Short Story Monday: Across the Ravine

Across the Ravine

“A dead dog is symbolic of a tyrant condemned to death by his people," the captain said.

 

The others, pretending not to hear, continued about their business, sorting and packing their gear.

 

"I'm sensing a disconnect here. What's up?" The captain stood slouched with a shoulder against the rock wall. He took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled through his nose, the tension mounting in the muscles of his neck. "I'm quoting from a movie. It was a line in the film."

 

Indifference. They continue to ignore him. He was always spouting silly talk. They never knew when to take him seriously.

 

"Take it or leave it," he shouted as they turned their backs to him and headed off down a steep sloping path that curled into the dry riverbed below.

 

The captain squatted, staring across the ravine. They'd come so far. Getting here without losing a one seemed a miracle in itself. Now he was losing them all.

 

That's just something you don't do, he told himself. You should never, ever kill a dog for no reason. But the thing had come over him, and just like that it was over.

 

"Hey, wait up. Where you going? Wait up!" he shouted, his voice tapering off in a series of echoes, no one listening as he scrambled after them, the sun sinking in his heart, the whole desolate scene fading to black.

 

He'd hoped for something more when they arrived but the barrenness of the landscape and the colliding crustal plains had a strange power over the men, and over the captain as well. He'd wanted to prove something, but what? He'd wanted to lead, but where? He'd wanted to inspire, but how? Now, he wanted to abandon them, but why?

 

Maybe things would be different once they'd crossed the ravine.

Short Story Monday: A Child of the Lab

Forty years ago, when I first became serious about a writing career, I envisioned being a writer of short stories like Hemingway (In Our Time), F. Scott Fitzgerald or Jack London. Yes, they all wrote novels but I found that writing stories and articles while working full time was within my grasp and a novel was simply too massive of a project in those circumstances.

For the first four years after our return from a year in Mexico, Susie and I painted apartments. There were two things I especially liked about it. First, wherever we painted looked nicer after we'd been there than before we arrived. Second, there is a mindlessness about painting white on white so it was an opportunity to let my imagination run free. As a result, my mind conceived of countless concepts for stories, some which became outlines and others which were completed. (Years later I assembled many of these into books like my short volume, Unremembered Histories.)  

 

The story below was conceived sometime during the 1980's I believe. Or rather, the concept for this story was birthed and a few notes jotted down. Since that time I've thought about fleshing it out and turning it into something I could share. 

 

This past week I decided to do something different. I fed my story concept to ChatGPT to see what an AI would generate. Here's the story's beginning. Does it have possibilities? What do you think?

 

A Child of the Lab

In the dry heat of the Negev desert, deep within the secure walls of a state-of-the-art laboratory, Dr. Yitzhak Baram and Dr. Leah Mendel spent their days peering into the mysteries of the human genome. Theirs was no ordinary research—after years of studying ancient texts, theological debates, and genetic data, they began to suspect a tantalizing possibility. Buried within the intricate code of human DNA, they believed they had found a signature, a remnant of a primordial flaw, a genetic marker shared by every living human being. They called it "Eve's Mark."

For months, the pair wrestled with the implications of their discovery. Could this genetic trait be a trace of what religious traditions called Original Sin, a fundamental imperfection passed down through generations since humanity's mystic fall from grace? If so, could they remove it? And if they succeeded, would the result be a human being untainted by the imperfections that had shaped human history?

 

Leah's voice trembled as she proposed the unthinkable: "We could create a new embryo... without Eve's Mark. A human being, like Adam and Eve, before the fall. Imagine the purity, the potential for good."

 

Yitzhak's skepticism melted away over nights of whispered conversations, and they resolved to do what no one else had ever dared—build a genome devoid of this flaw. In the dimly lit lab, they synthesized the embryo, painstakingly editing the genetic code until "Eve's Mark" was no longer present. Nine months later, this child was born in secret, far from any official record. They named her Miriam, for she was to them a new beginning.

 

As the months passed, Miriam grew with a vitality that stunned her caretakers. The scientists documented everything—her rapid development, her serene temperament, her uncanny way of absorbing the world around her. She did not cry like other infants; instead, she observed, her eyes, an almost startling shade of blue, scanning her surroundings with preternatural awareness. They began to believe they had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. Yet, beneath their excitement, they were gnawed by fear. Would others, especially those who might see this as heretical or dangerous, accept what they had done?

 

Their fears were well-founded.

 

One summer evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, a missile struck the lab. It came without warning, an attack from across the border, shattering the building with a force that set the desert ablaze. Yitzhak and Leah died in the chaos, caught beneath the collapsing walls. But as the fire spread, a nurse named Ayla, who had cared for Miriam like a mother, cradled the child to her chest and ran through the smoke and flames, her only thought being to save this miraculous little being.

 

Ayla stumbled through the desert night, following the faintest paths through the dark, driven by an instinct stronger than fear. In her arms, Miriam remained silent, her wide eyes fixed on the stars as if understanding their brightness. The next morning, Ayla reached the outskirts of a small village, exhausted but alive, the child untouched by the horrors that had unfolded behind them.

TO BE CONTINUED

The Red Scorpion, Chapter 8

SHORT STORY MONDAY

It was the Benny Goodman era in New York. In Europe the clouds of a coming storm were gathering. In Cuernavaca, Mexico, Professor Comstock is thinking about his return to frozen Minnesota.

The Red Scorpion
Chapter 8

The following morning Comstock recorded his experiences in the journal in which he’d been making notations. In the afternoon he stretched himself beside the hotel pool, occasionally plunging headlong into the deep end to slosh once or twice the length of the pool. By the time the day was spent he decided he would take the morning bus out of Cuernavaca and head north. The early leave would give him some time in Mexico City, home of the Museo Nacional de Anthropologia.

Comstock came to Mexico seeking something of which he was uncertain. When he reached the Museo he believed things were coming together for him. Near the entrance he read, “Valor and confidence to face the future is found by people in the grandeur of their past.” Comstock stood facing the sign for a long time and wondered at the power of these words. “Our problem today,” he thought, “is that we have forgotten our past.” This had been one of his original motivations for the study of anthropology when he was young and more idealistic.

Comstock squandered the afternoon studying exhibits. It was his intent to do further research on the Nahuatl and on Quetzalcoatl, but closing time cut him off. In the end he returned to the small room he had taken for the night, continuing to reflect on the Cave of the Dead and the youth who brought him there.

The next morning he found the bus station, clambered aboard a much delayed Greyhound and headed north toward the border.

* * * * *

He stood in a line alongside a building bleached white by the harsh sun. An unbearable heat had begun closing in and a layer of white dust covered everything. It was high noon. He felt he‘d been waiting for hours, but at last his name was called. His paperwork had been processed. As Comstock reached for his papers the Mexican border agent pulled them back away, indicating that something more was expected of him. Comstock already had the “tip” in his hand, which he slipped discreetly to the agent.

On the U.S. side of the bridge the bus again stopped. This time the luggage was being pulled from the belly below and set out on tables for the purpose of examination. The U.S. Customs agents took their time, opening suitcases, boxes and filling out more papers. A squat, fat man in a brown uniform asked Comstock about the contents of his little box.

“It’s nothing,” he replied.

“Open it,” the agent instructed.

The agent leaned over the open box. He had never seen such a large scorpion. In such a well lighted place the scorpion lay still as death.

“A very rare find,” Comstock said, striving to conceal any inward nervousness that might excite concerns. “I’m bringing it home as part of a research project. I am a professor at the university.” He held out a small card bearing his name and title.

“Nothing in U.S. law says you can’t bring dead scorpions across the border,” the guard said with a shrug.

Comstock hastily sealed the package as soon as he was dismissed. Within the hour the passengers had been corralled and reseated. The bus resumed its trek north. By the midweek he had reached the snow belt. At a rest stop in Iowa he called his wife to meet him in Minneapolis.

CONTINUED

The Red Scorpion, Chapter 6b

SHORT STORY MONDAY

At the beginning of the year Short Story Monday became Fiction Monday as I began parsing my novel in serial form here. Short Story Monday has a better ring to it, and when we get to the end of The Red Scorpion, we'll return to the short form. If you are following along, thanks.

The Red Scorpion

Chapter 6b

Most of the afternoon they hiked along footpaths that wound their way up toward higher ground. They passed no houses or towns or even roads, but Chuchui said the Nahuatl live in these hills.

By late afternoon the forest thinned and gave way to a rocky bowl shaped indentation that gave the impression of having been scooped out of the mountainside by a giant spoon. Chuchui stopped, stood very still, and scanned the perimeter of the bowl. Comstock tried to determine if they had further to go or whether they had arrived.

Chuchui's eyes became slits. He turned and peered into Comstock's face. "It is time for you to see and believe." Chuchui reached out and put his hand on the older man's shoulder. "Do you carry a knife?"

Comstock quickly scanned the area. He knew they were alone and it entered his mind to be afraid.

"Doctor Professor, you must trust me. Do you have a knife?"

Comstock stood there, breathing heavily, wiping the sweat off his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

Chuchui marched across the clearing toward two large columns of rock that were half concealed behind vines and trees. He gestured for Comstock to follow, which he did.

"Wait here," Chuchui said when the got up near the columns. Chuchui disappeared in the underbrush. The two large rocks were taller than they had at first appeared, and the space between them wider, perhaps six to eight feet Comstock guessed -- a little more than the height of a man.

The youth suddenly reemerged carrying an armload of gear. To Comstock it looked like some form of primitive climbing gear -- ropes, hooks and a strapped vestlike garment made of ram's hide. Chuchui indicated that Comstock must put on the vest if he was going to see the Cave of the Dead. The professor thought it strange, but Chuchui was so emphatic Comstock could not help but cooperate. The older man slipped his arms into the holes and Chuchui began lacing him up, binding his torso but leaving his arms and legs free.

The ropes, made of twined hemp, were secured to the back of the vest. Chuchui dragged the loose coils into the underbrush and secured the other end to the base of a tree. It appeared to be about thirty feet of rope.

"Give a man enough rope and he'll eventually hang himself," Comstock said, laughing to break the tension.

One more time Chuchui asked, "No knife? No cutting tools?"

Comstock reassured the boy that he carried nothing.

Chuchui grasped and held Comstock's arm a moment to get his attention. "When you walk between these pillars you will see the cave directly ahead of you, low to the ground. You will not be able to reach the cave, but you can lean toward it. The scorpions will torment you, but they cannot touch you. They must remain in the darkness. They cannot come out and the rope will hold you back. They will make you long to join them, to reach them, to touch them. Your head will spin with longing to be free of this rope. I tell you truthfully, you cannot, must not, remain long at the opening of the cave. Los Diablos, the scorpions, must not gain power over you."

Comstock turned and walked between the pillars toward a dark hole in the base of the cliff wall. The rope tightened and he fell forward to his knees, perhaps five feet from the mouth of the cave.
A cool, refreshing breeze blew forth from the opening out of the mountain. He leaned forward, testing the limits of his harness, peering into the darkness, into the depths of the mountain. Here and there in the darkness of the cave he could see a pulsing red glow, like half spent embers. As his eyes adjusted he saw perhaps a dozen, then two. Further back in the cave there were yet more lights gathering, a swell of scorpions moving toward the opening in a dull pulsing wave to gather at the rim of the cave's mouth.

The scorpions lined the floor and walls, their legs and tails twitching. Comstock looked, disbelieving. He was well acquainted with the strange, colorless creatures that normally inhabit the dark recesses of the earth, having seen white crayfish, white worms, albino slug-like things with caterpillar like legs. He had seen all this before, but had never seen what now confronted him: luminous scorpions.

They were perhaps six inches in length, no more than eight... but far larger than the tan colored scorpion he had encountered, and squashed, in the alley behind the hotel. No, he had never seen a scorpion of this size before, or such luminosity.

Comstock then began to imagine things. His thoughts became muddled. He began thinking strange thoughts as if his mind had become energized, his imagination a torrent overflowing its banks, dizzy with the possibilities of his life. He saw wealth, knowledge and immortality. He saw fame and the answer to a question he never asked. And he suddenly had an urge to free himself from his bindings that he might throw himself into the cave, to merge with the scorpions, to know their power. His arms stretched forward, he began to utter strange sounds, guttural sounds, believing that even if his fingertips could not reach, his words might reach and these groans might come to something.

The scorpions remained mute, even as the cave filled with the dull, pulsing light of their red iridescent bodies.

When Chuchui heard Comstock's cries and whispers, the youth began to reel him back in toward the clearing, away from the dark power. Comstock resisted at first, but in the end yielded. He was soon lying on the ground as far from the cave as the rope would allow. He lay on his side, his face flat against the earth, strangely still.

"This is the Cave of the Dead," Chuchui said. "Quetzlcoatl entered this cave and has promised one day to return."

Comstock thought of the River Styx and Greek mythology, of Orpheus, and of Hades, how the Christ had gone to that place of the dead and promised to return. "What is the meaning of such ideas? Have I become too educated to believe in miracles, in spirits, in supernatural worlds, in an afterlife?" he wondered.

The walk down the mountain was begun with haste. It would be dark soon and Chuchui knew they must find shelter. They could not make the journey at night. The boy rightfully believed it unsafe to remain too near the cave.

Atop the rim of the first plateau the path divided, but they did not descend the way they had come up. As dusk overtook them, a light fog began rising from the moist hills. They reached a point where the path dropped off in a steep descent, but Chuchui nudged Comstock to the right, to a narrow footpath that led into a dense forest. Hardly a hundred feet from the path they came to a small hut with a thatched roof. The hut vacant and dark.

"Here is where we will spend the night," the young Nahuatl said.

Comstock paused, then stooped to enter the low doorway. "I'm ready," the older man said. But all his thoughts were directed toward the cave, and though weary in body, his mind felt restless. He had never believed in the supernatural before. He did not expect that he ever would, though he had always been fascinated by others' beliefs. Now he had encountered a supernatural evil, something beyond the normal. He had been touched by it somehow, had responded to it.

At the same time his soul felt sullied by the encounter. Something within him resisted all this curious desire. There was a part of him that said leave this mountain, go home. Go far away from here.

But the other part was stronger, and made him feel important. His chest swelled as he thought of the recognition he would obtain. His career would be vindicated. He believed himself uniquely chosen, and uniquely suited for this discovery.

Chuchui said the hut was used by travelers to the Cave. They sat on the bed eating some kind of jerky made with goat meat and a small hard cracker made of corn meal. Chuchui offered Comstock the bed and he took it.

A fitful night's sleep followed with bad dreams. Upon awaking, he could not remember where he was. In the darkness he imagined strange noises. Outside the pad of footsteps caused his heart to race. Were there mountain cats in these parts? Puma? Panther? He didn't know. Snakes? He knew there were scorpions. He was relieved when morning broke with its arrows of light piercing the forest ceiling. Chuchui was already up, waiting outside, seated on the wide trunk of a fallen tree.

With few words they finished their descent. Comstock caught the bus back to Cuernavaca where he spent the afternoon considering the meaning of all these things.

CONTINUED

The Red Scorpion, Chapter 5

SHORT STORY MONDAY

If new to the story, Dr. Comstock is an anthropology professor from the University of Minnesota in the late 1930s. After two days in Cuernavaca, Mexico, he makes a chance contact that will prove more significant than he could have ever hoped for.



The Red Scorpion
Chapter 5a

The American could see that the native, eager to talk, was also frightened. “Let’s go back to my hotel. Are you comfortable with that?”

Chuchui nodded and the two made their way back to the Posada Arcadia where Comstock had a room.

Once alone together, the native spoke with purposefulness. Comstock learned that Chuchui was not drunk, as passersby imagined, but had had a fever. He had been dizzy and ill for about a week. Strangely, the fever left him the moment he was awakened.

“Why are you in Mexico?” Chuchui asked the American.

“I teach at a university. I am here on a research project.”

There was a long pause. They were like card players. Chuchui held a card Comstock needed, but Comstock was unaware of it. At the same time, Chuchui hoped that Comstock held a card that he needed. Both were reluctant to show their hands.

“Do you believe in Fate, Mr. William.”

“William. Call me William.”

“All day I have pondered how it is that I came to fall into your hands. When the fever left me I was... confused. Today I have caused trouble to my family. I did not return to the marketplace. I have been walking and thinking. All day I have wondered.” He stopped.

“Go on,” Comstock said. There was something fragile about the boy standing here in this room, yet a disturbing depth and toughness as well. Comstock could not shake the impression that beneath the surface of this encounter there was some kind of treasure, something of value to be discovered, that the encounter may have been Providential.

“Do you know who I am?” Chuchui asked.

“You have told me. You are called Chuchui. You live here in Mexico. Your family trades in the marketplace.”

“Yes, but do you know who I am?”

“I am not sure what you mean.”

“At least you are honest. I am the last living male in a clan called the Colos. Have you never heard of the Colos?”

Comstock slowly shook his head.

“Of course not. How could you? You teach at a university and have so much knowledge, but do not know things that our people have known forever.” As he spoke his eyes glistened and his voice gained strength.

“And what is it you know, truly?” Comstock asked pointedly.

Chuchui avoided the question. “How much money do you have with you?”

Chuchui stood in the middle of the room facing Comstock who had seated himself on a corner of the bed. Alone in this room he suddenly feared becoming the victim of a robbery or an assault. Without changing his expression, Comstock sized up the native to determine if he could overpower him in a tussle.

“You have money?” Chuchui asked. “If I give you something valuable, you must give me something in return.”

“I have money,” Comstock said reluctantly.

“You must not be afraid of me. I am the one who should fear.”

Comstock sensed the truth in the youth’s words.

“Do you want to tell me about the Colos?”

“The scorpions?” Chuchui laughed as if he had made a clever joke. The name of his clan was the Colos, which means scorpions in Nahuatl.

Comstock didn’t get it.

Chuchui asked why Comstock had come to Mexico and the American said he was doing research on the life and death of Quetzlcoatl.

“Such a strange notion,” Chuchui jeered. “And what have you learned?”


CONTINUED

Across The Ravine

SHORT STORY MONDAY

Across the Ravine

“A dead dog is symbolic of a tyrant condemned to death by his people," the captain said.

The others, pretending not to hear, continued about their business, sorting and packing their gear.

"I'm sensing a disconnect here. What's up?" The captain stood slouched with a shoulder against the rock wall. He took a drag on his cigarette, exhaled through his nose, the tension mounting in the muscles of his neck. "I'm quoting from The Dancer Upstairs. That was a line in the film."

Indifference. They continued to ignore him. He'd always spoken so foolishly. They never knew when to take him seriously.

"Take it or leave it," he shouted as they turned their backs to him and headed off down the steep sloping path that curled down to the dry river bed below.

The captain squatted on his haunches, staring across the ravine. They'd come so far. Getting here without losing a one seemed a miracle in itself. Now he was losing them all.

That's just something you don't do, he told himself. You should never, ever kill a dog for no reason. But the thing had come over him, and just like that it was over.

"Hey, wait up. Where you going? Wait up!" he shouted, his voice tapering off in a series of echoes, no one listening as he scrambled after them, the sun sinking in his heart, the whole desolate scene fading to black.

He'd hoped for something more when they arrived but the barrenness of the landscape and the colliding crustal plains had a strange power over the men, and over the captain as well. He'd wanted to prove something, but what? He'd wanted to lead, but where? He'd wanted to inspire, but how? Now, he wanted to abandon them, but why?

Maybe things would be different when they'd crossed the ravine.

Pause Button (II)

SHORT STORY MONDAY

For a change of pace Short Story Monday is a 1995 screen play treatment I wrote based on an undeveloped story idea. Dr. Rollie Michaels has developed a machine that has the ability to stop time. The machine is housed in a room of his house which is (for reasons inexplicable, but necessary to the premise) not affected by the stoppage of time. His nephews, Buzz and Zoomer, accidentally break the machine after messing with it. With everything frozen, they take a car and head for an adventure.

PAUSE BUTTON
ACT II

Judy and Edith have a fight because Edith doesn't care if the boys get lost in a time warp. They have been nothing but trouble since their father left, anyways.
Edith finally agrees to try to help get the boys. They take two vehicles. Rhonda, Dad and Lisa go in one. Diane and Edith take the other car. (30)

Lisa talks her dad into driving past her high school first. She writes a love note to her boy friend, roasts the principal on the chalk board and corrects some of the answers on a recent test. (32)

Thinking Rollie will take care of finding the boys, Judy talks Edith into driving somewhere else, too. Judy wants to check in on Rhonda's boyfriend... to make sure he is worthy of her daughter. (34)

Buzz and Zoomer moon a traffic cop's face.

Judy looks at the home of Rhonda's boyfriend. Is impressed by their wealth and sophistication. Fascinated by their bookshelves. Decides to borrow a book from them, intending to return it some day. They go up to his room and he is frozen in the process of writing a letter to Rhonda. It is a romantic and moving poem. Judy comments that Rollie used to write poetry, and Edith is astounded that Rollie ever had one romantic bone in his body. (36)

Buzz and Zoomer go into a Strip Club.

Rhonda and Rollie prepare to leave the school. Can't find Lisa. Search all about in the halls and classrooms. Despondent, they return to the car and find she is waiting for them, eager to catch the bad boys. (38)

Buzz and Zoomer exit Strip Club, panting and sweating, just slightly overwhelmed by the experience.

Edith talks Judy into going to the house of her ex-husband, Donald Gordon. Edith's pretext: maybe the boys went to see their father. (40)

Buzz and Zoomer on the Boardwalk.

We see Rhonda, Rollie and Lisa driving up and down the roads along casino lane trying to find the vehicle of Buzz and Zoomer. (42)

Buzz and Zoomer enter the Taj and have a party. Faces of people frozen at moments of winning and losing.

Rhonda, Rollie and Lisa go into TropWorld because Rollie has never had time to do this and always thought Lisa would like it. Lisa enjoys herself at the Amusement Center. Rollie waxes philosophical. Rhonda hits the jackpot on a slot machine.

Rollie walks outside and notes that the sun is still in the same place. There is no wind. The extent to which time has been stopped begins to sink into his consciousness. He runs inside to try to explain it to Rhonda. Rhonda asks where Lisa is, since she is not with Dad. Panic. (47)

Edith and Judy arrive at Edith's ex's and find no boys' car there. Judy sees that Edith had her own reasons for coming here. Edith and Judy enter house, and her ex looks very sad and lonely. Edith feels sympathy for him. The house, it is agreed, needs a woman's touch. This guy is so helpless in the realm of homemaking. Edith admits she is lousy with teen-age boys, and was as much a part of the problem as Donald was. (52)

Buzz and Zoomer get in car to go to airport. They mistakenly reason that if they get killed trying to fly a plane it won't hurt them because when time starts again, the whole thing will be as if it didn't happen.

Rollie explains why the boys MUST be found. And how there is a possibility that they will be lost forever in this lateral space in time if they don't return to the room when time starts again.

Buzz and Zoomer driving out of casino see Armored Truck that is open. They take bags of money, but acknowledge it isn't worth as much here in timeless zone. First hint that they are having a change of perceptions about what is important.

Judy and Edith head back to the house, thinking everyone must be back by now.

Buzz and Zoomer turn around and enter a car dealership they drove past. We see them eyeing the hot cars. They pick up the keys from inside and drive away in two very hot speedsters. Drag racing on the highway. (54)

Rollie and Rhonda are looking for Lisa. They return to the car, but she's not there. Lisa has gone down the Boardwalk...toward Pier One. Rollie and Rhonda split up. "If we don't find him by dark, we'll have to call the police." Oops. Sun hasn't moved since time stopped. (57)

Buzz and Zoomer try racing a number of different cars. It is teen heaven. (59)

Judy and Edith arrive at the house, hoping the boys have been found and everyone is waiting for them. No such luck. They decide to head into Atlantic City. (62)

Buzz and Zoomer have a collision. Fortunately, the accident occurs while they are accelerating and not while they are at top speed. Still, Zoomer's car spins out, off the road, and rolls. Buzz finds him unconscious, but alive. A fearful moment, but Zoomer comes to. Bad headache. Realization that this whole experience is not a game. They could get killed out here. A serious moment of insight. The boys decide to head back to Uncle Rollie's. (70)

Judy and Edith find Rollie and Rhonda, but where is Lisa? And where could the teens have gone? (72)

Buzz and Zoomer arrive at the house. They find the cables all connected, but no sign of anyone here. What would happen if we started time again? Zoomer almost pushes the button. (75)

Rollie explains again why they can't start time without everyone in the room. They could be forever lost. Lisa and the teens MUST be found. Judy has hot flashes at thought of losing her daughter in a lateral space of time. (78)

CONTINUED

Judgment Day

SHORT STORY MONDAY

“And God made two great lights — the greater light to govern the day, and the lesser light to govern the night.” —Gen 1:16

Judgment Day

The old man sat on the sand facing the sea, facing the setting sun, refreshed by the cool breeze sweeping away the heat of the day. White sand beach, the man in solitary silence watching; the brilliant crimson sun silently returning his gaze.

Had he lost track of the days? It would be tonight, would it not? The forty years had run their course. Soon he would be delivered from his burden, his secret knowledge. Release! He knew what it meant.

The sun fell toward the horizon faster now. Caribbean sunset. How strange it seemed, knowing he was seeing it for the last time. He’d often wondered what this day would feel like, his last day. Forty years ago it seemed that infinity had been extended before him. If anything, in those days time had been stretched unbearably. But with finality’s nearness the days have sped all too swift, like the sinking sun’s last moments as it plunges almost instantly to the horizon’s rim.

The preparations had been made. Now, all he could do was wait.

He saw a cluster of birds gathering near the water’s edge a small distance up the beach from him, but he saw no young stranger, like the young man he had once been. And he wondered if he had mixed up the days. This must certainly be the night.

He was not afraid of dying. He knew he would die swiftly. And he knew he had fulfilled his destiny. What point to go on living without a purpose? He had been born for this, and his death was part of it. He understood. It had been ordained, and he was not afraid of that for which he’d been predestined.

But he began to be concerned. Was this not the night? He’d made the preparations. Where was his successor?

Though his white hair was long and unkempt he had taken care to trim his beard the morning before. It amused him to do so and he smiled when he saw himself in the mirror, the first time he’d smiled in a long time, and he had not smiled since. His face returned quickly to its customary expressionlessness.

Seated in the sand he wore a white guayabara, a pair of loose-fitting, wheat colored shorts and the leather sandals he’d worn for nearly the whole of his life’s sojourn, sandals that only recently began to show signs of wear. His hands, woven together, rested upon his knees. The moment the sun struck the sea he loosed his right hand to feel for the handle of a silver dagger which remained sheathed at his side.

The old man knew; this was the night. But where was the one who was to come? Where is he who must appear? Summer solstice, hottest and longest of the hot, long days. This was the proscribed day, of transaction and transfiguration — his high holy day.

His name was Israel. For forty years he had been Israel. At one time his name was Bruce Lowenstein. But on this day forty years previous, he had received the Word and, with it, he had taken a new name.

“I see you’ve come,” the old man said to him then, when he was Bruce and that other old man was Israel.

“Yes,” said Bruce. “I have come.”

“We must make haste, for tomorrow holds the hour of my death and before that time you’ve much to learn,” said the old man. They were standing on a beach not unlike this beach. The old man was not smiling and Bruce knew he was speaking the truth. “You are ready?”

“I am,” Bruce said.

“Sit with me then. Isn’t it a beautiful sunset?”

Bruce said nothing and for a long time the two men sat side by side in the sand and watched the sun as it was swallowed up by the sea. Finally the old man put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “God has a plan. You are part of God’s plan. As I have been, so you shall be. It’s all part of God’s plan.” The old man stared ahead into the diminishing light as he spoke.
•

“Then he [Aaron] is to take the two goats and present them before the Lord at the entrance to the Tent of Meeting. He is to cast lots for the two goats — one lot for the Lord and the other for the scapegoat. Aaron shall bring the goat whose lot falls to the Lord and sacrifice it for a sin offering. But the goat chosen by lot as the scapegoat shall be presented alive before the Lord to be used for making atonement by sending it into the desert as a scapegoat.” ~Leviticus 16:7-10

•
The following teachings were passed on to the young Bruce Lowenstein before the old man, Israel, baptized him with a new name and showed him, gave him, The Word.

TO BE CONTINUED?

The Brush Off

SHORT STORY MONDAY

"A memory is what is left when something happens and does not completely unhappen."

~Edward de Bono

The Brush Off

Ted Parker enjoyed his childhood in Upstate New York where his father taught mathematics at Cornell University in Ithaca. Because his father's roots were Kentucky, they regularly visited his kin in Louisville and Lexington. Ted's growing up years were filled with fond memories of playing "on the way to grandma's house" and other assorted games to pass the time during the somewhat long drive.

He had a cousin whom he became especially close to named Kurt. One summer it worked out that Ted could stay with his cousin for six weeks, which was a real treat. He was fourteen, the age when boys have begun to really notice the fairer sex.

Across the road from Kurt's was a really cute girl named Joy Jones. Joy had become well aware of the impact she made on boys and (fortunately not all girls get this way) was quite impressed with herself. Because she had grown up across the street from Kurt, she did not have a high opinion of him. When he was younger he had been the kind who teased girls he liked, and she had been the object of this attention for longer than she cared for. Kurt saw her as prissy and she saw Kurt as a big jerk. Ted might be a nice kid, even somewhat cute himself with those freckles and that big grin, but he was with Kurt must be a jerk as well to hang out with someone like that.

Against this background the incident occurred. Joy was sitting on her porch catching some sun in a pair of shorts and a tank top. Kurt and Ted had just finished lunch and came out to sit on Kurt's front steps. It was not planned, but after seating themselves the boys looked up and saw that joy was directly across from them on her own front steps. They stared. She ignored them and proceeded to work on her nails. They continued to stare. It was as if she were three feet away. Ted had never once talked with her in his life, mainly because she'd learned to avoid Kurt, who was not really a bad kid but went through that stage many boys go through.

Kurt said, "How ya doing?" and it was strange because there was a road between them, but the distance was gone.

Joy finished what she was doing with her nails and looked up. Her right had went up to her left shoulder and made a flicking motion as if sweeping cooking crumbs off a countertop. She stood up and walked in the house.

"She's so stuck up," Kurt said.

"What was that all about?" Ted asked, repeating the gesture on his own shoulder.

"She was giving us the brush off. Let's go down to the park and see who's at the pool."

Years later, while Ted (now 55) was in the board room at Donovan Electric where he was VP of Sales, he noticed a few flakes of dandruff on the shoulder of his dark suit. He flicked them off and as he did so thought of that encounter with Joy in Louisville. There was something basic and Pavlovian in this memory connection to the gesture because this reaction had been going on for nearly twenty years.

When Ted reached his sixties he became aware that his forgetfulness was more serious than he'd realized. To his dismay, he was experiencing the early onset of Alzheimer's. For a while it was hard for his family, especially his wife Gloria. And as time went on, the sun began to set on Ted's fond memories of recent achievements.

As the shadows crept slowly over his past, the only memories left were from his youth. He had forgotten his children, his wife, his vocation. But he remembered going to Kentucky, marching around the house with Kurt, and playing silly games.

Near the end he became pretty much incommunicative and no one knew what was left there in the recesses of his memories. The nurses, though, routinely got a kick out of the way he'd say, "Joy Jones" every time they brushed something off his shoulder. So this became a ritual they all seemed to relish. They would brush his shoulder and he would automatically say, “Joy Jones.”

It bothered Gloria though. She knew that Ted had been somewhat of a roustabout, but she also thought she’d heard about everyone who really mattered from those early years before she became his sun, moon and stars. She wasn’t devastated by it, but while laying awake a few nights, she wondered… Joy Jones?

Silk Pajamas

SHORT STORY MONDAY

This morning's story was written by my daughter Christina when she was eleven. We were home schooling our children at this point in their lives and I had the privilege of being their writing teacher. My theory of teaching was that if they enjoyed writing, you would have material to edit and by this means their writing would improve.

In addition to learning how to spell and construct sentences, we also worked on techniques for making articles, essays or stories more interesting to the reader. Writing is not for us alone. We write into a context, for the purposes of connection or communication. Christina learned her lessons well, which I believe helped contribute to her academic successes... and this story here today, unedited.

Silk Pajamas
An Original Story by Christina Newman

In the summer of 1999, I was going into 7th grade. It was an awkward year for me because I was only 11. I had skipped a grade, which made me younger than everyone in my class. I was too young for youth group, but too old for other groups. That made it hard for me to make friends.

I only had 2 friends, Jordan who was a trouble maker, and Haily who was my best friend ever. Jordan and I got along perfect.We were exact opposites, but mom says opposites attract. I'm the quiet type, I never get in trouble, get good grades, and come from a family that never has much extra money to spend.

Jordan is a loud obnoxious trouble maker who comes from a wealthy family that gives her everything that a kid could want. She does strange things, like when she walked out of the house with long beautiful brown hair, and came back with an extremely short blonde haircut, and her ears pierced. It kind of shocked me, but never really affected our friendship. Another time she painted the walls of her room black. It made me feel so uneasy. I never accepted her invitations until her mom repainted her walls white again.

We are almost as close as Haily and I are, now. We (me and Haily) have always been close, but never quite as close as we have been since Haily's 12th birthday. Haily's biggest (and only) problem is that she's jealous. Very jealous. Especially of my silk pajamas.

First I was given one pair as a gift from my grandparents, then I got another one from my mom. After that, she got mad every time I wore them. At first I wore them just to annoy her, but I soon found out that I wasn't annoying her- I was making her furious. After a while her birthday came, and I decided to buy her a pair. I bought a matching pair for myself with my own money that I had saved up. It was a sleepover, so I brought my p.j.s too.

I walked in her house and handed her the package, wrapped in blue (her favorite color) paper with daisies (her favorite flower) all over it.

"Let me help you unpack." Haily said.

"OK," I returned uncertainly. When she saw my pajamas I could tell she was mad. Even though she didn't say anything, I could see the revenge taking place in her mind. I could always see right through Haily's sweet faces covering up the anger she felt.

***

Two hours later we went upstairs to get dressed for bed. Then we were to open presents. I walked upstairs, and as soon as I opened my the door, I saw it. My pajamas were ripped in shreds. Haily walked in behind me.

"Oh no!" she said. "It must have been Whiskers. You know how cats are. I guess you'll have to borrow a pair of mine. Just be careful not to rip them or get them dirty."

I knew it wasn't the cat, but I kept quiet. Tears came to my eyes, not because of my pajamas, but because Haily had done it on Purpose. Haily had cut my pajamas on purpose! How could anyone do that?! It was so cruel.

There were 5 girls altogether -- me, Haily, Karli, Summer and Breezy, or BreeAnna. "Open mine first!" every one squealed. I'm sure it was on purpose that she opened mine last.

"Who's is This one?" she asked rudely.

"Mine," I squeaked.

"Oh. You." She picked up the package reluctantly, and slowly as if opening presents was the most boring thing in the world, took off the paper. As soon as she saw its contents, tears sprung into her eyes and she burst into tears. She hugged me tight and whispered into my ear, "I'm so sorry. I love you. I was so jealous.... I didn't know....."

I nodded and hugged her back. Tears still pouring out of her eyes, she handed me the package.
"Here. I ruined yours, you can keep mine." She smiled sadly.

I smiled back. "Thank you," I whispered. "Thank you."

Note: The two images on this page were created by Susie, Down Home Creations

SHORT STORY MONDAY

This is a very short story about the origin of the blues. It was inspired by Mark Twain's Diaries of Adam and Eve. I only recently learned that Twain only wrote Adam's diary initially, but then wrote Eve's thirty years later. Or vice versa. The two were blended eventually and you can purchase it at Amazon.

BLUE

Blue began when the world was new, but not so new as the very beginning. The original world was black and white. Eventually, God decided that color should be added to His wonderful creation.

In an effort to protect His integrity (He had already declared all things good) He broke white light up into sections and called it color. This was how the color blue came into being.

At first, Adam and Eve were so enamored by their new experiences with color that they never even thought about why the world was originally created in black and white. But after a while, when they had settled into their new technicolor paradise, they began to wonder. "Why did God originally create the world in black and white? Was He trying to withhold something from us?"

It was at this point that they doubted God’s goodness. Was He really concerned for their best interest? What was the point in making a black and white world if He had been capable of making color right from the start? Had the black and white version of the world been a mistake? Does God really know what He's doing?

Such questionings, it would appear, led directly to Eve's being seduced by the serpent. (Though it may have been that forbidden Red apples are more enticing than forbidden black and white ones.)

After the Fall, Adam and Eve became acutely aware of why God had been so reluctant to give them a full-spectrum technicolored world.

As a result of the apple incident, Adam and Eve were banished from Paradise forever, which put them both in quite a bad mood. Adam sank into a depression. The following evening, (a time of day which he also blamed on his significant other) he lay on his back feeling particularly mournful and low. As he lay staring at the deepening twilight sky it entered his mind to compose a poem, soon to be published in an early anthology called Man's First Poems, Volume One. The poem was rather inferior in quality, but still maintains its historical significance. Whether it was the color of the sky he was trying to name, or the feeling he was analyzing at that moment in time, the word has forever become associated with grief and sadness.

This is the true origin of the blues.

EDNOTE: Unless otherwise noted, the paintings and illustrations on my blog are my work alone and available for sale. If you see something here that makes you say, "I gotta have it," be sure to let me know and we can negotiate a price. Feel free to click on images to enlarge.

CyberLink • Version 4.0

SHORT STORY MONDAY

"Technology... is a queer thing. It brings you great gifts with one hand, and it stabs you in the back with the other." ~C.P. Snow

Today's story is another incomplete nub of an idea from my files. The original was developed in the mid-1990's, long before the Matrix series of films, but after the emergence of the World Wide Web. I was influenced, in part, by William Gibson's Mona Lisa Overdrive. Like the story Golem Terrorists of two weeks ago, it is but a beginning, a setup. Based on the reference to the slumping economy, I must have updated a few details in a re-write possibly around 2002 or so.

CyberLink • Version 4.0

From its inception, the WEB Interlock Corp. sparked headlines. A front page story in the Wall Street Journal announced the departure of West, Ellison and Bierce from Microsoft in August ’98. Cover stories in the computer mags filled in the details. Cutting edge software was the name of the game. The charismatic William West masterminded the coup, knowing fully the attention WEB Interlock would gain by combining Rath Ellison’s visionary technosis with the hyper-psychic creativity of Mason Bierce.

WEB Interlock became the first to develop a primitive form of the Hyperlock Central Series. Hyperlock Central gave users a direct eyegate capability via the patch refractory system, allowing Game Players direct graphics capabilities without the use of a terminal. Photos of the introverted Bierce and a cosmic looking Ellison appeared on the covers of Newsweek, TIME, and a half dozen other consumer magazines. William West had likewise become a fixture in the news.
Then the troubles began. It was the usual conflict between marketing and R&D. A slumping economy after the turn of the century and overly aggressive marketing goals brought internal strife to the company, with discordant accusations focusing chiefly on the reluctance, or inability, of Ellison and Bierce to bring new products to the marketplace in a timely manner.

Ellison’s concerns for safety and proper testing of the dynamic new technologies were perpetually dismissed by West.

“We’re missing opportunities! We’re losing ground!” the red-faced West shouted at his twin development heads. He ignored the rising popularity of such games as DaggerBlade and FlexoSpike, knowing that for WEB, innovative pioneer technologies were all that mattered. His fame required this single narcotic.

Ellison felt betrayed by the accusations. No one could say for certain what Bierce was thinking.

Then the unthinkable happened. A Korean company released its NerveLink program, a patchcord device that enabled a direct spinal linkup with the Net. The total package included a variety of games as well as business and military applications. While the programs and games were uniquely Korean, every other NerveLink capability was identical to research designs Bierce had been developing for more than a decade. Two weeks later, Mason Bierce packed his brain with enough chemicals to eliminate all of pre-history and died of a cerebral implosion.

The effect on Rath Ellison was this: while he remained an active and visionary force in the direction of WEB Interlock’s R & D efforts, he adopted a passive aggressive posture in regards to interdepartmental politicking. If the company wished to damage its long-term credibility by rushing products to the market and taking absurd, unnecessary risks, Ellison after stating his position but once would retreat to permanent silence. “The spirit of Bierce is in control here,” he observed in one of his more lucid moments. “W.E.B Interlock has determined to self-destruct.”

Ready or not, by the end of the year Ellison gave West what he wanted. The ultimate, as far as technology was concerned. "It's called BioShell Dropout," Ellison said.
It promised even more than NerveLink. It enabled user's to drop themselves into the Matrix. There were certain problems in the initial phase of development. Users who dropped out of their bodies often never came back, lost in Cyberspace. As luck should have it, the key to success proved to be found in the mythological story of Theseus, who entered the labyrinth to kill the Minotaur, and returned, saved by Ariadne's thread. The missing ingredient, for which W.E.B. Interlock immediately purchased universal Patent and Trademark Rights, was a product called "Ariadne's Thread."

All would have been well, but for the ten to fifteen guinea pigs who had been dropped into the Matrix and left for dead. Disembodied entities, conscious minds in Cyberspace, eager to return to the flesh and bloodness of the living, but locked out -- or locked in, depending on your point of view. Nine of these banded together to form a dark constellation of terror within the Net, wreaking havoc and performing all kinds of villainy until it be possible to gain their release. [The others who disappeared in the Net were never heard from again, and for this reason it is unknown exactly how many there originally were. The Nine we know because they identified themselves as The Desperadoes of Orion and released their names via obituaries which were repeatedly dropped into e-mail slots in all the major newspapers, with entirely fake life histories, addresses, etc, but the same names... Over and over again they kept up this charade of dying.]

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

A small collection of original stories which I have penned can be found here at my personal website.

Golem Terrorists

SHORT STORY MONDAY

Many of my short stories are based on dreams in which an incident occurs and I weave a story around it so that the incident itself becomes a scene in the larger work. My stories Lu Lee and the Magic Cat, and Terrorists Preying were both developed in this manner.

On one occasion years ago I decided to post on my website a story concept which was initiated by a dream. I never did finish the story, but there are features here which have an uncanny resemblance to an actually event which happened on my birthday eight years ago.

The concept of the golem was inspired by stories from Jorge Luis Borges and arcane notions from medieval Jewish mysticism.

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
________________________________________

The scene described below is from a dream I had. I'm curious where it will go.
Do you know?

Post your ideas and, if I like your suggestions, I will incorporate them
into the next segment of the story.

Send your Plot Twist to ennyman.
And Bookmark this page. Maybe your section will be included in a future edition of Golem Terorists.

Golem Terrorists

Given: The Golem is an artificially created human being which has been supernaturally endowed with life.

Proposed: What if it took one full year to make one Golem? What if some evil power were to create a small army of Golem terrorists?
________________________________________

Opening Scene:

Jake Peters, a middle aged man of average build and alert nondescript features, is on a large passenger plane to somewhere. Jake becomes unsettled watching another passenger to his left, a bull-necked man wearing sunglasses who is assembling a potentially lethal weapon from a metal rod and piano wire. The man rises from his seat and Jake also stands to prevent the man from going forward to the front of the plane. A struggle ensues and the man's glasses are knocked off. The man's putty-like eyes are dull and vacant. Jake slices the man's face, which is bloodless. Jake is temporarily startled and the Golem slices off Jake's pinky finger like it was made of butter.

When the Golem reaches the front of the plane, Jake seeks shelter.

It is the fourth crash in two weeks. Two legislators, a mayor and five bank presidents have died in the crashes. In each case the Golem United Front has claimed responsibility.

Jake Peters awakens in the hospital, with burns on his face, his legs and arm in casts. He remembers nothing about the flight and learns from his wife that 137 people died and he is one of 14 survivors.

Everything is a blackout. His mood is gratefulness to be alive, though suffering. Then, he notices his missing finger, and he remembers with a chill the experience with the Golem.
________________________________________

Jake Peters talks to an FBI man who comes to interview him, who is investigating the crash. Jake asks what Golem are. The investigator says nobody knows. Some say they are spooks.

Jake does his own investigation to see what he can learn about Golem. He learns that Golem are a form of Artifical Life, generated by a lifetime of Dream Material. They are man-made and that according to one tradition it takes one whole lifetime to make One Soul.

He also learns that they are evil, not human. They have no feeling or sympathy. As a result, they have dull, cold eyes.

In addition, they are very strong, and very intelligent.

Bullets cannot harm them. They can only be destroyed by fire, which causes them to disintegrate and return to a vapor state, their true Origin.

Jake Peters determines that the four crashes have been caused by four Golem. And he has determined that he must somehow make someone believe what he has seen and experienced. At this point, there is no one who will believe.
________________________________________

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?
You tell me.
Post your comments here. Maybe this story can still be written...