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2005-09-01T23:03:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the third edition of Noon Spool. For those who have been with us since the start, welcome back. For those who are here for the first time, welcome aboard. This month we are again bringing you four excellent stories. Month by month we are building a bank of good fiction in short bites; a place where you can always take a short break with a good read.

So here is a guided tour. These are the systems that you can use to find the stories that are right for you.
What kind of story do you want today? The 'Categories' link in the right sidebar will take you to a directory of links to all of the stories, sorted into broad categories. If you want a laugh, look to 'Humor'. Crime drama, Childhood, Fantasy...we will continue to expand our selection month by month.
Where can I find more by this author? The 'Our Writers' link will take you to an alphabetical listing of all of our contributing authors. Under each author you will find links to each of their stories here in Noon Spool, as well as their own websites or other places you can find their work.
I just found this site. What have I missed? Check out our 'Back Issues' link. There you will find links to each story sorted by their date of publication.

Hope that helps. Now, we proudly present this month's selections!

Dragon Hunting, in which Nathan Simpson carries human courage across the lines of fantasy and reality.

The Bird. Christopher Miller returns with an inside look into the complex mind.

Cuckoo in the Canaries, by Rebecca Holmes is a drama that offers a surprising twist.

Stained Glass, in which Susan Page speaks of sharing space.

Enjoy this issue!

Stained Glass

2005-09-01T17:38:00.000-07:00

by Susan Page

Black lines began and ended at the tip of her paint brush. It wasn’t very hard. All she was doing was tracing pencil lines she’d drawn on paper. In fact, the hardest part of this whole project was parting with the thirty dollars to pay for the glass paint set, but it was a must. The glass panes on her bedroom door weren’t going to cover themselves up after all.

She swirled the brush in the water and blotted it out on the paper towel. The rose was going to be a dark red, she decided with a nod making absolutely certain. A dollop of black and two dollops of red should do the job.

“Amber,” her flat mate shouted from the living room.

Sighing, Amber focused on mixing her paint to the correct shade. It was probably about something stupid like if she’d seen his black socks. Maybe he’ll think she’s out.

“Amber!” Wyatt poked his head into the room and smiled.

“What?” she asked indignantly. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

“But this is important.”

Carefully, she applied the paint in even strokes to fill in the rose petals. “What?”

“Have you seen the remote?”

She whirled about and faced him directly, paintbrush in hand and gripped like a weapon waiting to strike. She wanted to yell, “That’s important? Jesus, Wyatt! Why don’t you look for it or is that idea too novel for you? God, can’t you do anything for yourself? Are you that much of an idiot?” But she kept her cool, even lowered her brush. “I don’t know where it is. Have you tried searching the couch cushions?” she asked politely with a phony smile plastered on her face.

“Yeah.”

“Well, Justin was the last one to watch TV so go ask him about it.” She returned to her painting and hoped he’d just leave her in peace. Amber loved her new roommates dearly, but sometimes she just wanted to…

“Ask Amber!” Justin bellowed as his door slammed in Wyatt’s face.

She looked down at the ruined rose and stared at the red streak that paid no heed to the tediously drawn black outline. If she were the philosophic sort she’d have begun to compare her life thus far to the ruined stained glass design. Twenty years spent perfecting bold, crisp borders and in one brief moment it all went to hell when a rogue element streaked through the limitations she had so meticulously set. That, of course, is what she would’ve thought if she’d admit to herself that she was indeed a philosophical type of person.

“Amber,” Wyatt whined as several soft thuds sounded. “I can’t find it anywhere!”

She couldn’t fix the mistake of having a red splash across the design. It would have to be scrapped and redrawn from scratch.

“I’ll be right out, Wyatt,” she called from her room. Smiling, Amber studied the flaws of the ruined design. Without a second thought, she crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket. Her first attempt may have been a failure, but maybe the next one will be even better than the last.

Dragon Hunting

2005-09-01T17:34:00.000-07:00

by Nathan Simpson

Only the other day we were speaking of dragons, Thomas and I, but if I had known I would run into one, I think our conversation would have been just a little different. Thomas was of the opinion that dragons didn't exist.

"If dragons exist, then why haven't I seen one?" he asked.

"Well, maybe they live underground," I suggested.

"You're not going to convince me that Old Faithful is a dragon's teapot." Thomas snorted. "Are you trying to tell me that you believe in dragons?"

And so the conversation went. I managed to convince Thomas that I didn't really believe in dragons, that it was only something to talk about. I finished my coffee break, and went back to my desk. Back to the same mind-numbing routine, listening to fluorescent lights buzzing and breathing the pseudo-sterile conditioned air, feeling my life seep away into the dark, polished desk. I passed the time with a bottomless cup of coffee and daydreams of a dragon ransacking the place.

And then, about five minutes before closing, my boss walked in with an armful of papers that could only have been The Complete History of Every Place in the World in 500 volumes. He deposited the pile on my desk with a snicker, and a command to have it sorted and filed yesterday. As usual, I couldn’t think of anything to say. I stared at the stack of papers, my mind blank. And then my boss walked out.

I’d only been considering quitting this job for a year. Every time I finally worked the nerve to tell my boss, he would have something waiting for me, something that would sink my hopes of ever moving on. Something like that stack of paper. I sighed deeply, and grabbed the top paper from the stack. I stared at it, started to file it - then threw it down. It could wait a day.

I survived the drive home, even though all the homicidal drunken maniacs in the city had apparently decided to follow me. There is something to be said for small towns where everything is in walking distance. When I finally pulled into my drive, I gave a small prayer of thanks before I turned the car off.

I walked into my house, grabbed a frozen dinner, and microwaved it. I turned on the coffeepot, and waited for the microwave to finish, listening for the bell that isn’t a bell at all – just an electronic counterfeit. I’ve always hated frozen dinners – the dehydrated meat, the pale green vegetables, the taste of Styrofoam impregnating every bite. After picking idly at sickeningly orange carrots that squeaked against my teeth, I threw the dinner away. I grabbed a cup of black coffee, and stepped into the back yard to check on my dog, and that’s where I found the dragon.

It was late in the afternoon, but still light enough for me to see my dog, Orion. He was cowering against the fence, and he looked a little...scorched. Orion is a big, black labrador retriever, and he loves to play. He usually jumps all over me when I go outside. Only this time, he didn’t seem very happy. When I tried to call him, but he wouldn't come, I knew something was wrong. He was growling. A deep low growl, and he was looking at something in his doghouse. Something with shining red eyes. I frowned, and ran into the house for a flashlight.

When I came back out, I turned on the flashlight and very carefully shone it around inside the doghouse. Curled up on Orion's blankets was the dragon. He really was a cute little fellow. At least, I think it was a he. I don’t know much about dragons, so I wouldn’t know how to tell. But he was small, about the size of a chihuahua, and green. There was a row of needlelike spines on his back, and two tiny silvery wings that couldn't possibly help him fly. And there were two little wisps of smoke like steam from a coffee cup rising up from his nostrils. He smelled strange, sort of a combination of oranges and burnt toast. I walked closer to the doghouse so that I could see him more clearly. He had small scales, green with gold edges, and a look on his face that reminded me of the Cheshire cat.

I really should've been more careful. I mean, Orion with his coat scorched off in places should've been warning enough. But the dragon looked so cute, so small, so harmless. I reached out to pick him up, and all of a sudden his teeth were in my hand. Not just little teeth, either. This thing had teeth that belonged on a T-rex. I started screaming and flinging my arm around trying to shake off this little dragon. Finally he let go, and my flailing arm catapulted him across the yard, where he landed on top of the doghouse. I glared at him, and he bared his teeth at me. And then the really bad thing happened. He made a little coughing noise, and a puff of smoke appeared. When I realized what was happening, I turned to run, but I was too late. All of a sudden this little dragon threw a blanket of fire at me that made a flamethrower look like a cigarette lighter.

I did the old trick of "stop, drop, and roll," only I left out the "stop" part. I managed to roll right up to the back door of my house, and drag myself inside without being severely burned. When I got inside, I just stood there for a second, panting. When I couldn’t hear the roar of flames any longer, I peered through the window. The little dragon was still there, on top of the doghouse, all puffed up with pride. Just looking at him made me mad.

That's when I remembered that I had an old shotgun in the attic. It belonged originally to my grandfather, or so I'm told. I'm sure that if the neighbors could have seen me, the pure glee on my face when I pulled it out from under a stack of old boxes, they would’ve immediately packed up and moved away. I found some shells in one of the boxes, and I walked down the stairs, feeding shells into the old gun, laughing like a maniac.

When I got to the back I peeked out carefully. The dragon was still there. I don't think the dragon knew much about people, because when I opened the door and raised the shotgun, he just stood there looking at me. I felt bad, because he looked so cute, but with blood dripping from my hand and my hair singed, I pushed compassion aside and pulled the trigger.

When I pulled myself back to my feet (those old guns can really kick) the dragon was still there. He didn't even look scratched. I must have missed him, but the wall behind me was peppered with small holes. The pellets had ricocheted, and it was a good thing that I was knocked off my feet or I might not have lived to learn from my mistake. As it was, I was pretty upset. That dragon looked at me like he was laughing, and stretched his ridiculous wings. And flew away.

I still can't believe his wings supported him. But at the time, with the echo of the shot still in the air and the neighbors coming outside to see what was going on, I wasn't really thinking about that. I was mad. Here was this tiny little dragon torching my dog, and then me, and not sticking around to give me a chance for revenge.

I went inside to bandage my bleeding hand. I must’ve been somewhat hysterical, because I was laughing and crying at the same time. As I secured the bandage around my hand, Orion barked and scratched at the door, so I let him in. I looked around, and the dragon was gone, so I closed the door and collapsed on my couch in the living room.

When I woke up the next morning, my hand was feeling better. I took a shower and rinsed most of the soot from my hair. I pulled some clothes on, and headed out to my car. The morning traffic was no better than the afternoon traffic, and as I dodged suicidal old women and serial killers disguised as businessmen, I made a mental note to look for a new vehicle, preferably something that could fly.

I reached the office and grabbed a cup of coffee on my way in. I sat down at my desk, and groaned. I had hoped that at least part of the stack of papers would vanish to the same place as all of those missing “other” socks, but my luck was off. I reached for the first paper, and that’s when my boss came in.

“You still haven’t finished filing those?” he asked.

“Sorry, sir, but I just got started on them.” I waved the paper in my hand for emphasis.

“But I gave them to you yesterday!” he shouted. He was definitely not looking happy.

“Well, sir, I would’ve started on them earlier, only I had a little problem last night and I was a little late.” I lifted my bandaged hand, and my boss stared at it suspiciously.

“What kind of problem?” he asked.

I felt trapped. “Well, I was bit by a dragon last night.”

“Oh really. Is that all you can say?” He crossed his arms and stared down at me with an office-bleached face that looked as if it had been carved from a bar of soap. And that’s when it hit me.

I looked around. The desk with its grim shine, the pale, eternal fluorescent lighting, the pasty face of my boss, the menacing stack of papers all stared back at me. And I thought about the dragon, and the fire, and the blood from my hand, and suddenly the office felt constricting, lifeless, and fake – a trap that I knew how to escape now. I took a deep breath, and I looked him straight in the eye.

“No. I also wanted to tell you - as of right now, I quit."

The Bird

2005-09-01T17:01:00.000-07:00

by Chris Miller

The woman I picked up at the Parents Without Partners singles dance at the Victoria Park pavilion last night is sleeping in my bedroom, and I am sleeping in the spare one. From across the hall, I can hear her snoring. She should have her adenoids out or something. It sounds like someone trying to smoke wet grass through a hookah filled with WD50 motor oil and rocks.

There is this other annoying sound too. It’s coming from inside the soffit on this side of the house. Last Friday, when a different woman that I had met at an over-thirty singles dance at the Knights of Columbus center was sleeping in my bed and I was sleeping over here because I can’t stand being crowded and she kept pushing over into me like a heat seeking missile, I had thought it was a squirrel. But it is not a squirrel. It is a bird; and it is almost dead now.

The name of the woman who is comatose in the other room now is either Sally or Shirley or Cheryl. She was already drunk when she told it to me. But I am pretty sure it is one of these. I guess it could also be Charlene. When I first saw her staggering around on the dance floor with this natty Portuguese man, clutching her Coors Light, I had thought she might be too old for me. I mean, she looked to be practically my own age. But I have always been a sucker for blondes—especially fake blonds—and she had pretty good legs for an old gal too. But mostly I liked her sense of humor. After I had asked her to dance and she was grinding on me to Strokin', taking slugs from another Coors and clinging to my neck to keep vertical, I asked her how long she had been a member of PWP.

“You mean People who just Wanna get Porked. Nah, I go to their dances now and again is all

“I too am not a member of Parents Without Principles,” I shouted above Clarence Carter’s multidirectional stroking song. It took her a second, but then she laughed about twice as long and hard as necessary and tried to grab my ass with the hand she was holding the beer with, pressing the bottle in between my cheeks.

I went to the PWP thing last night, hoping to run into the snuggly lady (I think her name was Rachael or Rebecca) from the weekend prior. We had kind of agreed to try to hook up again. But I guess this was when we were necking at the tables and not after she had come home with me. Still, I was a little disappointed and even chagrined at my having been informally stood up. Aside from her predilection for somnambulant cuddling, she was okay, not too chatty, cute in a weathered sort of way. The next morning we even enjoyed a deep and uninspired kiss—bad breath and all.

I thought about Rachael (or whatever her name was) while I put up my extension ladder, and continued to think about her while I climbed up and stapled a small piece of nylon mesh over the hole that I assumed a squirrel had gotten in.

From just before dawn, for at least an hour, I had heard it poking and scratching away, imagined it gnawing its way into my ceiling, through electrical wires and flex tube piping, wishing I could magically transport it to the bottom of the ocean or the core of the sun or just whack it on the head with something solid. Envisioning my house being chewed though by this rodent was even more annoying than having some semi-stranger sprawled across me, but I stayed where I was until I heard her get up.

Last night though, I thought I might have fallen in love with Rachael a little. It hurt when she didn’t show. Even though I knew it was just a case of only being able to want what you can’t have, it hurt. But, with Sally (or whatever her name is) draped around me like a barbeque apron and her Coors Light half stuck in my ass, I began to get over it.

I have seen a squirrel bore through half-inch plywood like it was toast—aluminum siding too. I figured that, after I had screened shut its entryway, my squirrel would waste no time chewing its way back out. Then I could put something more substantial, like galvanized sheet metal, over the hole. I hung around for half an hour or so waiting for it to do this, and thought about how Rachael had giggled through most of our foreplay, which wasn’t much, and then on through our love making, which also wasn’t much. It struck me as nervous, almost neurotic, laughter; and so I didn’t take it personally. Besides, it added a certain something.

The squirrel never showed. Even after I went inside and banged on the kitchen ceiling with a broom handle, it never appeared. Instead, a plump black starling lighted in a tree branch near the covered hole. The way it tilted its head at a bunch of different obtuse angles made it appear confused. It seemed to be looking at me. Occasionally it would emit a melodious tweet. Then, after ten minutes or so, it gave up and flew away.

Two years ago, a siding installer sealed in a nest of baby birds at the opposite corner of the house. You could hear them twittering and chirping inside when he was done. We both felt pretty bad, but he said, the way siding interlocks, he’d have to pull off the entire strip in order to reopen it. The mother bird, which had left to scavenge for food, returned, and, for an entire weekend, shrieked and flew against the corner of the house, dying of exhaustion while its doomed babies cried. So I had to assume that the bird singing in the tree after Rachael left was the father. And that the mother was trapped inside on her nest.

“I need a glass of water,” said Sally after she had kicked her heels off by the door and I had escorted her up to my bedroom. “Leave the light off.”

I hadn’t been planning to turn the light on. A streetlight below the bedroom window already provided adequate illumination. I fetched her water.

“I need it in a bigger glass,” she said when I returned.

“I can get you more,” I offered.

“No,” she said. “I need to have it in a wider glass.”

I brought her water in a Brunswick Lanes glass I had once won in tenpin league for bowling a six-hundred series.

Sally pulled her upper and lower dentures out at the same time with a sucking pop, and dropped them in my trophy glass. Then, after placing the glass on her nightstand, she padded off to the washroom. In the light from the window, her teeth leered at me, lipless and clenched as though angry or in pain. At midnight PWP had served their “meal.” I remembered saying, “No wonder they can’t find partners. These are the worst sandwiches I have ever eaten. What is this shit they’ve smeared in them? Cat food?” Tiny particles of white bread and raw vegetable swirled around in the water with her teeth.

In the washroom, Sally emitted a loud fart before she began to pee. Then I heard her gargling. Because I was coming down off acid, everything was probably more graphic and sensual than it need have been, and might also explain why I had found PWP's midnight snack so unpalatable. Up until that morning, I had not taken acid in almost thirty years.

All week I had felt bad about the bird, even sleeping in the spare room for no other reason than to follow the progress of its demise. It was probably sitting on eggs, so letting it out and then closing up the hole might have been even worse. That is assuming it would even be willing to leave. And if it did leave, what would replace it? The first night of its incarceration, from about 4:00 AM on, it skittered back and forth the length of the soffit, never making a peep. One peep might have been all that was needed to establish a connection and free me from my inaction.

By Wednesday, all it seemed to want to do was scuffle around in the corner where its nest was, and even this not for very long. Now that it was dying, I no longer wished that it was dead. I wished that it could find a way out of the situation; although not enough to actually do anything. I wondered what was going through its mind.

I told my mom about the bird when I stopped by her house on my way to work this morning. My sister was there too. They both felt I should let it out. They said that if it was a person trapped up there, I would do something. And I said that even if I knew that when the bird died, someone, say over in China, would have to die too for some metaphysical reason, I still probably wouldn’t bother.

They pretended not to believe me.

My mom told me that she had found an old wallet of mine when she was “going through” my “university things.” She gave it to me. It still had my student card in it. My mother saves things that would otherwise be discarded. She still has my General Arts diploma. She still has my butterfly collection from when I was five years old. She said she wasn’t sure how she had acquired my wallet from that era, that maybe it had become separated from my laundry.

At work, in my cubicle, I examined my old wallet, and found, in the same plastic slot as my student card, a hit of three-eyed-toad blotter LSD. I remembered the icon, probably because I hadn’t done a lot of blotter. Windowpane was cleaner and more consistent. Orange Sunshine barrels were my second choice. I remembered the toad blotter as being strong enough, probably around 150 micrograms, but also as being a little tough on the gut, not the cleanest. The toad had turned from green to brown over the years. I didn’t realize I was going to drop it until I felt my throat constrict.

Anyone who has dropped acid more than a few dozen times will probably tell you that it is no fun. Acid is not a fun high. Except for maybe the first few trips, it’s not a high at all; it’s a change. You become someone else. At least I always did. For most of the early seventies, I was me (albeit wasted) and I was this guy called Joe. Where I was pragmatic and lazy and kind of fearless and stupid, Joe was spiritual, honest and anxious. Where I was drawn to escape and death, Joe was drawn to coping and life. Joe could no more imagine suicide than he could imagine eating his left foot—shoe and all. Joe was much more popular with women too. I was always jealous of him for this. Girls that wouldn’t give me the time of day came on to Joe with embarrassing abandon—embarrassing to Joe that is. But Joe never knew how to follow up on their overtures. After they had insinuated themselves into his room, onto his bed, and sat gazing into his hugely dilated pupils, he would talk to them. Or, more accurately, they would talk to him. For unlike me, words did not come easily to Joe. He felt transparent enough without them. Joe did not wear his heart on his sleeve the way I did. Joe, you see, was a listener. Joe listened to people.

I, of course, was not above building on the groundwork Joe laid. I had some nice girlfriends, even some nice wives. They all had trouble figuring out how I could be such a prick.

I sucked on the blotter for a while before swallowing it. My mouth began to water and I wondered if I would eventually throw up. Immediately I felt different. But I knew from experience that this was only a placebo effect, my body preparing, Joe dreaming. I walked to our company’s little kitchenette and made myself a green tea in the microwave.

Stewart, another web developer, was there preparing a Carnation hot chocolate from a foil packet he had purchased from the vending machine. After tearing open and pouring its pre-over-sweetened contents into his large stained Cisco mug, he piled on about four tablespoons of coffee creamer powder. Then he added enough sugar to almost half fill the cup. When the tea kettle began to whistle, he unplugged it and began to stir hot water into his mix. It looked like Compound-30, the mud I used to use to do drywall repairs back when I was a subcontract painter of low-end townhouses and apartments.

“It’s no wonder your bowels are irritable,” I said, watching him stir his sludge. Stewart has irritable bowel syndrome. He also has sleep apnea and some minor personality disorder that makes him think he is a genius and also makes him kind of hard to like. “You do realize you are about to ingest enough aluminum to give five people Alzheimer’s?” I sipped my tea. I was still myself.

“You might have to field a few calls today,” he told me. “Dwight and Belinda both called in sick.”

“Why? Can’t you?”

Stewart took a tentative sip of his concoction and smacked his lips. “Oh, I will, I will. But you might have to handle some of the overflow.” He took a bigger sip, and burped.

Back at my desk, I checked my stocks via Yahoo’s financial page. I have this little lump under my right eye. My doctor said it was nothing to worry about, that it is just a very minor hematoma, probably the result of an injury, of being poked or something. That was a couple of years ago. I check it so often that I can’t say whether it has grown since then or not. That is the way I check my stock portfolio, which is definitely shrinking.

I have not done any useful web development work here in several years. Lately I have not done any work at all. No one seems to care. I always have a few projects in front of me; I just don’t work on them. Eventually they are forgotten or handed off to someone else. I have decided to become a writer.

After checking my stocks, and deleting all my spam, I logged onto my favorite writing forum. People post all sorts of short creative pieces there. We are all looking for feedback, for affirmation, validation—for praise and love—and to have our stupid grammatical errors pointed out as well. A lot of the writers there are young. I try to be nice, helpful and supportive in my critiques. I have only made one person give up so far this month, a talented young girl from Africa. So maybe I am starting to get the hang of it.

Trying to read a story about the puerile antics of some teenage paintballer, Joe begins to notice that he is reading each sentence over several times. The grammar is flawed, the structure awkward. He is trying to come up with something helpful to say about it. But it doesn’t seem to want to say anything to him. The words on the screen are beginning to shift around as though trying to jostle for better positions. He has completely forgotten the previous sentence, all the previous sentences. His hands look very far away on the keyboard.

“Unsurprisingly, the ball bounced,” he reads. He reads it again. What does it mean? He reads it once more backwards, and it seems to make more sense. He begins to laugh. My phone begins to ring. It reverberates in his ears; concerto for phone and buzzing head. Every time it rings the words on the screen stop their pushing and shoving, turn scarlet and vibrate. Joe can’t stop laughing. He can feel the phone ringing in his testicles. It tickles a little.

Stewart strolls into my cubicle cradling and blowing on his mug of paste. Some has spilled down the side of his cup. The smell of it is strong—chocolaty and sickening. Joe feels like his nose is in it, like he is licking it off the side of the cup. He can feel the smooth, hot, glazed ceramic against his tongue.

“Are you going to pick that up?” asks Stewart.

Joe picks up the phone, cradle and all. He resists the urge to tell Stewart that he has just dropped acid, and that he is out of commission. It is all coming back to me—to Joe—now; like riding a bike, like he was never away. When drunk or on downers, you feel inconspicuous, like you blend in, like no one can tell; or, if they could tell, that they would see it as an improvement. With tripping, it is just the opposite: you feel like everyone is wondering what is wrong with you. But they aren’t, and even if you tell them, they won’t believe you. Joe has learned to keep his mouth shut.

Stewart farts. “Very funny,” he says, fanning his fart with some specs that he lifts off my desk, specs that I have never looked at. “Excuse me,” he says as he leaves. A few seconds later, Joe is not certain Stewart was ever there. Then he smells the fart; it is somehow reassuring. The phone rings. Colorful words dance.

Joe lifts the handset to his ear. That is what people do, he believes.

“Hello,” says a voice. “Hello?”

Joe says, “Hello,” back. He feels that he has said too much.

“When I type an email, a lot of the words are underlined in red or green,” says the voice.

He clicks on my email icon. He thinks that is what he is supposed to do. Then he looks at the carpet. The colors in it bleed into interlocking paisley shapes that squirm as though they are alive. There are many shades of red and green. And there are words. “Unsurprisingly, the ball bounced,” he reads. He thinks he is starting to understand.

“I know this is because I have typed something wrong,” says the voice. “But I don’t care. How do I turn it off?”

“I don’t know how to turn it off,” says Joe. He looks at the words in the carpet. He can no longer read them. They are just random letters and symbols now. But they seem important. “What is it like not to care—not to care about words?” He wonders if he has said this out loud.

“You’re a big help,” says the voice.

Joe hangs up the phone and thinks about this until he can’t remember what about it made him feel good. He has to pee. But it can wait. He doesn’t want to bump into anyone.

Joe clicks on the forum post button. He wants to write something, something that will help people understand him. He wants to understand himself. He enters my user id and password, feeling like he is hacking into a stranger’s account. He types the word “My” and then deletes it. It feels wrong. So does the word “I.” He deletes it too after typing it. He can’t even think of a title for his posting. It’s frustrating.

In Microsoft Outlook, Joe begins to scan through old sent messages. For some reason I never delete them. Some of them are years old. He is positioned over one with a subject line that says “Chaos” when my phone rings. The word leaps off the screen towards him. He looks away. But for a while, wherever he looks, he sees “Chaos” shimmying to the ringing of the phone.

He clicks on it. It is an email I sent to my father several years back; around the time I thought I had discovered a connection between the speed of light, the fourth-dimensional curvature of the universe and Hubble’s constant. I thought I had discovered a geometric basis for relativity and could calculate the quantum interval of time. I had also considered that I might be losing my mind.

Joe cuts the body of the text and pastes it into the message box of his posting. He calls it “Chaos”—of course. He has to pee more now. But it can still wait. The text reads as though the author is either very smart or wishes others to believe that he is:

I'm working on encryption again. Any good encryption algorithm will convert bodies of homogeneous (say all zeroes) or highly structured (like text) data into seemingly random data. For all intents and purposes the result is chaos, white noise, meaningless garbage. Values are evenly and haphazardly distributed. The binary image is indistinguishable from that created by flipping a coin zillions of times. The stream can be used anywhere random number streams are required and withstand any probabilistic scrutiny.

And yet, by passing this data through a specific algorithm it is returned to its original highly organized form. Aside from how it was generated, what is the actual difference between this data and that generated by flipping a coin? Is it that it contains hidden orderliness, or only that we know how to find it? It appears given that the ostensibly chaotic can in fact be highly organized. But is it possible that all chaos is illusory, that true meaninglessness does not exist? Or is it perhaps exactly the opposite?

I have written a haiku to express my confusion here.

Chinese sounds funny
Pi must go on forever
I myself will die

He doesn’t understand it, but decides to trust the author. There is a haiku at the bottom though, and the last line reads, “I myself will die.” He doesn’t like this line. He changes “will” to “must.” Then he clicks submit. Then he decides to pee.

The door on the washroom stall is so badly fitted that you can see who, if anyone, is sitting on the toilet as soon as you walk in. Stewart is sitting on it. His pants are in a ball on the floor by his feet. It stinks in there. The room is redolent with a pungent scatological stench.

“Is that you, Chris?” asks Stewart. He knows it is. He is just making conversation. “Will you call my wife?” Stewart carries pens and pencils in his shirt pocket in a blue plastic pocket protector. He uses one to scribble on a yellow sticky notepad that he also keeps in his pocket. Then he holds a tiny slip of yellow paper through the gap in the stall door. “Tell her to bring me a change of clothes.”

Joe is not in the least flustered or surprised. Everything that happens to him is strange. Nothing is stranger than anything else. He accepts Stewart’s note.

The holes in the bottom of the urinal shift around while he is peeing. Out of discretion, he tries to pee directly into one near the middle, so there will not be a splashing noise. It is a moving target.

“I thought it was a fart,” explains Stewart.

Walking back to my desk, Joe remembers the bird trapped in my soffit, and is seized with a surge of guilt bordering on panic. It is like he is the one trapped in the soffit. He remembers my reading somewhere that birds ferry our souls away when we die. The best way to handle a panic attack is to not let it frighten you; that is to say, to not let fear itself frighten you. Examine it objectively. Know that it will pass. It passes.

Back at my desk Joe refreshes the forum window. Already, he has five responses. He tries to concentrate on reading them. The first is from an English Lit. major who has stopped sniffing glue. He likes it! He says that it pisses in the face of convention, and likens it to an upside down urinal. He thinks that I need to give it motion though, to subjectively expound on it a little. Joe waits for another surge of panic to pass.

The second is from a Batman aficionado who writes, “You kind of lost me on this one, Chris.” Joe feels another surge of guilt. He doesn’t like that he has made someone feel lost.

The third writes something even more convoluted than his posting. Joe wonders if he has messed him up too.

The fourth says that it would be better if he had used some word other than just repeating “must” in the last line of the haiku. Joe starts to feel a little paranoid, like he has been found tampering with something that does not belong to him.

The fifth says that it makes her think of something her physics teacher might have written on the chalk board, but then supposes that it might have some merit as, “adequate mind shake material.” Joe feels better.

Joe notices that he is clutching a yellow sticky note in his right hand. Then he remembers Stewart sitting on the toilet waiting for fresh pants. It seems like long ago, another era. Although he does not feel like talking on the phone, he punches in the number. A woman picks up.

“Stewart needs clean pants,” he says.

“Oh dear!” says the woman.

“He thought it was a fart,” he explains. Then he hangs up.

The trip does not last as long as I expected it to. The peak runs only a few hours. Crashing takes longer. The transition from Joe back to me is more stressful than going the other way, probably because it is so much more gradual, and because we do not enjoy sharing the same personality.

We did not enjoy sharing the same personality. But, eventually, I took over—again. And now, here I am, lying in the middle of the queen sized bed in my spare bedroom, listening to Sally snore, and to the death throe flutters of the bird. In the dark I can still see ghoulish images writhing on the walls and ceilings. But they don’t interest me. They are my creations.

We did not have sex. Sally came back from farting and peeing and gargling in the washroom, and pulled her short black dress over her head, laying it carefully on my chair, on top of my clothes. She was not wearing underwear. The dim light from the window made her hair look white, even her narrow tangled swath of pubic hair. Her toothless condition made her look both young and old. I studied her with my eyes open while she kissed me. Her kisses tasted like beer and Listerine. Her gums were soft and yielding, smooth and faceless. Her features began to take on those of Rachael of the weekend prior. Then she looked like my second wife, my first, an old girlfriend, another. I eased her down onto the bed. On her back she had no shape. Her sparse, loose flesh seemed to slough down into the pillow-top mattress, leaving behind only dry skin stretched across bone—like some starving, dehydrated, featherless bird.

“Let me do everything,” I said. “Let me do all the work.” I smoothed my hand down her chest. Her breasts had parted. I did not touch her nipples. I only massaged her skin, with long gentle strokes. I lay my ear against her sternum, and listened for her heart. At first I couldn’t find it and became afraid. I listened more closely, reminding myself not to overreact, that Joe still had some influence over me. Then I found it. Above the sound of air wheezing in and out of her lungs, I found its rhythm. It was slower than I had expected. When she began to snore, I folded some blankets over her.

Joe is nearly gone now, probably for good. The bird is almost dead. Or perhaps it is, now. It is time that it was stirring, but I don’t hear anything. I wonder if its babies will hatch; or if they will sense its death and join it there. I wonder if Sally will stay for a cup of coffee when she gets up, or if she will just make her excuses and flee. I wonder who will carry my soul away.

Cuckoo in the Canaries

2005-09-01T08:47:00.000-07:00

by Rebecca Holmes

Meg was tired. The placement job at Primo Computers had been fantastic, but it was hard work. Now it was coming to an end, and there were still four weeks before the new University year started. ‘What you need is a holiday.’ Jon’s comment brought her back abruptly from wherever she had been lost in her thoughts.

Later, waving him goodbye as she made her way down the High Street, she realised he had made a good point. But how could she have let him see that, knowing he would expect it to be a cosy couples’ holiday; just the two of them? Two whole weeks. Before she could help it, Meg gave a little shudder. Oh, that wasn’t fair, thought Meg guiltily, he is a perfectly good bloke. Just not perfect for me. And that’s not good.

Her boss was waiting as she returned to her office, grinning as he thanked her for the report she had finished that morning. His relief was palpable; they had been working flat out getting that report ready, and it had meant many late evenings in the office, but at last it was finished. Mike was such a sweetheart, but she couldn’t very well confide in him. No, she would have to settle this business with Jon once and for all. Tonight.

Friday afternoons were traditionally times for everyone to slow down, conserving their energy for the week-end. Meg chatted amicably with the project team, unwelcome thoughts about her impending confrontation with Jon pushed thankfully to one side. ‘Look at this. Wow!’ Marcia was a no-nonsense New Yorker, to whom everything seemed worthy of an exclamation or two. They had become firm friends in the past year.

Meg wandered across to see the latest source of amazement. ‘If I had any leave left I would be on that plane like a shot!’ Marcia went on, the emphasis continuing upward. Meg peered at the screen, apparently travel services had struck some kind of deal with their booking agency, and this was the latest list of last-minute holiday deals. This week, it was to Lanzarote the Canary Islands. Meg let the name roll around in her head for a while. Hmm. Sounds exotic.

Even ‘Cool-Hand Meg’ as Marcia liked to tease her, had to admit they were very good offers. And hadn’t she just agreed (with herself at least) that she needed a break? ‘Do you think I can book it? Even though it’s my last day?’ Lanzarote had taken up residence and punched the question out before Meg had time to think. ‘Sure, no problem. Let me put travel services straight, and you’ll be all set’. Typical Marcian efficiency, smiled Meg to herself.

By mid afternoon she was indeed all set. A pre-emptive Marcian Invasion of travel services was rapidly followed by a call from HR, asking Meg to ‘pop down’ for a moment. Meg knew the drill, a short lecture on your rights and responsibilities, and how any ideas you’d conceived while at Primo stayed with Primo. A quick ‘thank you’ and you were escorted off the premises, door pass to be left at reception. Meg didn’t mind, farewell drinks had been arranged at the wine bar off the High Street straight after work. Plenty of time to say proper goodbyes later.

She stopped by Marcia’s desk on her way out. ‘Thanks for sorting out the tickets, Marcia. I’m going for my exit interview now. See you at the wine bar in about forty-five minutes?’ Marcia’s brow furrowed, ‘Can you hang on for just one second, Meg? You need to pay for your trip before 5pm.’ Meg blanched. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Of course it had to be paid for immediately. Her mind’s eye rested on the hall table at home, her maxed-out credit card lying next to the phone. Sensing something was up, Marcia hurried on, ‘Actually, forget about it, I’ll sort it out and explain the details to you later, OK?’ It wasn’t a question. Marcia was so organised, mused Meg on her way to HR, she could safely leave it all in her hands and just know everything would be fine.

Laura took a sip from her second cup of tea and pushed another crumpled tissue into her pocket. Her Mum was wrong, of course. Laura knew that it was over between them. Had known for some time if she was honest. But it still hurt. Perhaps Mum was right, getting away for a couple of weeks would help to clear her mind. Put some space between her and her problems. Between her and Michael. Sniffing, she picked up the phone and dialed her Mum. ‘I’ve decided.’ She said. ‘I’m coming with you to Gomera.’

After ten days, Meg was feeling quite refreshed. She had many amusing anecdotes for friends back home, mainly stemming from her being mistaken for a local with her dark features. A deep golden tan had replaced the pallor of office-grey and most definitely made you look slimmer, more toned, if not Spanish. Meg stifled a chuckle. She had gone for a swim in what turned out be a quite bracing sea every morning since her arrival, and certainly expected to be more toned, tan or no tan. But she also felt a bit restless. Maybe because the holiday was coming to an end soon. Maybe because of the text messages from Jon, pleading at first, but by yesterday his tone had turned quite chilly, angry even.

In search of a diversion, Meg wandered along the little road from the beach, her dark hair already beginning to dry. Just before her ‘regular’ café-bar was a tour organiser’s office. The board outside advertised a coach trip around the island, leaving in about an hour. Just the thing to keep me occupied, thought Meg. She had been careful to eke out her meagre spending money, and this was just a bit less than her ‘special holiday treat’ fund, courtesy of a collection from her former colleagues. Not quite the leather handbag Marcia had urged her to look for, but a good deal all the same.

At the end of what had actually been a very enjoyable and educational tour (Meg had learned a number of new things: don’t carry food in your pocket when going on a camel ride, for one) Meg found herself in the huge volcanic cavern known as ‘Jameos del Agua’. The underwater lighting of the deep pool in the pit of the cave reflected onto the cavern roof, creating an eerie turquoise glow. Meg approached two people at a table in the café area. She recognised them from the coach party, and knew they were English tourists from a neighbouring island, on a day trip to Lanzarote. It was all very well getting by with broken Spanish, but now Meg was longing for some effortless conversation.

Not wanting to interrupt, she felt slightly awkward as they exchanged glances until she got the nods of approval that meant it was OK for her to join them. They were deep in discussion: ‘I can’t see why you still won’t give him a chance to explain, dear.’ the older woman was saying. ‘Look, Mum, I’ve told you I don’t know how many times..’ the younger woman was barely concealing her frustration. ‘You’ve always thought Michael was beyond reproach, but I’m telling you, I know something was going on!’ Meg shifted uncomfortably in her chair, flashing a shy smile when they glanced at her. Their conversation was far from over. ‘You didn’t hear that phone message from his assistant, but I have it etched into my brain, accent and all: “I think breaking up has been hard on her, Mike, and she needs to get away. Thanks for agreeing to pay for the trip. But after everything she’s done for you lately, I think it’s the least you can do.” The nasal twang of New York seemed incongruous on this English girls’ tongue.

Meg’s mouth opened slowly, the colour radiating from her neck to the roots of her hair in a bewildered tide. The sound of her chair scraping across the stone floor of the cavern told her she had somehow stood up. Again two pairs of eyes beheld her. Meg’s brain shifted a gear, keeping her knees locked while she returned their look and spoke: ‘Adiós señoras, voy al autobús.’

No Fluke

2005-08-01T09:03:00.000-07:00

Not a one shot wonder either. Starting any project there is always that sense in the beginning that some sort of mistake may have been made. We spent almost three months getting Noon Spool together. The last couple weeks before the first edition published I could hardly wait to have content so I could start promoting. As I threw myself into that promotion I suddenly realized that we were less than a month away from the second issue, and the search for content had to not only be continued, but actually accelerated. There was, admittedly, a moment of panic.

Unneccesary panic, as it turns out. The work had already been done. Authors from the far corners of the world and the web continued to submit excellent pieces. We gratefully serve up the very best for your reading pleasure:

Secret Flowers, a beautifully characterized meeting from widely published William Starr Moake

Thieves, a crime drama by Aaron James Shaw

Second Grade, a touching tale of young love by Edward Scott Cummings

Pop Chris' Teeth, in which Christopher Miller explores dental surgery run amok.

Enjoy!

Pop Chris' Teeth

2005-08-01T08:25:00.000-07:00

by: Christopher Miller

Pop Chris lives with my Nan. I slept over at their house last night. Pop Chris said it was okay as long as I brought The Incredibles, my new DVD. This is my favorite movie. Pop Chris says it is his favorite movie too now. He says the dad in it reminds him of The Tic—whoever that is.

I have a little brother named Kiefer. Pop Chris and Nan said that Kiefer couldn’t come along this time, that this time it would just be me. But I helped Kiefer pack his suitcase anyway—just in case they changed their minds.

When they came to pick me up, they told Kiefer, “You aren’t coming this time. You have to stay with your uncle Mike. This time it will just be Rowan”—me. But Kiefer still kept trying to put his suitcase in the backseat of their car. Then he cried so much they changed their minds.

Once, a long time ago, Pop Chris got a toothache. When he went to the dentist, the dentist wanted to fix the tooth. The dentist wanted to do a root canal on Pop Chris’ tooth. But Pop Chris said that he was sick of having his teeth fixed and told the dentist just to pull it out instead. The dentist did—but he wasn’t happy. Pop Chris told the dentist, “From now on, whenever one of my teeth hurts, I am going to have it pulled out.”

Before long, Pop Chris couldn’t eat peanuts or apples anymore. Pop Chris said, “I don’t care. I can still eat peanut butter and applesauce.”

Nan said his teeth looked like rows of tombstones. I said, “No they don’t Nan. Tombstones are big. And they have writing on them. Also, they are white, and they don’t lean over. Pop Chris’ teeth look like the kernels of corn that are left after Opa John has eaten a corn-on-the-cob very fast.” Nan said my simile was better—whatever that is.

Pop Chris decided to buy new teeth. He told the dentist to pull out all his old teeth—even though they didn’t hurt. Then Pop Chris told the dentist to make him some better teeth. At first the dentist didn’t want to. He said to Pop Chris, “If I make teeth like you are asking for, you will bite your tongue off.” But Pop Chris insisted. Pop Chris said, “Money is no object.”

Now, his new bottom teeth look like the grey pebbles in our fish tank. And his new top teeth look like shiny little knives, like tiny pairs of scissors, over and over.

Oma is my Nan’s mom. Oma’s teeth look real; but she can take them out. Pop Chris cannot take out his new teeth. “Suckers are screwed right into my jawbone,” he said. “Cost me eight grand a pop.”

At first, Pop Chris wasn’t allowed to use his new teeth. The dentist tied them shut so Pop Chris wouldn’t try to bite anything hard, and maybe break his jaw. I asked him if his mouth hurt.

“Feels like a deranged rat is trying to chew its way out,” he said through his new clenched teeth. “How’s that for a simile?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know what that is.”

“You want to know what the worst thing about having your teeth wired shut for six weeks is?” asked Pop Chris.

“What?” I said.

“Throwing up,” said Pop Chris.

Then the dentist took the wires out so Pop Chris could open his mouth. He was very proud of his new teeth. “Suckers are screwed right into my jawbone,” he said again. “Cost me nine grand a pop.” He opened his mouth. “Try to wiggle one,” he said.

I said, “No thank you.”

“My new teeth are razor sharp,” said Pop Chris.

I asked him why he always grinds his new teeth. Even when he is asleep on the couch, he grinds them together. He said he is not grinding them, he is sharpening them. “My new teeth are self sharpening,” said Pop Chris.

Sometimes, when I make Pop Chris laugh, his upper lip bleeds for a while. “Stop trying to be so funny,” he says.

“I’m not trying to be funny,” I tell him.

“That is what’s so funny,” he says as his teeth turn red.

Sometimes he accidentally slices his tongue when he is talking, so that it bleeds a little too. And sometimes he nicks the inside of his cheeks when he is eating. “At least I have never bitten off any actual pieces,” says Pop Chris, “—not any big pieces. Nothing that won’t grow back.”

My Nan has a lot of brothers and sisters. I have a lot of cousins. Sometimes we all get together at my Oma’s house. After we eat, Pop Chris lies on the couch with a pillow over his head while everyone else talks and plays. Nan says that he is being antisocial.

Everyone knows not to poke Pop Chris while he is being antisocial. Kiefer has had his little finger sewed back on twice at the hospital. The second time it wasn’t his fault though. I pushed him into Pop Chris. Then Pop Chris’ head popped out from under the pillow and his new teeth clanked together. Nan said he looked like a big old snapping turtle. Of course he didn’t swallow Kiefer’s little finger. He just spit it out with a “Phutt!” My mom screamed. But Kiefer never made a sound. I think he was surprised.

Pop Chris said he was sorry. “I don’t do it on purpose,” said Pop Chris. “It’s like these darn teeth have a mind of their own.” Only he didn’t say “darn.” I had never seen anyone that old cry.

I have a boyfriend. His name is Ryan. The first time I met Ryan, I told him, “It is not good manners to pick your nose.” Then Ryan chased me with a booger. At my birthday party, when Ryan was chasing me with a different booger, my uncle Mike stopped him and said, “I bet you can’t wipe your booger on that guy sleeping on the couch.”

After they sewed Ryan’s booger finger back on, he stopped picking his nose for a while. He said he couldn’t feel the tip of it. He said it was like pushing the eraser end of a pencil in his nose.

I never pick my nose. And I always brush my teeth. Even though my dentist says they will all fall out and new ones will grow in, I still take care of them; I don’t eat too much candy. And I told my dentist not to pull my tooth out if I ever need a root canal.

Second Grade

2005-08-01T08:09:00.000-07:00

by: Edward Scott Cummings

Love is a flower that decorates the scenery of our lives. The variety of bloom and fragrance never ends. The empty place in our soul, as real as the chambers within the material heart, begs to be filled with life’s bouquet of love.

Warm in the sea of love provided by parents, it permeates us. Blind, total, unconditional love is given to us as children, as it should be. We return it with interest, the excess spilling over to brothers, sisters, pets, and friends. Pure as crystal mountain water, love flows unbounded from the heart of our young soul.

There comes a time when the love tree produces a new flower, perfect and fragile. The bud forms for no apparent reason and emits a fragrance never dreamed before. As the first tentative petals emerge it is easy to get lost in the sheer beauty of it. This flower is different though; it must be shared with another. When two souls gaze together, magic is real, and nothing else is.

When I was six years old there was a girl that became my first love. What was the spark I felt when I looked at her? How did I decide that I loved her? She was pretty, but not the prettiest. Kind of shy. Perfect. Cupid shot me, an easy target. I wanted to be with her so when we lined up for chapel, I casually got in line every day either in front of her or behind her. We happened to be sitting next to each other in chapel, surprise, surprise. I was more shy than her, so I said nothing. I loved her from afar, as I tried to sit closer so our legs could touch.

My secret plan was foiled one day. I was too casual in claiming my place in line, and lost it to a possible rival. Bigger than me, and meaner, he was out to steal my love. The bully pushed me to the floor, then stood over me, fists on hips: No cutting. Smirking, he turned to my chosen and squashed his body against her in line. Pig. Humbled, I rose to my feet and found the end of the line. Tears hot behind my eyes I fell into place, seeing nothing.

Why was life so cruel? How had I lost what I never even had? Vainly I cursed myself for not having spoken up. She didn’t even know that I loved her. She never would because I would have to fight for that spot in line, and I was not a fighter. Life is tough in the second grade. How I wished for another chance.

Blind in my misery, I felt but did not see a disturbance behind me. Probably someone else bumping me out of line. My exposed weakness would act as raw meat to the other boys. Enough was enough! I would fight for this spot in line; I had to make a stand. Gathering my nerve, I whirled around to see my opponent; I would show them!

I was knocked senseless. Blindsided. It was her: Candy. Shocked, I turned to the front. When we got to chapel I whispered that I loved her. She whispered back “I love you.” Together we watched the flower bloom, breathed the intoxicating fragrance, loved.

Thieves

2005-08-01T07:30:00.000-07:00

by: Aaron James Shaw

Erick removed his glove, put one tobacco stained finger to his mouth, and chewed, before spitting out a fingernail onto the dashboard.

“Hey, watch it,” Thomas said. “This is a brand new car.” Actually the car was stolen, but he didn’t want to leave behind any D.N.A so he made Erick put his gloves on and throw the fingernail out the window before going back to watching the bank.

“Sorry,” Erick said. “Nervous habit.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Thomas said, glancing at his watch. “Five minutes to go.”

Erick didn’t see the point in wearing gloves. They were going to leave D.N.A no matter what, but Thomas was careful bordering paranoid.

“What about…” Erick shuffled nervously in his seat. “Dye-packs—”

“Taken care of.”

“But I saw this movie once, where they got the money, but the dye-packs exploded and—”

“Taken care of.” Thomas repeated. “I know a guy who works for the electric company. In—” he looked at his watch “—three minutes there’s going to be a power-cut. The banks’ silent alarm won’t work and neither will the door sensors that activate the dye-packs.”

Erick ran a sweat stained palm through his hair. If only I’d stuck to convenience stores, he thought. If only.

“Two minutes.” Thomas said.

“Great,” Erick remarked, “I’m robbing a bank with the talking clock. My mother was right. I should have gone to college.

They waited in silence for a while, and then Thomas announced there was one minute left, so they gathered their equipment and put on their ski masks.

………………………………………………………………………………………...

Henrietta found the gentle rocking of the bus relaxing. For a moment she almost forgot her troubles, before the familiar nauseating feeling returned, and she remembered her purpose. She had to go to the bank, to ask for more time to pay back her loan.

She said a silent prayer to Jesus, as she always did when she was worried, and tried her best to believe it would work. Henrietta was seventy-seven years old, her husband was dead and her son, Peter—who owned a business, but was facing bankruptcy—couldn’t help her. Jesus was all she had. She put her purse on the seat next to her, and wiped the sweat from her brow.

She almost missed her stop, but managed to ring the bell in time. Mr Angry was driving the bus—she called him Mr Angry for obvious reasons—he scowled at her.

“If you don’t press the bell sooner next time,” Mr Angry said, “then I won’t stop.”

Henrietta walked off the bus and on to the street without a reply. If you don’t have anything to nice to say, she told herself, then don’t say anything.

“I hate old people.” Mr angry said, before the door closed and the bus drove off.

There was a lot more people crowded around the bank than usual. As she came closer she saw two paramedics carrying away a man on a stretcher. Poor man, she thought. I wonder what happened.

The actual bank itself was closed off with yellow tape that a burly policeman stopped anyone from crossing. Henrietta walked towards him.

“What happened?” Henrietta asked.

“Robbery,” the policeman stated. “Two men in ski-masks robbed the bank; they shot a teller and a security guard.”

“Oh, that’s terrible. Did you catch them?”

“Not yet, miss. But we’ll catch the bastards—excuse my language—soon enough.”

Henrietta sighed. It was a sorry thing when people killed for money. She started to walk towards the bus-stop, when she realised she’d left her purse on the bus—her bus-pass was inside.

Why me, Jesus? She thought, as she began the one mile journey home. Why me? Then Henrietta remembered the two dead people in the bank, and decided things could always be worst.

………………………………………………………………………………………...

“Fifty thousand,” Erick said. “Fifty thousand, smackarroo’s.” He picked up one of the neat bundles of money from the stack Thomas had just counted, turning it over in his hands.

“Put it down,” Thomas said.

Erick put the money back, and Thomas began to stack the bills into a battered, red imitation leather suitcase.

Erick chewed his fingernails as he watched Thomas work, A slight breeze ruffling his greasy hair. When all the money was in the suitcase, Thomas closed it.

“Why did you have to shoot that woman and that security guard?” Erick asked.

“I saw her put a dye-pack in with the money, and him, well, he tried to be a hero. th—”

“That dye-pack?” Erick’s yellow finger pointed at a small packet of blue ink sitting on the table next to Thomas. “But why? You said dye-packs couldn’t hurt us, with the power off.”

Thomas smiled coldly. It was the first time Erick had seen him smile. “Who did I shoot? A stupid bank-teller, who simply handed out money all day, and went home every night to feed her cat, big deal. And a security guard old enough to have played poker with Moses, big deal.”

Erick picked up the suitcase, and was about to open it when—click—he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

“Put the money down,” Thomas was aiming his pistol at Erick’s chest, “I won’t tell you twice.”

“Thomas, calm down,” he backed away cradling the suitcase in his arms like a baby. He hit the windowsill, and almost fell out of the open window. “I just want to take a little bit out. For God’s sake, I’ve just seen two people die! I want a God-damn drink!”

“Can’t let you do that, got to clean the money,” Thomas said. His eyes were watery and unfocused. He almost looked like he was high. “Otherwise they can trace it.”

Erick could see Thomas’s mouth twist in anticipation. That scared Erick because he’d looked the exact same way when he’d killed the teller and the guard.
…………………………………………………………………………………………

Henrietta’s legs hurt. She’d only walked a half mile. She was in a bad neighbourhood, surrounded by tower-blocks that reached towards heaven like miniature versions of the Tower of Babel.

No doubt, there would be drug dealers here. She’d have to be careful, unless they tried to rob her; she had nothing for them to rob, but they didn’t know that.

She wondered why god would want to put an old lady like her through so much-

Bang!

It sounded like a gunshot to Henrietta, like the shows on T.V Bert used to watch. But, it could have simply been a car backfiring, perhaps an old—

She almost had a heart attack when the suitcase fell—practically—at her feet. And then there was a wet thump as the red-headed man fell next to it. There was a circular hole in the middle of his forehead which dribbled blood. Her fist thought was that they (the suitcase and the man) had fallen from the sky. But then, more logically, she supposed they’d fallen out of a window in the tower-block above.

She looked at the suitcase; it was red imitation leather, it looked pretty old. The suitcase had swung open when it had hit the floor and Henrietta could see the money. Fresh neatly ordered notes. They could cure all her debt problems. She felt terrible about the man who’d fallen, he was young, and he’d had his whole life ahead of him.

Shall I take the money? The thought was dirty and made her feel guilty. Thinking about murder was as bad as murder in her eyes; thinking about stealing from a dead man, was as bad as stealing from a dead man.

She was still wrestling with the moral implications of taking the money (was it taking what’s no longer needed or stealing?) when a deep voice in the doorway of the building said: “Ok, old lady, I’ve just ran down three flights of stairs so you don’t want to cross me, ok.”

Henrietta turned to see a bald headed man, breathing heavily, pointing a gun at her.

“Pick it up,” he said.

“Ok. “ She closed the suitcase and picked it up, being careful not to touch the dead man. “I hope the person you killed was worth this money.”
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“I would have killed that asshole for a penny,” Thomas said. “All he ever did was talk.”

Thomas couldn’t believe his luck. Four in one day, it had to be some kind of record. He’d never told anyone about the buzz he got from watching people die; better than any drug in the world. It all started when he was seven, when he’d gotten that puppy from his aunt Sylvie. The puppy was a golden retriever; everyone loved the little-slobber-bucket, everyone except Thomas. Every day a bus had gone past his house—regular as clock work—at five pm. At three minutes to five he’d put the puppy in the middle of the road and waited. The little-slobber-bucket had just sat there. And the bus went over it (maybe the driver never saw it) turning the puppy into a flat puddle of blood and guts.

The feeling that had washed through Thomas was like the high an addict has when they get their fist hit of the day. That feeling was starting to subside, now. Erick had died pretty easy; he’d just fallen out the window when Thomas shot him. But the old lady was going to be different. He was going to take her up to his apartment. She was going to die slow.

“Alright, you,” Thomas said. “Get in here and I wo—” Thomas paused, he could see a bus approaching.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Henrietta had thought the bus was going to go straight past her, but, amazingly the bus stopped and its doors opened.

Mr Angry was behind the steering wheel. “Hey, lady, he said. “You forgot your buss pass. I don’t wanna let you walk home, because if something happens I’ll get the blame”

“Thank god you came,” she cried. She looked around at the man with the gun. He was still standing in the doorway. He had the gun hidden behind his back.

“Are you alright, lady?” Mr Angry was eyeing the man in the doorway suspiciously. “That guy giving you trouble?”

Henrietta took one more look at the man with the gun. He was grinding his teeth, he looked very angry indeed; as long as there’s people around, Henrietta thought, he can’t hurt me.

She stepped on to the bus and Mr Angry gave her the buss pass and said: “You’re lucky somebody handed it in.”

“I sure am,” Henrietta said, and then she started to cry.

“Holy shit!” Mr Angry shouted. “There’s a dead body over there!”

Henrietta sat down heavily on the nearest seat; the shouting around her seemed very distant. She wasn’t even aware she still had the suitcase.

“Let me on the bus, please.” Someone said, the voice was distant and Henrietta who was drifting into shock barely heard it.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“No way, pal,” the bus driver said. “For all I know you could have killed him—“he pointed at Erick—”. I’m calling the cops.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Thomas brought the gun from behind his back, pointed it at the driver. He couldn’t afford such attention, but he wanted his money.

“Holy shit! He’s got a gun!” The driver fumbled with the gears accidentally putting the bus into reverse.

“Shit!” Thomas said. He tried to follow the driver with his gun, but he couldn’t get a good sight. The driver stepped on the brakes and Thomas stepped into the road and aimed at the driver through the windshield.

Thomas was about to shoot the driver when the bus came toward him too fast. He tried to jump out of the way but the side of the bus clipped him and he was mangled under the wheel. As he died, he thought about the puppy. It wasn’t so fun, being on the receiving end.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
She heard people screaming, and then the sound of an awful thump, and finally a woman screaming: “Oh my god, he went under the wheels.”

She was taken to the hospital suffering from acute shock. The police asked questions—she couldn’t remember any of what had happened to her, except a sound, an awful thump. After two days in hospital it was decided she could go home. She still could not remember what had happened to her, she had blocked it out she was told. When the police had finished questioning her they drove her home, convinced she knew nothing.

Among the things she was given upon leaving hospital was a red imitation leather suitcase. She didn’t know what was inside, and, she was told, neither did the people at the hospital. It was closed when she’d come in and not opened. It didn’t matter, she told herself when she was in the car, she would look inside when she was home.

Secret Flowers

2005-08-01T06:35:00.000-07:00

by: William Starr Moake

David Galloway got lost trying to find the restaurant on Kilburn Avenue near Marquette University. It was the first time he had ever been in Milwaukee and the lunchtime traffic was heavy when he left the airport in a rental car. He was surprised how warm it was on this clear April day and he rolled down both front car windows as he waited at a stop light. He hadn't seen the midwest in six long years, since he moved to Los Angeles from his hometown in Michigan, but he didn't recall April being a particularly warm month in that part of the country. In Michigan April was an uncertain month when a frost could still cover the ground on any given morning.

Turning a corner, David finally spotted the restaurant and pulled into the first empty parking spot he came to. He turned off the ignition and glanced at his wristwatch. He was twenty minutes late for a lunch date he had flown 2,000 miles to keep. He was always late for every appointment he had ever made in his life, the hapless character in the old joke who would almost certainly be late for his own funeral some day.

He had expected to have knots in his stomach, but as he walked to the restaurant entrance he felt a strange calm instead, as if he was going to meet an old friend rather than a complete stranger. He had talked to the young woman twice on the phone and she described herself in police blotter detail: five-foot nine, thin build, long red hair, blue eyes, twenty-eight, married with one son. He told her he was medium height with a medium build with ordinary brown hair and she replied: "That could fit half the young guys in Milwaukee. You look for me when you get to the restaurant."

When he entered, he noticed the place was packed with lunch customers. He stood beside the take-out counter and surveyed the large room, letting his eyes drift from table to table. He soon focused on a young woman with red hair, but he dismissed her because a young boy sat at her table playing with paper napkins. His rendezvous was with a woman who specifically said she would be alone. After a few minutes of searching the faces without any luck, he wondered if the woman had left when he failed to show up on time. He strolled over to the table where the red-haired woman was now scolding the boy.

"Are you Rita Hendricks?"

She smiled at him. "Yes, are you David?"

He shook hands with her and sat down next to the boy. "You wouldn't happen to be Bobby, would you?"

The boy looked astonished. "How do you know my name?"

"Your mother told me on the phone."

"The babysitter got sick and I couldn't find anyone else to watch him," Rita said. "I hope you don't mind me bringing him along."

"Of course not."

"Bobby, this is David. He's your half uncle."

David tried to shake hands, but the boy pulled away.

"What's a half uncle?"

"It means your mother is my half-sister. We have the same father, but different mothers."

"Grandpa is your father?"

"Not that grandpa," Rita said. "A different grandpa that you've never met."

Bobby wrapped a strand of his blond hair around one finger, obviously confused.

"I'll explain it to you later," his mother said. "What do you want for lunch?"

Bobby's eyes lit up. "Hamburger!"

"And soup?"

The boy frowned. "No. French fries."

"That's all he ever eats in restaurants," Rita told David.

"How old are you anyway?"

"Seven."

"He's six," Rita corrected. "I don't know why he says that."

"I'll be seven in September."

"You could pass for seven right now," David said.

"How old are you?" the boy asked.

"Twenty-three."

"I don't believe you."

"Why, do I look younger?"

"No, older."

"Behave yourself," Rita told him.

David ordered a beer with his meal, which he barely touched while the boy stuffed his mouth.

"He's got quite an appetite," David observed with a smile.

"You actually look younger than twenty-three," Rita said. "I thought the waitress was going to card you."

"I didn't know you existed until a month ago."

"I didn't know about you either, until you called. My mother got a divorce when I was a baby and she never heard from your father after that."

"You mean our father."

"He's not really my father. I don't even remember what he looks like."

"I see your point. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

She smiled at him. "Just you."

"Me neither. You could write a book and call it 'My Brother Was An Only Child.'"

"How did you find out about me?"

"My mother told me. The old man never mentioned he was married before or had a daughter. Not to me anyway."

"Where do your parents live?"

"Across the lake in a crummy little town in Michigan."

"I wonder why he never told you about me."

"We don't get along at all. I haven't seen him in years."

"What does he do for a living?"

"He's a welder. He works in a factory."

"I guess I've always been a little curious about him."

"It wouldn't have killed him to keep in touch with you."

Rita offered a feeble smile after she took a bite of salad. "I didn't expect him to do that."

"You're too forgiving, Rita. You are his daughter, after all."

"Let's not talk about him anymore. I want to hear all about you."

"There's not much to tell."

"Oh, come on. What's it like living in Los Angeles? I always wanted to see Hollywood."

David laughed. "I don't exactly hang out with movie stars."

"What sort of work do you do?"

"I'm a freelance web designer."

"No kidding. My husband teaches computer science at Marquette."

"Web design isn't nearly as complicated as computer science."

"What does freelance mean?"

"I work as an independent contractor out of my apartment. I don't have to go to an office and put up with a boss standing over my shoulder."

"Well, that sounds pretty good."

"Only when I can find enough work to pay the bills."

"You told me on the phone you were single. Do you have a girlfriend in Los Angeles?"

"I don't have much luck with women."

"You're not gay, are you?"

David gave her an irritated look. "No, I'm not."

Rita touched his arm. "I was only joking. I have a really weird sense of humor. It drives Joel crazy sometimes."

"Who's Joel?"

"My husband. I want you to meet him."

"I'm not sure how long I'll be here."

Rita wiped her mouth hurriedly with a napkin. "Uh-uh. You're eating supper with us tonight. Joel would never forgive me if I let you escape before he met you."

"I'll try to make it."

"I'll find out which hotel you're staying at. Joel and I will come and kidnap you if necessary."

David grinned at her. "Do you always get your own way?"

"Ninety-nine percent of the time. I'm very strong willed, you know."

"You're also very beautiful."

Rita let out an embarrassed laugh. "You shouldn't say something like that to your half sister."

"It's true. I can't believe we have the same father."

"Bobby, that's enough ketchup. Your fries are practically floating." She turned back to David.

"You're not bad looking yourself. I can't believe some attractive California girl hasn't taken you out of circulation yet."

"I enjoy living alone."

"How come?"

"It's more peaceful."

"Don't you ever get lonely?"

"Occasionally, but I can handle it."

"So you're a tough guy, huh?"

"Not really."

"From now on I want you to call me if you get lonely. Reverse the charges or whatever. Promise?"

"I'll think about it."

"You're the stubborn type, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I suppose I am."

"If you don't call once in awhile, I'll phone you and nag for hours."

"My number is unlisted."

"I'll look it up on our phone bill."

"I feel sorry for your husband. He doesn't stand a chance against you."

Rita laughed triumphantly. "Neither do you. Now tell me more about yourself. You were in the Army, right?"

"You don't want to hear about that."

"Sure I do. Where were you stationed?"

"Afghanistan."

"Oh, I see. That doesn't sound like much fun."

"I got my ass shot off. Pardon my language, but that's the best way to describe it."

"You were wounded?"

"In the ass. It was very embarrassing."

"Why did you join the Army?"

"I couldn't find a decent job and I wanted to see the world. I didn't think I'd end up in stinking hell hole like Afghanistan."

Bobby tugged at his mother's blouse sleeve. "I have to go to the bathroom."

"Are you finished eating?"

"I have to pee."

"Remember to wash your hands afterward."

Rita pointed him in the direction of the bathroom door and watched him go inside.

"At least you made it home in one piece," she said to David.

"More or less."

"What does that mean?"

"I went a little crazy in Afghanistan. I left the hospital as soon as I could walk and hitch-hiked to the Himalayan mountains."

"You were a deserter?"

"The Army doesn't call it desertion for thirty days. I was absent without leave."

"Why did you want to see the Himalayas?"

"I thought God lived there."

"I'm afraid you lost me."

"It's a long story," David said, finishing his beer. He called the waitress over and ordered another one. "When I was a kid, I read a book about a guy who finds God in the Himalayas. I guess God wasn't home when I showed up, but I did learn something from an old guru I met."

"What?"

"It's difficult to put into words that make sense."

"Give it a shot and I'll fill in the blank spots."

David stared at her. "Reality is a magic act and we're all the unwitting magicians."

"That's it?"

"I didn't think you would understand."

"I understand. It's just that it sounds like hippy graffiti -- reality is a crutch and all that."

He grinned. "Reality is a crutch."

"I know, reality is for people who can't handle dope. I've heard all this before, grasshopper."

"You're a very funny girl."

"And you're too serious for your age."

"Are you sure you never met my mother?"

"Aren't you going to eat anything?"

"I'm not hungry, mom."

"What happened after the Himalayas?"

"The Army gave me a general discharge for medical reasons. It's not as bad as a dishonorable discharge and I wanted out. I had to go see this shrink at the VA hospital in Los Angeles once a week."

"For how long?"

"Almost a year."

"Did he help you?"

David shook his head. "No."

"You seem all right now."

"Do I?"

Rita glanced at the bathroom door. "Excuse me for a second."

She went to the door and knocked on it. "Bobby, come out here, please."

She tapped her foot while she waited. Hearing no response, she returned to the table. "Would you mind getting him?"

David entered the bathroom and found the boy running water in the sink. "Your mother is worried about you, buddy."

"My name is Bobby."

"That's right, I forgot. Listen, Bobby, can you tell me something?" The sink was nearly full of water and David turned off the tap. "Is your mother happy?"

The boy looked annoyed. "Why don't you ask her?"

"She might not tell me the truth."

"She's not a liar."

"I know she's not, but sometimes people aren't sure whether they're really happy or not. I thought a smart boy like you would know the truth."

"I saw her crying once."

"Why was she crying?"

"I don't know."

"I wish you did."

The boy held up his hands. "Are my hands clean?"

"Spotless. Would you do me a favor?"

The boy nodded.

"Next time you see your mother crying, tell her tears are like rain for the soul."

"What does that mean?"

"They make beautiful flowers grow inside you."

"Really?"

"I've watched it happen myself. It's a secret most people don't know."

David led him out of the bathroom to the table.

"What were you doing in there so long?" Rita snapped.

"Nothing."

"He was checking out the plumbing," David said.

"He's a little devil sometimes."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are." She handed him a napkin. "Please wipe your face. You have ketchup on your cheek."

"He must look like your husband," David remarked. "I mean the blond hair."

"Joel has brown hair actually. I don't know where Bobby gets the blond from."

"How did you meet Joel?"

"I took one of his classes in college. I know that makes him sound like a lecher or something, but he was only five years older than me. We started dating in secret because Marquette has a very strict policy against teachers fooling around with students. Joel could have lost his job."

"How did you get around it?"

"Eventually, I dropped out of college and we got married. It raised a few eyebrows in the administration, but there was nothing they could do about it."

"And now you're a housewife."

"Don't say it like that. I have other interests."

"There's nothing wrong with being a mother and a housewife."

"I'm learning telemarketing so I can work from home."

"Please don't call while I'm eating supper. It's so irritating."

Rita's face suddenly broke into a broad smile. "I don't know why I like you, but I do."

David returned the smile. "I'm your secret half-brother, that's why."

"You're an ornery bachelor and I shouldn't give you five minutes of my time."

"But you can't resist my hidden charms, right?"

"I must be crazy."

The waitress brought the check and left without asking if they wanted anything else.

"I think they're trying to get rid of us," David said.

"This place is a zoo at lunch time," Rita said, gathering her purse and a package from the unoccupied chair next to her.

David went to the counter and paid the bill. When he turned, Rita was writing on a piece of paper. She finished and handed it to him.

"This is our street address and phone number. Dinner is at six, but please come early. If you get lost on the way, call me and I'll give you directions."

"I'm very glad I finally met you," David said.

Rita's eyes narrowed. "I swear if you don't show up --"

"I know, you'll hunt me down like a dog."

"You better believe it."

Outside the restaurant they paused awkwardly on the sidewalk, Bobby hanging on his mother's arm.

"My car's over there," Rita said.

"Mine's the other way." David took the boy's loose hand and shook it once. "Nice to meet you, Bobby."

Rita leaned forward and kissed David on the cheek. "See you in a few hours."

He watched her walk away holding Bobby by the hand. She opened the passenger door of a dark blue SUV and waited while her son climbed in. Then she went to the other side of the vehicle and stopped to wave at David before she got behind the wheel.

At the first stop light they came to, Bobby asked: "Who was that man, mommy?"

"I told you, he's your half-uncle."

"He looks like a whole man."

Rita stared at her son. "He is a whole man, Bobby."

"He asked me if you were happy."

"When?"

"In the bathroom." The boy fiddled with his safety belt. "Is he coming to our house?"

"I don't think so."

"Do you think tears make flowers grow inside you?"

"Where in the world did you get that idea?"

"It's a secret."

After they arrived home, Rita put Bobby in bed for his nap and went outside to sit in a patio chair beside a small glass table. After gazing at the cloudless blue sky, she absent-mindedly picked up a book of poems by Emily Dickinson and turned to a page at random. She read:

"A great hope fell
You heard no noise
The ruin was within
Oh cunning wreck that told no tale
And let no witness in"

Before she could read any further, she began sobbing. She was still crying when her husband came home two hours later.

First Edition!

2005-07-01T21:50:00.000-07:00

Going to press is always exciting, and going to press for the first time with a new project is perhaps a peak experience. I don't believe that the success of a website comes from the coded effects, it comes from the content...and I'm satisfied that we have brought together excellent content. I hope reading these stories is as exciting for you as it has been for me and my fellow editors. In this issue we offer for your reading pleasure:

Leo Learns His Lesson, humor from award winning blogger Sean Gleeson

The Forgetful One, a dramatic tale from author Ev Bell

We're A Small Pack, a cute animal story from animal lover Kathy Cummings

Robert Plant, a fictional view of what it could be like to be a rock star from writer Greg Mills

Enjoy!

Leo Learns His Lesson

2005-07-01T20:47:00.000-07:00

by: Sean Gleeson

Leo read the headlines with mounting disgust: "Study links crime, poverty, beer," "Drunk driver kills family," "Student dies from frat hazing," "Beer blamed for jet crash," "Lifting kegs bad for spine," "Study links war, disease, beer."

Angrily throwing the newspaper aside, Leo shouted, "The world would be so much nicer without beer! Why, I wish beer had never been invented! "

Just then, he heard a faint tinkling sound, like a wind chime. Or more like the canvas bag full of empty glass bottles being set down on his living room floor by the strange intruder. She had skin the color of pure malt sugar, and eyes the color of barley.

"Are you sure you want that, Leo?" she asked. Her gown was a diaphanous peignoir, woven from the finest hops. On her head rested a glittering tiara of suds. Her long amber hair had brown roots. Her shoes were sensible loafers. She was a bit zaftig, but not unattractive. She smiled, mischievously.

"Who..."

"Who am I, you are wondering," she guessed. "I have been known by many names. The pyramid builders of Ur called me Ninkasi. The horse tamers of Vilnius named me Ragutiene. On AOL, I go by CrayzeeBubbles90210. I have come to grant your wish, Leo: a world without beer! "

"But..."

"But you are confused, and hungry. Go fix yourself a snack from the fridge." Grinning, she nodded toward the kitchen.

"Hungry? No..."

"Hungry, yes! Look, go to your kitchen, okay? I'm going somewhere with this."

Leo walked into his kitchen and gasped in astonishment. His refrigerator was gone. In its place was a jumbled pile of the food which had been stored in the appliance, now lying as if abruptly dropped onto the tile floor. Meats, cheeses, and ice cream were buried under spilled milk, juice, leftover pasta primavera, and broken glass.

"Ack! Aah! Yuck!" said Leo, as a Spanish olive rolled off the pile to his feet, as if to wink in mockery.

"You see, Leo, without beer, there would be no refrigerators! Carl von Linde invented mechanical refrigeration to make beer!" She crossed her arms across her bosom and nodded in triumph. "Now, don't you think you'll need some running water to clean up this mess?"

Dumbfounded, Leo followed the direction of her gaze to the kitchen sink, which wasn't there. "What did you do with my sink?" he asked.

"Me? Nothing," she assured him. "You don't have a sink, because in a world without beer, there is no plumbing, which was invented in ancient Mesopotamia to make beer! Now come with me, I have more to show you."

Leo followed her back to his living room. Looking about, he noticed that his television, stereo, and fish tank were missing, but he didn't ask after them. The framed Hopper print still hung over the fireplace, but now it was signed "Hitler." Leo sat down and exhaled.

"You look bushed. Relax." The mysterious woman picked up the newspaper Leo had cast aside a minute ago. "Read the paper," she invited.

"I already..."

"No, you already read the paper in the world with beer. You haven't read this paper!"

Leo read the headlines with mounting disgust: "Parade to honor our benevolent Chinese masters," "Rotting food, corpses, spread plague," "All nice things outlawed," "Moscow demands more output from American slaves," "Disease, crime much higher than if we had beer, says study."

"You see, Leo, without beer, there would be no United States, because Samuel Adams, a beer brewer, wouldn't have organized the Boston Tea Party, which started a chain of events which led to American independence! So America is ruled by China instead."

Leo started to regain some of his composure. "Ah, but if there were no revolution, why aren't we still ruled by England?"

"In a world without beer, Britain sunk below sea level, so there is no England. No, it's China, all right."

"But,... this headline says Moscow..."

"In a world without beer, Moscow is the capital of China. Also, your name isn't Leo in this world. It's Stinkerbottom Poocheroo."

Stinkerbottom (formerly Leo) fell to his knees and clutched the hem of the witch's gown. "Please, show me no more! I have learned my lesson. I see now that for all its faults, the world with beer was the best of all possible worlds!" Collapsing into heaving sobs, he begged, "I beg you, end this beerless nightmare. Restore me to my former world, and I vow, from this day forward, never again to wish for a world without beer! Please... please... please..."

Just then, Leo was jerked upright by a pair of hands. He opened his eyes. The mysterious woman was gone. He wasn't in his living room. He was on a barstool at Bennigan's. "Are you okay?" asked the bartender.

"Um, yeah, I guess I dozed off there, sorry," muttered Leo. "Had a weird dream too... Say, this might sound like a silly question, but... you have beer here, right?"

The bartender looked askance at Leo. "Beer? Yeah. You've had one already, and you owe $4.32."

"Thank God!" Whistling, Leo paid the check, and added a five dollar tip. "Well, thanks for the lovely beer! I guess I'd better be heading home. Good night."

"Good night, Stinkerbottom."

The Forgetful One

2005-07-01T16:40:00.000-07:00

by: Everette Bell

“I’m forgetting something.” The old man in the wheelchair mumbled as he foot propelled down the hall of the nursing home. “I shouldn’t be here this long. I know I shouldn’t.”

Shafts of tired afternoon sunlight peeked through yellow curtains to cast long shadows across the drab hallway. The forsaken, the forgotten, the demented, they all ambled down the beige corridor in their gowns and sweat suits. Some were in slipper socks, others in orthopedic shoes. Unkempt hair and sad eyes were as common as the droopy expressions brought on by strokes, the clack of walkers against the tile floor, or the scuffle of shoes on the feet of a Parkinson’s Patient.

“What is it,” the man asked aloud with significant emotion in his voice, “what have I forgotten. I know it’s important.

The wheelchair came to a halt in front of the med cart halfway down the hall. Sharon, the middle-aged nurse with a bob haircut and glasses to go along with her teal scrubs, took no notice of the well-used chair and its occupant. Her eyes followed her fingertip across the medicine log in front of her. The daily duty of dispensing afternoon meds—the first thing she did at the start of the second shift—had been seriously set back when a code was called on Elma Taylor up in 304. The one-hundred-three-year-old’s congestive heart failure was getting worse by the day. Every one had figured by the end of the week her colorless lips would be in an o shape, ears pinned back—to a nurse classic signs that a patient was very near death. Here it was three weeks later, and yet another code. Delay death as long as possible despite quality of life so that the patient’s insurance could be billed. Years ago Sharon gave up pondering the ethics of the arrangement; it was how she made her living. Even if she wanted to do something else, at forty-five with her arthritis, Sharon knew perfectly well no one would hire her. Despite it all she hated to see them suffer.

Glancing at her watch she exhaled in frustration. In fifteen minutes she was supposed to be in the dining room to help feed patients, and the meds were nowhere near being handed out.

“Miss, Miss,” the old man said repeatedly until the woman looked up, her face crinkled in agitation. “Who am I? What have I forgotten? I know I have forgotten something very important.”

Plopping elbows down on the top of the cart, the woman massaged her temples. "Cooper, if I kept up with what everyone in this place had forgotten, I’d go nuts myself. Sorry, can’t help you.”

A spark of hope came to life in his dull gray eyes. Something Sharon had said rang true with him. “Cu. . .” His lips spasmed impotently as he tried to force out some word that wasn’t coming to him the way he thought it would.

“Cutip,” he said excitedly. “I’m Cutip. That’s it.” The look of utter job dissatisfaction in the nurse’s eyes, and the shake of her head ruined his enthusiasm. “Pit, pit.” Her expression didn’t change. The old man looked away in shame. “I just don’t know what it is.”

Cooper was one of the old timers at Rose Manor Nursing Home. He had been there all ten years that Sharon had, and before that she had no idea.

He was a short pudgy man with a round face and arms and legs that seemed more suitable for a child. Thin wisps of white hair fell from a mole- splotched head to hang around his face. The sparse locks had a little bounce to them as if remembering a curl they held long ago.

Beneath his wrinkled shirt and pants a diaper—brief was the term used to preserve dignity when everyone in the room knew you meant diaper—rustled like a hungry alley-cat trying to get into a discarded Twinkie. He seemed to be plagued with incontinence like many of the other residents.

“I’m sorry to cut this short, Cooper, but I got work to do. You better go on up to the dining room.” And without another word she pushed the cart in the opposite direction. He watched her go. Her interest—albeit rushed because of her job—in the patients was appreciated.

The old chair squeaked as the man continued onward. Sharon didn’t look back, but she thought she heard him crying. It made sense, after all there was absolutely nothing to be happy about in a nursing home. She’d worked in them long enough to know that, but still, she couldn’t bring herself to look back. She preferred buying into the lie; they like it here—they see it’s good for them anyway.

He’s just having a bad day, she told herself.

* * *
“Something’s wrong, Nathan. I can feel it.” Cooper’s voice was gravelly as he stared blankly at the plate of overcooked meat and soft broccoli. “How long have I been here?”

The old black man stopped chewing long enough to put another bite in his mouth. “What the hell kind of question is that? How should I know how long you’ve been here? You were here when I got here, and that was what, three, four years ago?” He resumed his chewing.

The small man looked up with tears in his eyes. “I feel like I’m losing myself. Things I used to know are gone, just slipping away.”

As he asked his question his face plead for understanding from his companion. “Do you ever feel that way?”

“We all do, Cooper. It’s called getting senile.” Nathan’s sarcasm did little to help matters.

“I feel like I’m even forgetting my name. Everyone calls me Cooper, but somehow I don’t think that’s it.”

After his friend shoveled in a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes, Cooper queried. “Do I have any friends or family that come visit me?”

“Are you kidding me?” The tone in Nathan’s voice was different now. Only one thing could rob his friend of memory like this—Alzheimer’s, the dreaded. That name was as feared by the elderly as closet monsters were feared by children. It was their disease, their personal demon. Alzheimer’s wiped out frail old minds leaving soulless husks behind that caused the terrified onlookers to shake their heads in fear—“Poor man. It’s a shame he has to live that way.”

Tears flowed with greater intensity from Cooper’s eyes. “I don’t remember, Nathan. I’m scared.”

“I’ve never seen anyone come to visit you.” Nathan said helpfully, “but I used to see you visit the old woman in 304 quite a bit. Elma I think her name is.”

“Do I know her,” Cooper asked hurriedly.

Nathan was concerned for his friend. He wiped his face with his napkin. “Maybe you should tell one of the nurses, so you could see a doctor.”

“It’s not like that. I know I’m losing things—like they’re just disappearing out of my head. And I know I’ve lost something important to me, an object. I need to find it.”

He looked Nathan in the eyes. “You don’t know anything about that do you?”

The black man shook his head. “You mean what you’ve lost? I don’t know of anything, at least you haven’t said anything.”

The old man’s shoulders began rising and falling as he wept. “Something’s happening. I can feel it. Something that shouldn’t be.”

Kindly reaching across the table, Nathan put a hand on his friend’s arm. “I just remembered one more thing. You spend a lot of time in the sitting room looking out the window. The same spot every day for hours.”

Strangely, Cooper felt better. A smile came to his face that he couldn’t explain. He felt stronger even. There was hope after all.

* * *
Nathan’s daughter and grandchildren came to get him from the dining room. He was at first hesitant to leave his friend. Cooper was really upset, but the round-faced man waved Nathan on saying he would meet him for breakfast—the same table as usual.

Pulling out from the table the small white-haired man turned his wheelchair and started rolling himself through the lobby. Two obese women snored an annoying baseline to the recreation woman’s guitar playing. A half a dozen residents watched her, heads bobbing as they dozed.

“Are you feeling any better?” A voice called. “Cooper, I said are you feeling any better?”

He looked up as he passed the nurse’s desk. Sharon was holding a legal pad and pencil. “Did you remember what you lost?”

He shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”

“What always happens to me,” she said, “is I put things in safe places.”

She laughed. “So safe and secure as a matter of fact that I forget where I put them.”

He wiped the tears off his face. “Nathan told me I go visit the woman in 304 a lot. Is that true?”

The nurse put down her pad to give the man’s strange question her full attention. “You used to visit every day until her husband stopped coming to check on her.”

Concern was unmistakable in her voice. “You don’t remember that?”

“Who is she?”

“Elma Taylor.” She then spoke like she was an acting coach helping him with his lines. “Very sick old woman that has been here for seventeen years—bedridden since she was eighty-five. Her husband came everyday to see her, and never missed a day until he had a stroke and couldn’t come anymore.”

She picked up a can of diet cola off the desk and took a sip.

Cooper's soft wrinkled chin dropped—such a terrible story. Obviously he loved her greatly to come see her every day. Immediately, Cooper remembered that he had always been a hopeless romantic. Hearing about true love had always touched him.

A phone started ringing, so Sharon rushed her response. “You used to wheel up to him and tell him thank you. I usually saw you sitting with the woman before her husband got there. A couple times I saw you brush her hair to make her pretty before he arrived—it was so cute. But when he stopped coming you took it hard. Maybe you’re forgetful because you’re depressed. I’ll check your meds.”

It was all news to him.

“Got to go, Coop.” The woman turned her back to him to answer the phone.

Walking his wheelchair down the hall using the heels of his feet like twin keels on a ghost ship, he picked his brain to see what he did recall. There was something before Rose Manor, but he could only snatch tiny glimpses, blue skies, sweet melodies, smiling faces of people whose name’s he didn’t know, people kissing. Suddenly the pleasant collage in his mind was disrupted. An image flashed that made him gasp—one he would have rather not seen. A cold hard-faced creature with tiny horns poking out of its forehead grinned sinisterly. There was no unifying thread between the images; he couldn’t place them in regards to a time or a place. Besides those faint clues there were only endless memories of these halls, these sad faces, so many of them void of love in their lives.

He didn’t stop at his room. Many of his fellow residents at Rose Manor nursing home were getting ready for bed, so he knew chances were good that the sitting room would be empty. Turning at the end of the hall he saw two nursing assistants frantically trying to stop a man from urinating in the hallway. Like characters in a black and white silent comedy, they tried to keep him from dropping his diaper. When that didn’t work the duo rushed to get him in a bathroom. Finally slamming the door.

“Shit!” Came a voice from behind the door. Seemed they didn’t make it in time.

The sitting room was crowded which was a surprise considering the time of day. Two gray-headed women played checkers at a folding table in front of the TV. It was turned on, but the volume was off.

“My grandson is graduating from high school tomorrow, Gladys,” one of them screamed to the other.

“I most certainly was not to dumb to go to high school.” The thinner woman’s hearing aids wailed terribly as she answered angrily.

“No, I said my grandson is graduating.” The woman spoke in the monotone scream reserved for the deaf and foreigners.

Anger flashed on the other woman’s face. “Fine then.” With hearing aids blaring she stormed off.

Cooper parked himself in front of the large picture window looking out at the garden in the courtyard. The sun had sunken below the edge of the roof, but the pink-smeared sky still left enough light for the small old man to see by.

Red and yellow flowers danced amidst a variety of bushes and shrubs. The ground was covered with cobblestones. Off to the edge of the courtyard beneath trees were stone benches. In the center of the cobblestone area was a large circular pond. Stone urns filled with leafy plants were scattered about.

The scene was incredibly peaceful for Cooper to gaze upon. It was the first time all day that he was calm. The urgency he had experienced was replaced by a happiness to simply look out the window. It just felt natural, so much so that he wanted to be there. He understood why he would come hear for hours.

Behind him he heard the woman get up and walk out of the sitting room. He was alone except for the glare of the TV images reflecting off a portion of the large window before him. Quietly he began moving toward the door that led to the courtyard. Cooper navigated through two card tables and their partnering chairs to sit before a glass door with a sign that read, “No Exit. Alarm will sound.”

Looking through the door his mind whirled. Cooper was not his name. It was. . .His thoughts flailed helpless to try and grab it from the murky waters of his brain. It was useless—nothing.

He pounded fists on the side of his head in frustration. “I’m stupid, stupid. What’s wrong with me?”

Outstretching an arm he moved toward the door. Whatever was out there that made him feel so calm had to help him. There was nothing to lose as far as he was concerned. He had to have some answers.

The alarm sounded, quick obnoxious blares. Over the door a red light flashed in his eyes. Struggling to move the door he pushed his wheelchair forward to keep the door from closing.

“No, Cooper,” a voice sounded behind him. “You can’t go outside. It’s too dark. You might hurt yourself.”

“No, I have to,” he screamed. “I belong there. I know I do. This place is too cold for me. I never should have come.”

“Hush,” the voice said comfortingly, “you’ll wake people. Let’s lay you down.”

He was helpless against her strength as she rolled him back down the hall in the direction of his room.

* * *
When the light in Cooper’s room flipped off he felt terribly alone. The bedrails were in place; there was nowhere for him to go but to sleep. His mind racing with fear prevented even that however.

In the door of his room he saw a familiar silhouette. “Good night,” Sharon said sadly. It hurt her to see another of the long time residents begin to slip into the grasp of dementia. She pulled the door.

The clock on the wall ticked. . .for hours. How long had he been losing himself? What had he lost? Had his identity being going over weeks, months? What did it have to do with Elma Taylor, the courtyard?

Sleep never came.

Tick. . .tick. . .tick.

Was this what it was like to go insane? God, let it be something else. And he wept as the cloak of night brought on the saddened cries of the lonely souls that had been deposited in Rose Manor until they faded into the past. The dark air was so cold and loveless that Cooper found it difficult to breathe.

* * *
Sharon walked into the charting room, still upset from the night’s events. Cooper was beginning to slip away like they all did eventually. Being very young and being very old were remarkably similar, but there was one major difference that had always bothered Sharon. Departure from this earth was seldom as beautiful as arrival.

On the other hand, possibly, Cooper was on too high a dose of one or more of his multiple meds. Many of the residents were on nearly two dozen medications for everything from toe fungus to dry mouth—the ladder being a side effect of some other medication. The least she could do was go over his chart. There was no chart. She checked the room assignment list to see if he was listed in a different room. Not the problem—there was no Cooper, in any room. That was strange, but then something odd occurred to her. In the years she had worked here, never once had she had any medication for Cooper.

How in God’s name does this happen? A hospital not having enough records to compile a personal biography, this was absurd. In 2001 this kind of thing just didn’t happen. Whole charts didn’t just disappear.

She got on the phone. “Donna, I’m back here looking for a chart on Cooper in 211, and I can’t find it.”

“What do you mean is that his first name or his last name? I don’t know. Cooper, you know, Cooper. Little guy always foot propels his wheelchair. You know, Cooper. He’s been here as long as I have.”

The nurse was eerily silent.

“What the hell are you talking about, there’s no Cooper.”

Glancing up at the wall clock she saw that is was 11:30. “Ok, well, I’ll look into it tomorrow.” After a few brief words of small talk, Sharon hung up the phone.

Walking down the hallway in the direction of the employee exit, the nurse felt a little creepy—like watching a scary movie in the dark and then having to walk down squeaky steps to a bed in the basement. The halls were a little more quiet than usual; she couldn’t help but notice since it was so rare. To satisfy her curiosity the woman walked by Cooper’s room on the way out. She put her hand on the knob and started to turn it. At the last minute she yielded to an absurd thought. What if he wasn’t in there? Then what would she do? Knowing full well she couldn’t handle it if the room was empty, she just hurried out the door.

* * *
After the footsteps faded down the hall, the man sat up in his bed. Sleep had never come and the fear had finally pushed him to the point of courage. Awkwardly crawling to the foot of the bed he carefully stepped off onto the cool floor.

It wasn’t as if he hurt. The worn out body really slowed him down more than anything else. Cooper’s movements were restricted like that of a ballet dancer wearing a giant chicken outfit—his body seemed to hang on him in the same way as a costume.

He paced.

“What have a forgotten?”

Back and forth.

“It must be in the garden. Why else would Nathan see me there every day.”

He was getting tired, so he groped in the darkness for his wheelchair.

“I bet Elma knows.” He said. Then began to cry again. The very air in the building seemed to vibrate with desperation and panic as another resident’s voice cut through the nursing home like a specter on the moors.

“Oh, please, she’s got to know.”

* * *
The breakfast trays had all been passed out, and the nursing assistants were gathering at the far end of the hall for a little bull session before beginning the task they loathed dearly—changing linen. Cooper set out down the hall.

He easily made his way around the recliner chairs with sleeping elders strapped in them. The smell in the hall told him the linen patrol would be busy this morning.

On his left the door was ajar. He gave a gentle knock.

There was no answer.

Nor to his second knock.

Walking his wheelchair forward, the man pushed the door aside and entered a very dark room. The room was cold to Cooper—goose bumps came to his skin. Something deep within him churned uncomfortably; it begged for him to go. This was no place for him.

“Wait,” a weak voice croaked from the bed. “Herbert, is that you?”

He didn’t answer. Honestly, he was too scared.

“The kids told me you died of a stroke.”

The woman’s voice began to quiver. “You’re here, thank God you’re here. I’ve been so afraid.”

Cooper’s eyes moistened. The woman’s sickly voice embraced a tone of love and compassion that had been cultivated over decades. It was one of the most genuine sounds he had ever heard, and he felt himself drawn to it like a fly to a light. Reaching into the darkness, he touched an old wrinkled hand. It could have been a reunited twin to his very own.

“Oh my darling Herbert, I have loved you since that first day we met at the train station. I want to thank you for coming to be with me on this day. I knew if there was a way you’d find it.”

Cooper shook from his sobs.

“Will you look for me in heaven, dear?” The words were the sound of pure unconditional love. It touched the small man deeply, kicking up memories into his consciousness. He heard a glorious melody drift through his mind, a song played on strings of starlight, a song he had heard countless times.

“I will my sweet.” He spoke soothingly despite his tears. And her hand went limp.

* * *
Some minutes had passed before Cooper lifted his face from his hands. The glorious song was still playing in his head. The old man was no longer sad. A joy filled his heart, and it was like a homecoming to him. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he could recall having felt this before.

Although feeling much better, the man was still at a loss for many things, and he knew there was only one way to answer his questions. He had to go to the courtyard.

“May you dance arm in arm in the light of Heaven forever.” He said softly as he foot propelled his wheelchair into the hall.

* * *
“I need your help, Nathan.”

The black man looked to be enjoying his toast more than anyone ever had.

“I need you to get something from the courtyard for me. I’m positive what I’ve lost is there.”

Toasted bread crunched as Nathan took another bite. “Your memory must be improving.”

Cooper answered with a smile. “Thanks to you. I went to see Elma, and she helped remember what I lost.”

He washed down his toast with a sip of coffee. “Then what is it?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Cooper chuckled, making a sound fresh with youth that was completely alien to his old frame. “I just know it’s beautiful.”

Nathan’s fork clinked against his plate to pierce a bite of eggs.

“Nathan, old friend, I don’t belong here. Please help me.”

“You know we aren’t allowed in the courtyard.”

“Yes, but I’m sure if you look around, you’ll find it. I know it’s something beautiful—you can’t miss it.”

“Who are you Cooper?” Nathan’s eyes fixed on the smaller man across from him.

“I know that’s not my name, and I know without your help I’m doomed to keep it.”

* * *
All day Nathan and Cooper waited in the sitting room—waited for a moment when they were alone. That time never came. All the residents of Rose Manor—the ones that were capable of getting out of bed and more importantly able to be left alone—came to the area. It was the one place where they could escape, let the bright cheery light deceive them into thinking they were at the “rest home” by choice.

The beautiful view was something outside the silent taunting shadows of their bland rooms. The sitting room was a place to remember the good times. And because of that it was full all day.

“Hey, Nathan, I saw your grandsons the other day. They’re growing like weeds.” A pear shaped woman with skinny arms in a floral top said in between sputtering breaths. Her locked elbows trembled as she tried to support herself on her walker.
She glanced at the empty chair beside him. “What are you up to today?”

“We’re just watching the day go by,” Nathan answered.

She gave a strange look in response to his comment. “I see. Well, I better go. Marie and I are going to try and play cards today if my breathing stays settled.”
After the woman was out of earshot, Nathan looked to Cooper. “What was that all about? She looked at me like I was crazy.”

The small man in the wheelchair was white as a ghost. “Nathan she looked right at me and didn’t even see me.”

“What are you talking about, Cooper.”

“She thought you were crazy because you said we were watching the day go by, and she only saw you.”

The black man crinkled his brow. “Are you feeling ok, Cooper. You’re scaring me a little bit.”

“Well watch this.” Cooper backed his wheelchair away from the table and rolled over to a bald man in a sweater sitting alone.

“Hello, excuse me. Can you tell me what I’m wearing,” he said.

No response.

“Can you tell me what I’m wearing.” This time he screamed at the top of his lungs. No one in the room batted an eye—except for Nathan.

“Cooper will you control yourself.” He said firmly. “You’re going to get the nurses called down here.”

Everyone looked at Nathan.

“See, they can’t see me.”

“Then why can I.”

Cooper replied thoughtfully. “And why can Sharon the nurse.”

Several people were very uncomfortable watching Nathan converse so emotionally with thin air. Many eyes were wide with fright. Displays of lunacy were shunned. They reminded residents of what could happen to them. Hardening of the arteries as many of them called it when someone lost their mind frightened them all—so much so, many of them whispered their mantra of protection. “God, I’d rather die than loose my mind.”

A few moments later two nurses walked into the sitting room and carefully moved toward Nathan. “Nathan,” one of them said, “let’s take you back to your room so you can get some rest.”

He looked at Cooper then back at the nurses but didn’t say anything.

“I don’t know what it is Nathan, but don’t get in trouble over me. Go with them.”

The man stood up. “Sure, sure. Yeah, I have been feeling a little off today.”
Cooper’s eyes constantly bounced from the waxing and waning crowd to the “No Exit” sign on the door. He was completely confused. How long had people not been able to see him? Why could some people see him and others not? Am I real, he kept asking himself over and over. He wanted to go for the door, but who else could see him? They would catch him like Sharon did last night and put him in his room.

* * *
“Who are you, Cooper?”

The old man was surprised to hear Sharon’s voice. Time had gotten away from him as he sat in the sitting room failing miserably at squeezing information from his inept mind. He didn’t look up, kept his eyes on his hands in his lap.

“If I used to know, I don’t any more.”

The woman came over and pulled up a chair next to him. “You know you don’t even have a medical chart here.”

He laughed, disgusted at the situation. “That doesn’t surprise me in the least. It seems you and Nathan are the only people that can see me anyway.”

“What?” She was shocked. “What do you mean we are the only ones that see you? That’s not possible.”

“If you don’t believe me, ask the day shift nurses who Nathan has been talking to in the sitting room. They’ll tell you nobody—an empty chair.”

“What about Elma in 304?” She said hesitantly.

“Perhaps. I don’t remember.” His response was sad.

“You know Elma passed sometime today. A couple of the nursing assistants found her.”

He nodded his head. “Yes, I was with her.”

“I don’t have a handle on what’s been going on here, Sharon,” he continued, “but it has something to do with Elma. It was magical when I was with her. To hear the love she had for her husband, Herbert, was unlike anything I have ever witnessed.” The tone of his voice was odd—like that of someone recounting many experiences.

“What about Nathan and I? Why can we see you?”

“Maybe because you are looking,” he pondered. Slowly the man looked up at the door in front of him. “Sharon, let me out into the courtyard. The answer is out there.”

The nurse got up and walked over to the door. She punched in a code before pushing the door open.

A warm breeze tossed the old man’s hair. It was wonderful, a lover’s touch. His little legs walked his wheelchair out into the late afternoon light.

Sharon watched patiently as the old man rolled around the courtyard. His eyes darted around wildly. What he was in search of even he didn’t know. Her heart swooned with sadness. This poor old man was slipping away like all the rest. She was certain of it now.

Strange and sudden vitality rushed into Cooper. His mind echoed with the sweet song he had heard at Elma’s passing. The volume in his head increased as he walked his way to a tree next to a stone bench. Gingerly getting out of his chair and sitting on the ground, the old man began to dig in the soft earth.

With each handful of soil he moved the music grew louder.

Sharon was speechless. After several moments she saw rays of golden light soar skyward from the hole Cooper had dug.

Slowly he reached in and lifted a golden harp. Suddenly the old man was bathed in a radiant light that smoothed his skin, replaced his limp white hair with glorious blonde curls, and his clothes fell away in ribbons, leaving him in a pristine linen loin cloth.

Brilliant white wings unfolded from his back. Lifting the harp he strummed an ethereal tune that danced across the summer twilight. The sound awakened a pleasant tingling in Sharon that coursed through her veins to every region of her body.

“I shall never forget what you and Nathan have done.” He said with a smile.

The odd little cherub took flight and landed in the center of the fountain, where he turned to stone.

* * *
As time crept towards the small hours of morning, the silent courtyard seemed to sleep like the rest of the world. Only the chirping of crickets indicated otherwise. Like dying stars the lights in Rose Manor turned out one by one.

“So the best you were able to come up with was Cutip and Stupid,” a voice laughed harshly, “Cupid you crack me up. You’re lucky as hell you managed to find your way out at all.”

The stone cherub in the fountain smiled warmly at the statue of Pan crouched behind one of the trees. “Luck has nothing to do with it, satyr. I made it out because there was love in that building after all. Yet again I win our little wager.”

A scowl stained the goat-man’s face. “But you got to admit there wasn’t that much love in there or you wouldn’t have lost your power.” A hateful smirk and a curt nod brought his point home. “Do you agree?”

“Not at all,” the chubby cheeked god said, shaking his head, “I was just looking in the wrong places. Nathan risked his reputation for me. Sharon, she broke out of her rut to help me.”

Then there was a long silence. “And Elma,” he was choked up as he went on, “she held onto love for many years. She kept the faith when there was no reason to do so.”

Looking up at the large window in the sitting room, Cupid thought back to a debate the two Gods had had many years ago. “Our original hypothesis was that man can not show love when he is in pain, either mentally or physically. We chose three people, and I went in to do a little experiment.”

He was caught off guard when he saw Sharon and Nathan walk into the sitting room. Part of him was regretting what he had put them through. Another part of him was thrilled that the love was as strong as he had always thought.

“The dolts are back,” Pan jeered.

“Not so my friend. I have been in this business for many ages, and I have learned many things motivate us. Tonight I can’t help but think I awakened an old feeling in these tired souls.”

The satyr spat a cold reply. “Think whatever you want.”

We're A Small Pack

2005-07-01T16:33:00.000-07:00

by Kathy Cummings

She smelled him before she saw him thru the crack between the wooden slats of the fence. "He is not as tall as I am. Probably only about 70 pounds; only two-thirds my size. Kind of fuzzy, too; not sleek, like me. He noticed me! He's coming over to the fence. Should I let him sniff me thru the crack, so he'll know we're the same? He's roughing up his hackles and lowering his head. Now he's in a silly looking stiff legged walk. I'll just crouch my front half, wag my tail and laugh at him. Hopefully he'd rather play than fight. I've been guarding my area long enough to have a well worn track along this fence, but there's never been another like me on the other side of it before. It will be nice to have someone to talk to who can understand without difficulty. And here he is having decided to be pleasant after all. I'll curve my head and tail so we can sniff each other easily despite the fence."

"Hello. My name is Missy," she said to the single eye peering thru at her after the introductory ritual was finished.
"I'm Rover. Your smell is strong and all over the place. You must have been here a long time," he answered in a gruff and sleepy voice.
"Yes, my pack lives here. We're a small pack, not really a proper pack. We've only one male and he's a cat!"
"A CAT!" he practically roared. "What are you doing in a pack with a cat? Don't you know they have nothing in common with us? They are sleazy little characters good for nothing other than eating -- or at least tearing limb from limb."

All friendliness gone from her stature, Missy's pack loyalty came out in a tone Rover would surely take heed of, "Peter and Patti are members of my pack and if you so much as hurt one hair on one of their heads, I'll rip your throat out. And don't think I'll hesitate just because you are like me and they are not. They were here when I got here and they took me in as much as the pack leader did."

Rover was taken aback at the unexpected turn in Missy. Being new to the area, having been packed in a crate and hauled for the past three days under sedation, he was grappling with the distress of finding himself in an environment where cats could become a member of his pack. He was a known cat killer in his old home and thought well of by those he conversed with on account of it. Now here was one of his own kind threatening his life if he harmed one. It was too confusing, especially since his head wasn't quite right just yet, so he asked Missy in his most pleading voice to tell him how it was these cats came to be in her pack. Hopefully her story would help him understand or at least make the throbbing in his head stop.

Missy was not happy to remember those days before she came to be in this small pack of one human female, two cats and herself; but Rover looked so dismayed, she decided she would tell her tale, starting at the beginning of her life as she remembered it:

As a pup, I was adopted by a family of humans who were not prepared for me to grow into a dog of my large size. One day, when no one was home but the big male, he called me into the car and took me for a long ride. We stopped in this wonderful meadow where he threw the ball for me. Chasing and bringing back the ball he would throw was my favorite fun. He kept throwing it farther and farther until it went into the trees on the far side of the meadow. I ran fast, but it was lost in the brush so I started my circle hunt for it. Just as I saw it, I heard the car start. I looked up to see it driving away, so I ran as hard as I could across the meadow and followed it down the road. I thought my human had forgotten me, so I barked as I ran hoping he would hear me and stop. I ran until I couldn't run anymore. My paws were bleeding. My tongue was dragging the ground as I gasped for air and tried to cool down. I flopped under a tree and lay there panting. What could I do? I was alone in a strange place. No food, no pack, no secure place to sleep. After a while, I could breathe normally again. I was starting to feel hungry, too.

I had never killed to eat before, but I found a burrow of ground squirrels that were pretty easy to catch. It didn't take long before they disappeared, tho. Many days passed and I grew weak with hunger and was feeling sick most of the time. I was laying under a tree one day when I heard a big human male trying to be quiet as he walked thru the woods. He went right by without seeing me, so I followed him, staying out of sight. I wasn't sure whether I should trust him after having been left there by the last big human male I'd known. He had a big stick and when a deer was in sight, he raised the stick and a deafening noise came out of it. The deer ran and I followed it. I was too weak to follow closely, but it was hurt so its scent was easy to track. I didn't want to find it too quickly anyway. It had big antlers and weak as I was, I would be no match for those!

When I finally came upon it, it was dying. I gave it a lethal bite and then gorged myself on it. It was so good to eat fresh meat! I had my fill for a number of days on that deer, even having to fend off others who insisted on sharing my good fortune. After the deer was gone, I could find nothing else to eat. Nights were getting really cold and even in the daylight, the warmth of the sun wasn't enough to break the chill from me. I found a tree where the base had been struck by lightening, making a shelter just right for me. I crawled in and hoped something to eat would come along before I was too sick to be able to catch it. I was so cold, tired, hungry and sick.

I don't know how long I was in there but the next thing I remember was my new pack lead found me. She was very gentle and calming. She coaxed me into coming out of my little lair, but I hadn't the strength to make it all the way on my own. She carried me from that tree to her car. I don't know how she did it! She's not so big and can't even begin to lift me now. I was a lot skinnier then, tho. She brought me to this house and laid me on a blanket in her bed as she fixed a bath of hot water and things that smelled of medicine and flowers at the same time. I watched her the whole time because it was reassuring to look at her and she was careful to stay in my sight. When she came close, she talked softly, then she carried me in and laid me in warm water. My first instinct was to jump out of there, but it was nice to have the chill coming right out of my bones. I put my head against a ledge and let her hands cover my body in ministrations to the many wounds I had received while in the woods. I found myself going down a dark tunnel. When I came into the light, I was part of a big pack with nothing but those like us. We ran, we played, we hunted, we shared everything of the pack. Then I was in another tunnel and when I came out, I was back in the bath alone with the woman I knew was my new pack leader.

My whole body felt different: clean, healthier and wholesome. I looked up to the big human female and licked her hand in my thanks. That was when I noticed a big orange tomcat sitting behind her on the sink. He was just looking at me, not afraid at all.

As if he had been listening for his cue, Peter made his entrance. He jumped to the top of the fence as gracefully as his kind can and his gaze met Rover's eyes. Rover was entranced by the story, but the sight of Peter overwhelmed his mind with one single dangerous thought. He leapt, barked and snapped in one amazingly fast motion, especially given he was still recovering from his trip and sedation. Peter gave him his most disdainful look then proceeded to ignore Rover completely. This, of course, made Rover crazy to have at him until Missy's roar broke thru the haze his brain had become. She would kill him for hurting Peter, he finally remembered. In his most apologetic tone, he asked her please to continue her story. She did:

My first inclination at seeing Peter was much like your own. I was so hungry, but I wouldn't have met with any more success than you just did. I let the pack leader pull me from the tub and towel me off. I was starting to feel well enough to sit up, but when I tried, I fell. She held me gently on the floor as she continued to dry me. That was when Patti appeared. Patti, like Peter, is an orange tabby, but not nearly so large. She has the heart of Florence Nightingale and immediately upon seeing our pack leader drying me with a towel, she began drying me too, straightening the tangles from my fur with her own rough tongue. I laid my head on the floor and gave myself up to the ministrations of my new pack. Soon Peter was helping too. With both cats at work, our leader decided it was time I had something to eat. She left us there on the floor. I didn't want her to leave me. I tried to get up to follow, but the weight of the cats held me in place. They smelled of the leader and began to purr to calm me. The next thing I knew, I was being fed a clear broth. It was so good. I wanted to keep eating and eating, but the pack leader stopped feeding me. She made me wait a while, but then she brought another bowl of broth. The pattern repeated: I waited, then more broth came. Each bowl was a little thicker and I quickly grew strong enough to follow her to the source of the delicious smell.

When night came, we all gathered together to sleep. The bed where we sleep is big enough for all of us to curl up together and I found it very relaxing to fall asleep to the rumbling purr of Peter and Patti. It reminded me of the other place, the place thru the tunnel, except we weren't all of the same kind here. I realized this was my new pack and I knew that even tho we are different, they helped me and are deserving of my loyalty.

Rover thought about his own "pack." In his house, all the pack members slept apart except the big male and big female. He wasn't even allowed in the house; only in the garage. Maybe this new environment wouldn't be so bad after all; he just might be willing to sleep with a cat if he could sleep inside. But Missy wasn't finished with her story:

After a week, I felt strong and able again. That was when the pack leader took me out for the first time. She wanted to go in the car, but I wouldn't get in it. Not after my last ride, I wasn't getting in one of those things again! So instead we walked and she never pulled on me even once. That was probably because there was no way I was going to leave her side even for a second. After living alone in the woods, I was sticking very close to my new pack leader. We walked a long way. I was starting to feel tired when we went into a place I remembered: it smells horrible and everyone wears white coats. After you sit around long enough for your nose to hurt from the stink, you go into a tiny room and the ones in the white coats sting you like bees. I was patient thru it all, tho, because my pack leader was right there all the time and kept talking to me. I tried to teach her to talk properly, but she can't get it. I understand a lot of what she says, but she doesn't understand me all the time. Sometimes I think she does, but then later I realize it was just a lucky guess.

The white coats stuck me a few times. I was sleepy when we started on the walk home. A man in a truck stopped and offered us a ride. My leader looked at me while she talked to him in their language. I wasn't sure what they were saying, but I think it was about my not getting into her car before. Finally she got into the back of the truck. I jumped up, but almost missed. The man caught me as I fell and put me in with my leader. I was happy to lay there with my head in her lap and then we were back here. Now I get in her car when she wants me to. I even walk ahead of her sometimes when we go out. This is my pack and I know they'll take care of me.

Patti chose this point in Missy's story to come out of the house thru the door on a much smaller scale, but so much like Missy's. She walked up to Missy to rub on her legs with a purr Rover could hear. Rover's head was hurting from the effort to understand how things could be so different here than where he came from. He left the fence to scratch at the door. He wanted to be with his people and feel as much a part of his pack as Missy did hers. No one let him in, tho, so he flopped down on the step with a great sigh. Some things about this new place were going to be just like the old one.

Missy and Rover got to be friends thru the fence. Once in a while, they got to go for walks together, usually at the instigation of Missy's pack leader. They enjoyed the park where they walked and then were allowed to run free together. It was fun to run with one like yourself, everything went so much quicker than walking with those slow pack leaders! Rover came to think of himself as an extension of Missy's pack, but he never could get used to the idea of packing with cats. Inevitably, Missy was put to the test. Peter was intent on a bird and without thinking, followed it right into Rover's yard. Rover was on the porch when Peter and his prey topped the fence. He got up and was already running toward Peter when Peter realized where he was. He didn't turn to run, as Rover expected. Instead he turned into a spitting, hissing monster about four times Peter's normal size. Rover paused his advance. The commotion made by the cat was so loud, Rover completely missed the splintering of the fence as Missy came thru it. She had him on his back and her teeth at his throat before he knew she was there. Fortunately for him, her pack leader had also recognized Peter's yowl and wasn't far behind Missy in coming thru the hole she'd made. She yelled at Missy to halt just in time to save Rover from Missy making good her word. Her leader had an unharmed Peter in her arms by then and seeing he was all right Missy left Rover where he lay on his back in the dirt.

Patti was so distraught, she didn't know whom to console. Rover was the one who seemed to be in the greatest need, but it was all because he was about to hurt Peter. Patti wasn't sure whether to try to minister to him or just go back in the house, but her big heart won. They were all surprised when they found her licking Rover's face. Rover, it seemed, had decided having these particular cats in your pack was all right after all.

Robert Plant

2005-07-01T16:14:00.000-07:00

by Greg Mills

Editor's note: Although the title character is a real public figure this work is purely fictional in nature and in no way represents any real or speculated events

Robert Plant, the golden god, has hay fever. Either sinus feels like a tea kettle erupting -- the heat and dust of the Central Valley are like flares being shot off into his nostrils.

Even with the windows in the rental car sealed, those vicious bastard particles plunge deep into his wooly head and start raping the membranes. Snot flows like magma. His eyes look like stigmata, or at least nasty open paper cuts, as he parks the Chrysler LeBaron in the parking lot of the Ceres Holiday Inn Express.

He flew all night to land in San Francisco a little past day-break, then drove straight, stopping once to shove scrambled eggs around in some blank rock-tour restaurant.

During the drive, he listened to a Calypso CD he just picked up -- old Mighty Sparrow stuff. He's careful to avoid the radio these days. In flipping through the stations, he risks a hall of mirrors effect; certain three-note snippets are enough to send his face into a scarlet burn.

Fuck the Sun, he says. Fuck the heat of the shitty, productive, agricultural Central California sun. It's so unlike the Santa Barbara, Malibu cocaine fried egg sun of his first set down in California, so eager to please the skin with a tattoo of warmth. 1970? '71? Anyway, it was before Big Log, before Honey Drippers, before rediscovering the more elusive pleasures of tannic acid and fine bone.

His curly hair looks like spun polyester as it catches that late-morning sun. At his age, this hair looks stupid, like a hopelessly dim waitress in some wretched beach egg house in Orange County. It's now clear the dignity in old age that he had hoped for even as he mainlined Southern Comfort, post-orgy, is now permanently hamstrung by the bane of Bozo hair. Maybe he'll go crew cut like Picasso.

He lurches through the tarry parking lot, looking at the flat stinking fields, clutching an overnight bag. The AC slaps him as he steps into the stucco lobby. At the counter: "Errr...hullo. The name is Ron Head." His assistant books him under "Ron Head". He's not fooling anyone, of course, when he pulls out the AMEX black card with his name embossed on it: R. Plant.

Using only the first initial is, of course, a lame play for anonymity. He's fucking Robert Plant, all right. He can't even wear fucking sunglasses, because it will just make him look even more like Robert Plant.

More than once, someone on the Ceres Holiday Inn Express staff has offered him weed, an offer to "party", and most embarrassingly, a halting request to go "bro out" in downtown Manteca made by a shivering teenage bellhop. (He's often wondered: what is it about Zep that attracts sallow teens with wispy man-boy moustaches?Did they not see we were fucking serious as cancer, working our fucking asses off like men? We hung out with BRITT FUCKING ECKLUND.)

The pose is of course a formality now, just a fillip to his celebrity and the general lack of celebrity in these parts. Hotels are the portals by which men and rock stars mingle, and tradition dictates that name of the Rock Star remains unspoken, even if the town population couldn't muster up a good crowd for John Philip Sousa under the band shell, much less work itself into a true locust frenzy. Anyway, the town tends toward older farmers and migrant workers. Not the Zep demographic.

The manager was expecting him, and in lieu of a penthouse, she offers up a room overlooking a tepid willow and the shaded west-facing parking lot. She also arranges for a selection of magazines chosen at random from the local 7-11 to be fanned across his bed to greet him when he arrives, AC blasting.

He enters the room, throws his bag down, and turns on the TV. He immediately gets the chills.

His daughter, Rachel, is working a half-day today, as she does every time he visits.

She's a large-animal vet with a successful practice here in the Central Valley. He's proud of her, and after bloody-well paying for her stay at UC Davis, he has every right to be.

Of course, raising her wasn't something he took an enormous role in, other than the steady infusion of cash and an occasional discreet side trips on tour and incognito vacations in secluded bungalows in one of the tax-shelter republics that bead the azure waters of the world.

Rachel's mother was always friendly in person, but she was always firm, even bloody minded, about his obligations.

She had been a light during a particularly dark night in Denver, the night Bonham took an axe to a local herbalist's prized signed baseball bat. Bonham's rages sometimes fucked up the band's social plans and medicinal procurements to no end. Of course, plans never fell through, they just got more expensive.

Rachel's mother waited outside the bus, like they all did, but the way she spoke to him managed to cut enough through the murk of violence that hung over the hotel that night that he still could remember their conversation with some clarity decades later.

A year later, a friendly personal letter, a photo, a detailed budgetary plan (focused, impressively, entirely on the comfort and future of the newly born daughter) and a shorter, less friendly missive on the letterhead of a law firm that his solicitor assured him was not to be trifled with.

His money paid for braces, horse lessons, clothes, college, and the establishment of a veterinary clinic. Now it pays for the yearly weekend in the Central Valley, to visit his secret grandkids, barbecue with the secret son in-law and go water-skiing. But, fuck, his sinuses pay for it, every bloody time.

Welcome

2005-05-22T08:42:00.000-07:00

If you are here reading this you have been invited to submit a piece of short fiction to Noon Spool; or you stumbled here by accident. Either way, bookmark this site. Noon Spool will launch with the July edition.

The intention is to publish a monthly collection of short stories, that is stories that can be read in a single sitting, possibly over your lunch hour. Hence the 'Noon'. Obviously we publish on the web, and will provide information about our writers and links to their other work; gathering threads that our readers can follow. Hence the 'Spool'.

As a writer you might very well have your own site and be wondering why you would submit something here. Here's why. A piece published here, within six months to a year will be providing an unparallelled gateway for readers to reach you and your site. I was invited to join a 'webring' that proudly boasted it had sent two hundred clicks to one of its member sites. That site had been in the ring for over a year. Tim Cummings, who is the editor here, has promoted his own serial fiction site in less than six months to a faithful readership now averaging almost two hundred readers per day. That isn't two hundred click ins, it is two hundred readers; every day. That site has risen to a Google pagerank of four in less than six months. That means it shows up in the first couple pages of relevent searches, not a thousand pages down in the results. This site will do as well, or better.

So that is what this site is about. The submissions link in the sidebar is waiting...for you.

Category Index

2005-05-21T12:29:00.000-07:00

Animal stories:
We're a Small Pack, July 2005

Childhood:
Second Grade, August 2005

Crime Drama:
Thieves, August 2005

Drama:
The Forgetful One, July 2005
Secret Flowers, August 2005
Stained Glass, September 2005
The Bird, September 2005
Cuckoo in the Canaries, September 2005

Fantasy:
Dragon Hunting, September 2005

Humor:
Leo Learns His Lesson, July 2005
Pop Chris' Teeth, August 2005

Pop Culture:
Robert Plant, July 2005

Back Issues

2005-05-21T12:27:00.000-07:00

August 2005
Secret Flowers by William Starr Moake
Thieves by Aaron James Shaw
Second Grade by Edward Scott Cummings
Pop Chris' Teeth by Christopher Miller

July 2005
Leo Learns His Lesson by Sean Gleeson
We're A Small Pack by Kathy Cummings
Robert Plant by Greg Mills
The Forgetful One by Everette Bell

Our Writers

2005-05-21T12:24:00.000-07:00

Everette Bell
The Forgetful One -July 2005

Edward Scott Cummings comes to us from under the pecan tree on his Louisiana plantation, where he also runs his computer shop from a safe distance. Currently his writing is only available here at Noon Spool.
Second Grade -August 2005

Kathy Cummings is a confirmed "desert rat", avid reader, spiritualist and animal lover. Although not a California native, she has lived in the Mojave Desert since first memory, leaving only to attend college (in the west Texas and Arizona deserts). Currently her only writing available on-line is here at Noon Spool.
We're a Small Pack -July 2005

Sean Gleeson is an artist in Oklahoma City. His blog won the 2004 Weblog Award.
Leo Learns His Lesson -July 2005

Chris Miller: Author, programmer, short order cook, and dishwasher. More of his short stories can be found at his website, and his e-published novel The Bridge is available here.
Pop Chris' Teeth -August 2005
The Bird -September 2005

Rebecca Holmes was born in Sunderland, County Durham and migrated south at a gentle pace, eventually coming to rest in the London suburbs 25 years later. A life enriched with experiences of all kinds has produced not so much a writer, more an anecdote editor in search of humble endings.
Cuckoo in the Canaries -September 2005

Greg Mills is an advertising copywriter that lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. His other writing can be found on his blog, Bastard of Art and Commerce.
Robert Plant -July 2005

William Starr Moake is an award-winning journalist and former travel writer who has three published fiction books, two novels and a short story collection. When he isn't writing, Moake freelances as a web designer and software programmer in Honolulu. He has lived in the islands since 1972. His other work can be found through Starr Cyberbooks.
Secret Flowers -August 2005

Susan Page is a Chicagoan at heart,butlives the poor student life in the
Upper Peninsula of Michigan where she writes, reads and occasionally
cracks open a textbook. Her other works can be found on her blog
Musings of the Purple Bunny Ninja
Stained Glass -September 2005

Aaron James Shaw is active in the internet writing community and aspires to break into print. More of his online work can be found on Semteck's Homepage.
Thieves -August 2005

Nathan Simpson
Dragon Hunting -September 2005

Submissions

2005-05-20T13:21:00.000-07:00

Noon Spool is looking for good short fiction. To be considered for publication stories must be e-mailed with 'Noon Spool' in the subject line. Include in the e-mail a clear statement authorizing publication on Noon Spool with no expectation of financial compensation. If you have not been published on Noon Spool before include a brief biographical note and a link to a homepage or other site where your work is available. Please note the category your story should be listed in. If none of our categories seem appropriate you may request one of your own making, but it must be a broad category clearly distinct from those we currently list.

Address for submissions: timsup2nothing@yahoo.com