When we returned the door was ajar. I turned and tapped Jason's forearm. He raised an eyebrow at me and the corner of his mouth quirked up and he pulled his gun. Crazy bastard. I pulled mine from my hip and pressed myself to the right of the door way. Jason mirrored me on the left. I gave him a nod and he returned a wink. I mentally counted to five and we moved together. He hit the door with his boot and rolled in first high. I heard the first shot and felt it pass by my side. It hit the door frame and sent a barrage of splintered wood into the side of my face. I dropped low and scuttled behind a large green sofa. I could see Jason ahead of me behind a wing chair that was jumping as the bullets hit. His quirk was a full grown smile. He caught my eye and shot me another wink and then he was on the move, scuttling forward.
"Crazy ass bastard," I muttered as I peered from behind the sofa to lay down some cover fire. I swear Jason is watched over by several angels because he managed to crab crawl his way through the front room. He left behind him two bodies that were twitching but that wasn't going to last long. I took the momentary reprieve to wipe the blood off my face. Probably smeared my mascara too. Damn stuff was suppose to be water proof. I checked the bodies as I crossed the room. I was right. The twitching was done. Jason had reloaded by the time I reached his side. His coat had a hole in the arm but there wasn't any blood I could see. He glanced at me with eyes alight. I could see his racing pulse in the base of his throat.
"Jefe, we know you are here. Throw down you guns and I promise you, we can talk this through. man to man," Jason yelled into the next room.
Clearly, Jefe was not interested in this offer. His reply was a blast from what sounded like a shot gun into the door frame.
"Damn it," I hissed and flinched as more splinters rained down on me. The dust had barely settled when Jason rolled off the wall and into the next room. I fervently hoped his angels weren't too busy protecting his ass that they couldn't to keep one eye on me and rounded the corner after him.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
Oranges and Apples (among others)
Oranges and Apples
She said to call her anytime
Taking an unfamiliar road
Write about changing clothes
Holy cow I'm 4 behind? I know this is somewhat against the spirit of the exercise but to get caught up, if we continue with the adventures of Claire Newton I think we can cover all 4 ;-) So here's the first two:
--------------------------------------------
Four hours into the flight Claire was having difficulties keeping her eyes open. Skimming through thousands of pages of abstracts and the files themselves, she still couldn't imagine what thread she was looking for that sewed the files together or the one that bound her to this case. Over Greenland, Aurora Borealis tinting the night sky greenish blue, she was reading a rather dry personnel section on Andrew Booten's international holdings. The fact that he had any was an interesting yet seemingly cursory fact.
While it seemed strange that a mid-level UN bureaucrat was so financially diversified, she had read other files regarding his family's holdings and how they had made countless fortunes over the generations as importers of all sorts of goods to Amsterdam and other locales within Holland. For example his family owned a sizable share of one of the larger South Pacific islands and imported exotic fish both for aquariums and for dining. He himself was a majority share holder in an Orange Grove near Valencia Spain, and actually owned outright an entire fleet of apple orchards near Yakima Washington. Claire thought to herself that she only owned her student loans, a 2008 Toyota Camry and other mementos that would maybe fill a closet.
The files had remarked on the fruit baskets he had sent Claire that Christmas and again for her birthday in May. Both baskets had taken up the majority of the apartment's coffee table. Oranges from Valencia, Apples from Washington, Pears from Nagoto Japan, Cheeses from Weggis Switzerland, two bottles of wine from Sonoma, a even a bottle of scotch from Scapa Scottland. She had had fun looking up on a map where all the components had come from.
But as the files dragged on and the hours crept by, page after page of invoice confirmations real-estate transactions and, business contracts took its toll on Claire's consciousness. Her eyelids began closing.
she remembered back to their few days together in the heat of the desert. How welcome that heat would be right now compared to the cold air from the airplane's vent.
Andrew had been a striking figure when he stepped off the plane in the Sahara. She had arrived a half day earlier to secure the records room at the administration building and to ease the way through the soon to be faced bureaucracy. Andrew Booten paused at the airplane's door. He took a deep breath and surveyed the airport. The plane seemed to have come straight from a Michael Curtiz movie. No jets servicing travelers here only a single shiny metallic Lockheed C101, its 4 giant propellers winding down and a handful of ground crew meandering towards the plane.
Andrew was fully two heads taller than everyone else descending the plane's stairs and he must have weighed at least 250 pounds more than anyone else around him.
He seemed to be the only man in the desert in a clean pressed white linen suit. He sported a white straw hat with a hat band with a very wide and stylized UN "continent" logo printed on it. A green silk handkerchief popped crisply from his coat's breast pocket. That one seemed merely for show as he kept another green cotton kerchief palmed most of the time to wipe the copious sweat from his brown and forehead. And then there was his signature scarf. "So European" she would think. Regardless of the temperature he would always wear it. It was, compared to the rest of the suit, a very ratty thing. It was sand colored, frayed at the edges, stained and discolored. He seemed to wear it more as a totem than as any particular fashion accouterment since it neither provided warmth or style.
They had shared a light dinner that night at a small bistro near their hotel. She looked at him in disbelief when all he had ordered at first was baba ganoush. A flicker of bemusement showed across his face.
"My dear mademoiselle" he said in English that was equal parts Flemish and Scottish, "Only you Americans choose to eat in such a barbarous manner. Food, like company, should be savored never rushed. Tonight we shall eat in eight courses. So for now choose an aperitif to whet the appetite."
Claire felt awkward at first talking with him. She was only five years out of grad school and seemed to have done nothing of note with her life. Even becoming a full field agent with the CIA seemed pale to the stories Andrew told. He was attached to accounting forensics with the UN currently, but before that he had had stints with the governments of Greece and Turkey, even Fiji. he had been in South Africa when Mandella had been freed. He had been in Germany when the wall had fallen. He had spent two years in Pakistan sussing a suspected opium export racket.
Some of his attachments with private consulting firms had been under less than ideal circumstances. He had reviewed Chechnen war debts to Russia when gunmen had stormed the building taking everyone hostage. After producing a convincing seizure, he had been released mere minutes before the Russian SWAT team had stormed the offices.
By ten PM, they were on to coffee. Andrew produced a silver flask from his jacket pocket and offered it to Claire.
"We have much work to do tomorrow morning mademoiselle. Would you like some Scotch to help you sleep?"
"No thank you" she had said, Jet lag already creeping around the peripheries of her vision. "I should be going to bed soon."
"Ah well. I'm told I shouldn't drink alone, but it is one of my favorite vices." She wasn't sure if he was talking about Scotch, drinking alone or both.
Claire gave him one of her business cards and she said to call her any time. The CIA had given her a satellite phone for the trip.
"Would you like to meet again for breakfast? And then head over to the records office" she asked?
He reached into the other side of his jacket and pulled out a business card a business card of his own, proffering it as he took hers..
"You have been a charming dinner companion this evening, indulging an old man and his tall tales. I look forward to tomorrow."
The plane touched down waking Claire from her nap. Bright sunlight streamed in through the windows.
She said to call her anytime
Taking an unfamiliar road
Write about changing clothes
Holy cow I'm 4 behind? I know this is somewhat against the spirit of the exercise but to get caught up, if we continue with the adventures of Claire Newton I think we can cover all 4 ;-) So here's the first two:
--------------------------------------------
Four hours into the flight Claire was having difficulties keeping her eyes open. Skimming through thousands of pages of abstracts and the files themselves, she still couldn't imagine what thread she was looking for that sewed the files together or the one that bound her to this case. Over Greenland, Aurora Borealis tinting the night sky greenish blue, she was reading a rather dry personnel section on Andrew Booten's international holdings. The fact that he had any was an interesting yet seemingly cursory fact.
While it seemed strange that a mid-level UN bureaucrat was so financially diversified, she had read other files regarding his family's holdings and how they had made countless fortunes over the generations as importers of all sorts of goods to Amsterdam and other locales within Holland. For example his family owned a sizable share of one of the larger South Pacific islands and imported exotic fish both for aquariums and for dining. He himself was a majority share holder in an Orange Grove near Valencia Spain, and actually owned outright an entire fleet of apple orchards near Yakima Washington. Claire thought to herself that she only owned her student loans, a 2008 Toyota Camry and other mementos that would maybe fill a closet.
The files had remarked on the fruit baskets he had sent Claire that Christmas and again for her birthday in May. Both baskets had taken up the majority of the apartment's coffee table. Oranges from Valencia, Apples from Washington, Pears from Nagoto Japan, Cheeses from Weggis Switzerland, two bottles of wine from Sonoma, a even a bottle of scotch from Scapa Scottland. She had had fun looking up on a map where all the components had come from.
But as the files dragged on and the hours crept by, page after page of invoice confirmations real-estate transactions and, business contracts took its toll on Claire's consciousness. Her eyelids began closing.
she remembered back to their few days together in the heat of the desert. How welcome that heat would be right now compared to the cold air from the airplane's vent.
Andrew had been a striking figure when he stepped off the plane in the Sahara. She had arrived a half day earlier to secure the records room at the administration building and to ease the way through the soon to be faced bureaucracy. Andrew Booten paused at the airplane's door. He took a deep breath and surveyed the airport. The plane seemed to have come straight from a Michael Curtiz movie. No jets servicing travelers here only a single shiny metallic Lockheed C101, its 4 giant propellers winding down and a handful of ground crew meandering towards the plane.
Andrew was fully two heads taller than everyone else descending the plane's stairs and he must have weighed at least 250 pounds more than anyone else around him.
He seemed to be the only man in the desert in a clean pressed white linen suit. He sported a white straw hat with a hat band with a very wide and stylized UN "continent" logo printed on it. A green silk handkerchief popped crisply from his coat's breast pocket. That one seemed merely for show as he kept another green cotton kerchief palmed most of the time to wipe the copious sweat from his brown and forehead. And then there was his signature scarf. "So European" she would think. Regardless of the temperature he would always wear it. It was, compared to the rest of the suit, a very ratty thing. It was sand colored, frayed at the edges, stained and discolored. He seemed to wear it more as a totem than as any particular fashion accouterment since it neither provided warmth or style.
They had shared a light dinner that night at a small bistro near their hotel. She looked at him in disbelief when all he had ordered at first was baba ganoush. A flicker of bemusement showed across his face.
"My dear mademoiselle" he said in English that was equal parts Flemish and Scottish, "Only you Americans choose to eat in such a barbarous manner. Food, like company, should be savored never rushed. Tonight we shall eat in eight courses. So for now choose an aperitif to whet the appetite."
Claire felt awkward at first talking with him. She was only five years out of grad school and seemed to have done nothing of note with her life. Even becoming a full field agent with the CIA seemed pale to the stories Andrew told. He was attached to accounting forensics with the UN currently, but before that he had had stints with the governments of Greece and Turkey, even Fiji. he had been in South Africa when Mandella had been freed. He had been in Germany when the wall had fallen. He had spent two years in Pakistan sussing a suspected opium export racket.
Some of his attachments with private consulting firms had been under less than ideal circumstances. He had reviewed Chechnen war debts to Russia when gunmen had stormed the building taking everyone hostage. After producing a convincing seizure, he had been released mere minutes before the Russian SWAT team had stormed the offices.
By ten PM, they were on to coffee. Andrew produced a silver flask from his jacket pocket and offered it to Claire.
"We have much work to do tomorrow morning mademoiselle. Would you like some Scotch to help you sleep?"
"No thank you" she had said, Jet lag already creeping around the peripheries of her vision. "I should be going to bed soon."
"Ah well. I'm told I shouldn't drink alone, but it is one of my favorite vices." She wasn't sure if he was talking about Scotch, drinking alone or both.
Claire gave him one of her business cards and she said to call her any time. The CIA had given her a satellite phone for the trip.
"Would you like to meet again for breakfast? And then head over to the records office" she asked?
He reached into the other side of his jacket and pulled out a business card a business card of his own, proffering it as he took hers..
"You have been a charming dinner companion this evening, indulging an old man and his tall tales. I look forward to tomorrow."
The plane touched down waking Claire from her nap. Bright sunlight streamed in through the windows.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Something Moved In The Distance
Sally squinted.
She could have sworn something below her had moved. Silently, she cursed her nearsightedness and her decision not to pay the extra fifteen bucks for the prescription mask. Everything was a dark murky blur.
There it was again!
Sally windmilled her arms in a futile attempt to swim backwards. She never trusted the open ocean. No matter which way you swam, your back was always exposed. And these damn fish never made a sound. They just came darting around the rocks as silent as ghosts. No, that large blurry rock was definitely moving. Toward her. Sally jerked her head out of the water and found the shoreline just a sandy blur in the distance. She was much farther out than she thought. Justin was nowhere in sight either. With her head out of the water, she had no idea what exactly was taking shape under her. Her mask was totally fogged and the sound of her frantic breathing echoed eerily in her snorkel. She dropped her head under again. The shape was rising from the depth below her slowly but steadily. It was most definitely not a rock. Rocks sank. They did not float. Her frantic strokes became frenzied as she tried to swim backwards away from the large grey blob heading straight up under her. As it approached, her wide eyes began to see details. First flippers, then a large dark head, a sharp beak, and a scared shell. The giant sea turtle surfaced right next to her. She could have reached out and touched his thick flipper if she tried. She followed his silent rise to the surface and, as if on cue, both woman and sea creature raised their heads out of the water together. The turtle blew out a hard breath and Sally tried to catch hers. Treading water, with her head in the air, she somehow felt better. She ripped off the fogged mask and stared at the wild animal before her. It was immense. As big around as a school bus tire, it floated effortlessly on the top of the water. The waves and current pulled Sally toward it but she fought the tug of the water, trying her best not to flounder into the creature. It must have known she was there because it turned its head and its black eyes stared straight into her. Sally felt each beat of her heart.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Then, just as silently, the turtle's dark eye turned and it dove back under the water. Sally pulled her mask on and looked down. She watched it descend, each swipe of it's fins drove it deeper and deeper. Slowly, silently, effortlessly, the turtle disappeared back into a dark grey blur on the bottom of the ocean. Only after she lost it among the rocks did she realize it only had three fins. One of the back ones was just a jagged stump. Probably caught in a net. Or bitten off. But what could harm such a giant? The thought made her heart race and she whipped around in a circle, peering behind her. A shiver ran down her arms and the water suddenly felt cold. Forget it. She was done. Justin could find his own way back to shore. Sally turned and began kicking with all her might. This was no zoo or tame pet store. There were far too many shapes moving in the distance for her taste.
She could have sworn something below her had moved. Silently, she cursed her nearsightedness and her decision not to pay the extra fifteen bucks for the prescription mask. Everything was a dark murky blur.
There it was again!
Sally windmilled her arms in a futile attempt to swim backwards. She never trusted the open ocean. No matter which way you swam, your back was always exposed. And these damn fish never made a sound. They just came darting around the rocks as silent as ghosts. No, that large blurry rock was definitely moving. Toward her. Sally jerked her head out of the water and found the shoreline just a sandy blur in the distance. She was much farther out than she thought. Justin was nowhere in sight either. With her head out of the water, she had no idea what exactly was taking shape under her. Her mask was totally fogged and the sound of her frantic breathing echoed eerily in her snorkel. She dropped her head under again. The shape was rising from the depth below her slowly but steadily. It was most definitely not a rock. Rocks sank. They did not float. Her frantic strokes became frenzied as she tried to swim backwards away from the large grey blob heading straight up under her. As it approached, her wide eyes began to see details. First flippers, then a large dark head, a sharp beak, and a scared shell. The giant sea turtle surfaced right next to her. She could have reached out and touched his thick flipper if she tried. She followed his silent rise to the surface and, as if on cue, both woman and sea creature raised their heads out of the water together. The turtle blew out a hard breath and Sally tried to catch hers. Treading water, with her head in the air, she somehow felt better. She ripped off the fogged mask and stared at the wild animal before her. It was immense. As big around as a school bus tire, it floated effortlessly on the top of the water. The waves and current pulled Sally toward it but she fought the tug of the water, trying her best not to flounder into the creature. It must have known she was there because it turned its head and its black eyes stared straight into her. Sally felt each beat of her heart.
One. Two. Three. Four.
Then, just as silently, the turtle's dark eye turned and it dove back under the water. Sally pulled her mask on and looked down. She watched it descend, each swipe of it's fins drove it deeper and deeper. Slowly, silently, effortlessly, the turtle disappeared back into a dark grey blur on the bottom of the ocean. Only after she lost it among the rocks did she realize it only had three fins. One of the back ones was just a jagged stump. Probably caught in a net. Or bitten off. But what could harm such a giant? The thought made her heart race and she whipped around in a circle, peering behind her. A shiver ran down her arms and the water suddenly felt cold. Forget it. She was done. Justin could find his own way back to shore. Sally turned and began kicking with all her might. This was no zoo or tame pet store. There were far too many shapes moving in the distance for her taste.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Write About The Expectation of Pleasure
The senses alight.
The aroma of garlic and onions sauteed in butter, the beginnings of a slow cooked dinner.
The glistening glow of melted chocolate, swirling in a mixing bowl.
The sound of fat sizzling over hot coals under a clear blue summer sky.
The gentle warmth of a steaming mug of hot coffee in your hand right before your first sip.
Is there any pleasure better than mouth-watering food?
The aroma of garlic and onions sauteed in butter, the beginnings of a slow cooked dinner.
The glistening glow of melted chocolate, swirling in a mixing bowl.
The sound of fat sizzling over hot coals under a clear blue summer sky.
The gentle warmth of a steaming mug of hot coffee in your hand right before your first sip.
Is there any pleasure better than mouth-watering food?
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Trying To Explain
"Mommy? Why can't we fly?"
I closed my eyes and tilted my head back. The sun shone right across my lap and the back of my knees were sticky with sweat. I risked a peek in front of me but the traffic still stretched ahead as far as I could see. A haze hung in the hair.
"Because we don't have wings sweetie," I replied, tiredly.
"But why don't we have wings?"
"Because we just don't hon."
"But why?"
"I don't know," I admitted in defeat, "I guess because that's how God made us." In the side mirror I saw a white SUV zipping up along side of me, totally ignoring the large flashing arrows warning that their lane ahead was closed. Everyone else had merged over and sat, idling, in this sprawling mess. But this car decided they were just too good for that.
"Mommy? Why can't we swim underwater?"
I watched it approach. It barreled past, then hit the breaks and angled its nose right in front of me. I felt the beginnings of road rage swirl in my stomach. Didn't even have the decency to signal. Bastard.
"We can swim underwater if we hold our breath."
"But why can't we stay under like fishes? Why do we has to have breath?"
I contemplated for a moment gunning it forward and sealing up the space in front of me. The thought brought an evil surge of joy to my stomach but I squelched it. Two little blue eyes were peering at me from the backseat. They saw everything. Heard even more. Sealing my lips, I idled the car and let the SUV in.
"Well, honey, we have to have air to live. The air feeds our blood and our brain and our muscles."
"But why mommy?"
The SUV finally merged in. I sat now staring at its monstrous shape. At least it blocked the view of the traffic jam.
"Well, honey, that's just how God made us."
The sky was blue above us. The clock read 2:28. We were late. Very late. Movement caught my eye. Another SUV was barreling up my right hand side.
"Mommy?"
"Yes honey?"
"You don't know very much, do you?"
This one was black with dark tinted windows rolled shut. It probably had A/C. Lucky bastard.
"No honey, I don't."
"That's ok Mommy, I still love you."
It pulled up next to me and nudged its nose over.
"I love you too sweetness," I replied as I hit the gas and gunned my car forward. The SUV tried scooting up on me but I blatantly ignored it. My space buddy, find your own.
I closed my eyes and tilted my head back. The sun shone right across my lap and the back of my knees were sticky with sweat. I risked a peek in front of me but the traffic still stretched ahead as far as I could see. A haze hung in the hair.
"Because we don't have wings sweetie," I replied, tiredly.
"But why don't we have wings?"
"Because we just don't hon."
"But why?"
"I don't know," I admitted in defeat, "I guess because that's how God made us." In the side mirror I saw a white SUV zipping up along side of me, totally ignoring the large flashing arrows warning that their lane ahead was closed. Everyone else had merged over and sat, idling, in this sprawling mess. But this car decided they were just too good for that.
"Mommy? Why can't we swim underwater?"
I watched it approach. It barreled past, then hit the breaks and angled its nose right in front of me. I felt the beginnings of road rage swirl in my stomach. Didn't even have the decency to signal. Bastard.
"We can swim underwater if we hold our breath."
"But why can't we stay under like fishes? Why do we has to have breath?"
I contemplated for a moment gunning it forward and sealing up the space in front of me. The thought brought an evil surge of joy to my stomach but I squelched it. Two little blue eyes were peering at me from the backseat. They saw everything. Heard even more. Sealing my lips, I idled the car and let the SUV in.
"Well, honey, we have to have air to live. The air feeds our blood and our brain and our muscles."
"But why mommy?"
The SUV finally merged in. I sat now staring at its monstrous shape. At least it blocked the view of the traffic jam.
"Well, honey, that's just how God made us."
The sky was blue above us. The clock read 2:28. We were late. Very late. Movement caught my eye. Another SUV was barreling up my right hand side.
"Mommy?"
"Yes honey?"
"You don't know very much, do you?"
This one was black with dark tinted windows rolled shut. It probably had A/C. Lucky bastard.
"No honey, I don't."
"That's ok Mommy, I still love you."
It pulled up next to me and nudged its nose over.
"I love you too sweetness," I replied as I hit the gas and gunned my car forward. The SUV tried scooting up on me but I blatantly ignored it. My space buddy, find your own.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
She took the red eye
Another apology for the tardiness, but it looks like I'm not stepping on anyone's feet with this entry so I'm going to go on with the one I was thinking about without further ado here we go:
----------------------------
She took the red eye out of Ronald Reagan Airport heading to Amsterdam with a connecting flight to The Hague. It was already two AM and her expected touchdown was going to be close to noon local time. She was filled with the same trepidation that she had when she had first flown to Western Sahara. The company had chosen her to go. Not Ernest, not Meyers but her and if there was going to be a next time or maybe even a foreign assignment she needed to show off, or at the very least be wildly successful. Problem was, she still wasn't sure what the assignment was.
Iverson had called her in that morning to his office. There was an "Away kit" as he called it sitting on his desk. This was new. He looked cross, brows knit, teeth clenched.
"Your scores are good but not great Claire, I want you to know that you can walk away from this assignment right now and I won't even mark it down on your record."
"I'm sorry, Chris, I don't follow."
"Your field scores. I've been looking over your file. You've been asked to go on a foreign assignment and a cursory look at the file tells me that this is over your head. You're a good agent and I want you around for a while."
"Where am I asked to go?" She had said, heart racing a little, palms beginning to sweat. The back of her head saying "Woo Hoo field Opp. Not Quebec! Not Quebec!!!."
"You have been asked to go to The Hague. You. Claire Newton. By name. Solo."
The voices in her head came down three notches, not entirely silent, but sobering quickly.
"Just before I called you last night a blue department e-mail came through. It was short and to the point, but it basically said that you are to go into the field in the Netherlands and Liaise with Interpol about the Booten incident. By yourself." He paused to let that sink in.
"Why me?"
"My thoughts exactly, but you know how the blue department is at answering questions. They just tend to send their commands from on high and they sent you an away kit via inter-department. So, while this is from blue department, I can tell them that I'm just not comfortable letting you go just yet, especially for a solo mission."
"Do I have a cover story?"
"Yes your story is you're a young CIA agent who has decent field ops test scores but could stand some improvement before she heads out into the real world. So again, I am giving you an out."
Claire definitely picked up on the hint in his voice that time. But it was blue department. It was Europe and there was an away kit in a box the size of an attache' case that demanded to be opened.
"If its all the same to you sir, I think I'm ready. You gave me high marks for Toronto last month."
"You were checking on a police station paperwork trail of a currency counterfeiter."
"And when I went to Africa last year..." Chris raised a hand to stop her.
"I don't want to get in your way Claire, Hell I want you to be my replacement in a few years, I just want you and everyone else on my team to be safe."
"With all due respect sir, I'm ready."
"Very well. Have a suitcase of clothes packed by 10 PM tonight, aim for fancier. You know how those Europeans are. You will be picked up then and taken to the airport. Don't let the away kit out of your sight between now and then. I'd suggest you head home and try and get some sleep between now and then. You will have time on the plane to get briefed."
"Thank you sir! How long do I need to stop my mail for?"
"Its been stopped already. You're scheduled to be gone for about five days."
"Yessir."
Claire stood up, grabbed the away kit which was startlingly heavy and headed to her desk. The rest of the day was a blur. Attached to the outside of the kit was an itinerary and a business class airline ticket on Lufthansa. A quick glance at the itinerary showed no formal evening galas which helped her clothing selection in packing.
Like clockwork at 6 a knock on her apartment door woke her from a light sleep. Through the peep hole she saw a man in a stereotypical charcoal suit with an ID badge at head height that showed him to be Glenn Takahashi, CIA.
Claire opened the door. "You're my ride to the airport?"
"Yes ma'am."
Ma'am, she could get used that. He grabbed her suitcase but left the attache, as he took her things to the car. The clouds had rolled in throughout the afternoon and now a steady rain softly but insistently pelting every surface.
Claire saved Glenn the indignity of playing chauffeur and rode up front of the black GMC suburban next to him. The ride was fairly quiet except for the slip-slap of the wiper blades. Any attempt to elicit conversation out of Glenn ended in either a monosyllabic response or merely a grunt. Halfway through she buried herself in her phone sending e-mails that she hadn't gotten to before. Her attention was roused when instead of the ramp up to departing flights was missed and they began heading towards the freight airline entrance.
"I thought we were heading to Lufthansa?" she said keeping a smile in her voice.
"We are ma'am."
"Shouldn't we be going up to passenger drop off then?"
"No ma'am. I'm to take you directly to the plane."
They stopped at the main freight entrance in between large hangers for DHL and FedEx. A security guard sidled up to the car.
"Can I help you two?"
"Just need to get through." Glenn said and flashed his badge.
"I see. hang on." The guard glanced at his clipboard. "Right, and today's color is?"
"Mauve" Glenn replied cooly.
"Excellent, one second." The guard went into the tiny gate house and raised the gate. Seconds later, Glenn stopped the truck at the bottom of a massive refeuling Airbus.
"Here you are ma'am. Enjoy your flight. The flight crew is expecting you."
"Right, why all the rigamarole to get me in here? I'm not even under cover."
"Its far easier to take agents in through the freight entrance than it is to try and get your average TSA customs agent to respect proper credentials and not spend hours detaining agents. Again, ma'am enjoy your flight."
"Thank you, ah you too." Claire said then mentally kicking herself for the non-suave send off. A baggage handler was already unloading her suitcase onto the trolley of waiting luggage.
She took the stairs up the outside of the terminal bridge and joined the queue of passengers. It looked like boarding had been going for a while as the line was orderly and quiet. She picked up snippets of French and German on top of the low murmurings of English.
Thankfully it was a Tuesday evening and the flight wasn't booked. Claire found she had a window seat assigned and no partner in the seat next to her. The middle rows were empty as well. A couple sat in the far two seats on the other side of the plane.
The plane reached its cruising altitude. Most every light was turned off on the plane. Her seat was the only one for 10 rows bathed in a little pool of light.
The stewardess brought her a coffee and with slightly sweaty palms she realized it was time to open the away kit.
The first thing that she noticed when she opened it was the glint of a 9mm pistol and 4 clips of ammo. A new shiny cell phone lay next to one of the ammo clips. Next she opened an envelope containing a money clip with about $1500 in Euros and a Black American Express card with her name on it. A pin number was attached via pink sticky note to the front, granted she didn't think she'd have much trouble remembering 4,3,2,1. A card with the contact info of the American embassy was attached to some very stodgy looking papers that seemed to describe some limited diplomatic status.
The last thing in the case was an e-reader. She turned it on.
"Please place thumb and forefinger on either box on LCD screen" the message said.
She put her thumb and forefinger on the boxes and the reader chirped.
"confirming ID."
"ID confirmed, Newton, Claire. Security level 42."
"WARNING. The information contained within is considered eyes only. Any person or Persons viewing or attempting to view the information within this device without prior authorization will be subject to prosecution and extradition to the United States of America up to and including the charge of High treason. If you have accessed this device in error know that your actions have been flagged, logged and you now have 5 seconds to stop browsing."
"Seriously?" Claire whispered. Nothing was actually *that* CIA at the CIA she thought facetiously. There was a severe dearth of paperwork so far and she just thought of the volume that would be waiting for her when she got back.
The little device counted down 5 seconds and then opened up showing her a massive table of contents. Reports totaling 15,468 pages and close to 5,000 images were stored on the reader. It took her almost an hour just to mentally catalog all the information that was being presented.
She had just started her fourth cup of coffee when she stumbled across it.
In a sub-file labeled "Miscellaneous, Important?" she found a detailed copy of the Christmas card Andrew Booten had sent her the year before. There it was as clear as if it had still been sitting on her kitchen counter with the others.
----------------------------
She took the red eye out of Ronald Reagan Airport heading to Amsterdam with a connecting flight to The Hague. It was already two AM and her expected touchdown was going to be close to noon local time. She was filled with the same trepidation that she had when she had first flown to Western Sahara. The company had chosen her to go. Not Ernest, not Meyers but her and if there was going to be a next time or maybe even a foreign assignment she needed to show off, or at the very least be wildly successful. Problem was, she still wasn't sure what the assignment was.
Iverson had called her in that morning to his office. There was an "Away kit" as he called it sitting on his desk. This was new. He looked cross, brows knit, teeth clenched.
"Your scores are good but not great Claire, I want you to know that you can walk away from this assignment right now and I won't even mark it down on your record."
"I'm sorry, Chris, I don't follow."
"Your field scores. I've been looking over your file. You've been asked to go on a foreign assignment and a cursory look at the file tells me that this is over your head. You're a good agent and I want you around for a while."
"Where am I asked to go?" She had said, heart racing a little, palms beginning to sweat. The back of her head saying "Woo Hoo field Opp. Not Quebec! Not Quebec!!!."
"You have been asked to go to The Hague. You. Claire Newton. By name. Solo."
The voices in her head came down three notches, not entirely silent, but sobering quickly.
"Just before I called you last night a blue department e-mail came through. It was short and to the point, but it basically said that you are to go into the field in the Netherlands and Liaise with Interpol about the Booten incident. By yourself." He paused to let that sink in.
"Why me?"
"My thoughts exactly, but you know how the blue department is at answering questions. They just tend to send their commands from on high and they sent you an away kit via inter-department. So, while this is from blue department, I can tell them that I'm just not comfortable letting you go just yet, especially for a solo mission."
"Do I have a cover story?"
"Yes your story is you're a young CIA agent who has decent field ops test scores but could stand some improvement before she heads out into the real world. So again, I am giving you an out."
Claire definitely picked up on the hint in his voice that time. But it was blue department. It was Europe and there was an away kit in a box the size of an attache' case that demanded to be opened.
"If its all the same to you sir, I think I'm ready. You gave me high marks for Toronto last month."
"You were checking on a police station paperwork trail of a currency counterfeiter."
"And when I went to Africa last year..." Chris raised a hand to stop her.
"I don't want to get in your way Claire, Hell I want you to be my replacement in a few years, I just want you and everyone else on my team to be safe."
"With all due respect sir, I'm ready."
"Very well. Have a suitcase of clothes packed by 10 PM tonight, aim for fancier. You know how those Europeans are. You will be picked up then and taken to the airport. Don't let the away kit out of your sight between now and then. I'd suggest you head home and try and get some sleep between now and then. You will have time on the plane to get briefed."
"Thank you sir! How long do I need to stop my mail for?"
"Its been stopped already. You're scheduled to be gone for about five days."
"Yessir."
Claire stood up, grabbed the away kit which was startlingly heavy and headed to her desk. The rest of the day was a blur. Attached to the outside of the kit was an itinerary and a business class airline ticket on Lufthansa. A quick glance at the itinerary showed no formal evening galas which helped her clothing selection in packing.
Like clockwork at 6 a knock on her apartment door woke her from a light sleep. Through the peep hole she saw a man in a stereotypical charcoal suit with an ID badge at head height that showed him to be Glenn Takahashi, CIA.
Claire opened the door. "You're my ride to the airport?"
"Yes ma'am."
Ma'am, she could get used that. He grabbed her suitcase but left the attache, as he took her things to the car. The clouds had rolled in throughout the afternoon and now a steady rain softly but insistently pelting every surface.
Claire saved Glenn the indignity of playing chauffeur and rode up front of the black GMC suburban next to him. The ride was fairly quiet except for the slip-slap of the wiper blades. Any attempt to elicit conversation out of Glenn ended in either a monosyllabic response or merely a grunt. Halfway through she buried herself in her phone sending e-mails that she hadn't gotten to before. Her attention was roused when instead of the ramp up to departing flights was missed and they began heading towards the freight airline entrance.
"I thought we were heading to Lufthansa?" she said keeping a smile in her voice.
"We are ma'am."
"Shouldn't we be going up to passenger drop off then?"
"No ma'am. I'm to take you directly to the plane."
They stopped at the main freight entrance in between large hangers for DHL and FedEx. A security guard sidled up to the car.
"Can I help you two?"
"Just need to get through." Glenn said and flashed his badge.
"I see. hang on." The guard glanced at his clipboard. "Right, and today's color is?"
"Mauve" Glenn replied cooly.
"Excellent, one second." The guard went into the tiny gate house and raised the gate. Seconds later, Glenn stopped the truck at the bottom of a massive refeuling Airbus.
"Here you are ma'am. Enjoy your flight. The flight crew is expecting you."
"Right, why all the rigamarole to get me in here? I'm not even under cover."
"Its far easier to take agents in through the freight entrance than it is to try and get your average TSA customs agent to respect proper credentials and not spend hours detaining agents. Again, ma'am enjoy your flight."
"Thank you, ah you too." Claire said then mentally kicking herself for the non-suave send off. A baggage handler was already unloading her suitcase onto the trolley of waiting luggage.
She took the stairs up the outside of the terminal bridge and joined the queue of passengers. It looked like boarding had been going for a while as the line was orderly and quiet. She picked up snippets of French and German on top of the low murmurings of English.
Thankfully it was a Tuesday evening and the flight wasn't booked. Claire found she had a window seat assigned and no partner in the seat next to her. The middle rows were empty as well. A couple sat in the far two seats on the other side of the plane.
The plane reached its cruising altitude. Most every light was turned off on the plane. Her seat was the only one for 10 rows bathed in a little pool of light.
The stewardess brought her a coffee and with slightly sweaty palms she realized it was time to open the away kit.
The first thing that she noticed when she opened it was the glint of a 9mm pistol and 4 clips of ammo. A new shiny cell phone lay next to one of the ammo clips. Next she opened an envelope containing a money clip with about $1500 in Euros and a Black American Express card with her name on it. A pin number was attached via pink sticky note to the front, granted she didn't think she'd have much trouble remembering 4,3,2,1. A card with the contact info of the American embassy was attached to some very stodgy looking papers that seemed to describe some limited diplomatic status.
The last thing in the case was an e-reader. She turned it on.
"Please place thumb and forefinger on either box on LCD screen" the message said.
She put her thumb and forefinger on the boxes and the reader chirped.
"confirming ID."
"ID confirmed, Newton, Claire. Security level 42."
"WARNING. The information contained within is considered eyes only. Any person or Persons viewing or attempting to view the information within this device without prior authorization will be subject to prosecution and extradition to the United States of America up to and including the charge of High treason. If you have accessed this device in error know that your actions have been flagged, logged and you now have 5 seconds to stop browsing."
"Seriously?" Claire whispered. Nothing was actually *that* CIA at the CIA she thought facetiously. There was a severe dearth of paperwork so far and she just thought of the volume that would be waiting for her when she got back.
The little device counted down 5 seconds and then opened up showing her a massive table of contents. Reports totaling 15,468 pages and close to 5,000 images were stored on the reader. It took her almost an hour just to mentally catalog all the information that was being presented.
She had just started her fourth cup of coffee when she stumbled across it.
In a sub-file labeled "Miscellaneous, Important?" she found a detailed copy of the Christmas card Andrew Booten had sent her the year before. There it was as clear as if it had still been sitting on her kitchen counter with the others.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Write About the Night Wind
The night wind swirled about her dress and tickled up her legs. She grabbed the front of her jacket and wrapped it tightly about her. JarDar had said to meet at midnight. Her watch said it was 12 exactly and she glanced about nervously at the shadows about her. Stamping her feet, she heard the sound of someone approaching and peered behind her.
"JarDar? Is that you?" she asked, turning about to face the form that was slowly taking shape before her. He was tall, at least six foot, but skinny. The wind whipped her hair about her face and she clawed at it angrily.
"JarDar?" she asked again.
The man stepped out of the shadows and lered at her. Then froze.
"Carissa?" he stammered.
"Stevie?" Carrissa countered, confused. "What are you doing here? Wait," she held up her hand and shook her head, "do not tell me you are JarDar."
The man before her shuffled his feet nervously. His prominent Adam's apple bobbed along his long throat and he pushed his glasses back up his nose.
"Um, yeah, it's JarDar now. You know, ever since I turned," he smiled at her weakly and scratched the stubble that grew in patches on his chin.
Carissa fell back a few steps, stunned. The wind died down but the rush of cars produced a few fumes that tried their best to imitate that dramatic night wind but failed. Miserably.
"Stevie, I'm stunned. I mean, actually stunned. You said on-line that you were this major mover in the Vamp world but, man, you're like, 24", Carrissa sighed. "I thought you'd be at least 100 years older than me and head of a nest or something. Not just," she gestured up and down at the kid before her, "Stevie."
"OK, listen. It's JarDar. Not Stevie. And maybe I'm not, like, ancient or anything, but I don't need this disrespect. I'm a Vamp. That part is totally true. How was I suppose to know that CarSS88 was the on-line name for my older sister's best friend. You came looking for a Vamp, right?. Well, you found one." JarDar pulled himself to his full emaciated height and began wiggling his eyebrows strangely.
"Jesus Stev, er, JarDar. Quit it. I remember you running around in Spider Man UnderRoos in third grade." She sighed and pulled out her notebook resigned to make the most from this lemon before her. "Let's just get this over with, ok? I have some serious questions and I need answers. No jerking around, right?"
JarDar ceased with the eyebrows and shoved his glasses back up in place, nodding.
Carissa licked her pencil and began.
"First, how were you turned," she asked him.
JarDar scratched another patch of chin hair.
"Well, I answered this online ad," JarDar began eagerly. "After I set up the auto-withdrawals from my PayPal account, I got a vile of vamp blood and directions on how to proceed. First, I..."
Carissa looked up and waved her pencil in his face, stopping him in mid-thought.
"Auto-withdrawl? What are you talking about Stevie?" she asked him.
"Vamp blood isn't cheap," JarDar began earnestly. "But DarkLord, my maker, was willing to mentor me and give me his precious life blood for twenty four easy payments of 69.99. That included a DVD and dietary supplement for free. He's totally cool that way. Normally the supplements alone would run..."
Carissa stopped writing and slumped against the lamp post next to her. The wind picked up again, blowing her hair and dress but she hardly noticed. Her major expose on the hidden Vampire world was crumbling before her eyes. As Stevie rambled on about needing SPF 45 to go out in the daylight, Carissa glanced about the street around her. A neon sign caught her eye. Devil's Den. Perfect. She turned on her heel and darted across the street heading for a stiff drink. She didn't notice Stevie follow or that the wind had turned vicious, almost pushing her across the street. The door flew open in her hand and she stumbled into the darkness before her.
"JarDar? Is that you?" she asked, turning about to face the form that was slowly taking shape before her. He was tall, at least six foot, but skinny. The wind whipped her hair about her face and she clawed at it angrily.
"JarDar?" she asked again.
The man stepped out of the shadows and lered at her. Then froze.
"Carissa?" he stammered.
"Stevie?" Carrissa countered, confused. "What are you doing here? Wait," she held up her hand and shook her head, "do not tell me you are JarDar."
The man before her shuffled his feet nervously. His prominent Adam's apple bobbed along his long throat and he pushed his glasses back up his nose.
"Um, yeah, it's JarDar now. You know, ever since I turned," he smiled at her weakly and scratched the stubble that grew in patches on his chin.
Carissa fell back a few steps, stunned. The wind died down but the rush of cars produced a few fumes that tried their best to imitate that dramatic night wind but failed. Miserably.
"Stevie, I'm stunned. I mean, actually stunned. You said on-line that you were this major mover in the Vamp world but, man, you're like, 24", Carrissa sighed. "I thought you'd be at least 100 years older than me and head of a nest or something. Not just," she gestured up and down at the kid before her, "Stevie."
"OK, listen. It's JarDar. Not Stevie. And maybe I'm not, like, ancient or anything, but I don't need this disrespect. I'm a Vamp. That part is totally true. How was I suppose to know that CarSS88 was the on-line name for my older sister's best friend. You came looking for a Vamp, right?. Well, you found one." JarDar pulled himself to his full emaciated height and began wiggling his eyebrows strangely.
"Jesus Stev, er, JarDar. Quit it. I remember you running around in Spider Man UnderRoos in third grade." She sighed and pulled out her notebook resigned to make the most from this lemon before her. "Let's just get this over with, ok? I have some serious questions and I need answers. No jerking around, right?"
JarDar ceased with the eyebrows and shoved his glasses back up in place, nodding.
Carissa licked her pencil and began.
"First, how were you turned," she asked him.
JarDar scratched another patch of chin hair.
"Well, I answered this online ad," JarDar began eagerly. "After I set up the auto-withdrawals from my PayPal account, I got a vile of vamp blood and directions on how to proceed. First, I..."
Carissa looked up and waved her pencil in his face, stopping him in mid-thought.
"Auto-withdrawl? What are you talking about Stevie?" she asked him.
"Vamp blood isn't cheap," JarDar began earnestly. "But DarkLord, my maker, was willing to mentor me and give me his precious life blood for twenty four easy payments of 69.99. That included a DVD and dietary supplement for free. He's totally cool that way. Normally the supplements alone would run..."
Carissa stopped writing and slumped against the lamp post next to her. The wind picked up again, blowing her hair and dress but she hardly noticed. Her major expose on the hidden Vampire world was crumbling before her eyes. As Stevie rambled on about needing SPF 45 to go out in the daylight, Carissa glanced about the street around her. A neon sign caught her eye. Devil's Den. Perfect. She turned on her heel and darted across the street heading for a stiff drink. She didn't notice Stevie follow or that the wind had turned vicious, almost pushing her across the street. The door flew open in her hand and she stumbled into the darkness before her.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
"The catalogue of my betrayals"
In room 112, the drapes were closed against the noon day sun. In futility, light tried to seep in along the gaps of the heavy polyester beige curtains, almost as if the sunshine ached to fill some of the void and lessen the gloom for the sole occupant inside.
Marcus sat in a vinyl rocker next to his bed. On the opposite wall was a dresser that had a digital clock and a wicker tray holding several small pill bottles. One small television was anchored to the wall across from his twin bed. The room was sparsely decorated, even for an antiseptic assisted living center. This particular center tried the modern approach of mimicking the residents’ former homes. The multipurpose room was now called a community living room, complete with a fireplace, bookshelves and cozy seating arrangements. The dining room had warm colors and intimate lights. But, the inviting décor couldn’t eliminate the sterile smell or erase the many wheelchairs and walkers that cluttered the building; although the thought was nice and showed some consideration for the harrowing transition of losing one’s home and independence.
Marcus had no use for homey details or for the centers’ many irritating activities. He didn’t want to socialize because he didn’t want folks in his business. At 83 years old and married 3 times, he felt the need to keep private details private. And he absolutely did not want anyone snooping around his many failed business ventures and severed relations with all six of his children. Life had disappointed him. There was no point in whining about it to others, or God forbid, eliciting anyone’s sympathy.
Marcus rarely got visitors, but earlier today, his granddaughter came. Carisa was 24 years old with short cropped blond hair and aquamarine eyes. He was fairly certain she got her beauty from her mother, a woman his third son was lucky to convince to the altar. Marcus didn’t know much about Carisa. He stopped paying attention to grandchildren quite a while ago, much to the relief of his children and ex-wives. So, he was curious about this unexpected visit.
Sighing in his rocker, Marcus rested his head on his hand, and reflected on his conversation with Carisa. It had been awkward with long silences and went along very superficially until Marcus could stand it no longer and demanded to know her reason for coming.
Carisa hesitated, and tried to speak. She seemed at a loss for words, fumbling for the right message. Finally she said, “I guess I wanted to see if you are as bad as they say you are.”
“Who says?”
“Well, everyone. My parents, grandma, Aunt Krista, Uncle Dan. They’ve made you out to be some hideous creature. I just couldn’t believe that my own grandpa could be so awful,” she said softy, staring down at her fingers wrapped in a tight ball.
“And what did you discover during this little field trip? Did I live up to their damnation?” Marcus said wryly.
Carisa stared at him for a moment. Then her face softened. “No,” she finally answered. “You don’t seem nearly as scary in real life as you do in those stories.”
Marcus chuckled. “Well, honey. I am an old man. Some of my fight is gone. But the catalogue of my betrayals is long and, I admit gut wrenching. If you opened it up and read any page, you would instantly know why my family loathes me. And, you would walk out that door and never come see me again.”
Carisa smiled, got off the edge of his bed and bent down to kiss his cheek. It had been years since Marcus had been kissed and he was flooded with memories of how good it felt to receive affection.
“I’ll be back. Keep the catalogue to yourself.”
Thinking back to her visit, Marcus shook his head at her naiveté. But he shuffled over to the window and opened the curtains to the noon day sun.
Marcus sat in a vinyl rocker next to his bed. On the opposite wall was a dresser that had a digital clock and a wicker tray holding several small pill bottles. One small television was anchored to the wall across from his twin bed. The room was sparsely decorated, even for an antiseptic assisted living center. This particular center tried the modern approach of mimicking the residents’ former homes. The multipurpose room was now called a community living room, complete with a fireplace, bookshelves and cozy seating arrangements. The dining room had warm colors and intimate lights. But, the inviting décor couldn’t eliminate the sterile smell or erase the many wheelchairs and walkers that cluttered the building; although the thought was nice and showed some consideration for the harrowing transition of losing one’s home and independence.
Marcus had no use for homey details or for the centers’ many irritating activities. He didn’t want to socialize because he didn’t want folks in his business. At 83 years old and married 3 times, he felt the need to keep private details private. And he absolutely did not want anyone snooping around his many failed business ventures and severed relations with all six of his children. Life had disappointed him. There was no point in whining about it to others, or God forbid, eliciting anyone’s sympathy.
Marcus rarely got visitors, but earlier today, his granddaughter came. Carisa was 24 years old with short cropped blond hair and aquamarine eyes. He was fairly certain she got her beauty from her mother, a woman his third son was lucky to convince to the altar. Marcus didn’t know much about Carisa. He stopped paying attention to grandchildren quite a while ago, much to the relief of his children and ex-wives. So, he was curious about this unexpected visit.
Sighing in his rocker, Marcus rested his head on his hand, and reflected on his conversation with Carisa. It had been awkward with long silences and went along very superficially until Marcus could stand it no longer and demanded to know her reason for coming.
Carisa hesitated, and tried to speak. She seemed at a loss for words, fumbling for the right message. Finally she said, “I guess I wanted to see if you are as bad as they say you are.”
“Who says?”
“Well, everyone. My parents, grandma, Aunt Krista, Uncle Dan. They’ve made you out to be some hideous creature. I just couldn’t believe that my own grandpa could be so awful,” she said softy, staring down at her fingers wrapped in a tight ball.
“And what did you discover during this little field trip? Did I live up to their damnation?” Marcus said wryly.
Carisa stared at him for a moment. Then her face softened. “No,” she finally answered. “You don’t seem nearly as scary in real life as you do in those stories.”
Marcus chuckled. “Well, honey. I am an old man. Some of my fight is gone. But the catalogue of my betrayals is long and, I admit gut wrenching. If you opened it up and read any page, you would instantly know why my family loathes me. And, you would walk out that door and never come see me again.”
Carisa smiled, got off the edge of his bed and bent down to kiss his cheek. It had been years since Marcus had been kissed and he was flooded with memories of how good it felt to receive affection.
“I’ll be back. Keep the catalogue to yourself.”
Thinking back to her visit, Marcus shook his head at her naiveté. But he shuffled over to the window and opened the curtains to the noon day sun.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
A Black and White photograph
Trevor picked up the black and white photograph out of the box a second time. This time the tears weren't those of hopeful joy but of abject loss.
Cindy stared back from the diamond frame at him. The picture had been taken only six months ago. Her long brown hair strewn halfway across the pillow. The playful smile making her eyes crinkle in that way he loved. He had snapped the picture casually, just playing around with the new camera that morning. The sunlight that highlighted half her face came in from an oblique angle from the big picture windows near the kitchen.
"This picture is only six months old" a semi-rational part of his brain reiterated, yet the yellowing around the corners despite teh diamond frame told otherwise.
He picked up the letter again and read it for the fifth time, still barely comprehending what was said. The stuffed 3 ring binder, left in the box with the food and first aid kits, supposedly corroborated it.
"Trevor,
They tell me you're not coming back, or if you are I won't be around to see you. I suppose deep down I knew this was a possibility. So much for hindsight right? Dr. Richards says that they're working night and day to figure out what went wrong. I hope he's successful but you've already been gone for 12 years and we haven't heard from you. We heard from your ship. Or rather we are still getting some sort of carrier signal according to Richards. I wish you would call us. Tell us you're all right. Tell us you made it safe and sound. I hope you get this probe. Congress has funded it... You're a hero back here.
Dr. Richards thinks that there may be time dilation involved between our end of the wormhole and that's what I tell myself. I come in every morning hoping that there's a new message from you but I know deep down that there never will be. I love you, Goodbye Trevor. I hope you are safe, wherever you are."
Trevor's eyes were misting up. He shook his head and looked over at the remains of his ship. It was still smoking, would never fly again that was for sure, but basically structurally sound. He had been lucky to arrive a few hours ago so close to a planet with an atmosphere he could breath on this side of the wormhole. The probe with the "package" he now sat next to had exited the hole a mere three seconds after he did. It had taken him hours to find the probe once he regained consciousness from the crash. It finally had struck him why all the dates were off from the packages inside. According to the computer several other probes had exited the wormhole hours ago while he was unconscious. Thankfully their transponders were still strong and he would find them soon enough.
His subconscious had already done the math and he knew he was in no hurry to send a message back home, if there was even someone there listening any more.
Three seconds between his ship's arrival and the first probe apparently equaled twelve years back home. It had taken him 45 minutes to traverse the wormhole. 2700 seconds had elapsed since he had entered the wormhole's entrance near Pluto and exited the hole wherever here was. Over ten thousand years had passed on Earth.
He looked at the black and white photograph again. There was a stain on one corner. "I'll love you always" inside a heart written in back.
Trevor picked up the binder from the box. The front page was a hastily scrawled note from Dr. Richards.
"Trevor
I hope this note finds you well. Know that we're working around the clock to bring you back but you've been gone for so long. Public interest, of course, has waned and these things do and to tell you the truth, we're having difficulty continuing funding for project Prometheus.
The signal from your ship, shows us that the time difference within the wormhole are significantly more extreme than any of our probe's data would have suggested. I apologize. This miscalculation will haunt me to the end of my days. You are a good man and will be missed.
By my estimation, this probe will likely land almost when you do. Stay safe and know that we won't forget you. Don't ever forget us!
It looks like there's a habitable planet nearby. You should have everything you need to survive.
-Dr. Samuel Richards"
10,000 years separated Trevor and the photograph in his lap.
Trevor stood up and took a deep breath of the thick loamy air. He had to shade his eyes looking up into the sky. The incandescent output of the wormhole cast a painful bluish tinge to everything. The wormhole itself resembled a whitish blue fire turned on its side, roiling from over head pointing down towards the horizon.
It was then that the portable radio unit on the rock near him began to buzz.
"Promethesezu hona kill're... Sodo freeha hiz" Trevor stared at it.
"Promethesezu hona kill're... Sodo freeha hiz"
Trevor walked over to the radio.
"This is Captain Trevor Sands of the ISS Prometheus do you copy. Over?"
Cindy stared back from the diamond frame at him. The picture had been taken only six months ago. Her long brown hair strewn halfway across the pillow. The playful smile making her eyes crinkle in that way he loved. He had snapped the picture casually, just playing around with the new camera that morning. The sunlight that highlighted half her face came in from an oblique angle from the big picture windows near the kitchen.
"This picture is only six months old" a semi-rational part of his brain reiterated, yet the yellowing around the corners despite teh diamond frame told otherwise.
He picked up the letter again and read it for the fifth time, still barely comprehending what was said. The stuffed 3 ring binder, left in the box with the food and first aid kits, supposedly corroborated it.
"Trevor,
They tell me you're not coming back, or if you are I won't be around to see you. I suppose deep down I knew this was a possibility. So much for hindsight right? Dr. Richards says that they're working night and day to figure out what went wrong. I hope he's successful but you've already been gone for 12 years and we haven't heard from you. We heard from your ship. Or rather we are still getting some sort of carrier signal according to Richards. I wish you would call us. Tell us you're all right. Tell us you made it safe and sound. I hope you get this probe. Congress has funded it... You're a hero back here.
Dr. Richards thinks that there may be time dilation involved between our end of the wormhole and that's what I tell myself. I come in every morning hoping that there's a new message from you but I know deep down that there never will be. I love you, Goodbye Trevor. I hope you are safe, wherever you are."
Trevor's eyes were misting up. He shook his head and looked over at the remains of his ship. It was still smoking, would never fly again that was for sure, but basically structurally sound. He had been lucky to arrive a few hours ago so close to a planet with an atmosphere he could breath on this side of the wormhole. The probe with the "package" he now sat next to had exited the hole a mere three seconds after he did. It had taken him hours to find the probe once he regained consciousness from the crash. It finally had struck him why all the dates were off from the packages inside. According to the computer several other probes had exited the wormhole hours ago while he was unconscious. Thankfully their transponders were still strong and he would find them soon enough.
His subconscious had already done the math and he knew he was in no hurry to send a message back home, if there was even someone there listening any more.
Three seconds between his ship's arrival and the first probe apparently equaled twelve years back home. It had taken him 45 minutes to traverse the wormhole. 2700 seconds had elapsed since he had entered the wormhole's entrance near Pluto and exited the hole wherever here was. Over ten thousand years had passed on Earth.
He looked at the black and white photograph again. There was a stain on one corner. "I'll love you always" inside a heart written in back.
Trevor picked up the binder from the box. The front page was a hastily scrawled note from Dr. Richards.
"Trevor
I hope this note finds you well. Know that we're working around the clock to bring you back but you've been gone for so long. Public interest, of course, has waned and these things do and to tell you the truth, we're having difficulty continuing funding for project Prometheus.
The signal from your ship, shows us that the time difference within the wormhole are significantly more extreme than any of our probe's data would have suggested. I apologize. This miscalculation will haunt me to the end of my days. You are a good man and will be missed.
By my estimation, this probe will likely land almost when you do. Stay safe and know that we won't forget you. Don't ever forget us!
It looks like there's a habitable planet nearby. You should have everything you need to survive.
-Dr. Samuel Richards"
10,000 years separated Trevor and the photograph in his lap.
Trevor stood up and took a deep breath of the thick loamy air. He had to shade his eyes looking up into the sky. The incandescent output of the wormhole cast a painful bluish tinge to everything. The wormhole itself resembled a whitish blue fire turned on its side, roiling from over head pointing down towards the horizon.
It was then that the portable radio unit on the rock near him began to buzz.
"Promethesezu hona kill're... Sodo freeha hiz" Trevor stared at it.
"Promethesezu hona kill're... Sodo freeha hiz"
Trevor walked over to the radio.
"This is Captain Trevor Sands of the ISS Prometheus do you copy. Over?"
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Lost in the shadows of a time past
I sit silent and forlorn on a dusty shelf in the basement. Long ago, I developed that dank, musty smell. Soon my thin delicate pages will meld together, a result of moldy adhesiveness.
I used to have a place of honor in this home. I sat proudly on an intricately carved cherry wood bookshelf in the living room, near the piano. Rarely a day went by that I was not opened and thumbed through. I was noticed when I was misplaced, and worried over when I once went missing and was ultimately found under Timmy’s bed. That was how much they needed me.
I miss being needed. I helped four Peterson children write essays, conduct research projects, and participate in science fairs. I felt their hands grow from pudgy kindergartners playing “school” with me as their favorite prop, to the strong broad hands of high schoolers digesting my pertinent knowledge.
I’ve heard the horror stories. My comrades have been sold at flea markets for $1.00. Many of us end up in model homes, solely for decorative effect. Apparently, leather bound books stacked sedately on end tables are currently the rage in home aesthetics. I guess it is better than where I am now. At least I’d have some purpose. The internet, with its instant overload of information has reduced me to a dusty research dinosaur, lost in the shadows of a time past.
I used to have a place of honor in this home. I sat proudly on an intricately carved cherry wood bookshelf in the living room, near the piano. Rarely a day went by that I was not opened and thumbed through. I was noticed when I was misplaced, and worried over when I once went missing and was ultimately found under Timmy’s bed. That was how much they needed me.
I miss being needed. I helped four Peterson children write essays, conduct research projects, and participate in science fairs. I felt their hands grow from pudgy kindergartners playing “school” with me as their favorite prop, to the strong broad hands of high schoolers digesting my pertinent knowledge.
I’ve heard the horror stories. My comrades have been sold at flea markets for $1.00. Many of us end up in model homes, solely for decorative effect. Apparently, leather bound books stacked sedately on end tables are currently the rage in home aesthetics. I guess it is better than where I am now. At least I’d have some purpose. The internet, with its instant overload of information has reduced me to a dusty research dinosaur, lost in the shadows of a time past.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Write About Staying Awake All Night
Seven sleeping bags were scattered about the room, strategically placed so the tops of each bag formed a perfect small circle.
Two video cassettes perched on top of the T.V. The Breakfast Club. Ghost Busters.
KROC was playing on the AM/FM radio softly counting down the Top Twenty Hits with Casey Casem. Number 12 was People Are People by Depeche Mode.
A book of Steven King short stories lay open on the floor.
It was Stasa's 13th birthday party and we were going to stay up all night. After the movies, after 43 busy signals from the KROC request line, after four scary short stories, after whispered secrets and gentle teasing, only three of the girls would sit together and watch the sun rise while the others slumbered on. Jean fell asleep first. She always did. But she was the sweetest so the others let her sleep. Karen dozed off next. Soon after Lisa declared the ground was too hard and grumpily pulled her bag away from the circle and up onto the sofa. No one knew when Sylvia feel asleep. They were all chatting and asked her a question. When she didn't answer, they drew closer and saw that her eyes were closed and she was snoring quietly. Maybe it was the snoring or the fact that she feel asleep in the middle of the gossip session that made the last three decide to write "I Love Kirk Cameron" all up and down her arms.
Stasa, Laura and I practically died trying to hold in our laughter. Our snorts started to get louder and fearing we would wake the others, we quickly grabbed our bags and pillows and headed out the sliding glass door onto Stasa's back deck. It was cold out. We each grabbed a plastic woven pool chair and wrapped our bags around our shoulders to keep warm. I pulled my feet up and rested my chin on my knees. The back porch looked out over the lights of LA that shone as far as the eye could see. We must have been pretty tired ourselves because we sat quietly for a while, each lost in thought, watching the sky warm and the stars fade. Sitting there, with my two best friends on either side of me, having beaten back the night, I smiled. Laura started singing "Hey Hey We're the Monkeys" and before I knew it, I had jumped to my feet, tossed off my warm wrap, and joined her.
Two video cassettes perched on top of the T.V. The Breakfast Club. Ghost Busters.
KROC was playing on the AM/FM radio softly counting down the Top Twenty Hits with Casey Casem. Number 12 was People Are People by Depeche Mode.
A book of Steven King short stories lay open on the floor.
It was Stasa's 13th birthday party and we were going to stay up all night. After the movies, after 43 busy signals from the KROC request line, after four scary short stories, after whispered secrets and gentle teasing, only three of the girls would sit together and watch the sun rise while the others slumbered on. Jean fell asleep first. She always did. But she was the sweetest so the others let her sleep. Karen dozed off next. Soon after Lisa declared the ground was too hard and grumpily pulled her bag away from the circle and up onto the sofa. No one knew when Sylvia feel asleep. They were all chatting and asked her a question. When she didn't answer, they drew closer and saw that her eyes were closed and she was snoring quietly. Maybe it was the snoring or the fact that she feel asleep in the middle of the gossip session that made the last three decide to write "I Love Kirk Cameron" all up and down her arms.
Stasa, Laura and I practically died trying to hold in our laughter. Our snorts started to get louder and fearing we would wake the others, we quickly grabbed our bags and pillows and headed out the sliding glass door onto Stasa's back deck. It was cold out. We each grabbed a plastic woven pool chair and wrapped our bags around our shoulders to keep warm. I pulled my feet up and rested my chin on my knees. The back porch looked out over the lights of LA that shone as far as the eye could see. We must have been pretty tired ourselves because we sat quietly for a while, each lost in thought, watching the sky warm and the stars fade. Sitting there, with my two best friends on either side of me, having beaten back the night, I smiled. Laura started singing "Hey Hey We're the Monkeys" and before I knew it, I had jumped to my feet, tossed off my warm wrap, and joined her.
Monday, July 11, 2011
In her fantasies about ________
In her fantasies about being a CIA agent, they never had involved this sheer magnitude of paperwork. When Claire Newton first started it was going to be ball gowns and diamonds and expense accounts in Monte Carlo. Feining a twitter of laughter as the Duke of Upperlower-Eastwestchester the fifteenth just delivered a particularly piercing bon motte towards the heir apparent Sultan of Siam her eyes would be constantly scanning the crowd for "the mark" so at the last minute she could scream at the duke "Down, that man has a gun!". She would simultaneously draw her service pistol hidden in one boot while upending an hor d'eurve tray with the other to deflect incoming bullets.
Now, six years later she spent another late night reviewing her expense reports from "abroad", the most recent exotic locale of which had been Ontario Canada. "Wet ops" where you even had a chance at that sort of fun were more and more being doled out to Army and Air force special agents. No one seemed to have need of a covert op any more.
Her most exotic posting had been the four day stint where she accompanied a UN ambassador to Western Sahara 1 year earlier. All four days had been spent in a windowless non-air-conditioned building in El Aaiun counting and correlating export records of some 16,483 telephone poles that the Moroccans had insisted on collecting from some obscure debt from World War Two 60 years later.
While there was a three pole discrepancy (Western Sahara had shipped three too many poles) the true thrill had come that night when the UN dignitary hadn't answered his door for dinner the night before they left.
She had knocked with no answer. The innkeeper hadn't seen him leave. They had considered themselves lucky that their rooms had window based air conditioning units. Not so lucky in that the rolling blackouts across the city had kept them turned off most of the day. She knocked again.
"Mr. Booten?" she announced cautiously. The door was unlatched and she pushed it gingerly trying to peek around it but also trying to maintain Andre's privacy.
Andre Booten was in his mid-60s and quite morbidly obese with quite the penchant for fine scotch and barring that any red wine he could get a hold of. Add to that his European propensity for wearing scarves no matter time of year and the fact that it had been a sweltering 124 degrees Claire was none too surprised to see him laying on the floor of his room wearing nothing but boxers, and undershirt and his signature scarf. His skin color was off however. He seemed paler than normal and a tipped over chair next to him made Claire's heart race a bit.
"Mr. Booten, I'm coming in, are you alright?" No answer.
She saw a broken bottle of scotch on the floor near the table, a glass still half clutched in his hand. His chest, however, was motionless. Clair flew into action, she put her cheek to the man's mouth. Heat yes, but no breath. Forefingers to the carotid artery showed no pulse. A quick search showed no other signs of foul play. She placed both hands on his ribcage. One and two and three and four and cover the nose and mouth blow. She watched the chest rise and fall. She kept reciting the ABC's of CPR in her head as she continued.
On the third cycle she saw Andre's eyes open wide, her mouth on his followed very shortly by an explosive gust of scotch and half digested shwarma and hummus from lunch. She had seen it coming quickly enough to at least move her head a few inches away and close her mouth, but still, even in retrospect, the thought still nauseated her. Andre Booten began coughing and sputtering, color returning to his cheeks. As soon as his airway was clear of lunch he began thanking her, in between wheezes, gasps, and hacking coughs.
In her fantasies about being a spy they had been so much more about dressed and guns and Monte Carlo, not sitting in a 120 degree room in Africa with a half naked man's half digested lunch and what appeared to be about 1/3 of a bottle of scotch drying on her best Liz Claiborne evening wear. She remembered trying to comfort him and barely managing to hold onto her own lunch for the hour and a half it took an ambulance to arrive. Over a year later she still couldn't look at glass of scotch without gagging or turning green. It had been a funny departmental holiday present exchange that year. Funny to everyone else at least.
Now a year later she looked over at the clock. 11 PM. And she hoped that El Aaiun wasn't going to be the most exotic or interesting part of her career.
Her cell phone chirped, breaking her concentration. Caller ID announced department head Iverson calling.
"Newton here."
"Claire, its Chris. Am I disturbing you?"
"Not at all, just going through some paperwork."
"Excellent. I need you to come into my office first thing in the morning. Clear your calendar for the next few days."
"Can I ask why?"
"Its about your old friend Andre Booten."
"I was just thinking about him. I need to go count some more telephone poles?" She hoped that came out as joking as she meant it and not sarcastically. Lack of enthusiasm for any assignment no matter how dull or depressing was a fast track for future desk-ville.
"He's dead."
"Really?" She wasn't completely surprised but more disappointed. He had sent her the best Christmas card that year. "Heart attack?"
"Surprisingly no. Car bomb. His car and three others seemed to be targeted outside The Hague earlier today, you can catch up on the public information on CNN right now I'll have a dossier in my office in the morning. You'll be heading to Holland shortly afterwards to liaise with Interpol."
"Yessir." She said but the other side had already hung up.
Now, six years later she spent another late night reviewing her expense reports from "abroad", the most recent exotic locale of which had been Ontario Canada. "Wet ops" where you even had a chance at that sort of fun were more and more being doled out to Army and Air force special agents. No one seemed to have need of a covert op any more.
Her most exotic posting had been the four day stint where she accompanied a UN ambassador to Western Sahara 1 year earlier. All four days had been spent in a windowless non-air-conditioned building in El Aaiun counting and correlating export records of some 16,483 telephone poles that the Moroccans had insisted on collecting from some obscure debt from World War Two 60 years later.
While there was a three pole discrepancy (Western Sahara had shipped three too many poles) the true thrill had come that night when the UN dignitary hadn't answered his door for dinner the night before they left.
She had knocked with no answer. The innkeeper hadn't seen him leave. They had considered themselves lucky that their rooms had window based air conditioning units. Not so lucky in that the rolling blackouts across the city had kept them turned off most of the day. She knocked again.
"Mr. Booten?" she announced cautiously. The door was unlatched and she pushed it gingerly trying to peek around it but also trying to maintain Andre's privacy.
Andre Booten was in his mid-60s and quite morbidly obese with quite the penchant for fine scotch and barring that any red wine he could get a hold of. Add to that his European propensity for wearing scarves no matter time of year and the fact that it had been a sweltering 124 degrees Claire was none too surprised to see him laying on the floor of his room wearing nothing but boxers, and undershirt and his signature scarf. His skin color was off however. He seemed paler than normal and a tipped over chair next to him made Claire's heart race a bit.
"Mr. Booten, I'm coming in, are you alright?" No answer.
She saw a broken bottle of scotch on the floor near the table, a glass still half clutched in his hand. His chest, however, was motionless. Clair flew into action, she put her cheek to the man's mouth. Heat yes, but no breath. Forefingers to the carotid artery showed no pulse. A quick search showed no other signs of foul play. She placed both hands on his ribcage. One and two and three and four and cover the nose and mouth blow. She watched the chest rise and fall. She kept reciting the ABC's of CPR in her head as she continued.
On the third cycle she saw Andre's eyes open wide, her mouth on his followed very shortly by an explosive gust of scotch and half digested shwarma and hummus from lunch. She had seen it coming quickly enough to at least move her head a few inches away and close her mouth, but still, even in retrospect, the thought still nauseated her. Andre Booten began coughing and sputtering, color returning to his cheeks. As soon as his airway was clear of lunch he began thanking her, in between wheezes, gasps, and hacking coughs.
In her fantasies about being a spy they had been so much more about dressed and guns and Monte Carlo, not sitting in a 120 degree room in Africa with a half naked man's half digested lunch and what appeared to be about 1/3 of a bottle of scotch drying on her best Liz Claiborne evening wear. She remembered trying to comfort him and barely managing to hold onto her own lunch for the hour and a half it took an ambulance to arrive. Over a year later she still couldn't look at glass of scotch without gagging or turning green. It had been a funny departmental holiday present exchange that year. Funny to everyone else at least.
Now a year later she looked over at the clock. 11 PM. And she hoped that El Aaiun wasn't going to be the most exotic or interesting part of her career.
Her cell phone chirped, breaking her concentration. Caller ID announced department head Iverson calling.
"Newton here."
"Claire, its Chris. Am I disturbing you?"
"Not at all, just going through some paperwork."
"Excellent. I need you to come into my office first thing in the morning. Clear your calendar for the next few days."
"Can I ask why?"
"Its about your old friend Andre Booten."
"I was just thinking about him. I need to go count some more telephone poles?" She hoped that came out as joking as she meant it and not sarcastically. Lack of enthusiasm for any assignment no matter how dull or depressing was a fast track for future desk-ville.
"He's dead."
"Really?" She wasn't completely surprised but more disappointed. He had sent her the best Christmas card that year. "Heart attack?"
"Surprisingly no. Car bomb. His car and three others seemed to be targeted outside The Hague earlier today, you can catch up on the public information on CNN right now I'll have a dossier in my office in the morning. You'll be heading to Holland shortly afterwards to liaise with Interpol."
"Yessir." She said but the other side had already hung up.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
They told me it would be like this
Something warm was dripping down Angie’s right arm. It slithered slowly and methodically down to her elbow where it dripped onto her khaki pants. She closed her eyes, too worn out to investigate. For the past 6 weeks, there had not been a day where some liquid did not expel from an orifice. In these blurry weeks, she had become well acquainted with various bodily fluids, some she never knew of before.
Before. It seemed so long ago. There was BC (before child) and AC (after child). BC was sleeping in on the weekends, dinners out, night clubs, plays, concerts, good sex. AC was sleepless nights, diapers, breast pumping, and bewitching hours where the baby cried for no obvious good reason. She probably realized she didn’t exactly win the Mommy lottery.
Angie had planned for this baby. At 34 years old, she had a respectable amount of maturity. She read all the books, took all the classes and faithfully swallowed every prenatal vitamin. But all those books amounted to horse manure when it came to preparing a new mom for the realities of newborn rearing. When she was pregnant, Angie had envisioned herself cuddling a peacefully sleeping baby; one with dark long eyelashes and full rosebud lips. Angie would be wearing a white cotton nightie, free of baby mucus, one strap slightly off her shoulder, her long chestnut hair slightly rumpled and cascading onto her clean smooth pillow. Basically Victoria’s Secret meets Earth Mother. She would be a natural. She and the baby would gaze adoringly at each other while she nursed perfectly.
In reality, Angie's hair was falling out in clumps, her eyes were puffy and lined from lack of sleep and stress. She lived in a stained gray sweatshirt and elastic pants, her belly still protruding over the waistband. The baby had two modes: screaming at the top of her lungs or projectile spit up.
Angie ruefully smiled as she remembered how her mom and older sister, as well as quite a few co-workers offered to organize postpartum meals for her. Angie had scoffed at this idea. There would be plenty of time to make wholesome meals while the baby slept contently in her lavender Moses basket. In fact, Angie informed them, she would love to meet them out for lunch or coffee. The baby would be quite happy being held at the table while they all caught up on each others’ lives.
The women’s sidelong glances and snorts of sarcasm should have been a clue. A few of them tried to set her straight before her due date, but she refused to take their advice seriously. “They told me it would be like this. Exhausting, overwhelming and frankly disgusting,” Angie muttered to herself as she wiped up baby spit up from her pants and arm. Thank God they did, because if they hadn’t, she would have felt like an utter failure, like the only woman in the world to have breakdowns over nursing and colic; the one freak woman who didn’t instantly love motherhood and bond effortlessly with her infant. Without these wise women kindly knocking her down a few notches, Angie would have kicked herself relentlessly for not living up to the unattainable.
Before. It seemed so long ago. There was BC (before child) and AC (after child). BC was sleeping in on the weekends, dinners out, night clubs, plays, concerts, good sex. AC was sleepless nights, diapers, breast pumping, and bewitching hours where the baby cried for no obvious good reason. She probably realized she didn’t exactly win the Mommy lottery.
Angie had planned for this baby. At 34 years old, she had a respectable amount of maturity. She read all the books, took all the classes and faithfully swallowed every prenatal vitamin. But all those books amounted to horse manure when it came to preparing a new mom for the realities of newborn rearing. When she was pregnant, Angie had envisioned herself cuddling a peacefully sleeping baby; one with dark long eyelashes and full rosebud lips. Angie would be wearing a white cotton nightie, free of baby mucus, one strap slightly off her shoulder, her long chestnut hair slightly rumpled and cascading onto her clean smooth pillow. Basically Victoria’s Secret meets Earth Mother. She would be a natural. She and the baby would gaze adoringly at each other while she nursed perfectly.
In reality, Angie's hair was falling out in clumps, her eyes were puffy and lined from lack of sleep and stress. She lived in a stained gray sweatshirt and elastic pants, her belly still protruding over the waistband. The baby had two modes: screaming at the top of her lungs or projectile spit up.
Angie ruefully smiled as she remembered how her mom and older sister, as well as quite a few co-workers offered to organize postpartum meals for her. Angie had scoffed at this idea. There would be plenty of time to make wholesome meals while the baby slept contently in her lavender Moses basket. In fact, Angie informed them, she would love to meet them out for lunch or coffee. The baby would be quite happy being held at the table while they all caught up on each others’ lives.
The women’s sidelong glances and snorts of sarcasm should have been a clue. A few of them tried to set her straight before her due date, but she refused to take their advice seriously. “They told me it would be like this. Exhausting, overwhelming and frankly disgusting,” Angie muttered to herself as she wiped up baby spit up from her pants and arm. Thank God they did, because if they hadn’t, she would have felt like an utter failure, like the only woman in the world to have breakdowns over nursing and colic; the one freak woman who didn’t instantly love motherhood and bond effortlessly with her infant. Without these wise women kindly knocking her down a few notches, Angie would have kicked herself relentlessly for not living up to the unattainable.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
A Dark Day In December
I stood in the middle of the lot to catch my breath and watch the rain puddle around my feet. I was cold, soaked and beyond miserable. Any vestige of Christmas spirit had been washed away long ago. Instead of being surround by the scent of freshly cut pine trees and the merry music of pull saws, all I heard was the splashing of mud and the constant drumming of rain. Christmas in the Northwest. Ho. Ho. Ho.
By now, all the trees looked the same. I wiggled my toes in their wet socks and peered up from my wet hood. Somewhere above me David and his parents tromped about eyeing the trees. They did not seem to mind the rain. Or the mud. Or the biting cold wind. No, they were one of those perpetual jolly families that brimmed over with helping hands and slaps on the back. I was suppose to be looking for the perfect tree. Instead, I was trying to keep myself as close to the hot cocoa house as possible so when this miserable ordeal was over I would be the first one out of this horrid weather. Not the best Christmas spirit but have I mentioned the rain? When I say Christmas, do you picture dark December skies and a downpour of biblical proportions or Bing Crosby jauntily singing about snow? Crosby all the way, right? Well, I had lost my ho ho ho after David had vetoed tree number 23. Apparently it had a large bald spot on the south side. Yeah, he was one of those guys with an infallible internal compass. I was pretty good at finding up and down but actual directions were beyond my keen. Apparently, tree picking was also out of my league. I sighed and tried to shake the water off my back. My adorable wool lined coat that was perfect for chilly San Diego nights was not holding up well. Who knew there was an actually difference between "water proof" and "water repellent". My poor Uggs were totally waterlogged and useless. And my hand knitted wool gloves were quickly regressing into a wet wad of animal fur.
I peered again up the hill against the rain. David and family were long gone. That hot cocoa was too tempting. I glanced about and turned tail and headed down the hill dodging firs and nobles and pines. I had almost made it to the bottom when disaster struck. My boots hit a slick spot and before I knew it I had landed butt first in a mud puddle right in front of the warming hut. My rear ached and my cheeks burned. I was done. Done! Gathering my soggy, shredded dignity, I rightly myself, ignored the snickers of the boys by the sales tent and marched to the warming barn. Neither mud nor rain nor cold could stand in my way. I was a girl with the need for cocoa that would not be denied. My only thought as I threw open the door was to wonder what was the protocol for breaking up with a boyfriend at a tree lot.....
By now, all the trees looked the same. I wiggled my toes in their wet socks and peered up from my wet hood. Somewhere above me David and his parents tromped about eyeing the trees. They did not seem to mind the rain. Or the mud. Or the biting cold wind. No, they were one of those perpetual jolly families that brimmed over with helping hands and slaps on the back. I was suppose to be looking for the perfect tree. Instead, I was trying to keep myself as close to the hot cocoa house as possible so when this miserable ordeal was over I would be the first one out of this horrid weather. Not the best Christmas spirit but have I mentioned the rain? When I say Christmas, do you picture dark December skies and a downpour of biblical proportions or Bing Crosby jauntily singing about snow? Crosby all the way, right? Well, I had lost my ho ho ho after David had vetoed tree number 23. Apparently it had a large bald spot on the south side. Yeah, he was one of those guys with an infallible internal compass. I was pretty good at finding up and down but actual directions were beyond my keen. Apparently, tree picking was also out of my league. I sighed and tried to shake the water off my back. My adorable wool lined coat that was perfect for chilly San Diego nights was not holding up well. Who knew there was an actually difference between "water proof" and "water repellent". My poor Uggs were totally waterlogged and useless. And my hand knitted wool gloves were quickly regressing into a wet wad of animal fur.
I peered again up the hill against the rain. David and family were long gone. That hot cocoa was too tempting. I glanced about and turned tail and headed down the hill dodging firs and nobles and pines. I had almost made it to the bottom when disaster struck. My boots hit a slick spot and before I knew it I had landed butt first in a mud puddle right in front of the warming hut. My rear ached and my cheeks burned. I was done. Done! Gathering my soggy, shredded dignity, I rightly myself, ignored the snickers of the boys by the sales tent and marched to the warming barn. Neither mud nor rain nor cold could stand in my way. I was a girl with the need for cocoa that would not be denied. My only thought as I threw open the door was to wonder what was the protocol for breaking up with a boyfriend at a tree lot.....
Friday, July 8, 2011
I remember once in ___________
So if I was supposed to go on the 4th then I needed to have gone again on the 7th but wound up too busy cleaning the kitchen floor. How sad is that? So to pre-empt Chrissie, I'm going on the 8th, with the 7th topic whether anyone likes it or not ;-)
__________________________________________
"You'll get used to it. The shaky knees, the butterflies. They don't go away altogether but you learn how to incorporate them..." Morris's eyes caught sight of a man in a charcoal suit and gold tie leaving the subway entrance. "Follow me, keep up, be close enough to hear but above all, don't be seen, we don't want to spook him."
Morris folded his newspaper, put his sunglasses on and began walking briskly towards the man in the gold tie. Lee counted to fifteen as he was taught, never turning his head to look at Morris, merely memorizing people as they bustled past the brownstone steps they had been sitting on so he could retrace Morris's route.
"13...14...15..." it was go time. Now or never. Lee wanted, more than anything, to feel the reassuring bulge of the gun in his shoulder holster, but that might have drawn undue attention. He walked quickly past miss Teen red hat towards Mr. running late with briefcase. He inched past the newlyweds taking up more than their fair share of sidewalk. At noon in the city, the sidewalks were packed with people. He had completely lost sight of Morris and Mr. Gold tie.
In his gray hoodie's pockets, his fingers kept busy count of the 23 people who had passed him while waiting for go time. By Lee's estimation he was now only a quarter block behind Morris and a half block behind Mr. Gold tie.
Seconds later he came up on Morris and MGT at a news stand. Both had their backs to each other. Morris was flipping through a racing form. MGT set a copy of Vogue in the the slot of Time and began to walk on. Morris followed.
Lee hurried over to the newsstand just as a bus was discharging its passengers, a startlingly large number of them heading towards the magazines.
He picked up Vogue from the Time slot and began flipping through it.
"What's your interest in the magazine?" the newsie asked.
"What?"
"Guy like you, dressed like that.." the disdainful emphasis on 'that', "comes running over, picks up a copy of Vogue, what's so interesting? You're the second guy to come over in five seconds."
"I, uh. I like the model on the cover."
"Yeah? What's her name?" The newsie's eyes narrowed.
Lee looked at the cover only to find it was a group shot. "This one" he pointed lamely. The butterflies in his stomach started flapping harder. An envelope slipped from the magazine onto the ground.
"What's that?" the newsie asked eyebrow raised. "Is that drugs? Wat are you doing?"
"No" Lee said, apparently not convincingly enough wile stooping to pick up the envelope. It was thin. Too thin. This wasn't right. The envelope was supposed to be a manilla envelope. This was just a regular white one, although filled with at least 8 sheets of paper.
"I don't allow druggies or pushers around here. Police!"
Lee swore to himself and stuffed the envelope in his hoodie pocket.
"POLICE!" the newsie was now shouting.
"Shut up! It ain't drugs." Lee threw the magazine at him and began walking off, fast but not too fast he hoped. "Always walk, never run" Morris had said. "People remember a runner. No one remembers a walker."
Lee rounded the corner, put the envelope in his front jeans pocket and removed the hoodie which went into the nearest trash can. He was wearing a green flannel vest and black t-shirt underneath.
He was half way to the rendezvous point traveling down an alley when he felt the hard metal gun barrel slide up under his vest from behind. Lee stopped, hands, not up, but not anywhere that could be misconstrued.
"you call that subtle? A newsie shouting for police, at least 23 witnesses?" Lee couldn't place the voice with its thick Brooklyn accent. A quick sidelong glance back showed a beat cop staring back at him.
"That was awful." The policeman took the envelope out of Lee's front pocket and stashed it inside his shirt."
"I remember once in Prague I almost screwed up this bad. Almost had to shoot 4 KGB, but that was back in the 60s and I had to do it all in pitch perfect Czech. And I had just been placed the day before. Kids... I go up against the KGB, you're taken down by a beat cop. You're from Jersey, this should have been a walk in the..."
Lee spun around hoping to catch the man unaware. He heard the click of the firing pin, and in the corner of his eye saw the officer squeeze the trigger, barrel still pointed squarely at Lee's core, Lee hadn't moved enough. A billion thoughts racing through his head, not the least of which was the fact that he hadn't registered the pain yet... Or the sound of a firing gun."
The officer caught his roundhouse before it came within inches of his face.
"Its a good thing this was just a training exercise otherwise this gun might have been loaded. I don't see what Morris sees in you. Better luck next time if there is one."
Lee stood back dumbstruck to be alive, or at least not plus one bullet writhing on the ground waiting to bleed out. MGT and Morris both came around the alley corner, MGT an inscrutable mask. Morris looking disappointed.
__________________________________________
"You'll get used to it. The shaky knees, the butterflies. They don't go away altogether but you learn how to incorporate them..." Morris's eyes caught sight of a man in a charcoal suit and gold tie leaving the subway entrance. "Follow me, keep up, be close enough to hear but above all, don't be seen, we don't want to spook him."
Morris folded his newspaper, put his sunglasses on and began walking briskly towards the man in the gold tie. Lee counted to fifteen as he was taught, never turning his head to look at Morris, merely memorizing people as they bustled past the brownstone steps they had been sitting on so he could retrace Morris's route.
"13...14...15..." it was go time. Now or never. Lee wanted, more than anything, to feel the reassuring bulge of the gun in his shoulder holster, but that might have drawn undue attention. He walked quickly past miss Teen red hat towards Mr. running late with briefcase. He inched past the newlyweds taking up more than their fair share of sidewalk. At noon in the city, the sidewalks were packed with people. He had completely lost sight of Morris and Mr. Gold tie.
In his gray hoodie's pockets, his fingers kept busy count of the 23 people who had passed him while waiting for go time. By Lee's estimation he was now only a quarter block behind Morris and a half block behind Mr. Gold tie.
Seconds later he came up on Morris and MGT at a news stand. Both had their backs to each other. Morris was flipping through a racing form. MGT set a copy of Vogue in the the slot of Time and began to walk on. Morris followed.
Lee hurried over to the newsstand just as a bus was discharging its passengers, a startlingly large number of them heading towards the magazines.
He picked up Vogue from the Time slot and began flipping through it.
"What's your interest in the magazine?" the newsie asked.
"What?"
"Guy like you, dressed like that.." the disdainful emphasis on 'that', "comes running over, picks up a copy of Vogue, what's so interesting? You're the second guy to come over in five seconds."
"I, uh. I like the model on the cover."
"Yeah? What's her name?" The newsie's eyes narrowed.
Lee looked at the cover only to find it was a group shot. "This one" he pointed lamely. The butterflies in his stomach started flapping harder. An envelope slipped from the magazine onto the ground.
"What's that?" the newsie asked eyebrow raised. "Is that drugs? Wat are you doing?"
"No" Lee said, apparently not convincingly enough wile stooping to pick up the envelope. It was thin. Too thin. This wasn't right. The envelope was supposed to be a manilla envelope. This was just a regular white one, although filled with at least 8 sheets of paper.
"I don't allow druggies or pushers around here. Police!"
Lee swore to himself and stuffed the envelope in his hoodie pocket.
"POLICE!" the newsie was now shouting.
"Shut up! It ain't drugs." Lee threw the magazine at him and began walking off, fast but not too fast he hoped. "Always walk, never run" Morris had said. "People remember a runner. No one remembers a walker."
Lee rounded the corner, put the envelope in his front jeans pocket and removed the hoodie which went into the nearest trash can. He was wearing a green flannel vest and black t-shirt underneath.
He was half way to the rendezvous point traveling down an alley when he felt the hard metal gun barrel slide up under his vest from behind. Lee stopped, hands, not up, but not anywhere that could be misconstrued.
"you call that subtle? A newsie shouting for police, at least 23 witnesses?" Lee couldn't place the voice with its thick Brooklyn accent. A quick sidelong glance back showed a beat cop staring back at him.
"That was awful." The policeman took the envelope out of Lee's front pocket and stashed it inside his shirt."
"I remember once in Prague I almost screwed up this bad. Almost had to shoot 4 KGB, but that was back in the 60s and I had to do it all in pitch perfect Czech. And I had just been placed the day before. Kids... I go up against the KGB, you're taken down by a beat cop. You're from Jersey, this should have been a walk in the..."
Lee spun around hoping to catch the man unaware. He heard the click of the firing pin, and in the corner of his eye saw the officer squeeze the trigger, barrel still pointed squarely at Lee's core, Lee hadn't moved enough. A billion thoughts racing through his head, not the least of which was the fact that he hadn't registered the pain yet... Or the sound of a firing gun."
The officer caught his roundhouse before it came within inches of his face.
"Its a good thing this was just a training exercise otherwise this gun might have been loaded. I don't see what Morris sees in you. Better luck next time if there is one."
Lee stood back dumbstruck to be alive, or at least not plus one bullet writhing on the ground waiting to bleed out. MGT and Morris both came around the alley corner, MGT an inscrutable mask. Morris looking disappointed.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Write about broken bones
I’ve never had a broken bone. Not a cast, not a stitch, not a single trip to the emergency room. My old cautious soul and hindering need to keep both feet on the floor have guided me through almost four decades of unremarkable health history. Sure, I’m grateful for a thin medical file, but I can’t help but wonder what exhilaration has alluded me as I let worry trump living.
On my bike, I brake all the way down the hill rather than let the winder rush through my hair. When I hike, I opt for the well traveled trail. I refuse all but the most infantile amusement park rides and only took a passing try at ice skating before an anxious inner voice cautioned me back into my tennis shoes. Instead of thinking “What might happen if?” I now think “What did I miss?” Maybe I would have wound up writhing in pain on the ice, or maybe I would have experienced an incredible feeling of joy as I glided across it. As I get older, I am resigned. I’ll never be a thrill seeker, but I regret my hesitations.
Perhaps I am being idealistic and placing way too much responsibility for my happiness on physical pursuits, but my fear of broken bones has led me to a rather constricting way of life. I don’t want to miss out on carnival rides or mountain biking with my son. Most of all, I don’t want to shackle him with fear of getting hurt.
In my next 40 years, I hope I can shake this apprehension, just a little. I hear roller blades are coming back into fashion.
On my bike, I brake all the way down the hill rather than let the winder rush through my hair. When I hike, I opt for the well traveled trail. I refuse all but the most infantile amusement park rides and only took a passing try at ice skating before an anxious inner voice cautioned me back into my tennis shoes. Instead of thinking “What might happen if?” I now think “What did I miss?” Maybe I would have wound up writhing in pain on the ice, or maybe I would have experienced an incredible feeling of joy as I glided across it. As I get older, I am resigned. I’ll never be a thrill seeker, but I regret my hesitations.
Perhaps I am being idealistic and placing way too much responsibility for my happiness on physical pursuits, but my fear of broken bones has led me to a rather constricting way of life. I don’t want to miss out on carnival rides or mountain biking with my son. Most of all, I don’t want to shackle him with fear of getting hurt.
In my next 40 years, I hope I can shake this apprehension, just a little. I hear roller blades are coming back into fashion.
She wore flowers in her hair
Author's note, since I thought I was going on the 4th I'm going to try my hand at this one even though I really liked Chrissie's. I had some ideas just no time for the 4th. And if I get a chance maybe I'll swipe Chrissie's entry for today ;-) So here we go:
----------------
Sally Nelson had always had time to stop and smell the flowers. As a girl she would spend endless summer days behind her house, exploring the fairy trails her uncle Max had called them. Most of the trails led to the creek about a quarter of a mile away from the back yard. In the summer, sunlight would dapple the moss covered rocks. The creek almost tried up would be a haven for tadpoles. All around morning glories would climb up the trees turning the green moss covered bark of ash and brown bark of cedar blue with their trumpet blooms.
Those flowers were most coveted because Sally's favorite color was blue. For most of the year she would have to settle for a dandelion behind each ear. When her brown hair was long enough to be styled into a bun, she toyed with the idea of a lone stalk of lupine rising up like a feather, although when ducking under branches to follow the fairy trails, dandelions were more robust.
Every once in a while she would run into Jeremy and his older brother Louis and their gaggle of friends. Sometimes she would play capture the flag with them, but usually she would sneak off on her own.
Her uncle Max had said that some fairy trails will put you to sleep. And some will take you to far away lands, but above all you should always be polite and courteous to whomever you meet because you never know if they are a prince or princess who are in need of help.
The thought of meeting a princess always excited Sally. A magic princess would be best of course. Maybe a princess who could teach her to fly, or one who could snap her fingers and her trusty steed would appear from behind a tree.
Usually when she was "'splorin" as she told her mom, she would try to gather up a handful of other flowers, just in case she met the fairy princess that day. Today was a wonderful flower day. A dandelion behind each ear, a tiger lily from mom's front yard tucked in the bun behind her head (and fastened with hair scrunchi's) and a handful of dandelions, bachelor's buttons and straw flowers she had taken from behind the lot where that new house was going up, she felt ready to meet any traveler along the fairy trails.
She heard the gaggle of boys cruise down the dirt trail on their bikes. She hid behind a tree as they went by. Only Chuck huffing and wheezing in last place might have seen her, but if he did, he was too intent to catch up to his friends to say something.
Today just felt different. Maybe the sun coming through the trees was a little more green. Maybe the thunderstorm from last night had made the creek run just a little higher than normal. She wasn't sure, but there was definitely something in the air.
Sally chose a relatively unused left fork today and came down to the bend in the creek. Her slip on shoes made very little noise as she walked through the brush. The smell hit her even before she made it to the clearing.
She had never smelled anything like it and held her handful of flowers up to her nose to try and mask the scent. She could barely describe the smell later to her mom. It was a mix of that time they had gone to Uncle Max's cow farm and the time the neighbor's St. Bernard Duke had gotten stuck under the house and was covered in leaves when they got him back out. The smell almost made her eyes water.
Bursting out of the trees she was intent washing her face with creek water because even that would smell better. She stopped short of the creek, nearly dropping her bundle of flowers. A bear was lapping water from the creek not 8 feet away from her. Sally stood still, terrified and looking at each matted hair of the bear that appeared to have not noticed her. Seconds crept on and curiosity overtook fear. It wasn't a bear. It was alternately lapping up water like Duke, and cupping its hands to drink. Suddenly, whatever it was, stopped drinking and crouched,looking around intently. Thick matted brown fur covered almost every inch of its body, except for its face, hands and feet. The face was almost human, the hands and feet definitely were.
It looked right at first, and Sally thought about running away, but then remembered what her Uncle Max had said.
"Excuse..." her voice gave out and the meek word died on her lips. The thing's head whipped around on a thick neck and it looked at her with golden eyes. It stood up suddenly, but wasn't much taller than Sally's 4 feet. Quickly it turned to face her full on, she could see the muscles bulging under the fur, its breath picking up. Its mouth opened slightly and she could see long pointed teeth in four corners of its mouth.
"Excuse me." she said trying to find any shred of confidence, as she knew she couldn't run faster than it. It sniffed the air the way Duke did with rapid short sniffs, but its eyes never left hers.
She slowly brought up her bundle of flowers and held them out as much of a shield as it was an offering. "Are you lost? Would you like a flower?"
It backed up a step as her arms came out, but then began to close the distance between them. The entire time it was sniffing the air. Step, sniff. Step, sniff sniff. Sally's eyes began to water when it got within four feet of the creature. It was the worst smell she had ever experienced. Even worse than the time her grandma had cooked liver and onions and lima beans. Her arms lowered slightly and the tears in her eyes turned from the pungent smell to fear.
In a heartbeat, whatever it was and plucked out three bachelor's buttons and all the dandelions from her bundle and retreated a few feet away. Before she could protest it had popped all the dandelions into its mouth and seemed content to chew them while examining the bachelor's buttons.
A few seconds later it stood up and darted back to her. This time it got so close its breath tickled her ears and ruffled her hair.
"Stop that!" she giggled and moved back up the trail. It moved back a few feet and watched her.
"Would you like some more dandelions?" She pulled the dandelions out of her hair, fear abating somewhat. And held them out. Like lightning it swiped the dandelions out of her hand and popped them in its mouth. A crack of the brush across the creek whipped sally's attention from the thing in front of her to the much larger thing across the creek. She had decided that the thing next her was a gorilla, escaped from the zoo, but the the thing across the creek was so much bigger. That "gorilla" was several feet taller than her dad. Its hand grabbing a tree branch so high off the ground it would have taken Jeremy and Louis all day to devise a way to climb up to it. The near "gorilla" looked over then loped its way towards the other one. Seconds later both had disappeared into the trees.
She left the rest of her flowers next to the creek and came back later that day with an armful of dandelions. The next day she came back to see the dandelions still there. Thankfully at this time of year, it was easy to replace the old harvest with new. She added a few flowers too, to see if they were taken. Her mom told her that night that roses, nasturtium and a whole lot of other flowers in the garden were edible and much to her mother's chagrin, the next day most of the edible ones had vanished from the garden to be bundled into a little package.
On the third day when she went to check on the flowers, there was no sign of her bundle. The dandelions, roses, nasturtium, all were gone. In place of the package was a single flower with multiple shades of blue, some shades she had never seen before and it smelled so sweet she just had to take out the dandelion she was wearing and put the new flower in her hair.
----------------
Sally Nelson had always had time to stop and smell the flowers. As a girl she would spend endless summer days behind her house, exploring the fairy trails her uncle Max had called them. Most of the trails led to the creek about a quarter of a mile away from the back yard. In the summer, sunlight would dapple the moss covered rocks. The creek almost tried up would be a haven for tadpoles. All around morning glories would climb up the trees turning the green moss covered bark of ash and brown bark of cedar blue with their trumpet blooms.
Those flowers were most coveted because Sally's favorite color was blue. For most of the year she would have to settle for a dandelion behind each ear. When her brown hair was long enough to be styled into a bun, she toyed with the idea of a lone stalk of lupine rising up like a feather, although when ducking under branches to follow the fairy trails, dandelions were more robust.
Every once in a while she would run into Jeremy and his older brother Louis and their gaggle of friends. Sometimes she would play capture the flag with them, but usually she would sneak off on her own.
Her uncle Max had said that some fairy trails will put you to sleep. And some will take you to far away lands, but above all you should always be polite and courteous to whomever you meet because you never know if they are a prince or princess who are in need of help.
The thought of meeting a princess always excited Sally. A magic princess would be best of course. Maybe a princess who could teach her to fly, or one who could snap her fingers and her trusty steed would appear from behind a tree.
Usually when she was "'splorin" as she told her mom, she would try to gather up a handful of other flowers, just in case she met the fairy princess that day. Today was a wonderful flower day. A dandelion behind each ear, a tiger lily from mom's front yard tucked in the bun behind her head (and fastened with hair scrunchi's) and a handful of dandelions, bachelor's buttons and straw flowers she had taken from behind the lot where that new house was going up, she felt ready to meet any traveler along the fairy trails.
She heard the gaggle of boys cruise down the dirt trail on their bikes. She hid behind a tree as they went by. Only Chuck huffing and wheezing in last place might have seen her, but if he did, he was too intent to catch up to his friends to say something.
Today just felt different. Maybe the sun coming through the trees was a little more green. Maybe the thunderstorm from last night had made the creek run just a little higher than normal. She wasn't sure, but there was definitely something in the air.
Sally chose a relatively unused left fork today and came down to the bend in the creek. Her slip on shoes made very little noise as she walked through the brush. The smell hit her even before she made it to the clearing.
She had never smelled anything like it and held her handful of flowers up to her nose to try and mask the scent. She could barely describe the smell later to her mom. It was a mix of that time they had gone to Uncle Max's cow farm and the time the neighbor's St. Bernard Duke had gotten stuck under the house and was covered in leaves when they got him back out. The smell almost made her eyes water.
Bursting out of the trees she was intent washing her face with creek water because even that would smell better. She stopped short of the creek, nearly dropping her bundle of flowers. A bear was lapping water from the creek not 8 feet away from her. Sally stood still, terrified and looking at each matted hair of the bear that appeared to have not noticed her. Seconds crept on and curiosity overtook fear. It wasn't a bear. It was alternately lapping up water like Duke, and cupping its hands to drink. Suddenly, whatever it was, stopped drinking and crouched,looking around intently. Thick matted brown fur covered almost every inch of its body, except for its face, hands and feet. The face was almost human, the hands and feet definitely were.
It looked right at first, and Sally thought about running away, but then remembered what her Uncle Max had said.
"Excuse..." her voice gave out and the meek word died on her lips. The thing's head whipped around on a thick neck and it looked at her with golden eyes. It stood up suddenly, but wasn't much taller than Sally's 4 feet. Quickly it turned to face her full on, she could see the muscles bulging under the fur, its breath picking up. Its mouth opened slightly and she could see long pointed teeth in four corners of its mouth.
"Excuse me." she said trying to find any shred of confidence, as she knew she couldn't run faster than it. It sniffed the air the way Duke did with rapid short sniffs, but its eyes never left hers.
She slowly brought up her bundle of flowers and held them out as much of a shield as it was an offering. "Are you lost? Would you like a flower?"
It backed up a step as her arms came out, but then began to close the distance between them. The entire time it was sniffing the air. Step, sniff. Step, sniff sniff. Sally's eyes began to water when it got within four feet of the creature. It was the worst smell she had ever experienced. Even worse than the time her grandma had cooked liver and onions and lima beans. Her arms lowered slightly and the tears in her eyes turned from the pungent smell to fear.
In a heartbeat, whatever it was and plucked out three bachelor's buttons and all the dandelions from her bundle and retreated a few feet away. Before she could protest it had popped all the dandelions into its mouth and seemed content to chew them while examining the bachelor's buttons.
A few seconds later it stood up and darted back to her. This time it got so close its breath tickled her ears and ruffled her hair.
"Stop that!" she giggled and moved back up the trail. It moved back a few feet and watched her.
"Would you like some more dandelions?" She pulled the dandelions out of her hair, fear abating somewhat. And held them out. Like lightning it swiped the dandelions out of her hand and popped them in its mouth. A crack of the brush across the creek whipped sally's attention from the thing in front of her to the much larger thing across the creek. She had decided that the thing next her was a gorilla, escaped from the zoo, but the the thing across the creek was so much bigger. That "gorilla" was several feet taller than her dad. Its hand grabbing a tree branch so high off the ground it would have taken Jeremy and Louis all day to devise a way to climb up to it. The near "gorilla" looked over then loped its way towards the other one. Seconds later both had disappeared into the trees.
She left the rest of her flowers next to the creek and came back later that day with an armful of dandelions. The next day she came back to see the dandelions still there. Thankfully at this time of year, it was easy to replace the old harvest with new. She added a few flowers too, to see if they were taken. Her mom told her that night that roses, nasturtium and a whole lot of other flowers in the garden were edible and much to her mother's chagrin, the next day most of the edible ones had vanished from the garden to be bundled into a little package.
On the third day when she went to check on the flowers, there was no sign of her bundle. The dandelions, roses, nasturtium, all were gone. In place of the package was a single flower with multiple shades of blue, some shades she had never seen before and it smelled so sweet she just had to take out the dandelion she was wearing and put the new flower in her hair.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
She Wore Flowers in Her Hair
The surf curled around Leilani's feet and tickled her ankles. Before her, the sun shone on the waves, the reflection dazzling her eyes and making her squint at the horizon. Kali'i was out there somewhere. Her toes curled down into the cold sand and she tucked her wild hair back behind one ear careful not to dislodge the flower tucked there. For him. For three weeks, Kali'l had brought her treasures from the sea. A soft pink shell curled upon itself. A thick ahi still gasping for breath. A pupu'i shell decorated with small dark dots. These he left quietly by her door. Of course, everyone knew it was him. The tutus tittered behind their wrinkled brown hands and smiled their knowing gap-tooth smiles at her when she awoke to find these gifts laid before her. Her younger brothers and sisters teased her every time Kali'i walked by. She fell the blush rise to her cheeks just thinking of him. He was tall and broad shouldered. His hair curled across his forehead and he wore a puka shell necklace across his dark throat given to him by his grandfather. His smile was kind she thought. And while they had never spoken directly to each other, Leilani was sure that his heart was too. She had seen him playing with Manolo, her brother, in the waves and they way he listened respectfully to the elders. Yes, Kali'i was kind. The sun's rays seemed to brighten and then, rolling over the top of a wave, she saw his canoe headed toward shore. With nervous, twitching fingers, she tried once again to rake her hair into place, touching gently the pikake flower nestled in her curls. Its scent drifted about her, sweet and settling. This morning she would not let Kali'i leave his gift in silence. This morning she would speak to the man who would be her pilikua, her husband. The thought brought a small smile to her face and a thrill to her heart.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Riding The All Night Train
The seats are worn. They have been patched with duct tape but even that has split leaving behind a gooey residue that smears the back of the thigh. It was hot today. I spent the last few hours lifting each leg off the torn leather seat. My sweat seems to act as some sort of sticking devise so my thigh seems reluctant to part company with the seat. A slow, wet, squelch greets my every shift. But the evening has brought cool relief at last. I press my head against the glass window and close my eyes. In stories, trains seems to gently rock people to sleep. But for me, I find the constant motion nauseating. Rolling side to side and bumping up and down together makes my stomach ache and after 13 hours, there is nothing bucolic about this train ride. I tell myself I am half way there but the comfort is slight at best. Around me people shuffle and sigh. A baby cries somewhere ahead of me and I want to join in. But I'm too big for that now. Instead, I grind my teeth, wrap my arms around my middle, and will the cool glass against my forehead to sooth the rest of my body.
Friday, July 1, 2011
This is what was overheard
The GROVER (Gamma Ray Observatory Verification Enhancement and Research) satellite hung in space, seemingly unmoving although its actual velocity relative to earth was close to 20,000 kilometers an hour. Its long solar collectors pointed towards the sun, its radio dish pointed towards the earth which the sun would occlude in another three months. After that, the satellite would be on its own for another two.
The satellite's main job was to track gamma rays and other highly charged particles from the space, its far orbit putting it outside the earth's zone of impact so its readings could be as close to natural as possible.
At this distance it took signals from earth almost 15 minutes to reach it, and its return signals an equal time. However in the constant night of space there was never anything so important that a 30 minute round trip couldn't handle. Almost nothing as it turned out.
On a typical day its detectors would pick up the faint but constant static ticking of gamma rays as they traveled the hundreds or thousands of light years from stars and supernovas. Tick then silence. Tick tick, then silence. In its fifteen year life the most busy day had been a super nova in the right arm of Sagittarius as NGC-15550283 had gone nova. It had registered a burst of twelve gamma rays over an hour's period.
Almost one hundred and seventy million miles away Sheldon Tavish dropped his half eaten subway sandwich on the console. Over the span of two bites, his station had gone from all green lights to amber to red and finally watching the real time data stream end in a "connection terminated" warning on his screen.
He began pouring over the incoming data. There was a flood of it. Much more than normal. He turned the gamma ray detection output to audio to hear the gamma detectors go from the sound of the first stages of popcorn being popped to in the span of about 30 seconds the roar of the ocean, then nothing.
After three days of sending the reboot sequence Sheldon's team gave up trying to contact the wayward satellite. It just wasn't responding any more. Jerry, over in mechanical systems, had put up the temperature gauge screen and they watched as the temperature gauges went from the 3 degrees Kelvin of space to 10 to 20 to 40 to 80 eventually surpassing the tested range of the thermometers. Sheldon kept pouring over the gamma ray data.
Four days later and the last video picture had been deciphered, the camera had automatically swung towards the first fault and began snapping images in timed intervals. The images were that of the port solar collector ending in a smooth edge, some sort of material fluorescenceing in a trail perpendicular to the probe, the vapor trail growing as the solar collector shrank.
By sunrise of the fifth day, Sheldon took his glasses off ran his fingers through his hair and tried to stifle a yawn. The readouts just didn't make sense. It was like the probe had passed through something that had ended up melting the entire craft and ripping it apart into its component atoms.
The amount of data that came in over the probe's last thirty seconds had been incredible. It had filled up all bandwidth channels. In fact there was so much data that the probe had automatically shut down its incoming channels from NASA to use those for outgoing broadcast as well.
Sheldon stopped massaging his temples and looked again at the reams of paper telemetry that had been spat out of the computer.
"Singh," Sheldon called, "Singh, come over here a sec would you?"
"What's going on? You finally find which battery faulted and caused the meltdown?"
"No, look at this. See this little cluster of gamma rays here?"
"Right, that's where we think the plutonium casing got cracked by the micrometeorite the probe hit."
"Yeah, but look, here's a same cluster and here, and here. Its a pattern that gets repeated."
"So the CMOS chip got stuck. It was a catastrophic meltdown man."
"No, no no look." He shuffled the papers. "look, there's that pattern, now look at this bigger pattern here. And then a bigger pattern here."
"So its just the feedback from all the CMOS chips as they wink out."
"Are you sure? Because doesn't this pattern look like something else?"
"Well on the surface it looks like a broadcasting sine wave. But its way too complicated and way to powerful to be TV or even Military."
"Bingo!"
"You need some sleep. You think you just picked up on E.T. Radio? I thought those SETI guys said anything ET would send would be in the microwave band not in gamma rays. Sheldon think how much power it would take to send any meaningful information via gamma rays. Then add that to the odds and incredibly off chance that poor little GROVER happened to intercept it? The numbers of zeros alone boggle the mind"
"They do but the SETI guys assume that ET has the same power problems we do. What if ET doesn't worry about fossil fuels. What else melted GROVER that also contains data like this?"
"A micrometeorite hit the plutonium casing and there was a small fission reaction."
"GROVER had time to call for help. He winked out slowly over 30 seconds from the left solar panel thru the body to the right. A fission reaction would have taken it out in less than a second and from the center. Look, the temperature gauges didn't all heat up uniformly. If you look at the telemetry it looks like GROVER hit the edge of something that got denser the further in it went. My estimate was that this is a concentrated gamma ray beam about 10 kilometers across."
"Keep dreaming man. There's nothing we can do about it now. Take your papers home and we'll meet about it on Monday."
Sheldon shuffled out, papers in tow. He wasn't heading home that was for sure. He needed to make a quick stop by a friend of his.
Five years and countless man and computer hours later Sheldon became vindicated. The 30 seconds of data had proved we were not alone. In five years Sheldon and his friend from the SETI team had figure out that A) the beam GROVER flew through had contained as much data in each second of transmission as the entire earth had generated since radio was discovered. B) that there was more to decode in "Sheldon's 30" as it became known as than would ever be understood in his life time. and C) when the time came for the first indication of what we had overheard ET saying, that it would be Sheldon's turn to announce it to the world.
He looked nervous up at the podium. It had been decided that the UN would be the best place to make such a historic announcement. The auditorium was silent. Five years and one phrase had been teased out of the code.
"Before I start, I uh, just wanted to, uh, thank everyone on my team and the generous donations from Microsoft, Apple and Sun for the computing power and for all the linguist specialists." He realized he was mumbling. "Um, look this is going to be difficult. I know according to the last Pew poll that, like, 67% of the world thinks we faked this. And..." He stopped and sipped from a glass of water." "And um. Well. um. I don't think this is going to help sway you. And before I... I'm just going to read it. We've been able to translate one phrase so far from the data. There's a bit of context missing but we've got a shitload of. Oh, oh crap, can I say that at the U.N.? Um, sorry, we have a boat load of other markers so we think its accurate, or as accurate as we can turn it into english and..." He saw Singh motion for him to hurry up from the front row.
"So ah the phrase, um that we translated is: Sirius Sentients 22, Orion 18. Um, that's it. We think we over heard ET announcing some sports scores." With that the entire auditorium broke into shouting and chatter.
The satellite's main job was to track gamma rays and other highly charged particles from the space, its far orbit putting it outside the earth's zone of impact so its readings could be as close to natural as possible.
At this distance it took signals from earth almost 15 minutes to reach it, and its return signals an equal time. However in the constant night of space there was never anything so important that a 30 minute round trip couldn't handle. Almost nothing as it turned out.
On a typical day its detectors would pick up the faint but constant static ticking of gamma rays as they traveled the hundreds or thousands of light years from stars and supernovas. Tick then silence. Tick tick, then silence. In its fifteen year life the most busy day had been a super nova in the right arm of Sagittarius as NGC-15550283 had gone nova. It had registered a burst of twelve gamma rays over an hour's period.
Almost one hundred and seventy million miles away Sheldon Tavish dropped his half eaten subway sandwich on the console. Over the span of two bites, his station had gone from all green lights to amber to red and finally watching the real time data stream end in a "connection terminated" warning on his screen.
He began pouring over the incoming data. There was a flood of it. Much more than normal. He turned the gamma ray detection output to audio to hear the gamma detectors go from the sound of the first stages of popcorn being popped to in the span of about 30 seconds the roar of the ocean, then nothing.
After three days of sending the reboot sequence Sheldon's team gave up trying to contact the wayward satellite. It just wasn't responding any more. Jerry, over in mechanical systems, had put up the temperature gauge screen and they watched as the temperature gauges went from the 3 degrees Kelvin of space to 10 to 20 to 40 to 80 eventually surpassing the tested range of the thermometers. Sheldon kept pouring over the gamma ray data.
Four days later and the last video picture had been deciphered, the camera had automatically swung towards the first fault and began snapping images in timed intervals. The images were that of the port solar collector ending in a smooth edge, some sort of material fluorescenceing in a trail perpendicular to the probe, the vapor trail growing as the solar collector shrank.
By sunrise of the fifth day, Sheldon took his glasses off ran his fingers through his hair and tried to stifle a yawn. The readouts just didn't make sense. It was like the probe had passed through something that had ended up melting the entire craft and ripping it apart into its component atoms.
The amount of data that came in over the probe's last thirty seconds had been incredible. It had filled up all bandwidth channels. In fact there was so much data that the probe had automatically shut down its incoming channels from NASA to use those for outgoing broadcast as well.
Sheldon stopped massaging his temples and looked again at the reams of paper telemetry that had been spat out of the computer.
"Singh," Sheldon called, "Singh, come over here a sec would you?"
"What's going on? You finally find which battery faulted and caused the meltdown?"
"No, look at this. See this little cluster of gamma rays here?"
"Right, that's where we think the plutonium casing got cracked by the micrometeorite the probe hit."
"Yeah, but look, here's a same cluster and here, and here. Its a pattern that gets repeated."
"So the CMOS chip got stuck. It was a catastrophic meltdown man."
"No, no no look." He shuffled the papers. "look, there's that pattern, now look at this bigger pattern here. And then a bigger pattern here."
"So its just the feedback from all the CMOS chips as they wink out."
"Are you sure? Because doesn't this pattern look like something else?"
"Well on the surface it looks like a broadcasting sine wave. But its way too complicated and way to powerful to be TV or even Military."
"Bingo!"
"You need some sleep. You think you just picked up on E.T. Radio? I thought those SETI guys said anything ET would send would be in the microwave band not in gamma rays. Sheldon think how much power it would take to send any meaningful information via gamma rays. Then add that to the odds and incredibly off chance that poor little GROVER happened to intercept it? The numbers of zeros alone boggle the mind"
"They do but the SETI guys assume that ET has the same power problems we do. What if ET doesn't worry about fossil fuels. What else melted GROVER that also contains data like this?"
"A micrometeorite hit the plutonium casing and there was a small fission reaction."
"GROVER had time to call for help. He winked out slowly over 30 seconds from the left solar panel thru the body to the right. A fission reaction would have taken it out in less than a second and from the center. Look, the temperature gauges didn't all heat up uniformly. If you look at the telemetry it looks like GROVER hit the edge of something that got denser the further in it went. My estimate was that this is a concentrated gamma ray beam about 10 kilometers across."
"Keep dreaming man. There's nothing we can do about it now. Take your papers home and we'll meet about it on Monday."
Sheldon shuffled out, papers in tow. He wasn't heading home that was for sure. He needed to make a quick stop by a friend of his.
Five years and countless man and computer hours later Sheldon became vindicated. The 30 seconds of data had proved we were not alone. In five years Sheldon and his friend from the SETI team had figure out that A) the beam GROVER flew through had contained as much data in each second of transmission as the entire earth had generated since radio was discovered. B) that there was more to decode in "Sheldon's 30" as it became known as than would ever be understood in his life time. and C) when the time came for the first indication of what we had overheard ET saying, that it would be Sheldon's turn to announce it to the world.
He looked nervous up at the podium. It had been decided that the UN would be the best place to make such a historic announcement. The auditorium was silent. Five years and one phrase had been teased out of the code.
"Before I start, I uh, just wanted to, uh, thank everyone on my team and the generous donations from Microsoft, Apple and Sun for the computing power and for all the linguist specialists." He realized he was mumbling. "Um, look this is going to be difficult. I know according to the last Pew poll that, like, 67% of the world thinks we faked this. And..." He stopped and sipped from a glass of water." "And um. Well. um. I don't think this is going to help sway you. And before I... I'm just going to read it. We've been able to translate one phrase so far from the data. There's a bit of context missing but we've got a shitload of. Oh, oh crap, can I say that at the U.N.? Um, sorry, we have a boat load of other markers so we think its accurate, or as accurate as we can turn it into english and..." He saw Singh motion for him to hurry up from the front row.
"So ah the phrase, um that we translated is: Sirius Sentients 22, Orion
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