Author: RTNM

The Doppelganger
(a piece of flash fiction)

Sara cautiously made her way down the narrow hall to the bathroom.  Another Wednesday, another hangover.

The mirror, the same one that had (at least apparently) been there for decades, refused to cooperate this day.  Voices, both real and imagined, emanated from the cured and processed sand.  This is it; this is the moment for which you were born.  Listen.

Those elusive dimensions of reality (and layers of pseudo-reality), unseen and not experienced by normal human beings, became suddenly and inexplicably evident.  A ghostly apparition (I think they are called wraiths) appeared in the fourth, fifth, and sixth dimensions of what once was a two-dimensional surface.  Sara looked around the room and sensed…nothing.  It was the mirror, that was the portal…that was where the spirit was.  With one glance, an image, one whose physical presence was comforting and yet strangely unfamiliar, filled the surface.

A Picasso-esque figure, defined only by the shadows, not the form, appeared.  Had someone (a creator perhaps?) taken an image and changed it in remarkable ways?  Is that what happened?  Sara instantly understood (though she did not know how) that the shades of grey defined the figure’s essence.

Look, look at her.  This is it; this is what you have been waiting for.  Don’t hesitate.  Approach her; you must not waver.  A three-dimensional creature being mocked by an ethereal six-dimensional being, does that confuse you?  Try to free your mind; you are better than this.  Oh, I see; you were hoping for something different, perhaps something more tangible?  Guess again.

Author’s Note: Imagine waking up and meeting your destiny in a bathroom.  Not very sexy and indeed not the stuff of legend.  It might not even be indicative of sanity.  At this exact point, Sara was convinced she was losing her mind.

The ghostly figure, the one that existed only in the extra-dimensional world of the mirror, posed and preened as Sara stared silently.  She began to realize how the other dimensions worked in concert with the mind and matter of her limited reality.  It was like a Mozart concerto; sublime and elegant, powerful and yet entirely elusive to those untrained in the art of nuance.  Sara did not have the experience to understand what was happening.  None of this was her fault.

Sara tried to touch her tormentor.  Her hand went into the mirror but then disappeared into the extra dimensions.  She had no sense of direction; there was nothing she could do to guide her wayward limb.  A tear ran down Sara’s cheek as she was overcome.

She stood silent and still in front of the mirror, her rational mind exploring its other half.  She was only aware of the extra dimensions when looking at the mirror; the rest of the room appeared normal.  She tried to turn away but she couldn’t.  On a most fundamental level, Sara was entangled with the image in the mirror.

The wraith finally spoke. “Tell me something,” she said. “Tell me anything.” Sara tried to open her mouth but could not.  She searched her being but came up empty.  Her breathing grew fast and heavy as all energy left her body.  She fell to the floor.

Sara Langford, having just had the most intense experience of her life, tried to pick herself up.  The wraith, as they are prone to do, faded into one of those elusive dimensions that regular humans do not have access to.  There the creature remains, totally dismissive of the woman who, even though she looked nothing like her, was her doppelganger.  Here Sara Langford remains, struggling for the words to tell anyone who will listen what happened to her one Wednesday morning in March.

Father Time
(a short story)

The mound was wet; puddles of water surrounded the deep groove where the pitchers landed as they tossed the ball toward home plate.  It sure seemed like the last of the rain had cleared out, at least that is what the local weatherman claimed.  If the Iroquois Iroquoian management showed a little patience, the game would play.

People from both teams were milling about, constantly checking the sky in search of any blue.  A few fans were in the stands, a handful covered in garbage bags, one huddling under an oversize umbrella.  The umpires were in a circle with an intern for the team, a young woman named Karen.  The group broke up, and the umpires pointed to the players.  “Alright, let’s go.”

The game was on.  I felt my stomach knot up as I realized they were actually going to play.  This assignment was an easy one…on paper.  All I had to do is watch the game and write an article for tomorrow’s paper.  My problem was of a different sort.  I was anticipating something unusual.

Twenty-five years ago, I witnessed a perfect game at a small minor league field in a one-stoplight town in Pennsylvania.  The pitcher was a lefthanded knuckleballer named Cyrus Free.  He appeared to be much older than the youngsters he was pitching to.  A lot older.  Rumor had it that Free was going to take the bump tonight for the Iroquois Iroquoians.

I could get no information from the team.  They weren’t required to announce starting lineups; after all, this was low-level minor league baseball.  As an independent team, the Iroquoians weren’t bound by any league rules or protocols.

I needed a normal day, an uneventful game.  I didn’t like hearing about Cyrus Free; I didn’t want to stay up late, struggling to meet my deadline.  And I knew if Free were pitching, he would be the story regardless of what happened on the field.

I tracked down Karen and, after the unusual pleasantries, I asked her if the rumors were true; I asked if Cyrus Free was pitching.  She smiled and nodded a quick yes and then disappeared into the team’s trailer.

I don’t know what else I can tell you as background to my tale.  The following ran in The Iroquois Iroquoian the next morning.

BYLINE: Thomas Pepperidge

Father Time Impossibly Masterful

Cyrus Free, known henceforth to this reporter as Father Time, did something last night no reasonable person could ever have imagined.  He pitched an Immaculate Game.  Yes, you heard right.  He threw 81 pitches to 27 batters.  Of course, this was also a perfect game, but that is beside the point.  Father Time struck out every batter he faced on three pitches.

You will often hear baseball people say that one of the great things about going to the ballpark is that you can see something you have never seen before.  While most games are mundane, outs made, hits recorded, popcorn sold, there are those rare exceptions.  Last night at Iroquoin Field, I witnessed something I thought impossible.  I still can’t believe what I saw.

Father Time took the mound at the top of the first inning.  He dug around the rubber with his left foot, looking for the perfect launch point.  His large belly hung over his belt, his long white hair tucked behind his ears, forming a tangle that went halfway down his back.

As the first batter approached the plate, Father Time rolled his head about his neck and adjusted his glove.  His windup was peculiar; his arm movements exaggerated as his back turned toward the batter, his eyes directed to dead center.  He gesticulated in random ways as he turned to release a knuckleball.

The ball traveled slowly, much slower than I thought possible.  Its arc inconceivable.  The batter produced a mighty swing.  He spun around and landed on home plate.  His face turned red as his teammates razzed him from their dugout.  Eight more pitches, all exacting with the same result, and the inning was over.

An Immaculate Inning.   I had never dreamed of such a thing.  Sure, it has happened a handful of times in big league history, but it is much rarer than a perfect game.  In other words, good luck trying to see it in person.

The second inning was the same, as was the third.  Something unexpected (as if any of this is normal) happened in the fourth inning.  The most exciting play of the game occurred with two outs in the fourth.  The batter, hysterically overmatched, swung and missed for strike three.  The ball bounced off the catcher’s chest and rolled down the third baseline.  The runner took off for first base.  The catcher lunged for the ball, flipping it toward the third baseman.  A faster runner would have made it to first, but this one did not.  David Whitman, as good a third baseman as you will find in independent ball, threw a pill to first base.  He beat the runner by a quarter step.

Let’s step back and appreciate what I have written.  Father Time threw an Immaculate Game.  He struck out every batter he faced on three pitches.  Foul balls?  None.  Not a single batter managed to nick a pitch.  Wood never touched horsehide.  Unbelievable.  If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t believe it either.

The final score was Iroquois Iroqouoians 3, Battle Park Fighting Battlers 0, but who cares.  Father Time showed up last night and pitched.  He was sinister (and not just because he is left-handed), sublime, otherworldly.  I remain undone.  I am not the type to make appeals to the supernatural, but…

After the story ran, people from all over the world contacted the paper for more information.  Of course, all were skeptical.  No one could conceive that an old man, or any man, could do such a thing.  They thought the story was an April Fools’ joke even though it ran in July.  I didn’t bother to tell anyone about the perfect game I saw the same man throw 25 years earlier.  And yes, I thought he was old then.

I was faced with a dilemma.  There were only a handful of people in the stands that day.  The radio announcers, such as they were, didn’t bother to show up.  Consequently, there was no broadcast.  They simply assumed the game was rained out (At least, that is what they told me).  What about Battle Park?  They denied that the game was ever played.  Immaculate Game?  What are you talking about?  We didn’t even play that day.

Sure, the Iroquoian management and players all stood behind me.  They knew what happened.  The question became one of veracity.  The tale being told was so extraordinary that no one wanted to believe that the realm of the possible could include an Immaculate Game pitched by a mysterious old man.

As the story goes, my professional reputation took a big hit.  I was (and still am) accused of unimaginable things.  I pay little attention to the hatred.  I walk with my head high; all I did was tell the truth.

You may be wondering about Father Time.  Of course, I tried to find him; all I found were rumors about a band of superior humans that all came from Iroquois County.  Some called them genetic mutants; others said their DNA was not human to begin with.  One person mentioned over and over was a tennis player people knew as The Cheetah.  I had serious people tell me he was the greatest player ever.  A few said he was the most outstanding athlete they ever laid eyes on.

Then, of course, is Buford Lister, perhaps the greatest poker player ever to sit at a felt table.  The list went on and on.  A handful of physicists, a couple dozen mathematicians, too many musicians to mention, poets, novelists, you get the idea.  I was reminded of what I already knew, Iroquois County has more than its fair share of world-class overachievers.  That I knew, I think everyone knows there is something in the water in Iroquois County, Ohio.

As for Father Time, one guy from South County told me he went to high school with a fellow who had magical baseball skills.  He told me he has never seen a knuckleball dance like that.  He swore I must have been talking about this man when I described the pitcher I saw.  Santos McClelland played 12 years in the big leagues.  Santos McClelland is 85 years old…

I don’t know what to think.  I don’t believe in mass delusions, nor do I believe in supernatural beings who manifest themselves to determine the outcome of minor league baseball games.  What do I believe in?  I believe in Father Time, and it doesn’t surprise me that he remains dominant, untouched, and undefeated.

THE MEETING
(a piece of flash fiction)

The tall, lean man stumbled into the room.  It was too dark to see much of anything.  His squinting pushed his eyebrows down into the frames of his coke bottle eyeglasses.  An eyelash got caught in the frame.  The pain was brief, yet unwelcome, as he tried to get his bearings.  As his eyes watered, the room grew darker, unnaturally dark.

The voice came from all directions.  It was high-pitched, inexplicable, certainly not human.  Disoriented, he tried to pinpoint the origin but was unsuccessful.

“There, over there, look.  Hurry, or you will miss her.  I can’t tell you how important this is, please listen to me.”

“It is too dark to see.  What is this?  Who are you?  How did I get here?  What do you want with me?”

He started to feel dizzy as he sensed it, the draw, the implied come-hither look from a woman he could only sense.  His rational mind fighting a losing battle with his caveman brain, he steeled himself, trying to turn his fear into anger.

He struck a boxer’s stance, left foot forward, perfectly balanced with clenched fists as he imagined what sort of creature might be in the room with him.  Suddenly a gentle tap on his shoulder and two handmaidens, illuminated in dull beige light, appeared before him.  One pointed to the other and then dissolved into nothingness.

The remaining entity looked deep into the man’s eyes.  She is beautiful.  Those are the most piercing eyes I have ever experienced.  As his fear diminished, he knew that his little part of the world would never be the same.

He tried to remain calm, enraptured by the floating apparition.  She casually pointed to her left and then disappeared into oblivion.

The man suddenly found himself in a room full of unfamiliar people.  Those to his left were frozen; the people to his right were moving in exaggerated slow motion.  The music, so loud, was suspended on a single power chord (maybe one of those Lillith Faire chords?).  With a short wave of his hand, the man was able to silence the music.  It was then that he saw her.

One moment in time, unlike all the others, novel and unexpected.  He didn’t recognize her, but he knew she was responsible for this.  She was the puppeteer, the power broker, the instigator.

Waves of energy were radiating off her, seeming to intensify as they traveled across the room.  Bliss, pure bliss.  What is this?  Who is she?  He grew more intoxicated as he realized she was not frozen; she was moving toward him.  She walked in a reckless, destructive manner; her approach calculated and mesmerizing.

“Your life as you knew it is over,” a detached voice said as the woman drew closer.  “I must tell you to listen to her, the stakes are very high.  Of course, you can do what you want, but I strongly suggest you pay attention.”

The man, confused and fearful, sensed he was in trouble.  His intuition (some would say a spirit guide) told him to ignore the bizarre voice and run.

“She is going to be more of a problem than a solution.  You don’t need this.  The devil wouldn’t manifest as a demon; it would look like her.”

The battle of words and wits continued.  “Grab her right now.  Kiss her and tell her how long you have been waiting for her.”

“No, you idiot, don’t do that.  What the hell is wrong with you?”  “She is going to be gone soon; you are probably never going to see her again.  Ask her if you can kiss her.”

“Can’t you see what is going on here?  You must run.”

Just as the woman reached him, she turned her cheek and continued on her journey.  He could feel her presence as she walked across the room and out the door.  He found himself breathing heavily as the people in the room came back to life.  No one bothered to ask him if he was OK, if he was in need of assistance.  After a few minutes, his breathing returned to normal, and he started to collect himself.

You are reading a dreadful tale, one cautionary in nature.  A story where the actors all die before the climax, and no one can figure out the point. Consider every ex machina ever conceived, synthesize them, and then hit print.  That is what the tall, lean man with the coke bottle eyeglasses was left with.

The man spent years trying to rationalize an irrational encounter.  He finally convinced himself that he met the face of creation, an otherworldly creature traveling through space and time.  He kept his tale to himself, not wanting to bother humanity with his anxieties.  He simply deemed himself unlucky to be at the same place and time as her.  He knew the odds of such an encounter were astronomical, but he refused to give it any profound meaning.  He stopped asking why a long time ago; his only issue was that he couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

 

The Mirror
(a piece of flash fiction)

I once heard that if you stare at a mirror long enough, your face will eventually disappear; it will fade into one that you had in a previous life.  The same people who told me this also believe that the world is infested with demons of varying degrees of wickedness.  The implication was that you better have a Bible by your side when you start your quest.

Author’s Note: I don’t own a Bible.

Yesterday was a bad day.  I was trying to write, but I couldn’t think of a damn thing to type, so I gave up.  Ten beers later, I gave in to my temptation.  You know what I did, right?

I stood in front of my reflection for a long, long time.  Nothing, nothing, and more stillness, and then it happened, the surprise, the thing I never could have imagined.  As I stood there trying to get my old, ragged face to fade away, I realized something, a notion both curious and profound — a thought at once deeply disturbing, elusive, and yet powerful.  I couldn’t move, paralyzed with both frustration and anticipation.

Sure, I have missed her every day since I met her; I came to terms with that a long time ago — what a disturbing lesson, the fact that you can meet someone only once and miss them.  The mirror told me something different, though, something that…

As my concentration deepened, I still saw the same old face that has always looked back at me; the big difference this time was that I realized that I was alone, really alone.  As I began to contemplate my fate, the mirror started to curve in on itself, enclosing me in a cylinder.  It was terrifying.

I knew that not only was she never going to be beside me; I knew that there was never going to be two sets of eyes looking back.  I knew that the cold, harsh breeze to my left was going to remain.  The goosebumps forming on my arms grew in lockstep as hope diminished.

It was then that the mirror told the whole story; it was only then that the image and the demons responsible for generating it began their exposition.  This is what they said; spoken in an unnatural verse, untamed and chaotic.

How does it feel?  Tell us, please.  Do you still miss her?  How bad does that make you feel?  Look again, if you have the guts.  Do you see it? 

 What is the problem?  Are you not ready for the truth?  Steel yourself, you pathetic human.  We can not feel sorry for you; even if you deserved our sympathy, our thoughts mean nothing.  They change nothing.

Look back…way back, and you will see the truth, the only nonfiction of your meaningless life.  We can tell that you understand.  Now you must go.

The next thing I knew, I was struggling to lift myself off the floor. My body convulsed as I was overcome by their message.  I passed out, not waking until the following day.

Cause and effect mean nothing to me now.  Linear consequences to actions are nothing more than fanciful notions like unicorns, pixies,  and soulmates.  I instantly knew what the demons meant; their message was simple and straightforward; they wanted me to realize that I missed her before I met her.

 

The WRB Project

I am apparently managing a rock band that is currently getting airplay in Norway.  I say apparently because I know next to nothing about the business side of the music industry.  I do know that many musicians are in dire financial straights right now due to the pause in touring.  It is tough to make money from CDs, streaming, or mp3 downloads.  The musicians I know all tell me the money is on the road.  They have to tour to generate income.

So, how did I, an illusion conjured up by some other guy, get to be the manager of a rock band?  As always, there is a story.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  I am a big fan of the movies of Wes Anderson.  He is an auteur, and I greatly appreciate his vision.  Last night I rewatched The Grand Budapest Hotel.  During this viewing, I was paying particular attention to how he framed each shot.  I was also keeping an eye on his use of color.  For our purposes, the setting is a drab, empty dining hall of a once magnificent hotel.  You are asked to imagine me as F. Murray Abraham sitting across from Jude Law as I tell my story, such as it is.

My tail begins in 1979.  It is early morning, before the start of school.  I drive to Billy Bessant’s house to pick him up so that we can get a run in before the school day begins.  In the fall of 1979, I was a senior, and Billy was a freshman.  We were teammates on the cross country team.

That is how I met Billy, also known as William R. Bessant, the WRB of The WRB Project.  My only point is that we have known each other for a long time.  I also knew his brother (great guy) and Dad (a true character who always brightened my day when I saw him).  We can now move the story forward forty years or so.

A few years back, I ran into Billy and his wife, a woman known affectionally as Yoko (not her real name), at one of my favorite restaurants.  I had only seen Billy a few times since I left high school.  I knew he had been in some bands, and I knew he played bass.  He told me he had been making music in his home studio, and he offered me a CD of 7 or 8 instrumental tracks.  I took it home and listened to it over and over.  Each song was good, professionally done.  I liked the music.

Had I met Billy a few years earlier, I don’t know what would have happened.  I certainly would have listened to the music, but I might not have had any ideas on how to get the music heard.  That leads me to (of all people) Pattie Boyd, a woman who is famous for her marriages to Eric Clapton and George Harrison.  For reasons unknown, I read her autobiography some years ago.  I probably read it because three beautiful songs were written for and about her: Something, Layla, and Wonderful Tonight.  I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

After reading that book, I decided to read Clapton’s autobiography.  When I finished the book, I took a deep dive into his music.  I was familiar with most of it, but I wanted to see what else was out there.  I dialed up YouTube and clicked on a random Clapton playlist.  As I was working with Clapton as background, I glimpsed the screen.  All that was there was a picture of him with a guitar.  No video was included.  Also, the picture did not shuffle through various images; it remained static—one solitary image for hundreds of minutes of music.

After I had listened to Billy’s CD dozens of times, it occurred to me that I could create a channel for his music and post a video of each song.  I had no idea how to do that, but I figured it must not be difficult.  So I set up the channel and immediately came across a big problem.

Billy was always known as WRB.  I did a Google search and found hundreds, if not thousands, of people or groups going by WRB.  No one would ever be able to find Billy’s music if he went simply by WRB.  As a long-time fan of Alan Parsons, Joe Perry, and The Simpsons,  I knew what to do.

How many times have I referenced The Simpsons in a post?  Too many to count.  It wasn’t hard at all to find a relevant quote for this post.  Homer is definitely versed in music, and in one episode (Homerpalooza), he schooled his kids on the history of rock and roll.  Here is his insight.

Grand Funk Railroad paved the way for Jefferson Airplane, which cleared the way for Jefferson Starship. The stage was now set for The Alan Parsons Project, which I believe was some sort of hovercraft.

That is how The WRB Project was born.  There are no plans for a hovercraft, but I am not opposed to the idea.  If any manufacturers are reading this, leave a message, and I will get back to you.  The WRB Project Hovercraft does have a nice ring to it.

The first “videos” I posted were nothing more than pictures cycling through the screen like they do on an electronic picture frame.  They were easy to make and presented no problems when I posted them.  Then an exciting and unexpected thing happened; people started to view the videos, lots of people—hundreds and then thousands and then 10s of thousands.  It was time to up the production value.

I always wanted to learn video editing.  The opportunity had never come up until I decided to take a hard look into making videos for the music.  I started watching tutorials and reading everything I could get my hands on.  Before long, I built myself a new computer to handle the load.  Video editing is very resource-intensive; it brought my old computer to its knees.  The new one is doing fine.

We shoot the videos with whatever cameras we have available.  I have found that the camera on my phone is better than anything I have ordered off Amazon.  We shoot everything in one take with a budget of zero.  As you might imagine, COVID hasn’t helped the situation.  It has made shooting very difficult; many of the things I want to do have been put on hold.

I just checked the views for The WRB Project, and the total number is approaching 40,000.  That is about 40,000 more than I thought we would get.  It’s not that the music isn’t good; it is. It’s just that it is easy to get lost in the shuffle in today’s market.  I have heard people argue that if The Beatles were a present-day band, there is a chance their music would go unheard and unappreciated.  Such is the lot of an artist in the world today.

If you happen to be in Norway (or have an internet connection), there is a radio station in Bergen that has Say Goodbye in heavy rotation.  The song is being played 12 times a day.  As of yet, I have not been contacted by any agents for Norwegian supermodels, but hope springs.

As of today, The WRB Project is composed of WRB (Billy Bessant), Justin Thompson, and Stickman (Richard Palm).  More music is being created, and I hope the fan base continues to grow.  The guys deserve it; all three are incredibly talented.  If they weren’t…well, you get it.

 

An Open Letter (she knows who she is)

Hello,

I don’t need you to write me back.  I am conflicted about that.  [You can’t believe the problems I had writing the next couple sentences.  No matter what I tried, I could not get them right.  I have decided to punt.  I will simply eliminate those words, end the paragraph in its original form, and move on.]  As it goes, I am helpless when it comes to what you might or might not do, so do as you will, be it your worst (or your best), I am in no position to bargain.

I guess the main issue is, “why?”  I remember you asking me that question years ago.  Of course, I couldn’t tell you at the time.  In retrospect, I think the answer is pretty damn obvious, and it would have been redundant for me to say anything.  Unfortunately, I am old enough to know that The Old Scratch is usually in the details.

If I recall correctly, you once said, “I don’t understand why you are so upset!”  Just so you know, I was upset, distraught, agitated, you name it.  More than that, I was mad as hell.  I guess you are still waiting for the “why,” aren’t you?

When I lived in that place back east (you know the one), I could sit at a table with 9 other people and quickly realize I was the 10th most interesting person in the room.  When I left and returned to Hillybilly Land, that was no longer the case.  I quickly realized there was no one to talk to, no one to have a reasonable conversation with…and then, out of nowhere, came you.  Meeting you was unexpected.  What is the opposite of hyperbole?  Whatever it is, I believe I have mastered it.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:  Yeah, I searched around, and the only thing I could find was “understatement” in the antonym lists.  There should be more options, don’t you think?  And yes, I do know what hypobole is, but I can’t bring myself to type it (even though I just did).

As you know, I used to be in the business of mentoring special young people.  Why would I do such a thing?  It is straightforward; I had often thought about how different my life would be if I had known the adult version of myself when I was a teen.  I didn’t know any such person, and I suffered because of it.  I certainly do not blame anyone; how could they have known what I was thinking or what I was capable of?  They couldn’t.  Nothing to see here; let’s move along.  Let’s talk about you and the impact you had on my life.

I tend to pride myself on my ability to recognize raw ability. It was clear to me that you were very talented.  That part wasn’t hard to figure out; I was more than willing to invest my time and energy into such a person.  And, yeah, I really liked having you around.  The complications came later.

It never occurred to me that I would wake up one day to a revelation, an unexpected and unwelcome one.  It wasn’t my intention; I never should have let it happen.  It is all my fault.  I certainly knew better.  I just didn’t realize what was transpiring until I was out of the shallow.  I vividly remember the morning when I knew I had let something unacceptable happen.  It was a flash, an insight that still makes me shake my head.  It arrived just as I was standing up and putting on a shirt.  Damn it all.

So, this is “why” I got so angry.  I am a person that does not allow himself to look forward to things.  Maybe it is a Zen influence; perhaps I just figured out long ago that it is hard to be disappointed if you never look forward.

Against my better judgment, I was looking forward to that night.  The last time we were there, I got inspired; I mean really inspired.  I had such a good time with you that I went home and wrote eight chapters of a novel I had been working on.  I couldn’t stop typing.  I was curious to see if the same thing would happen that night.  As the story goes, we never made it there.

I was so disappointed, but not in you.  It was all my fault.  I knew better.  I still don’t understand how I got in that situation.  It never should have happened, and that is entirely my doing.  The problem is that sometimes we find ourselves as passengers in our own lives.  There is no fork in the road to consider or wheel to grab.  Time simply compels us to act even though we are oblivious to the consequences.

Then, of course, came the hard part.  I decided that I had to do what was best for me.  You were well on your way; you certainly didn’t need me.  You were on the proper path with a future that would be as brilliant as you wanted.

As you get older, you will understand that the only thing each of us can do is our best, especially when we are out over our skis.  Did I fail you?  I don’t know.  I did what I thought was right.  Was I right?  I have no idea.

I have often written about a problem I have with the universe.  Evolution and natural selection make it clear that the universe is not cruel; it is simply indifferent.  When something like this happens, it makes me take pause.  I am always inclined to link indifference to cruelty; after all, I have firsthand experience of what happened.  I can’t see a single reason why such a fiasco was orchestrated in the first place.  People always say everything happens for a reason.  Really?  I will sit patiently as I wait for the universe to give me any insight it feels fit.  Before I go, I must admit that I told a lie earlier, not a big one, just a little white one.  The Old Scratch isn’t usually found in the details; The Old Scratch is always in the details.

 

 

Say Goodbye

Here is the latest from The WRB Project.  This song is getting airplay in Norway.  Give it a listen, I think you will like it.

 

 

The Immigrants
(a piece of flash fiction)

 

Rosemary had no idea what she was doing.  The thing is: How is someone supposed to know they might get burnt when they have no idea someone threw a lighter in the campfire?

It was just a simple request, more of a suggestion really, made to her writing group. “Write a 500-word story about an immigrant family from somewhere in Latin America.  My best friend came from a Latin country, and I want to write something about her so…500 words…GO!” Listen closely: Youth is not the only thing wasted on the young; innocence and trust are also gambled away on those who are not savvy enough to know better.

You’ve heard the old saying, right?  That it is better to be lucky than good?  Rosemary, simply stated, got very lucky.  She hadn’t done anything to deserve her good fortune; it is just the way of the universe.

Let’s look at the circumstances of Rosemary’s situation.  How many warlocks do you know?  How about witches?  Know any psychic vampires?  What about aliens that take human form? Don’t worry, as far as I can tell, most of these people (people?…really?) are just hanging out and trying to do their best to fit in.  Poor, young, innocent Rosemary had no way of knowing that her writing group was composed solely of the most incomprehensible array of paranormal entities the Western World has ever seen.

The Warlock got the request first, followed closely by the Psychic Vampire (you guessed it, no one had to even call or text him), then the others.  They all had to work in unison; multidimensional entities that create reality by simply tapping on keyboards have to keep close tabs on each other.  If not, things can get messy quickly.

The guys (geez, guys?) got together and had a lengthy discussion on what to do.  A couple of the beings (the ones having bad days) fought with the more moderate faction of the group.  They all knew the consequences; they write it, and it happens, simple as that.  Luckily for Rosemary’s friend, the rebellious spirits decided to settle, and the tone of the meeting turned to one of acceptance, love, and generosity.

The stories were written; rainbows, bunny rabbits, unicorns, glitter, and lottery winnings populated the pages.  Purposeful, happy lives lived, friendships made, families created (you get the idea).  The heroin-addicted zombie (a guy the others wouldn’t let near Rosemary) was told he needed to sit this one out.  They gave him a topic about a conflicted Christian heavy metal singer who becomes a serial killer in his spare time.  He excelled at his task.

Some years later, Rosemary brought her friend, a beautiful young girl named Desi, to a meeting of The Flash Fiction 500 Friends.  Desi lit up the room when she walked in.  She looked happy and healthy.  The entities composing the group took little pride in their accomplishment, though; they had long since moved on to other topics.  That night, Desi used a small portion of the proceeds from her latest lottery winnings to buy dinner.  Had the guys known she was going to do this, they all would have ordered dessert.

 

 

 

More Wisdom from Cliff Stoll

As often happens, I write on a particular topic and then find something else to add a few days or weeks later.  Well, it happened again with Cliff Stoll.  I had seen his TED Talk, but I had forgotten a few critical statements he made near the beginning.  This is what he said:

The first time you do something, it’s science.  The second time, it’s engineering.  A third time, it’s just being a technician.

Cliff was explaining why he wasn’t going to talk about things that happened in the distant past.  He took this position despite the fact most people probably showed up to hear him talk about his days running down KGB computer hackers.  But, as the story goes, he had been there and done that.  After all, he is a scientist.  The curious (and scientists are the most curious of all) are always in the market for the novel.

I decided to write about those short statements mainly because I ran into Buford Lister the other day.  I was at The Red Cat Café thinking about what Cliff had said.  I knew I needed to write something about it, but I didn’t quite know what.  That is when the following happened…

I should have known better, but I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.  Of course, he would be there; where else would he be on a Tuesday morning.  I shouldn’t have been surprised when I looked up and saw him approach my table, his crooked smile more of a snarl.

“Mind if I sit down?”

I let out a big sigh. “Whatever you please, just don’t start your usual ranting.  I have told you hundreds of times before that I can’t help you.”

“All right, all right.  I just wanted to see what you are up to.  You appeared to be deep in thought, and I suspect it had something to do with me.”

“Typical.  You are not the central focus of my existence.  I don’t spend all my time thinking about your life’s arc.”

“Sure you do, most of it anyway.”

I took out my notebook and showed Buford Lister the short quote from Cliff Stoll’s TED Talk.  He almost started to smile as he read it.

“Yeah, that’s a nice insight.  Unfortunately, your friend there didn’t go far enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What he didn’t say, and what I am positive that he knows, is that when you do something more than three times, when you do it over and over until you get old and tired…”

“Ugh… I know exactly what you are going to say.”

“Of course, you do.  How do you think I know it?”

“It wasn’t the appropriate time or place for him to say what you are thinking.  He is a nice fellow; he wouldn’t want to insult the audience or make them feel bad in any way.  His talk was meant to be uplifting, not some sort of nihilistic Buford-Lister-inspired fiasco.”

“The fact remains, more than three times, and you are nothing more than a trained monkey, a mindless drone living out its days at the carpet store.”

“Not everyone has your mindset, you know.”

“Well, that is a mighty good thing, don’t you think?”

“Of course, it is.”

I sat back and watched Buford Lister hand the server his personal celebration size stein.  She gave him a half-smile as she glanced at the clock.  I could tell she wanted to say that he should at least wait until noon.  I was glad she bit her lip.  It was just as likely that Buford Lister was in the middle of a three-day bender, and I didn’t want to hear about it.

We sat in silence for a while.  I took a long hard look at him; he wasn’t aging particularly well.  I wasn’t going to tell him, but he had the look of a man who had been doing the work of a mindless drone for decades.  The bright eyes of a child prodigy (and he certainly was a mathematical Mozart) had faded into those of a beaten-down monkey.  Sure, he had become perhaps the world’s most accomplished poker player, but it was all mindless repetition.  He hadn’t experienced anything new or gained any real insight in decades.  And he knew that playing poker was the worst profession in the world, the greatest possible waste of a person’s time and talent, and that is precisely why he chose to play.  It wasn’t possible to make the world a better place by sitting at a poker table, which conveniently made it impossible to fail at a former child prodigy’s life purpose.

Buford Lister gave the server a thumbs up as she sat the giant stein down on the table.  He made sure not to make eye contact with me until he finished his beer.  It didn’t take long.  Of course, he immediately ordered another.

Was he trying to make me feel sorry for him?  There was a vacant look in his eyes, one of a man defeated by decades of the universe’s uncaring stance.  Still, though, there was a glimmer of humanity (slight as it might be).  If you look closely, you can usually tell if someone has given up.  I was reasonably sure he hadn’t, even though I couldn’t quite figure out why.

Between you and me, his life has been an abject lesson in grotesque spirit-crushing.  He knew his luck hadn’t been the best and that he had done a few things worthy of regret.  He also learned at an early age that the universe was indifferent to his plight.  As I watched him chug his beer, I found myself hoping that it would never dawn on him that he had wasted his life.  I hope that he somehow forgets that he was born with the ability to take the genius of Mozart and translate it into inexplicable mathematical insight.  My wish is that the alcohol dims the pain enough for him to get through the day.  After all, that is the best I can do for him.

 

 

Kellen

The morning was spent on his usual routine, hair.  There…it finally looks perfect.  He got the desired look, the one of a douche-bag, the kind that drives the young (and sometimes not so young) women crazy.

Kellen climbed into his beater RV, not a Corvette or a Mustang.  Sure, he could have just as easily chosen a dump truck but this sick son of a bitch, ever a slave to self-amusement, had to get an RV right out of a third-rate camping advertisement.

He put in a cassette of Rudy Vallee music (jerk) and headed down the road, feeling good, feeling full of himself; (and why not?) he was a stone-cold pimp wannabe on his way to raise some hell.

There, there, my, my…what have we here?  He pulled the RV into a parking lot, lowered the driver’s window, and took a quick look at her (possible victim?…maybe). No, intended victim.  After a second or two, he knew all he needed to know.  He closed the window, shut his eyes, and sent himself into a psychic trance.  It was Remote Viewing time.  There she is in front of the mirror earlier today…yes, yes.  Finish your breakfast, think about what you are going to do at work today.  Perfect, deliciously perfect.

 Kellen, a dry land Aquaman, was able to call on the birds and the turtles and such to do his bidding.  Such is the luck of the draw.

Bright sun, so bright.  That is good, lots of glare, lots and lots of glare.  She won’t have very good vision in this sun.  Sure, her hat will help her a little, but it won’t be enough, not nearly.

He knew where she was going; that wasn’t an issue.  The problem was trying to convince a pretty little bird to off himself just so Kellen could get his jollies.  As he got older and his reputation grew, he found it harder to get the avians to do his bidding.  They always did what he wanted in the end, but it took more and more of his energy to control their little minds.

Keep going…yes, open the door.  Now little bird, now.  The window shook as an object dive-bombed the bookstore in a disgusting act of coercion.

Startled, yes, she is shaken. “Oh my, poor little bird. Oh no, you’re badly hurt.  No, you’re….”

Kellen smiled to himself as he watched her get a dustpan.  That will inspire her.  Instead of just drinking whiskey tonight, she will drink whiskey and write.

And write she did.  It took her months to get the cadence and the word order just right, but she eventually nailed her poem about a dead little bird.  Would she thank Kellen if she knew what he did?  No, I think she is a lot like me; if she knew what happened, her hatred of Reverse Vampires would be as deep-seated as mine.  I don’t like those idiots one little bit.