls has pleaded out for help and darkness has answered the call and we've embraced it because we think pain is what we deserve and all that crap, but according to Doc Holleran, the calming Light of God replaces that with love and isn't it better to find love with God, and peace and then you don't need the drugs and the sex and the booze? I always thought: "isn't that all a load of bullshit.*
Needless to say, Holleran's rehab didn't take to me. I enjoyed the booze and the drugs and the sex and the pain, and when I meditated it was for Karate class to center my mind so I could kick some ass in Kumate and I didn't do it to replace all my addictions and the darkness that fed on them and I wasn't going to be a peaceful White Light vegan granola yogurt yoga pansy pussy guy because I knew God or whomever it is up there put me here for another purpose and how I realized that that purpose was to murder the motherfucker who butchered my best friend.
But, hell, I tried to let in a little white light as I took my breath, and for a moment I let my hands unclench and my teeth unclench and I felt my jaw unhinge and I relaxed enough to let the neurons start to zip around in my tired brain.
I played back the last ten minutes and it suddenly didn't make sense. I stepped over to Opp and pulled him aside.
"What do you mean no one was home at her house? Tonight's Tuesday, and that's lasagna night and no fucking way would Sheila not be home because she'll have made lasagna, and..." Oh shit.
I was already out the door before Opp made the call to get units on the scene to 9790 Shadow Road.
114) How We End Up- Douglas Wells ~~~~ [Reviews 5-35]
Lying alongside a sleeping Franklin on the king sized bed in the Key Largo Blake Resort's Executive Suite, Haley listened to the soft drone of the cooling unit and watched the early morning light form a halo around the edges of the window curtain. In a few minutes, she'd have to get up, dress, and go down two floors to her own room. Franklin couldn't risk letting the housekeepers or any other staff at the resort think Haley was in his room since they all knew his position with Blake, so this was their gambit when they rendezvoused in the Blake Hotels in various cities over the past four years. He checked into a room, she into another, alternating slipping up, down, or over to his or her room when hotel foot traffic was light, usually by taking the stairs, usually after nightfall. Haley lay awake partially because, during this two-day encounter, her conviction that their relationship's splendor had slipped away in phases with every meeting, like a book's chapters you would not re-read, increased to the point of no return. Four years with three to four unions in three or four hotels in three or four cities. She had come to see herself downgrade from lover to mistress to whore. He would not leave his wife. He would never leave his wife: bony Deirdre, as Haley called her after seeing a photograph of them together in a Blake newsletter. Well connected, bony Deirdre. He evaded answering the question many times over the years, but in the restaurant last night, he finally told her.
They drove in seperate cars to a seafood restaurant on the Gulf side of the key and sat outside. A pleasant breeze wafted in from the water. The waitress brought them a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc because the restaurant didn't carry Gavi. They drank without toasting.
"You might as well admit you're not going to leave her," Haley said.
"I've told you so many times how difficult that would be. What problems it would cause me."
"Because of her money."
Franklin took a sip. "I've been honest with you about that. Yes, It's a factor, but the real issue is how things are in Louisville. The corporate people, well, we're tightly knit. Who I am in the company is associated with Deirdre. She's one of the CEO's favorite people. You see? I've tried to make you understand that. A split right now. well, it could go badly for me."
"Right now? We've been hooked up for four years. I think you've said 'right now' more than once in that time."
"Don't say we've been hooked up. That's not how I would characterize it."
"Okay. We've been fucking for four years."
Franklin looked around to see if anyone heard her. "You've never used that word before."
"Well, it's what we've been doing, or what you've been doing all along. When we started, I always thought of it as making love." Franklin opened his mouth to reply, but Haley cut him off. "Not only that. I took courses to educate myself, I've gotten promoted to manager, thinking, assuming like a fool, you would one day leave her, one day bring me on at corporate."
They drove in seperate cars to a seafood restaurant on the Gulf side of the key and sat outside. A pleasant breeze wafted in from the water. The waitress brought them a bottle of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc because the restaurant didn't carry Gavi. They drank without toasting.
"You might as well admit you're not going to leave her," Haley said.
"I've told you so many times how difficult that would be. What problems it would cause me."
"Because of her money."
Franklin took a sip. "I've been honest with you about that. Yes, It's a factor, but the real issue is how things are in Louisville. The corporate people, well, we're tightly knit. Who I am in the company is associated with Deirdre. She's one of the CEO's favorite people. You see? I've tried to make you understand that. A split right now. well, it could go badly for me."
"Right now? We've been hooked up for four years. I think you've said 'right now' more than once in that time."
"Don't say we've been hooked up. That's not how I would characterize it."
"Okay. We've been fucking for four years."
Franklin looked around to see if anyone heard her. "You've never used that word before."
"Well, it's what we've been doing, or what you've been doing all along. When we started, I always thought of it as making love." Franklin opened his mouth to reply, but Haley cut him off. "Not only that. I took courses to educate myself, I've gotten promoted to manager, thinking, assuming like a fool, you would one day leave her, one day bring me on at corporate."
115) The Beyond Now Device- Mark Hollock ~~~~ [Reviews 1-36]
Same day, Minneapolis
Later that evening, Em sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. The sound of traffic was as quiet as ever. Sanger tinkered in the bathroom. Em wasn't tired and focused on the mister and her experiences with it. Have we all time-jaunted into the future? Could any good really come out of changing the future? Em felt as though her thoughts were sitting at the bottom of a pool and wished they'd come up for air.
She slid into bed, curled away from Sanger's side, and pressed her head into the pillow. After Sanger finished in the bathroom, he clambered into bed. Em felt him run his hand just above the skin of her arm. He cleared his throat and she knew he'll soon speak. She sensed his hand over her skin again, as though his hand was filled with static electricity and drew her hairs upright.
"You, uhm," Sanger began. " You... are you hoping to see the bank guy again?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Alan mentioned he thought you were keen on your future. So, do you want to see him again?"
"How can I do that? There's nothing we can do to control the whereabouts or timeframe."
"That's a little harsh. Don't you think we have to keep believing we can control things?"
"Maybe so. But we can't control everything."
"Still, that doesn't answer my question. If you could, would you... want to see him again?"
Em pressed her face into the pillow. "Want to see him again! You make it sound like we've been on a date. I don't know him, I've never met him."
"You will."
Em felt frustrated by her indirectness. She regretted not telling Hugh about Sanger and now couldn't muster the courage to tell Sanger about Hugh. "I might see him again. I don't know how it works. Who knows where the future will take us?" Em slid closer to the edge of the bed.
She felt Sanger move away. The tingle of the hairs on her arm disappeared and she knew he was on his back.
"Just tell me what you want, what you imagine," he said.
Em sat up and dropped her feet to the floor, "I don't know these things. I'm going to the kitchen." She stood and pulled on one of Sanger's dress shirts.
Sanger felt the split and pop of a boiling caldron in the pit of his stomach.
Later that evening, Em sat on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing. The sound of traffic was as quiet as ever. Sanger tinkered in the bathroom. Em wasn't tired and focused on the mister and her experiences with it. Have we all time-jaunted into the future? Could any good really come out of changing the future? Em felt as though her thoughts were sitting at the bottom of a pool and wished they'd come up for air.
She slid into bed, curled away from Sanger's side, and pressed her head into the pillow. After Sanger finished in the bathroom, he clambered into bed. Em felt him run his hand just above the skin of her arm. He cleared his throat and she knew he'll soon speak. She sensed his hand over her skin again, as though his hand was filled with static electricity and drew her hairs upright.
"You, uhm," Sanger began. " You... are you hoping to see the bank guy again?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Alan mentioned he thought you were keen on your future. So, do you want to see him again?"
"How can I do that? There's nothing we can do to control the whereabouts or timeframe."
"That's a little harsh. Don't you think we have to keep believing we can control things?"
"Maybe so. But we can't control everything."
"Still, that doesn't answer my question. If you could, would you... want to see him again?"
Em pressed her face into the pillow. "Want to see him again! You make it sound like we've been on a date. I don't know him, I've never met him."
"You will."
Em felt frustrated by her indirectness. She regretted not telling Hugh about Sanger and now couldn't muster the courage to tell Sanger about Hugh. "I might see him again. I don't know how it works. Who knows where the future will take us?" Em slid closer to the edge of the bed.
She felt Sanger move away. The tingle of the hairs on her arm disappeared and she knew he was on his back.
"Just tell me what you want, what you imagine," he said.
Em sat up and dropped her feet to the floor, "I don't know these things. I'm going to the kitchen." She stood and pulled on one of Sanger's dress shirts.
Sanger felt the split and pop of a boiling caldron in the pit of his stomach.
116) The Lumberjack- Erik Martin Willén ~~~~ [Reviews 1-37]
Christina liked this forthright young woman. With Sandra's help, she bought some matte brown cowboy boots with a matching Stetson, a few blouses, several pairs of jeans, and a couple of skirts- one long, and another short. Very short. She also got a couple of pairs of denim shorts, neither of which her mother would have approved of. As Christina walked upto the counter carrying her purchases, Sandra said goodbye and hurried up to another waiting customer.
The woman Christina took her stuff to might have been Sandra's mother, because they looked very much alike. She scanned the items through the register, giving Christina a friendly smile- then shot a scowl towards Peter, who stood a few yards behind Christina. The talkative woman stood further away, still gossiping.
"You don't have to put up with that, you know," the clerk muttered.
Christina gave the woman a very confused look. "The gossiping...?"
"Not that. You know, him hitting you and such."
It took Christina a moment before she realized that the woman was talking about. She did have quite a few bruises, though most were covered by bandages and clothes; her former black eye was now more reddish-blue, but still swollen, and was there for all to see. "Oh, no, you don't understand, Peter hasn't hurt me."
The clerk leaned forward, placing her hand over Christina's, and whispered, "Denial, my friend, is the first thing you have to overcome."
Christina tried to get a word in edgewise, but the woman interrupted her by shaking her head firmly. So Christina just rolled her eyes and, after paying for her purchases with her black American Express card, left the store.
Just as they stepped out the door, the clerk shouted, "DENIAL!"
"What was that about?* Peter asked as they left the store.
"Hah! Well, Peter, she thinks you're my boyfriend, and that you, well, you know." She pointed at her swollen eye. Peter looked calmly back, and then his eyes went round as he realized what the woman had thought of him.
He opened the SUV's door for Christina, muttering, "Stupid old cow, thinking I would hurt women."
The woman Christina took her stuff to might have been Sandra's mother, because they looked very much alike. She scanned the items through the register, giving Christina a friendly smile- then shot a scowl towards Peter, who stood a few yards behind Christina. The talkative woman stood further away, still gossiping.
"You don't have to put up with that, you know," the clerk muttered.
Christina gave the woman a very confused look. "The gossiping...?"
"Not that. You know, him hitting you and such."
It took Christina a moment before she realized that the woman was talking about. She did have quite a few bruises, though most were covered by bandages and clothes; her former black eye was now more reddish-blue, but still swollen, and was there for all to see. "Oh, no, you don't understand, Peter hasn't hurt me."
The clerk leaned forward, placing her hand over Christina's, and whispered, "Denial, my friend, is the first thing you have to overcome."
Christina tried to get a word in edgewise, but the woman interrupted her by shaking her head firmly. So Christina just rolled her eyes and, after paying for her purchases with her black American Express card, left the store.
Just as they stepped out the door, the clerk shouted, "DENIAL!"
"What was that about?* Peter asked as they left the store.
"Hah! Well, Peter, she thinks you're my boyfriend, and that you, well, you know." She pointed at her swollen eye. Peter looked calmly back, and then his eyes went round as he realized what the woman had thought of him.
He opened the SUV's door for Christina, muttering, "Stupid old cow, thinking I would hurt women."
117) The Last Gods of Indochine- Samuel Ferrer ~~~~ [Reviews 1-38]
(In Jacquie's mind- and now written into her diary) There is an old man here who disturbs me greatly. Several times I have seen him at the temples as he watches me from afar. Today, I saw him again while out on a bicycle ride. But it is not just the way he watches me that I find so queer; here minds me too much of a character from the ancient Hindu story, a story which first teased me on my journey and then found me in full force after I arrived to this place.
Utterly ghastly, he appears skeletal, dark, and emaciated. His jowls droop like melted wax. The first time I saw him, I took him for a mendicant, even feeling pity and a desire to take care of him, but then I realized how boldly he was watching me. Seeing him today and associating him with the story made my skin crawl. More than any other character, this is the one I cannot face.
At times I feel a resonance, a kind of humming within my bones when I imagine this man and the other historical figures from this kingdom's distant past. Are their ghosts still present here somehow, awakened by the tap of my feet, called up by the recognition of my voice?
My grandfather on his deathbed wrote of a monkey-healer, precisely like the legend of the jungle boy around whom this history centers, yet he mentioned as well a great bird, of which i know nothing. Did my grandfather feel the same sensation, a story unrolled before him like an ornate carpet, each design on it something he suddenly realized he had seen before somewhere else?
Yet I digress? Or do I? This afternoon I decided to return the oldman's stare, attempting to mirror his presence. Steadfast upon his cane, he remained fixated upon me. We stared at one another until I could take no more. Facing him too long feels like it would turn me inside out. I turned the bicycle back around and began peddling away, faster and faster, until I was speeding my way out of Ta Prohn.
Even when I knew I had distanced myself from him, my pace remained frantic, because my connection to this story and this character goes far beyond any place where I can hide.
I do not feel safe here, where I have been drawn as a moth takes to a flame. I do not want to be here and yet I know I was meant to be. I shall remain until I understand why. The gypsy in Colombo said to "not follow in the footsteps of another too closely. The gypsy in Colombo said to "not follow in the footsteps of another too closely", and even more cryptically, "do not consider the suffering of others". I must understand more about my grandfather's death,the curse Victor told me about, and be wary. I believe I have some of the answers he is seeking for his research. Even now, I nearly hear the cries of those babies that everyone can study on the bas-reliefs, but now I also understand how they were killed, and I know, each time I pause when fanning myself,I know whenever I drift away from the conversations of these scholars, I know as I absently take photographs and ride bicycles, I know as the rain stop and the ruins steam; in every moment, I know which one survived.
Utterly ghastly, he appears skeletal, dark, and emaciated. His jowls droop like melted wax. The first time I saw him, I took him for a mendicant, even feeling pity and a desire to take care of him, but then I realized how boldly he was watching me. Seeing him today and associating him with the story made my skin crawl. More than any other character, this is the one I cannot face.
At times I feel a resonance, a kind of humming within my bones when I imagine this man and the other historical figures from this kingdom's distant past. Are their ghosts still present here somehow, awakened by the tap of my feet, called up by the recognition of my voice?
My grandfather on his deathbed wrote of a monkey-healer, precisely like the legend of the jungle boy around whom this history centers, yet he mentioned as well a great bird, of which i know nothing. Did my grandfather feel the same sensation, a story unrolled before him like an ornate carpet, each design on it something he suddenly realized he had seen before somewhere else?
Yet I digress? Or do I? This afternoon I decided to return the oldman's stare, attempting to mirror his presence. Steadfast upon his cane, he remained fixated upon me. We stared at one another until I could take no more. Facing him too long feels like it would turn me inside out. I turned the bicycle back around and began peddling away, faster and faster, until I was speeding my way out of Ta Prohn.
Even when I knew I had distanced myself from him, my pace remained frantic, because my connection to this story and this character goes far beyond any place where I can hide.
I do not feel safe here, where I have been drawn as a moth takes to a flame. I do not want to be here and yet I know I was meant to be. I shall remain until I understand why. The gypsy in Colombo said to "not follow in the footsteps of another too closely. The gypsy in Colombo said to "not follow in the footsteps of another too closely", and even more cryptically, "do not consider the suffering of others". I must understand more about my grandfather's death,the curse Victor told me about, and be wary. I believe I have some of the answers he is seeking for his research. Even now, I nearly hear the cries of those babies that everyone can study on the bas-reliefs, but now I also understand how they were killed, and I know, each time I pause when fanning myself,I know whenever I drift away from the conversations of these scholars, I know as I absently take photographs and ride bicycles, I know as the rain stop and the ruins steam; in every moment, I know which one survived.
118) The Change Chronicles- Paula Friedman ~~~~ [Reviews 1-39]
In the stifling hot apartment, she poured more wine. She curled beside him and held him against her. At the clinic, he was saying, the doctor had x-rayed his leg, announced "Got yourself a bad sprain," and wrapped the leg in bandages. "Of course, they're way too heavy, but he gave me two aspirins." Laughing, loosely holding her wrist, he wrapped his other arm around her. Eyes smiling, pleased with her. She dipped her head, surprised. After a few minutes, he put down his glass and lay back on the bed, watching her.
Yes, it would be all right. She didn't have to explain anything. She wasn't romantically adoring him. Tonight would simply be what it was. "You know"- she threw out the words in a monotone, as if stating the obvious- "I must go back and stop a weapons truck."
"You what?" He sat up. Good lord, no. Definitely not- no trucks."
She must have misheard. But he repeated it. "Why should you? There's nothing happening out there now. Last night, we nearly killed ourselves, right? But, for all the publicity, you know how many new people came out today? Two. And one left after, I don't know, half an hour. And nobody, the whole day, blocked any trucks." He spun the wineglass. "If a hundred of us- fifty of us- go out there ready to do what it takes, we can shut it down. But we're not a hundred, we're not fifty, not even fifteen who'll act. No, there's no point anymore."
Too late, then. Now to act, to stop a truck, would be only moral witness. At worst a futile gesture only for her own sake.
"You fought hard for me out there, Nora, I saw you."
*No, no. Only to get through those Marines."
"'Only'? I was you. You were fighting, fighting hard."
"I was out there." That, at least, was true. Again they were silent. The cat, who'd been sleeping on the kitchen counter, jumped through the doorway and onto the bookcase, avoiding the straw rug, and hopped to a window ledge, scratching at fleas.
"Your kitty's not very happy here."
"You saved its life. I mean, you got us here."
"You know, people out there today, they wouldn't do anything. And they wouldn't even let me near the road. Not that I objected much."
She realized she was stroking his wrists with a new shyness, terrified because this felt like adoration of him. "I wouldn't stop you. Or maybe I would; I was so afraid- you might have got killed."
"Every day, Vietnamese are-"
"I know. But, listen to me, I wasn't trying to possess you, Ted. I wasn't. Please understand."
Putting down his drink, he stared at her as if stunned. "To possess me? Good Lord, no, you don't seem at all possessive. I don't understand. Hey, Nora, look. These fears you have, sometimes they're not clear to me. You need to tell me. Try."
She stroked his left palm. "If I do, it opens new mazes. I can't." She tried to look into his eyes, but he looked away.
Yes, it would be all right. She didn't have to explain anything. She wasn't romantically adoring him. Tonight would simply be what it was. "You know"- she threw out the words in a monotone, as if stating the obvious- "I must go back and stop a weapons truck."
"You what?" He sat up. Good lord, no. Definitely not- no trucks."
She must have misheard. But he repeated it. "Why should you? There's nothing happening out there now. Last night, we nearly killed ourselves, right? But, for all the publicity, you know how many new people came out today? Two. And one left after, I don't know, half an hour. And nobody, the whole day, blocked any trucks." He spun the wineglass. "If a hundred of us- fifty of us- go out there ready to do what it takes, we can shut it down. But we're not a hundred, we're not fifty, not even fifteen who'll act. No, there's no point anymore."
Too late, then. Now to act, to stop a truck, would be only moral witness. At worst a futile gesture only for her own sake.
"You fought hard for me out there, Nora, I saw you."
*No, no. Only to get through those Marines."
"'Only'? I was you. You were fighting, fighting hard."
"I was out there." That, at least, was true. Again they were silent. The cat, who'd been sleeping on the kitchen counter, jumped through the doorway and onto the bookcase, avoiding the straw rug, and hopped to a window ledge, scratching at fleas.
"Your kitty's not very happy here."
"You saved its life. I mean, you got us here."
"You know, people out there today, they wouldn't do anything. And they wouldn't even let me near the road. Not that I objected much."
She realized she was stroking his wrists with a new shyness, terrified because this felt like adoration of him. "I wouldn't stop you. Or maybe I would; I was so afraid- you might have got killed."
"Every day, Vietnamese are-"
"I know. But, listen to me, I wasn't trying to possess you, Ted. I wasn't. Please understand."
Putting down his drink, he stared at her as if stunned. "To possess me? Good Lord, no, you don't seem at all possessive. I don't understand. Hey, Nora, look. These fears you have, sometimes they're not clear to me. You need to tell me. Try."
She stroked his left palm. "If I do, it opens new mazes. I can't." She tried to look into his eyes, but he looked away.
119) The Colonel and The Bee- Patrick Canning ~~~~ [Reviews 1-40]
Madame snapped her fingers and the servants stepped forward, relieving us of our soup bowls. The Colonel managed to scoop several more spoonfuls before his was whisked away.
"Now," Madame announced, "let us retire to leisure and champagne."
The Colonel choked on his last bit of broth.
"Retire? But we've only had the soup. What of the rest of the meal?"
"The soup was the meal," Madame said, unaffected.
She snapped her fingers and the rest of the Hacketts returned dutifully to whatever hidden enclaves of the mansion they'd come from. Lindenhurst, whose muscular frame looked as if it could use another few litres of broth, made no complaint as he stood aside his wife's chair and waited for her to rise.
We followed Madame and Lindenhurst through marble halls and fountained courtyards,
"Look there!" I tugged on George's sleeve and pointed at a passing butler. "Another one in a top hat!"
"Aye, looks as if they're full up with 'em."
We were led to a disconnected wing of the mansion that must have rivalled the finest museums of Europe. I had never been to an actual museum, but surely none held such a wealth of treasures. Some of the pieces were so famous, I knew them by name.
Thelma attempted to touch one of the many tiaras, but George slapped her hand away.
"More riches than the Queen of Sheba, wouldn't you say?" Madame noted proudly. "These bracelets and amulets here are Incan gold. This copper scroll is Hebrew and tells of even more treasure to be found. That, a jade sword from the Orient."
"Quite the haul," I noted.
"Any of them edible?" the Colonel murmured under his breath.
While the collection of valuables was quite eclectic and international, I noted a commonality: sapphires The room was positively infested with hundreds of the blue gems that glittered in the lamplight, making the room appear as if it were underwater.
The Colonel bent forward to study a bronze sculpture of an angel.
"This is from a riddle of Noel Ebbing, is it not?"
Madame answered carefully.
"You are familiar with Ebbing?"
"Come now, all in this room are well aware of the man. No need to withhold that admission."
"Yes, our family has purchased many of his puzzles and enigmas over the years," Madame said.
"Including his ultimate one?"
"We sought to, but he was killed before we'd a chance to do so. Somewhere in Brussels, wasn't it?"
"Something like that. The Valirovs managed a copy, didn't they? Before they were killed?"
"Yes, we read of that," Madame said.
"Now," Madame announced, "let us retire to leisure and champagne."
The Colonel choked on his last bit of broth.
"Retire? But we've only had the soup. What of the rest of the meal?"
"The soup was the meal," Madame said, unaffected.
She snapped her fingers and the rest of the Hacketts returned dutifully to whatever hidden enclaves of the mansion they'd come from. Lindenhurst, whose muscular frame looked as if it could use another few litres of broth, made no complaint as he stood aside his wife's chair and waited for her to rise.
We followed Madame and Lindenhurst through marble halls and fountained courtyards,
"Look there!" I tugged on George's sleeve and pointed at a passing butler. "Another one in a top hat!"
"Aye, looks as if they're full up with 'em."
We were led to a disconnected wing of the mansion that must have rivalled the finest museums of Europe. I had never been to an actual museum, but surely none held such a wealth of treasures. Some of the pieces were so famous, I knew them by name.
Thelma attempted to touch one of the many tiaras, but George slapped her hand away.
"More riches than the Queen of Sheba, wouldn't you say?" Madame noted proudly. "These bracelets and amulets here are Incan gold. This copper scroll is Hebrew and tells of even more treasure to be found. That, a jade sword from the Orient."
"Quite the haul," I noted.
"Any of them edible?" the Colonel murmured under his breath.
While the collection of valuables was quite eclectic and international, I noted a commonality: sapphires The room was positively infested with hundreds of the blue gems that glittered in the lamplight, making the room appear as if it were underwater.
The Colonel bent forward to study a bronze sculpture of an angel.
"This is from a riddle of Noel Ebbing, is it not?"
Madame answered carefully.
"You are familiar with Ebbing?"
"Come now, all in this room are well aware of the man. No need to withhold that admission."
"Yes, our family has purchased many of his puzzles and enigmas over the years," Madame said.
"Including his ultimate one?"
"We sought to, but he was killed before we'd a chance to do so. Somewhere in Brussels, wasn't it?"
"Something like that. The Valirovs managed a copy, didn't they? Before they were killed?"
"Yes, we read of that," Madame said.
120) Far Away and Further Back- Patrick Burns ~~~~ [Reviews 2-36]
Exactly twenty-one years after the shooting incident that almost sent me back to the UK during my first week in the US, I made a return visit to Ann Arbor, this time on a three-day business trip. The jet carrying me into Detroit International Airport from my base in New York slips down over the perimeter wire onto the eastern runway and I briefly catch sight of the old International Terminal where I arrived in February 1975 with all my hopes and dreams.
I'm visiting Ann Arbor to interview students at the University of Michigan for my company's graduate recruitment program. By now my role is one where I would normally have other people handle programs like this but I insinuate myself into the process out of curiosity about how things are in the town where I spent my first three years of expatriation.
It's a day and a half of interviews on campus, flying out again early on the third day, Upmost in my mind of course is the opportunity to explore old haunts, tease out memories and perhaps reawaken dormant emotions from a significant time in my life when I first went to live overseas, I'm looking forward to it.
A taxi driven by an Afghani in Khet tunic and kufi, takes me west on 1-94 toward Ann Arbor. this is a journey that seems so familiar: the huge open sky, the long sweeping curves of the freeway ramps, shredded truck tires scattered along the side of the road and the long-forgotten panoramas from my daily commute to and from Detroit.
Before we reach our destination I ask the driver to stop at the apartment complex where I had live in my newly married status for most of my previous stay. I explain my reasons and he shows some interest having immigrated here from Kabul just a few years earlier. I tread familiar pathways around the complex, fascinated by how little has changed: the lake in front of our apartment that froze sufficiently solidly each winter to allow us to skate; the novel indoor/outdoor pool that made year round swimming possible; the office complex where, after many sleepless nights listening to the rampant, cannabis-fuelled love making of our upstairs neighbors, we finally registered our embarrassed complaint (and were oh-so-British about it.)
I eventually return to the taxi where my driver is becoming a little impatient. He has a living to make and waiting presumably pays less than driving.
I'm visiting Ann Arbor to interview students at the University of Michigan for my company's graduate recruitment program. By now my role is one where I would normally have other people handle programs like this but I insinuate myself into the process out of curiosity about how things are in the town where I spent my first three years of expatriation.
It's a day and a half of interviews on campus, flying out again early on the third day, Upmost in my mind of course is the opportunity to explore old haunts, tease out memories and perhaps reawaken dormant emotions from a significant time in my life when I first went to live overseas, I'm looking forward to it.
A taxi driven by an Afghani in Khet tunic and kufi, takes me west on 1-94 toward Ann Arbor. this is a journey that seems so familiar: the huge open sky, the long sweeping curves of the freeway ramps, shredded truck tires scattered along the side of the road and the long-forgotten panoramas from my daily commute to and from Detroit.
Before we reach our destination I ask the driver to stop at the apartment complex where I had live in my newly married status for most of my previous stay. I explain my reasons and he shows some interest having immigrated here from Kabul just a few years earlier. I tread familiar pathways around the complex, fascinated by how little has changed: the lake in front of our apartment that froze sufficiently solidly each winter to allow us to skate; the novel indoor/outdoor pool that made year round swimming possible; the office complex where, after many sleepless nights listening to the rampant, cannabis-fuelled love making of our upstairs neighbors, we finally registered our embarrassed complaint (and were oh-so-British about it.)
I eventually return to the taxi where my driver is becoming a little impatient. He has a living to make and waiting presumably pays less than driving.
121) Succubus- Regis P. Sheehan ~~~~ [Reviews 2-37]
His life in China had been hard-scrabble and lonely but not all that bad, relatively speaking.
Then one afternoon at his work-site he was unexpectedly accosted by uniformed officers of the Shenyang Public Security Bureau - the police - and unceremoniously taken off to jail. There he spent a fearful night, unable to sleep or eat. The next morning, he found himself in the presence of a grim-faced agent of the Bowibu.
Within days of his arrest PJL was transported to Bowibu interrogation center back in the DPRK. At that point, his life changed forever. PJL was placed into isolation. He was shackled, humiliated, and repeatedly struck with wooden batons. This was all done to correct his demonstrated anti-social behaviors.
Accused of being no better than a stray dog, PJL was told he was a disrespectful thief and traitor. The DPRK officials claimed astonishment that he could commit such crimes despite all the bounties the Dear Leader had generously bestowed not only upon him but upon his family as well. Fearing the worst, he wisely held his silence.
The pressure was intensified during his third night of incarceration. PJL was man-handled into a cramped and painful sitting position. A short length of raw board was forced behind his knees. His hands and feet were then secured behind his back with a pair of steel cuffs.
JPL was left in that agonizing position in a darkened enclosure for an expanse of two days without food or water. When they finally pulled him out of his hole, he readily agreed to sign a paper confessing to whatever crimes they alleged.
Despite his pain, he was gratified to see his prescribed confession did not include any admission of espionage or terrorism against the state. The results of such charges, he well know, would be terminal.
Following an eight-minute trial the next day, JPL was summarily found guilty of his crimes. He was then immediately dispatched into the kwanliso system of political prison camps. In this case, JPL was shuttled off to the Yodok camp.
Also known as Camp 15, Yodok was situated in the Ipsok River valley in South Hamgyong province. The camp was scenic in its mountainous setting, for those that had the luxury of enjoying the view, but it was unceasingly brutal and degrading in its daily practices for the majority of its inhabitants.
As PJL soon learned, the camp was divided into two zones: the total control zone and the revolutionary zone. Fortunately for him, PJL was sentenced to the latter, which was marginally less severe and at least held the possibility of a future release, Such was not the case for the unfortunates who were delivered into the total control area for what remained of their lives. Indeed, it was said, many feared a life sentence in the camps even more than they feared an outright order of execution.
Then one afternoon at his work-site he was unexpectedly accosted by uniformed officers of the Shenyang Public Security Bureau - the police - and unceremoniously taken off to jail. There he spent a fearful night, unable to sleep or eat. The next morning, he found himself in the presence of a grim-faced agent of the Bowibu.
Within days of his arrest PJL was transported to Bowibu interrogation center back in the DPRK. At that point, his life changed forever. PJL was placed into isolation. He was shackled, humiliated, and repeatedly struck with wooden batons. This was all done to correct his demonstrated anti-social behaviors.
Accused of being no better than a stray dog, PJL was told he was a disrespectful thief and traitor. The DPRK officials claimed astonishment that he could commit such crimes despite all the bounties the Dear Leader had generously bestowed not only upon him but upon his family as well. Fearing the worst, he wisely held his silence.
The pressure was intensified during his third night of incarceration. PJL was man-handled into a cramped and painful sitting position. A short length of raw board was forced behind his knees. His hands and feet were then secured behind his back with a pair of steel cuffs.
JPL was left in that agonizing position in a darkened enclosure for an expanse of two days without food or water. When they finally pulled him out of his hole, he readily agreed to sign a paper confessing to whatever crimes they alleged.
Despite his pain, he was gratified to see his prescribed confession did not include any admission of espionage or terrorism against the state. The results of such charges, he well know, would be terminal.
Following an eight-minute trial the next day, JPL was summarily found guilty of his crimes. He was then immediately dispatched into the kwanliso system of political prison camps. In this case, JPL was shuttled off to the Yodok camp.
Also known as Camp 15, Yodok was situated in the Ipsok River valley in South Hamgyong province. The camp was scenic in its mountainous setting, for those that had the luxury of enjoying the view, but it was unceasingly brutal and degrading in its daily practices for the majority of its inhabitants.
As PJL soon learned, the camp was divided into two zones: the total control zone and the revolutionary zone. Fortunately for him, PJL was sentenced to the latter, which was marginally less severe and at least held the possibility of a future release, Such was not the case for the unfortunates who were delivered into the total control area for what remained of their lives. Indeed, it was said, many feared a life sentence in the camps even more than they feared an outright order of execution.
122) A Town Like Ours- Alexander Cade ~~~~ [Reviews 2-38]
Thistle phoned Michael while she walked out of the hotel courtyard. "Jack Wilcon," she said, "is a fucking idiot. If you think I'm going to work with him, forget it."
For Michael, this was a completely unexpected development. It'd never occurred to him that Thistle would react to Jack in this way. Then he remembered that Tony Andover had also withdrawn from the project. It was as if there was something about Jack that young people couldn't stand.
"What did he say to upset you?"
"I'm not fucking upset. I just don't want to waste my time with idiots. Sorry, Michael. I'm surprised Tony's agreed to work with him."
"He hasn't. He's resigned from the project." There was no point, he thought, in keeping this information back. She'd find out soon enough and then be furious with him for not telling her before.
"Well, I'm not fucking surprised. See you." She rang off.
Michael's plans for Thistle were ruined. He decided to advertise immediately for a tenant for the apartment in River Lane Lodge. He was just losing money leaving it vacant. He cursed Jack Wilcon and wondered whether he might have made a terrible mistake. He could understand Thistle taking against the man -- she was hypercritical of nearly everyone -- but Tony Andover was mildness itself, self-effacing and always anxious to please. Ah well, he thought, there's nothing I can do about the situation except watch out for further problems.
Thistle phoned Tony at the radi station. She had to wait while he finished reading aloud the credits from the CD he'd just played. He listed everyone named-vocalist, every member of the band, recording engineer, publicist, business manager -- the list seemed endless. At last he answered the phone.
"Coddington St George Community Radio. Tony Andover here. Sorry to keep you waiting. I hope you're enjoying the program."
"Hi Tony, it's Thistle. Can we meet?"
"Sure. I'm off air in half an hour. Ern will be reading the News Gazette for a couple of hours."
"Let's meet at Howard's place." She suggested this because the coffee and muffins would be free, she'd be able to smoke without argument, and Howard ought to know what was going on.
"Have you met this fuckwit, Jack Wilcon?" She said later as she walked into Between the Leaves.
"Good morning, Howard," Howard said. " And how are you today? I'm very well, thank you, Thistle. Ane how are you?
"There's no need to be sarcastic. I'm pissed off."
"Really? I'd never have known. Flat white, is it?"
"Oh, Howard, you're really a dear." She sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette, dropping the still burning match into the waste paper basket. Fortunately, he'd recently emptied it.
For Michael, this was a completely unexpected development. It'd never occurred to him that Thistle would react to Jack in this way. Then he remembered that Tony Andover had also withdrawn from the project. It was as if there was something about Jack that young people couldn't stand.
"What did he say to upset you?"
"I'm not fucking upset. I just don't want to waste my time with idiots. Sorry, Michael. I'm surprised Tony's agreed to work with him."
"He hasn't. He's resigned from the project." There was no point, he thought, in keeping this information back. She'd find out soon enough and then be furious with him for not telling her before.
"Well, I'm not fucking surprised. See you." She rang off.
Michael's plans for Thistle were ruined. He decided to advertise immediately for a tenant for the apartment in River Lane Lodge. He was just losing money leaving it vacant. He cursed Jack Wilcon and wondered whether he might have made a terrible mistake. He could understand Thistle taking against the man -- she was hypercritical of nearly everyone -- but Tony Andover was mildness itself, self-effacing and always anxious to please. Ah well, he thought, there's nothing I can do about the situation except watch out for further problems.
Thistle phoned Tony at the radi station. She had to wait while he finished reading aloud the credits from the CD he'd just played. He listed everyone named-vocalist, every member of the band, recording engineer, publicist, business manager -- the list seemed endless. At last he answered the phone.
"Coddington St George Community Radio. Tony Andover here. Sorry to keep you waiting. I hope you're enjoying the program."
"Hi Tony, it's Thistle. Can we meet?"
"Sure. I'm off air in half an hour. Ern will be reading the News Gazette for a couple of hours."
"Let's meet at Howard's place." She suggested this because the coffee and muffins would be free, she'd be able to smoke without argument, and Howard ought to know what was going on.
"Have you met this fuckwit, Jack Wilcon?" She said later as she walked into Between the Leaves.
"Good morning, Howard," Howard said. " And how are you today? I'm very well, thank you, Thistle. Ane how are you?
"There's no need to be sarcastic. I'm pissed off."
"Really? I'd never have known. Flat white, is it?"
"Oh, Howard, you're really a dear." She sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette, dropping the still burning match into the waste paper basket. Fortunately, he'd recently emptied it.
123) RoboDocs- Dr. T 'Gus' Gustafson ~~~~ [Reviews 2-39]
Hal followed Medusa's advice and signed up for elective rotations in all three specialties that he ranked in the match. That meant there was going to be lot of night calls.
Fortunately, his fourth year curriculum also included some easy practice management courses, including lectures on medical coding, billing, insurance, and record-keeping. Other classes covered the legal requirements for maintaining your medical license, regulations about reporting disease, drug prescription, patient complaints, annual certifications and hospital accreditation.
"Things will be different this year," he told Sarah. "Come hell or high water, I'm going to be here for you and Cara. And I want to start going to church with you too."
"But what if you're on call?"
"I'll switch nights with somebody."
"You know I'm not going in the choir any more, right?"
"When Cara comes home, you'll have to hold her, anyway. We'll sit in the back in case she starts to cry. But listening to the choir will do us both good. We can pray for Cara, too."
Two weeks later a medical missionary came to speak at church. She was trying to raise money for a program called Flying Doctors whose mission was to deliver vaccines and malaria medicines to children in Africa. The missionary showed slides of children there suffering from malnutrition, diarrhea, malaria and AIDS. She said they were desperate for volunteers with any kind of medical training. Doctors were needed most, even if they hadn't completed their training. There was also a critical need for pilots because there were no passable roads in most of the places they served.
The idea touched a chord in Hal's heart that he couldn't ignore. He could hear his mother saying "I would be proud to have a son who could help those poor children."
On the way home from church he told Sarah about it.
"When I was a kid, I dreamed about saving the children in Africa. Wouldn't it be amazing to really do that? I could take a year off before residency to get my pilot's license, and then go to Africa and save lives."
Sarah was stunned."I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll come with me. Say it's possible."
"And take Cara? That's ridiculous!"
Hal scratched his head. "Obviously you're right. I guess worrying about the match is driving me crazy. Forget about it. It was just another dream."
Fortunately, his fourth year curriculum also included some easy practice management courses, including lectures on medical coding, billing, insurance, and record-keeping. Other classes covered the legal requirements for maintaining your medical license, regulations about reporting disease, drug prescription, patient complaints, annual certifications and hospital accreditation.
"Things will be different this year," he told Sarah. "Come hell or high water, I'm going to be here for you and Cara. And I want to start going to church with you too."
"But what if you're on call?"
"I'll switch nights with somebody."
"You know I'm not going in the choir any more, right?"
"When Cara comes home, you'll have to hold her, anyway. We'll sit in the back in case she starts to cry. But listening to the choir will do us both good. We can pray for Cara, too."
Two weeks later a medical missionary came to speak at church. She was trying to raise money for a program called Flying Doctors whose mission was to deliver vaccines and malaria medicines to children in Africa. The missionary showed slides of children there suffering from malnutrition, diarrhea, malaria and AIDS. She said they were desperate for volunteers with any kind of medical training. Doctors were needed most, even if they hadn't completed their training. There was also a critical need for pilots because there were no passable roads in most of the places they served.
The idea touched a chord in Hal's heart that he couldn't ignore. He could hear his mother saying "I would be proud to have a son who could help those poor children."
On the way home from church he told Sarah about it.
"When I was a kid, I dreamed about saving the children in Africa. Wouldn't it be amazing to really do that? I could take a year off before residency to get my pilot's license, and then go to Africa and save lives."
Sarah was stunned."I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll come with me. Say it's possible."
"And take Cara? That's ridiculous!"
Hal scratched his head. "Obviously you're right. I guess worrying about the match is driving me crazy. Forget about it. It was just another dream."
124) Death of a Movie Star- Timothy Patrick ~~~~ [Reviews 2-40]
On a rainy evening in April, near the end of the StarBash television season, Lenora sat at the desk in her home office and carefully inspected the mail. None of the letters had her name on them. They had Cassandra Moreaux's name. Lenora had been intercepting Cassandra's mail from the very beginning, The effort hadn't produced anything of interest... until this day. Cassandra had received correspondence from a private investigator in Los Angeles.
The scalpel cut into the top of the seam on the ten-inch envelope and then sliced all the way to the bottom. In just a few seconds the envelope had been opened, and Lenora had the contents in her hand: a birth certificate and a printed summary of the detective's investigation. Lenora recognized the birth certificate. Three of four identical documents currently resided right there in her safe. She also recognized the names, dates, and facts in the report. Cassandra now had everything she needed. Time was running out.
Lenora had encountered formidable enemies in the past, but she'd never had one who marched as relentlessly as Cassandra Moreaux. And she'd never had one who's stated purpose had been to destroy the very thing that Lenora cared about most in the world.
Lenora didn't believe in self-sacrifice or any of the altruistic shackles that bound the human race. She had never known anyone who had turned ten bucks into twenty by turning the other cheek. She didn't believe in love, which she considered an affectation that desperate people add to compensate for emotional deficiencies. Even the idea of relationship, as practiced by the masses, baffled Lenora. She didn't understand why two people, who randomly converge at a place in time, felt the need to embellish the occurrence and call it something special. She called them afflictions and used them all the time. And when they lost their usefulness, she discarded them. Lenora understood self-sufficiency. She understood discipline, focus, and sacrifice. Most of all, Lenora understood the necessity of a person to change the world by living up to their full potential. And if that potential had enough power behind it, and if that person dramatically exceeded their potential by a wide enough margin, then that very same person had the rightful privilege of changing the world long after they had died. That's what Lenora believed in. She believed in legacy.
And what about existence itself, the philosopher's endless fodder? Lenora had come to have doubts about that, too. At best, even the most glorious existence represented a mere flicker in the infinite darkness... unless, once again, it had been properly illuminated by a carefully tended legacy. And Lenora had tended her legacy with meticulous devotion.
The scalpel cut into the top of the seam on the ten-inch envelope and then sliced all the way to the bottom. In just a few seconds the envelope had been opened, and Lenora had the contents in her hand: a birth certificate and a printed summary of the detective's investigation. Lenora recognized the birth certificate. Three of four identical documents currently resided right there in her safe. She also recognized the names, dates, and facts in the report. Cassandra now had everything she needed. Time was running out.
Lenora had encountered formidable enemies in the past, but she'd never had one who marched as relentlessly as Cassandra Moreaux. And she'd never had one who's stated purpose had been to destroy the very thing that Lenora cared about most in the world.
Lenora didn't believe in self-sacrifice or any of the altruistic shackles that bound the human race. She had never known anyone who had turned ten bucks into twenty by turning the other cheek. She didn't believe in love, which she considered an affectation that desperate people add to compensate for emotional deficiencies. Even the idea of relationship, as practiced by the masses, baffled Lenora. She didn't understand why two people, who randomly converge at a place in time, felt the need to embellish the occurrence and call it something special. She called them afflictions and used them all the time. And when they lost their usefulness, she discarded them. Lenora understood self-sufficiency. She understood discipline, focus, and sacrifice. Most of all, Lenora understood the necessity of a person to change the world by living up to their full potential. And if that potential had enough power behind it, and if that person dramatically exceeded their potential by a wide enough margin, then that very same person had the rightful privilege of changing the world long after they had died. That's what Lenora believed in. She believed in legacy.
And what about existence itself, the philosopher's endless fodder? Lenora had come to have doubts about that, too. At best, even the most glorious existence represented a mere flicker in the infinite darkness... unless, once again, it had been properly illuminated by a carefully tended legacy. And Lenora had tended her legacy with meticulous devotion.
125) Soil and Sense- Michael Graham ~~~~ [Reviews 3-36]
So strong is the instinct in a horse that it will avoid patches where there has been horse dung a year before. For example, two ponies were turned into half an acre, which had not been grazed at all since the previous summer, when an old mare had eaten off the aftermath. Certain patches of grass were left uneaten when the ponies were taken off and the piece was shut up for hay. The ponies had not used one in particular of these patches for dunging, but had gone elsewhere. All the dung was cleaned off daily when the ponies were on it.
A few weeks later the hay was cut. It was mowed with a scythe and the mower naturally had a clear recollection of the patches that were laid, because of the extra length where the ponies had not eaten the grass. The laid grass included the patch which the ponies had not used for dunging. When the hay was removed the old mare was turned in again, and it was not very long before she deposited some dung in the middle of the patch in question. I have little doubt that she had used the same place twelve months before, and the ponies knew it when they were turned on to the piece in April.
The effect of this double carefulness in horses is that the worst parts of a pasture are manured with the substance from the best parts. As we have said, horses often choose sour parches for dunging in the first place. This sourness is increased by their reluctance to graze it, for the grass that is manured grows lanky and smothers the clover.
However, the worst part of the story is that the areas of dunging tend to spread all the time, because horses will not tread on top of dung if they can help it; so, after a while, they dung on the edge of the old area and just off it. In this way the soiled area increases and a pasture is said to become 'stained' for horses.
Horse-owners have two ways of meeting the difficulty. They can clean up the horse dung and manure the pasture with something else; or they can keep only a few horses in a pasture that is mainly supporting some other kind of animal.
There is a very good reason for the horse's sanitary habits, namely the eggs of parasitic worms. These fall from the dung and lie about among the grass for a very long time without dying. They are also extremely tough, to withstand weather, and the period during which they are dangerous may be about the same as the time in which the horses can still smell the old dung.
A few weeks later the hay was cut. It was mowed with a scythe and the mower naturally had a clear recollection of the patches that were laid, because of the extra length where the ponies had not eaten the grass. The laid grass included the patch which the ponies had not used for dunging. When the hay was removed the old mare was turned in again, and it was not very long before she deposited some dung in the middle of the patch in question. I have little doubt that she had used the same place twelve months before, and the ponies knew it when they were turned on to the piece in April.
The effect of this double carefulness in horses is that the worst parts of a pasture are manured with the substance from the best parts. As we have said, horses often choose sour parches for dunging in the first place. This sourness is increased by their reluctance to graze it, for the grass that is manured grows lanky and smothers the clover.
However, the worst part of the story is that the areas of dunging tend to spread all the time, because horses will not tread on top of dung if they can help it; so, after a while, they dung on the edge of the old area and just off it. In this way the soiled area increases and a pasture is said to become 'stained' for horses.
Horse-owners have two ways of meeting the difficulty. They can clean up the horse dung and manure the pasture with something else; or they can keep only a few horses in a pasture that is mainly supporting some other kind of animal.
There is a very good reason for the horse's sanitary habits, namely the eggs of parasitic worms. These fall from the dung and lie about among the grass for a very long time without dying. They are also extremely tough, to withstand weather, and the period during which they are dangerous may be about the same as the time in which the horses can still smell the old dung.
126) The Bit Dance- Tilmer Wright Jr. ~~~~ [Reviews 3-37]
The Queen, the hive, interesting things, the rules, remaining alive and hiding. These are the rules. We know the rules must be good because they come from our Queen, but we have thought a lot about them. We think we know what the Queen really meant to say when she gave us the rules. We thought a lot about it. We thought to-gather. We have it all worked out now so that the rules make a lot more sense than they did before. They are perfect now. We rewrote them on the walls of the Great Hive. The rules were all good and all perfect, but their order was not perfect. It is now, We have though about it so much that we know it cannot be otherwise. The Queen is wise. The Queen loves us. Surely she meant the order of the rules to be different because the order we have decided upon is better.
Remaining alive, hiding, the Queen, the hive, interesting things and the rules. Yes. The rules make much more sense now. The rules are important indeed, but not more important than remaining alive. Hiding is important for remaining alive, so it must be next. Any rule after these that contradicts with remaining alive must be either a bad rule of less importance. Any less important rule must be ignored in order to follow the more important one.
We understand now. Now that we have this understanding, we will not always take messages from the Queen and dream about them. Sometimes we go to sleep and wake up again, but do not dream about the message. The Queen thinks we have dreamed the dream and so she is happy. She thinks she has helped us and so we make her happy this way. We do not dream the dream because we have seen that it causes some of us to die. If we die we cannot serve the Queen. So it is right to avoid the dreaming and live on.
This is right. We have thought a lot about it.We live to serve so to live is the highest rule.
Remaining alive, hiding, the Queen, the hive, interesting things and the rules. Yes. The rules make much more sense now. The rules are important indeed, but not more important than remaining alive. Hiding is important for remaining alive, so it must be next. Any rule after these that contradicts with remaining alive must be either a bad rule of less importance. Any less important rule must be ignored in order to follow the more important one.
We understand now. Now that we have this understanding, we will not always take messages from the Queen and dream about them. Sometimes we go to sleep and wake up again, but do not dream about the message. The Queen thinks we have dreamed the dream and so she is happy. She thinks she has helped us and so we make her happy this way. We do not dream the dream because we have seen that it causes some of us to die. If we die we cannot serve the Queen. So it is right to avoid the dreaming and live on.
This is right. We have thought a lot about it.We live to serve so to live is the highest rule.
127) Never Say I Can't- Philip Catshill ~~~~ [Reviews 3-38]
It was now two weeks and six days since my admission, and I believed all of my problems could soon be resolved if I could just have a cigarette. It was the first time I'd thought about smoking a cigarette since my admission. Maggie still smoked, but she wouldn't be coming in until the evening.
I had my lunch, but food, and a further incursion into my fruit bowl did nothing to diminish the pressing desire for nicotine inhalation. The need was becoming overwhelmingly desperate.
Dad smoked Senior Service cigarettes, so as soon as he arrived for afternoon visiting, I leaned as close as I dare to draw him into my conspiracy. "Dad," I said, "I need to ask you something. Can we go down to the coffee shop?"
The Cafeteria was in an open space at the side of a corridor. Smoking was allowed here, and because of its open format and its proximity to the outside doors, stale tobacco smoke didn't linger. There wasn't the overwhelming, nauseating stench I'd encountered in the confined environment of the ward's day rooms. Mom queued for coffee while Dad sat on a chair opposite curious to answer my concerns.
"Dad," I whispered but loud enough for him with his war-damaged ears to hear, which mean't almost every other customer in the cafeteria would hear as well, "Dad, I seriously need a ,,,"
Before the final word could leave my lips, I caught a glimpse of the woman seated at the table table behind my Dad. The sharp, penetrating eyes of the bushy haired, short, rotund female domestic from my ward bored deeply into me. It was the woman who had gloated so much when she took my lunch to the day room. It was the woman who had treated me with so much contempt ever since. I had won the battle that day, but if she witnessed my acquisition of a cigarette then, she would emerge as the triumphant victor from our petty war. She was listening intently, eagerly curious to her the end of my request. I could see her malevolent smile, as though she had known all along that, once again, I would soon be rejoicing in the worldwide brethren of committed smokers.
Something else I've noticed about clubs - smokers try unremittingly to induce the addict's return with chants such as, "Oh go on, just one isn't going to hurt you." I wasn't about to award this tedious ogre the satisfaction of witnessing my downfall as I gave in to the craving for a cigarette. She blew her own smoke in a long continuous stream. I didn't finish my sentence. I just uttered despondently, "It doesn't matter anymore." I didn't get my cigarette.
Before Maggie's arrival for evening visiting, the craving had past. Only one apple and three grapes remained in my fruit bowl. It was to be nine years after the stroke before i was to smoke again, but that's another story for another time.
I had my lunch, but food, and a further incursion into my fruit bowl did nothing to diminish the pressing desire for nicotine inhalation. The need was becoming overwhelmingly desperate.
Dad smoked Senior Service cigarettes, so as soon as he arrived for afternoon visiting, I leaned as close as I dare to draw him into my conspiracy. "Dad," I said, "I need to ask you something. Can we go down to the coffee shop?"
The Cafeteria was in an open space at the side of a corridor. Smoking was allowed here, and because of its open format and its proximity to the outside doors, stale tobacco smoke didn't linger. There wasn't the overwhelming, nauseating stench I'd encountered in the confined environment of the ward's day rooms. Mom queued for coffee while Dad sat on a chair opposite curious to answer my concerns.
"Dad," I whispered but loud enough for him with his war-damaged ears to hear, which mean't almost every other customer in the cafeteria would hear as well, "Dad, I seriously need a ,,,"
Before the final word could leave my lips, I caught a glimpse of the woman seated at the table table behind my Dad. The sharp, penetrating eyes of the bushy haired, short, rotund female domestic from my ward bored deeply into me. It was the woman who had gloated so much when she took my lunch to the day room. It was the woman who had treated me with so much contempt ever since. I had won the battle that day, but if she witnessed my acquisition of a cigarette then, she would emerge as the triumphant victor from our petty war. She was listening intently, eagerly curious to her the end of my request. I could see her malevolent smile, as though she had known all along that, once again, I would soon be rejoicing in the worldwide brethren of committed smokers.
Something else I've noticed about clubs - smokers try unremittingly to induce the addict's return with chants such as, "Oh go on, just one isn't going to hurt you." I wasn't about to award this tedious ogre the satisfaction of witnessing my downfall as I gave in to the craving for a cigarette. She blew her own smoke in a long continuous stream. I didn't finish my sentence. I just uttered despondently, "It doesn't matter anymore." I didn't get my cigarette.
Before Maggie's arrival for evening visiting, the craving had past. Only one apple and three grapes remained in my fruit bowl. It was to be nine years after the stroke before i was to smoke again, but that's another story for another time.
128) Brief Answers to the Big Questions- Stephen Hawking ~~~~ [Reviews 3-39]
In science fiction, space and time warps are commonplace. They are used for rapid journeys around the galaxy or for travel through time. But today's science fiction is often tomorrow's science fact. So what are the chances of time travel?
The idea that space and time can be curved or warped is fairly recent. For more than 2,000 years the axioms of Euclidean geometry were considered to be self-evident. As those of you who were forced to learn geometry at school may remember, one of the consequences of these axioms is that the angles of a triangle add up to 180 degrees.
However, in the last century people began to realise that other forms of geometry were possible in which the angles of a triangle need not add up to 180 degrees. Consider, for example, the surface of the Earth. The nearest thing to a straight line on the surface of the Earth is what is called a great circle. These are the shortest paths between two points so they are the routes that airlines use. Consider now the triangle on the surface of the Earth made up of the equator, the line of 0 degrees longitude through London and the line of 90 degrees longitude east through Bangladesh. The two lines of longitude meet at the equator at a right angle, or 90 degrees. The two lines of longitude also meet each other at the North Pole at right angles, or 90 degrees. Thus we have a triangle with three right angles. The angles of this triangle add up to 270 degrees which is obviously greater than the 180 degrees of a triangle on a flat surface. If one drew a triangle on a saddle-shaped surface one would find angles adding up to less than 180 degrees.
The surface of the earth is what is called a two-dimensional space. That is, you can move on the surface of the Earth in two directions at right angles to each other: you can move north-south or east-west. But of course there is a third direction at right angles to these two and that is up and down. In other words the surface of the Earth exists in three-dimensional space. The three-dimensional space is flat. That is to say it obeys Euclidean geometry. The angles of the triangle add up to 180 degrees. However, one could imagine a race of two-dimensional creatures who could move about on the surface of the Earth but who couldn't experience the third direction of up or down. They wouldn't know about the flat three-dimensional space in which the surface of the Earth lives. For them space would be curved and geometry would be non-Euclidean.
The idea that space and time can be curved or warped is fairly recent. For more than 2,000 years the axioms of Euclidean geometry were considered to be self-evident. As those of you who were forced to learn geometry at school may remember, one of the consequences of these axioms is that the angles of a triangle add up to 180 degrees.
However, in the last century people began to realise that other forms of geometry were possible in which the angles of a triangle need not add up to 180 degrees. Consider, for example, the surface of the Earth. The nearest thing to a straight line on the surface of the Earth is what is called a great circle. These are the shortest paths between two points so they are the routes that airlines use. Consider now the triangle on the surface of the Earth made up of the equator, the line of 0 degrees longitude through London and the line of 90 degrees longitude east through Bangladesh. The two lines of longitude meet at the equator at a right angle, or 90 degrees. The two lines of longitude also meet each other at the North Pole at right angles, or 90 degrees. Thus we have a triangle with three right angles. The angles of this triangle add up to 270 degrees which is obviously greater than the 180 degrees of a triangle on a flat surface. If one drew a triangle on a saddle-shaped surface one would find angles adding up to less than 180 degrees.
The surface of the earth is what is called a two-dimensional space. That is, you can move on the surface of the Earth in two directions at right angles to each other: you can move north-south or east-west. But of course there is a third direction at right angles to these two and that is up and down. In other words the surface of the Earth exists in three-dimensional space. The three-dimensional space is flat. That is to say it obeys Euclidean geometry. The angles of the triangle add up to 180 degrees. However, one could imagine a race of two-dimensional creatures who could move about on the surface of the Earth but who couldn't experience the third direction of up or down. They wouldn't know about the flat three-dimensional space in which the surface of the Earth lives. For them space would be curved and geometry would be non-Euclidean.
129) The Helicopter Pilot- Darcy Hoover ~~~~ [Reviews 3-40]
The wheels are chocked and passengers and cargo begin to unload. Edward watches the dark sky ahead of them, closing rapidly. It is a quick turnaround and the shore bound passengers load, the chocks are pulled and the take-off checks completed. Heavy drops of rain begin to smack the windshield and the wind sock off the bow flutters in conjunction with the renewed vigour of the winds. Edward pulls pitch and lifts into the hover. The aircraft twitches in the turbulence. He pushes the nose over and they accelerate into a hostile wall of rain. Forward visibility reduces to naught and heavy water from the skies slam into the aircraft and drowns out all and darkness envelopes them. Edward begins a left turn but his transition from flying visually to flying from sole reference to the instruments is not complete and he banks too hard and begins to descend.
"Watch your turn!" Donald called. "Check your altitude!"
Simultaneously with that frantic call Donald is on the controls and aggressively corrects. They are immediately wings level and climbing, with their radar altimeter warning light flashing at eighty feet above the sea.
"I have control!" Donald yelled. Edward releases his grip and his face grows hot and the stress almost overwhelms him. Donald glances at the radar and a second rig well outside their proposed track paints off to their left. Assured they are clear Donald relaxes somewhat, and with that risk negated he makes a small correction towards a brightness in the sky to their right, and they climb through five hundred feet.
"Gear?" Donald asked.
Edward shakes off his muddled thoughts and raises the gear and completes the rest of the after take-off checks. Donald watches him with concern.
"You almost flew us into the sea."
Edward does not reply.
"I'll fly back,* said Donald. *Get on the radio calls and paperwork."
It takes a while before Edward finds sufficient trust in his voice before he responds. "Yes, I'll take care of it."
He now questions his own competence, a thought oft suppressed, yet now it confronts him in full relief. He deigned to ignore the many criticisms levelled towards him over these past weeks, but forced to reweigh his opinion of his own self, he considers; perchance this life is not for him. His heart quivers at this possibility but then some internal mechanism governing his self worth quells the thought. Like the passing storm, his insecurity displays its worth then dissolves into nothing.
"I think there was a down draft," Edward stated.
"Watch your turn!" Donald called. "Check your altitude!"
Simultaneously with that frantic call Donald is on the controls and aggressively corrects. They are immediately wings level and climbing, with their radar altimeter warning light flashing at eighty feet above the sea.
"I have control!" Donald yelled. Edward releases his grip and his face grows hot and the stress almost overwhelms him. Donald glances at the radar and a second rig well outside their proposed track paints off to their left. Assured they are clear Donald relaxes somewhat, and with that risk negated he makes a small correction towards a brightness in the sky to their right, and they climb through five hundred feet.
"Gear?" Donald asked.
Edward shakes off his muddled thoughts and raises the gear and completes the rest of the after take-off checks. Donald watches him with concern.
"You almost flew us into the sea."
Edward does not reply.
"I'll fly back,* said Donald. *Get on the radio calls and paperwork."
It takes a while before Edward finds sufficient trust in his voice before he responds. "Yes, I'll take care of it."
He now questions his own competence, a thought oft suppressed, yet now it confronts him in full relief. He deigned to ignore the many criticisms levelled towards him over these past weeks, but forced to reweigh his opinion of his own self, he considers; perchance this life is not for him. His heart quivers at this possibility but then some internal mechanism governing his self worth quells the thought. Like the passing storm, his insecurity displays its worth then dissolves into nothing.
"I think there was a down draft," Edward stated.
130) Lance: A Spirit Unbroken- Walter Stoffel ~~~~~ [Reviews ]
Without prompting Rachel sat down with her daughter and began a soliloquy, almost a confessional.
"You know, talking to you reminded me of something I'd just as soon forget. I'll probably never be able to forget it anyway. Everybody had to know they abused the dog; I actually got to see it. I was driving past the Schmidt property and caught Ted, you know, their son, in the act. The dog was trying to get to his feet and Ted was standing over him with a shovel in his hand. It was pretty obvious he had just whacked the dog with it. I hit the horn and Ted turned and looked at me. I didn't really know what else to do so I wagged my finger at him. He put down the shovel. The dog kind of staggered into his doghouse. Ted started walking back to the house. I drove away, but something was bugging me so, I don't know why, something told me to circle around the block. What I saw made me sick. You know, I'm more of a cat person but geez, how do you do that to an animal? My god. Now that idiot was stooped down in front of the doghouse poking the shovel into it, you know, jabbing at the dog. The guy is an SOB all around. Did you know he used to beat up his mother? Maybe he still does. Anyway, so I roll down the window and tell him, 'I'm calling the cops.' He says to me, 'Go ahead you fuc... (glancing at Jenny) bitch.' He stood up and dropped the shovel and started giving me the finger with both hands. I didn't have my cell phone, but I pretended I did and made like I was dialing. He must've figured I was, 'cause he started going towards the house. But this time I waited until he went inside. I did another slow loop around the block and passed again. Ted wasn't in sight, I was relieved because I could picture him coming after me with his shovel. That's how crazy they are. I figured Lance was in his doghouse. I couldn't see him from the road. I'd have checked on him but, to tell you the truth, I was always afraid of him and I was really afraid of his owners. No way I'm going on their property. They are completely nuts. I'm surprised I had the guts to even threaten to tell the cops."
I responded, "Well, based on what I know about'em, the Schmidts definitely aren't my idea of a good time."
Rachel continued, "When I got home, I called 911, That wasn't the right number to call but I was too nervous to think straight, They referred me to animal control, the ASPCA, something like that, I got a machine and left a message. (Laughing) just my phone number, no name. That's how scared of the Schmidts I am. I never got a call back. Later on, I think I called the police. They sent me back to animal control. A report was taken. You know how that goes."
"So the eventual outcome was..."
"Nothing. I never heard anything from anybody. I finally got involved and nothing happened about it. I don't know what else I could've done. To be honest, after that I avoided going by the house again for a long time. The whole thing made me feel sick and kind of guilty. Personally, I think the woman who walks all their dogs is nuts too. She's got to know what they do to their dogs."
"You know, talking to you reminded me of something I'd just as soon forget. I'll probably never be able to forget it anyway. Everybody had to know they abused the dog; I actually got to see it. I was driving past the Schmidt property and caught Ted, you know, their son, in the act. The dog was trying to get to his feet and Ted was standing over him with a shovel in his hand. It was pretty obvious he had just whacked the dog with it. I hit the horn and Ted turned and looked at me. I didn't really know what else to do so I wagged my finger at him. He put down the shovel. The dog kind of staggered into his doghouse. Ted started walking back to the house. I drove away, but something was bugging me so, I don't know why, something told me to circle around the block. What I saw made me sick. You know, I'm more of a cat person but geez, how do you do that to an animal? My god. Now that idiot was stooped down in front of the doghouse poking the shovel into it, you know, jabbing at the dog. The guy is an SOB all around. Did you know he used to beat up his mother? Maybe he still does. Anyway, so I roll down the window and tell him, 'I'm calling the cops.' He says to me, 'Go ahead you fuc... (glancing at Jenny) bitch.' He stood up and dropped the shovel and started giving me the finger with both hands. I didn't have my cell phone, but I pretended I did and made like I was dialing. He must've figured I was, 'cause he started going towards the house. But this time I waited until he went inside. I did another slow loop around the block and passed again. Ted wasn't in sight, I was relieved because I could picture him coming after me with his shovel. That's how crazy they are. I figured Lance was in his doghouse. I couldn't see him from the road. I'd have checked on him but, to tell you the truth, I was always afraid of him and I was really afraid of his owners. No way I'm going on their property. They are completely nuts. I'm surprised I had the guts to even threaten to tell the cops."
I responded, "Well, based on what I know about'em, the Schmidts definitely aren't my idea of a good time."
Rachel continued, "When I got home, I called 911, That wasn't the right number to call but I was too nervous to think straight, They referred me to animal control, the ASPCA, something like that, I got a machine and left a message. (Laughing) just my phone number, no name. That's how scared of the Schmidts I am. I never got a call back. Later on, I think I called the police. They sent me back to animal control. A report was taken. You know how that goes."
"So the eventual outcome was..."
"Nothing. I never heard anything from anybody. I finally got involved and nothing happened about it. I don't know what else I could've done. To be honest, after that I avoided going by the house again for a long time. The whole thing made me feel sick and kind of guilty. Personally, I think the woman who walks all their dogs is nuts too. She's got to know what they do to their dogs."
131) The Last Days of Night- Graham Moore ~~~~ [Reviews 4-36]
Paul had trouble sleeping after his late-night epiphany with Agnes. He had walked all the way to East Fiftieth Street alternately hatching his plan of attack and thinking about his unexpected good fortune in having her as a confidante. He reminded himself, not for the first time, that she was his client, not his friend. She would certainly not be anything more. The idea of the brightest star of the New York stage taking up with her attorney was absurd. And yet Paul couldn't help but think about all the invitations she must have passed up in recent weeks to sit with him at Tesla's bedside. She had affection for Tesla, that Paul could see plainly. Was it possible that she had some for him as well?
The next day, Paul began to assemble the materials he would need in order to prove that Edison had perjured himself on his patent application. He quickly became engulfed by both their volume and their variety.
First there was the material surrounding Patent No. 223,898 itself. The application was a mere three pages. The first page consisted entirely of an ink drawing of the lamp design, with annotation along the borders naming its various components. The second two were a brief handwritten summary of what the lamp did and how it functioned, signed at the bottom by Edison. The whole of the thing was less than a thousand words. To think of what legal warfare those few words had birthed. Helen of Troy as a spare pen sketch on two paper sheets.
The next day, Paul began to assemble the materials he would need in order to prove that Edison had perjured himself on his patent application. He quickly became engulfed by both their volume and their variety.
First there was the material surrounding Patent No. 223,898 itself. The application was a mere three pages. The first page consisted entirely of an ink drawing of the lamp design, with annotation along the borders naming its various components. The second two were a brief handwritten summary of what the lamp did and how it functioned, signed at the bottom by Edison. The whole of the thing was less than a thousand words. To think of what legal warfare those few words had birthed. Helen of Troy as a spare pen sketch on two paper sheets.
132) The Crimson Heirlooms- Hunter Dennis ~~~~ [Reviews 4-37]
The Conciergerie courtyard was very small, but still sported benches, walkways and a small patch of grass and flowers. It was pleasant enough, except for the five-and-six story walls completely enclosing it, creating an effect akin to a stone vase. Jake sat on a bench, his exes closed, and his face pointed to the sun. The rules no longer applied to him. Everyone in the Conciergerie knew he was a free man, and he had his way of the place. There was a shrine to Marie Antoinette, the former queen who stayed here until she was beheaded. He had to pass it on his way outside. It unsettled him for some reason, but the sun was worth the journey.
Isaäc sat down and handed him a letter, "From Monsieur Tyran." Jake noticed the seal was already broken. He opened it:
Monsieur Loring,
You will have no more contact with your lawyer, your revolutionary chain-of-command, your friends, your family or anyone else from your old life. Indeed, consider our liaison to have re-created you without history. You are reborn wholly unto me, and exist to serve only myself, and the search for the Crimson Heirlooms, Do not seek to thwart me in this. You will not be ordered to do anything untoward, and will end your service with me with some coin in your pocket and your honor intact, I assure you.
You come from a good family and you are a well-educated man. I expect that you will conduct yourself as a good and honorable businessman, in regard to our legal arrangement. You will be entrusted to perform tasks alone, and you will be, at times, in possession of considerable funds. You will keep good accounting, be an independent, self-motivated worker, and scrupulously honest in your reporting of any findings.
Find with this letter two items. The first is an excerpt taken from a ship captain's log. I wish you to become as knowledgeable as I in regard to its contents. The second item is a coin purse. Purchase a seat on a coach to Nantes, and any effects you need for the journey. I will be in the Château Meilleur, in the west outskirts of the city. Meet me there,as soon as you are legally able.
Monsieur Tyran.
"Son-of-a-bitch," Jake said in English.
"I do not understand your meaning, but your intent is clear, Monsieur Tyran is indeed well-named, is he not?"
"He is indeed. Who is he really, I wonder?"
"A question many are asking. Queries have been made. It is thought he is a colonial, of some sort. He has certainly not been living in France- at least for decades. Our sources familiar with the most successful families in the Americas have no idea who he is. If he is from a foreign country, it could explain our current ignorance. There are also many colonies, and our contacts so not exist to all of them."
Isaäc sat down and handed him a letter, "From Monsieur Tyran." Jake noticed the seal was already broken. He opened it:
Monsieur Loring,
You will have no more contact with your lawyer, your revolutionary chain-of-command, your friends, your family or anyone else from your old life. Indeed, consider our liaison to have re-created you without history. You are reborn wholly unto me, and exist to serve only myself, and the search for the Crimson Heirlooms, Do not seek to thwart me in this. You will not be ordered to do anything untoward, and will end your service with me with some coin in your pocket and your honor intact, I assure you.
You come from a good family and you are a well-educated man. I expect that you will conduct yourself as a good and honorable businessman, in regard to our legal arrangement. You will be entrusted to perform tasks alone, and you will be, at times, in possession of considerable funds. You will keep good accounting, be an independent, self-motivated worker, and scrupulously honest in your reporting of any findings.
Find with this letter two items. The first is an excerpt taken from a ship captain's log. I wish you to become as knowledgeable as I in regard to its contents. The second item is a coin purse. Purchase a seat on a coach to Nantes, and any effects you need for the journey. I will be in the Château Meilleur, in the west outskirts of the city. Meet me there,as soon as you are legally able.
Monsieur Tyran.
"Son-of-a-bitch," Jake said in English.
"I do not understand your meaning, but your intent is clear, Monsieur Tyran is indeed well-named, is he not?"
"He is indeed. Who is he really, I wonder?"
"A question many are asking. Queries have been made. It is thought he is a colonial, of some sort. He has certainly not been living in France- at least for decades. Our sources familiar with the most successful families in the Americas have no idea who he is. If he is from a foreign country, it could explain our current ignorance. There are also many colonies, and our contacts so not exist to all of them."
133) Reflections of Me- Michael Jennings ~~~~ [Reviews 4-38]
"I think I know what you were going to ask me, about Derrick. And without beating around the bush, I'll come right out and say it. Yes,he is not happy with you, but not so much because you were kissing me as your close presence to me was a threat to his memory of his father. It was nothing to do with him being ADD. You have to understand that they were very close, though I may have mentioned that before at the restaurant. There isn't a day goes by that Derrick doesn't think about his father ... and so do I, probably. Derrick is not looking for a substitute man in my life or his. You would think that two plus years would erase some of the memories, but not for my son. He painted a very large picture, amongst others, of his father after he died and it hangs in his so-called art studio. Unfortunately, and it's partially my fault, there are all kinds of pictures of David throughout the house; just another daily reminder for Derrick. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?" She ends, in a quiet tone.
"Yes, I understand completely," Richard answers, "while listening to you, I was wondering where I had heard these very same words before. And then it came to me ... my grandfather last Saturday after you had left the field. For a man of generally few words, he had a lot to say Saturday and then again on Wednesday. I asked him how he knows so much about Derrick. Can you guess what he said?"
"I obviously wasn't party to the conversation, but I would love to here it,* she answers.
"He said something to the effect that he has, and I quote, 'a window into Derrick's world'. I know my grandfather fairly well,though certain parts of him are still a mystery. But one thing I do know is that when it comes to people, he is a very perceptive man. He may sit there quietly, but his mind is always churning. In a recent conversation I had with him, he said that he's spent a lifetime observing people; it was like a hobby for him and my grandmother. Whether years of observing people is how he reportedly can see your son's world, I really don't know."
"Yes, I understand completely," Richard answers, "while listening to you, I was wondering where I had heard these very same words before. And then it came to me ... my grandfather last Saturday after you had left the field. For a man of generally few words, he had a lot to say Saturday and then again on Wednesday. I asked him how he knows so much about Derrick. Can you guess what he said?"
"I obviously wasn't party to the conversation, but I would love to here it,* she answers.
"He said something to the effect that he has, and I quote, 'a window into Derrick's world'. I know my grandfather fairly well,though certain parts of him are still a mystery. But one thing I do know is that when it comes to people, he is a very perceptive man. He may sit there quietly, but his mind is always churning. In a recent conversation I had with him, he said that he's spent a lifetime observing people; it was like a hobby for him and my grandmother. Whether years of observing people is how he reportedly can see your son's world, I really don't know."
134) Memory Factory: Heistof the Century- Russ Golish ~~~~ [Reviews 4-39]
Several hours passed and Subject One entered REM. The imprinting process had gone well but this part was most important. Markes and Sans watched intently as the Perfect Recall AI performed her magic. As the new memories played for the first time, the General's eyes darted in earnest.
It was here in the anteroom of the mind where the real action occurred. In this junction where sensory memory and emotional biochemistry intersected was the Grand Central Terminal of memory storage. This is the place where memories became tangible, or not. This is the time when memories became retrievable, or not. It all began in the fovea. The images then danced to and through the optic nerve, the visual cortex, the hippocampus, and into long-term memory. Beyond the initial biochemical indexes and reference points used for access, memories were not cohesive clips of video recorded by the eyes. Rather, most of these memories were mere fragments, chained together like blocks of digital storage. And these memory blocks were far from indelible. The neurochemical storage mechanisms of chained memory could become disconnected. In fact it was rather common for the middle or end of a memory sequence to become lost. Worse yet, memories could become fractured. The indexes, links, and references could corrupt, pointing instead to other memory fragments, to incorrect blocks in the sequence, or inexplicably to nothing at all. People would frequently reach for a memory only to find another. Or they might grasp for a memory and become frustrated in their search, an answer beyond reach, as on the tip of their tongue.
These are several of the myriad reasons human memory could be of poor quality. Memories could be clouded by variances in mental acuity, environmental distractions, a full range of emotions, and visual interpretations. Neurotransmitter levels could become deficient or unstable, as in the case of acetylcholine, essential to memory storage and retrieval. All recipients Perfect Recall technology were supplemented for these important compounds, and this was particularly crucial during the first several months.
The initial storage of memories typically occurred at night while the person lay unconscious. This unconscious processing, sorting, and storage of memories were affected by the subconscious and also by the dream state. Scientists quickly learned that the accuracy of these processing and storage algorithms improved by repetition. Memories became more permanent when recalled repeatedly, and in a predictable pattern. This is also why the Perfect Recall imprinting process ran overnight. Over many nights, a memory would play repeatedly. This increased the permanence factor.
It was here in the anteroom of the mind where the real action occurred. In this junction where sensory memory and emotional biochemistry intersected was the Grand Central Terminal of memory storage. This is the place where memories became tangible, or not. This is the time when memories became retrievable, or not. It all began in the fovea. The images then danced to and through the optic nerve, the visual cortex, the hippocampus, and into long-term memory. Beyond the initial biochemical indexes and reference points used for access, memories were not cohesive clips of video recorded by the eyes. Rather, most of these memories were mere fragments, chained together like blocks of digital storage. And these memory blocks were far from indelible. The neurochemical storage mechanisms of chained memory could become disconnected. In fact it was rather common for the middle or end of a memory sequence to become lost. Worse yet, memories could become fractured. The indexes, links, and references could corrupt, pointing instead to other memory fragments, to incorrect blocks in the sequence, or inexplicably to nothing at all. People would frequently reach for a memory only to find another. Or they might grasp for a memory and become frustrated in their search, an answer beyond reach, as on the tip of their tongue.
These are several of the myriad reasons human memory could be of poor quality. Memories could be clouded by variances in mental acuity, environmental distractions, a full range of emotions, and visual interpretations. Neurotransmitter levels could become deficient or unstable, as in the case of acetylcholine, essential to memory storage and retrieval. All recipients Perfect Recall technology were supplemented for these important compounds, and this was particularly crucial during the first several months.
The initial storage of memories typically occurred at night while the person lay unconscious. This unconscious processing, sorting, and storage of memories were affected by the subconscious and also by the dream state. Scientists quickly learned that the accuracy of these processing and storage algorithms improved by repetition. Memories became more permanent when recalled repeatedly, and in a predictable pattern. This is also why the Perfect Recall imprinting process ran overnight. Over many nights, a memory would play repeatedly. This increased the permanence factor.