Author: RTNM

Westworld

What is the biggest unanswered question facing science?  For me, the answer is an easy one.  No one, not even your anesthesiologist, understands the first thing about consciousness.  Anesthesia is particularly interesting in this respect, the highly paid practitioners know that it works, but they haven’t the faintest idea how or why it works.  Think about this the next time you go under for any type of surgery.

An anesthesiologist needs to understand everything about the nature of consciousness before telling you how and why you enter oblivion after they gas you up.  They simply can’t do it.  The person who unravels the mystery of consciousness will become the most famous scientist that has ever lived.  I am not going to hold my breath while I wait for the big announcement.  Obviously, it is a challenging problem.

A friend of mine recently underwent surgery on her wisdom teeth.  It was her first experience with anesthesia.  She described the state she was in while the two problematic teeth were removed. She told me that she was in a dreamlike state, and she didn’t like it when they brought her back to reality.  Anyone who has seen Inception can relate to her dilemma.

I told her that general anesthesia is much different.  There are no dreams.  I equated the experience to the type of consciousness I had before I was born.  Try as I might, I can’t remember anything from that period of history, human or otherwise.  The same holds for the period I was on the operating table.  I’ve tried, and I have nothing.  The harder I think, the less insight I have.  Oblivion is all I can come up with.

This brings me to the stellar HBO show Westworld.  Some of you might remember the movie from 1973.  The theme of the TV series is similar to the film.  Androids become self-aware and revolt against their programmers.  The HBO version takes a deep dive into consciousness and what it means to be self-aware.

The androids in Westworld are reset after they are killed or traumatized.  The memories are erased, and they start the next day brand new.  Of course, they start remembering what has happened to them and begin exploring the path toward self-awareness.  As you might imagine, this doesn’t work out for the people pulling strings.

The most interesting aspect of the show, the one I am most concerned with, is the revelation that Westworld exists to collect data on human visitors.  After all, immortality awaits the human whose consciousness can be perfectly cloned and placed in an android body.  Right?  Well, not really.  At least, I don’t think so.

The questions Westworld raises are profound.  And, yes, so far, they have dodged the really sticky stuff.  It is that problematic issue that I want to touch on.  If I die and my consciousness is put into an android body, is that still me?  What if the new version acts just like me and is faithful to me in every way imaginable?  What if the android fools everyone who knows me?  What if no one can tell that it is not the original flesh and bone version of me?

In the show, humans are replaced by androids, and no one skips a beat.  They often mention immortality, as if the mechanical analog is a continuation of the human version.  There is one big question they are ignoring, and they are right to ignore it.  The question, and its subsequent answer, rain hard on their parade.  If the version of me sitting at my computer right now does not know that I have been put into a new body, what difference does it make?  That part of me, the ghost in the machine that is aware of my living self, must be extracted and input into the new body.  If not, even though others may see me running down the road, I am dead as dead can be.  Of course, this dilemma has not been addressed on the show.

What good is immortality if I am dead?  What good is it if only the clone knows it is alive and sincerely thinks it is me?  How can I know that I am roaming around if the spark in me is not present in the new form?  And there it is, the problem with a consciousness exhibiting true fidelity.

The people involved in the making of Westworld are to be applauded for tackling such a big issue.  The show is very well done.  I am looking forward to its eventual return for a fourth season.  It is going to take some very clever maneuvering to stick the show’s landing.  I believe the writers are up to the task.

 

Mr. Gaskell

My grade school no longer exists.  My Junior High School was also torn down long ago.  My High School?  There is a nice lawn there now.  The last time I drove by, there was a gaggle of geese lounging about.  No worries, as long as they don’t send bulldozers into Harvard Yard, I will be just fine.

My grade school principal, at least for the last couple of years of my stay, was Mr. Gaskell.  He was a friendly fellow.  I have a vague recollection of a tyrant who was there before him.  That guy ruled through intimidation.  I don’t believe I ever heard him talk; all he ever did was yell.  I have no idea who he was, and I am not inclined to find out. He’s most likely dead, and I am fine with that.  That man was a jerk.  He made me hate getting up and going to school.

So, what about Mr. Gaskell?  What kind of principal was he?  I remember him telling me that he would fight Muhammad Ali for $1,000,000.  He had his fight strategy all planned out; as soon as he heard the opening bell, he would curl up in a ball on the canvas and then collect his check.  I told him that I didn’t think he had to worry; I didn’t see Don King presenting him with any such offer.

I recall him as a good guy, a man genuinely concerned with the kids he was responsible for.  But why an essay?  What did he do to become the topic of this post?

Well, about 50 years ago, I used to have nearly daily battles with him.  The topic was always the same.  I would defend my beloved Cleveland Indians, and he would consistently hit back with the undeniable truth.  Sadly, the reality was they stunk year after year after year.  As I recall, over thirty years in a row finishing at least ten games out of first place.   Back in the late 60s and early 70s, I was immune to such facts.  They were my team, and I died with them every summer (there wasn’t much living to do back then when it came to Cleveland baseball).

“Yeah, you just wait until next year.”

“Oh, I’ll wait all right, but it will be a lot longer than a year.  They stunk this year, and they will stink next year and the year after that and the year after that…”

“You’ll see.  You just wait.”

I always told him that I would call him the instant the Indians won a World Series.  I had my phone out in 1997, but Jose Mesa inexplicably refused to throw a fastball.  Mr. Gaskell and I didn’t talk that day.

Mr. Gaskell always told me that I would live out my life never seeing the Cleveland Indians win a World Series. “It’ll never happen.  Mark my words.”  Sigh…

The Cleveland baseball club just announced a name change.  The Indians are becoming the Guardians, and it looks like Mr. Gaskell was right.  This year’s team is deeply flawed, and I don’t see them winning a championship.  After the season ends, the Indians transform into the Guardians, and that is that.  Mr. Gaskell can bask in the glow of his prediction.

My perspective on all of this has drastically changed through the years.  Fortunately, I gave up long ago; I discovered that rooting for the Indians was like having a prolonged toothache.  It was all pain and suffering; there was never anything good to grab on to.  The experience was one low after another; I didn’t see any hope, so I removed myself from the fanbase.

Of course, many people will argue that the team got a lot better in the mid-90s and has sustained its winning ways.  I did take something away from this period.  The only thing I learned was the different types of pain experienced when your team gets close.  Finishing a couple outs from a championship is much different than finishing last.  That new kind of pain is much worse than the other.  Knowing your team had a real chance only to let it slip away is a lot more bothersome than finishing 35 games out of first.

As it stands, the Cleveland Guardians can win five or six World Series in a row, and I will shrug and go about my day.  I stopped caring a long time ago.  I had to; toothache pain is among the worst pain I have ever suffered.

Federer

When I was at Harvard, I was thrilled to take one particular class in The History of Science department.  It was taught by I. Bernard Cohen, the founder of the department.  Not only did he found Harvard’s world-class department in the history of science, but he also played a prominent role in the creation of history of science departments the world over.  Before Cohen, no universities offered degrees in the history of science; now, such degrees can be found at many major universities.  And yes, one of my Harvard degrees is a graduate degree in The History of Science.

When I arrived on campus, Cohen had already retired.  He came to campus one semester every year or so to teach a course on The Scientific Revolution.  At least that is my recollection.  Forgive me if that is not entirely accurate; it was so long ago…

I will never forget what happened on the first day of class.  Cohen walked through the door, and all activity stopped.  The man was a legend, and he commanded the respect of all the students.  Without uttering a word, he began to write on the blackboard.  The chalk did not make a sound as he chronicled the discoveries of Issac Newton (a man that I am nearly certain did not contain human DNA).  I, of course, held my breath as I wrote everything down in my notebook.

My memory of what happened next is vivid.  Cohen silently wrote out 17 discoveries attributed to Newton on the blackboard.  As he finished the last of his notations, he turned to the students and spoke.  This is what he said:

“Erase any 16 of these, and Sir Issac Newton would still be the most important and most brilliant scientist that ever lived.”

I remember leaning back in my seat and saying, “damn….”

During the semester, I talked with a number of the junior faculty about Cohen.  They all said that he hadn’t lost a step.  A number of them commented that he still had a photographic memory.  One man, a university dean, told me how terrified of Cohen he was when he was his student.  He said that he would wake up in the middle of the night from the same recurring nightmare.  In his dream, he would reference Cohen with a comma and not a period.  He would write, “I, Bernard Cohen, instead of I. Bernard Cohen.”  He told me that Cohen’s students often talked about what the “I” stood for.  I asked the dean if anyone ever asked Cohen about it.  He said that was impossible.  Cohen was not the kind of man that you would ask that sort of question to.  And so it goes…

I remember being struck during the semester by what a scholar’s scholar Cohen was.  He was a walking encyclopedia.  He didn’t strike me as a person whose DNA needed to be tested to prove they were of human origin; he simply impressed me with the depth and breadth of his knowledge.  He was an imposing figure, an impressive man.

One day, for reasons unknown, I was contemplating the nature of existence.  I thought what a waste it was for all the knowledge Cohen had to die with him.  Of course, he had volumes of published material anyone could reference, but I was thinking deeper than that.  He would be gone one day, and so would all of his experiences and knowledge.  His unique view, and the totality of his knowledge, would vanish into the ether.

During this same “deep think,” I remember considering that Cohen was a lot better at his job than Wade Boggs, the hall of fame third baseman who then played for the Red Sox, was at his.  I still believe that is true even though no one would pay to watch Cohen write, but millions (including me) forked over plenty of ducats to see Boggs hit.  I guess it is just human preference for one type of poetry over another.

Cohen, like all the professors I knew at Harvard, never really retired.  When they took their retirement, they became free to get to the real work.  All were lifelong learners.  After doing a little research, it appears that Cohen published 13 books after his “retirement.”  Not too shabby.

At this point, you might be wondering why this post is entitled “Federer” when all you have read about is a long-gone historian of science.  Now that the lede has been sufficiently buried, I can get to the business of this essay.  I. Bernard Cohen, a man that might have been better at his job than Roger Federer is at his, never declined.  Sure, maybe he wasn’t as sharp at 85 as he was at 30, but he remained vital and productive his entire life.  As for Federer…such is the lot of the athlete.

I remember watching Federer play tennis in his prime.  Sublime is the only word that comes to mind.  To see him glide around the court was memorable; to watch him toy with the best players in the world left me speechless.  He was the best I have ever seen.

Yesterday I was forced to watch Federer lose badly at Wimbledon.  A shell of his former self, I was distraught and embarrassed for him.  At nearly 40, time has grabbed him and roughed him up.  I hate when that happens.

What has happened to Roger Federer is not new or unusual.  One of the things I hate most in the world is to see the people I suspected of being immortal drop their guard and reveal their true selves.  Currently, Clayton Kershaw, the L.A. Dodgers pitcher, is going through the same thing.  He is no longer transcendent; he throws a baseball more or less like a normal human.  I am sad to see it.  This is a man who was on pace to be the greatest pitcher of all time.  Now he is merely an ordinary future Hall of Famer, a pedestrian representation of human excellence.  A few years ago, he was something else entirely.

And that brings us to a discussion about how aging affects people in different professions.  There is definitely a sweet spot for athletes.  It is a time when mental and physical abilities are at their peak.  Historically this happens in a person’s late 20s to early 30s.  After that time, concentration lapses, and athletic ability begins its decline.  The window for peak performance tends to be brief, at least for nearly all athletes.

The same is true for mathematicians and physicists.  Most all of the great discoveries throughout history are attributed to young people.  The major exception is when a person changes fields of study.  When this happens, the universe allows those slightly older to discover something novel and astonishing.

Of course, the universe treats famous athletes and first-rate scientists differently from the general population.  Most of us can decline on our own time, in our own private way.  The reminders of our own mortality are much more subtle and nuanced and generally not available for public consumption.  My only hope is that when I think of Federer, I remember the young version, the greatest tennis player I have ever seen.  I somehow want to forget the time-altered imposter I saw the other day.  After all, we all deserve at least as much.

Paterson

I just rewatched one of my favorite movies.  It is about a guy who drives a bus in Paterson, New Jersey.  That guy, a man named Paterson, is brilliantly played by Adam Driver.

This is not going to be a review of the movie.  There are lots of those out there, and they are nearly 100% positive.  The film was well-received by almost anyone who bothered to see it.  It is a terrific piece of work; I highly recommend it.

I have written several times about my favorite filmmaker, Wes Anderson.  This film is not by Anderson; the genius behind it is Ohio’s own Jim Jarmusch.  He is an interesting man with unusual artistic vision.  How many people can you think of that would want to tell the story of a poet who spends his days driving a bus?  It is certainly not a mainstream Hollywood film.  I have been known to watch a Hollywood blockbuster or two, but I much prefer the offbeat films of people like Anderson and Jarmusch.  They both are world-class storytellers.

Jarmusch both wrote and directed Paterson.  The movie is deeply moving.  For me, it has several points to make about the rigors of day-to-day existence that most of us are faced with.  The drudgery of the daily routine, the need for hope, and the source of inspiration.  My guess is that ten viewers could attribute eight or nine different central themes to the film.

If you love poetry, watch Paterson.  If you do not care much for poetry (I have never been a big fan), watch Paterson.  The film has lots to offer.  It is a masterclass in storytelling.

The Land Surveyor: Chapter One
(This is the first chapter of a novel that will be published soon)

 

I am not greedy.  I give away almost everything that I get.  Of course, I have to keep a little to sustain myself, but I don’t need much.  I get more than you can imagine from seeing people of all kinds energized by my thoughts and deeds.  As they become inspired, I grow stronger. 

Stanton adjusted the 9mm Ruger he had holstered to his belt.  Bears could pose a problem, but it is the two-legged predators he is most worried about.  When surveying in Iroquois County, Ohio, especially the southern part, a pistol is necessary.  The addition of a bulletproof vest isn’t the worst idea.  Yahoos with shotguns are plentiful in the place locals call Hillybilly Land.

“Alright, you can go ahead and follow the fence, rough pace off about 800 feet, and then start looking around for a pin or pipe.” Stanton hit a few buttons on his GPS unit as he watched Archie head west along the railroad right of way.  All he could do was shake his head as he watched his summer help, a recent high school graduate on his way to college, begin his walk.

“Hey Archie, you think you might need your bag?”

“Oh yeah, right.  I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

“I guess not.” Stanton watched as the young man picked up the bag filled with equipment and turned to start his journey.

“Dude, you might want the shovel and the Schonstedt.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“You know what you are doing, right?  Just head west along the fence line about 800 feet and then start looking for a monument.”

“About 800 feet, right?”

“Right.  You should see a fence heading north.  If we get lucky, we will find a pin or a pipe there.”

“No problem.”

Archie grabbed the equipment and started his walk.  He had calibrated his steps so that 35 of them equaled about 100 feet.  His silent count began.

Stanton turned his attention to his GPS unit, which was ticking away on the iron pin they had found at the southeast corner of the Oliver property.   If he could get a good shot on the pin, the day would go a lot faster.  They might even get the job done today, a rare occurrence when surveying a swamp in Iroquois County.

He once again checked the Ruger.  He instantly recalled the taste of the barrel.  Last night had been burdensome; he was so close, but he simply struggled to pull the trigger.  Locked and loaded, he wondered how bad it would hurt if he ate his gun right then and there.  As he considered the possibility, he decided it would be too big a burden on the people who would have to get him out.  They would not be happy with him or his corpse.  Tomorrow is another day, and it would be a lot more polite to off himself in his own home.  He had even purchased a tarp to make it easier on those responsible for cleanup.

Stanton took a deep breath as he drew his attention back to the GPS instrument.  He slowly rotated it until it started ticking again.  Ticking meant progress, and progress meant payday.  The machine made its happy sound, and the point was recorded.  He was ready to move on to the next property corner.

Archie paced off the distance as best he could.  He had to be close; at least he thought he was.  He looked around, but there was no fence running north.  He pulled out the Schonsdedt and began waving it back and forth. A high-pitched scream would let him know that something metal was buried under the tip of the device.  He slowly swung it around and back again, sweeping the area most likely to be the corner—still nothing.

“Hey Archie, you know that thing works better if you turn it on.”

“Huh?  What are you doing here so quick?  I thought you would be a while.  And this is turned on.  I just have the volume down low. I’m not an old guy like you; I can hear it fine.”

“I got lucky; we got a quick fix back there.  I shot in two more points just to make sure, and everything checked out, so we are good to go.”

Stanton looked around for remnants of an old fence.  He leaned his GPS unit against a tree, tied a large orange ribbon around a branch, and headed north.  No sign of an old fence anywhere.  No wire in trees, no old posts laying on the ground, no indication at all.

“Hey Arch, head across the tracks and see if you see a fence running north and south over there.  These property lines go straight through here.  If you can find that fence, we can find this one.”

“All right.”

“Grab the GPS and shoot in the railroad tracks.  Remember to code the points correctly.  Right under the number is that little box, type in RR, that will be fine.”

“Gotcha.”

Arch took off across the tracks, forgetting the GPS unit.  As he reached the woods on the southern right of way, he quickly turned back.

“Oh, man.  Arch, what is your deal?  If you want to shoot in some points, you need to have the GPS, right?”

“Yeah.  Wasn’t thinking.”

Archie grabbed the unit and headed back toward the tracks.  As he disappeared, Stanton noticed something sticking up through the ground.  At first, he thought it was red surveyor’s flag marking a pin.  As he got closer, the color turned to more of a crimson, a very faded crimson.

What is this?

He kicked the ground with his foot and started to remove the debris around the object.  He bent down to run his hand across it.  It appeared to be some sort of plastic.  He tried to lift it, but the majority of the object was still buried.  He went to get the small shovel that Archie carried in a specialized surveyor’s bag.  For some reason, Archie had taken it with him.  Yeah, makes sense.  He forgets the bag except for the one time when I need it.

He dialed Archie’s phone number.  His company had long ago given up on radios.  They were expensive, always breaking, and constantly going dead in the field due to limited battery capacity.  Cell phones were a much better choice.

“Hey Arch, get back here now. I need your help with something.”

“All right, no fence over here.  I did shoot in the tracks.”

“All right, come on back now; I need your shovel.”

“Give me a minute.”

Stanton waved Archie over to the object sticking a few inches out of the ground.

“Take the shovel and see if you get some leverage on this thing.  I want to see what it is.”

Archie probed the ground until he hit soft dirt.  He followed along the edge of the object until he formed a rectangle.

“What is this thing?  OK, see if you can get underneath it and get a little tug.”

Archie was able to move the object a little.  Stanton got on his knees and started swiping at the dirt and leaves covering the object.

“Man, this looks like a suitcase.”

“Yeah, I see it now.  OK, get underneath with the shovel, and I will see if I can get a grip.”

They both strained to get the suitcase free. When it was unburied, they found that the zipper still worked.

“All right, let’s see what we’ve got here.”

As Stanton lifted the top open, Archie gasped at the sight.  Stack after stack of $100 bills.  The case was full of them.

Stanton saw the money, and his eyes got big.

“I can’t believe it.  How much money is in here?  I can’t believe it.”

As Stanton was checking out the bills, Archie’s attention was elsewhere.  It was centered on what appeared to be the edge of another buried suitcase.

“Uh, Stanton…”

“Yeah?”

“I think we have another suitcase.”

As Archie probed with his shovel, Stanton used his hands to dig around what undoubtedly was a second case.

It didn’t take them long to extract it.  It also was full of 100 dollar bills.

Stanton moved back to the first case and started examining the bills.

“Archie, check out the serial numbers in that case.  See if they are sequential.”

“Sequential?”

“Yes.  That means the serial numbers are in order.”

“Right, right.”

Archie flipped through several bills.

“No, they are not.  Is that supposed to be good news?”

“Yeah, these are not in any kind of order either.  That is good news.”

Stanton’s eye moved back and forth across the dry, flat area in which the suitcases were found.

“Here, give me your shovel.” He took it and started probing.

The first time he stuck the shovel in the ground, he hit another suitcase, and then another, and another.

As Archie reached down to uncover the suitcases, Stanton stopped him.

“Wait a minute, we can’t carry all this out today.  It is what? About a mile back to the truck, and we can’t drive down the railroad; there isn’t a path between the tracks and the ditch.”

“Right.  Maybe we should leave those buried.”

“Maybe we should rebury the ones we already found.  Those things are heavy.  I don’t think it is a good idea that we try to carry them back.”

“Right.”

“Rebury them. I’ll get a four-wheeler and take it down the railroad right of way.  We can get the money that way.”

“All right.”

The two men buried the cases, making sure that no corners were exposed.

“Arch, let’s try to set this pin and go about our day in the most normal way possible.  After we get back to the truck, we can talk about a plan to get these cases out of here.”

“Sounds good.”

“All right then. Let’s see if we can find that fence.”

Simpleton Goodness
(a piece of flash fiction)

Simpleton Goodness, known to her friends as “Oh My,” gently and rhythmically moved her right pinky finger back and forth as she sat alone in the dark.  Contemplating her life?  Absolutely.

Author’s Note: Stop, have you ever given it any thought at all about how in the world a narrator of a story knows all that they know?  It really is inexplicable.  I am in a mood; I find it disconcerting that people sit back, suspend disbelief, and keep reading.  Many of you should spend your time in other, more productive pursuits.

Simpleton was arrogant and angry even though not a single person (other than me, the omniscient narrator) recognized these character flaws.  She appeared to be a nice and humble woman, and everyone liked and respected the family she came from.  She was unassuming and generous with her time and her money.  So, you are thinking, how exactly was she arrogant?  Easy, keep reading…

Simpleton wanted to leave something behind, something for future generations to remember her by.  She wanted her descendants (even though she had no children) to know what it was like to be her.  Ergo, she wrote and wrote and then wrote some more.  She worked extremely hard to master her craft; she spent nearly all her time on this lifelong project.  She always told people she wanted those who came after her to know how complicated and interesting she was and how wonderful her life was.  Are you still wondering why the mysterious narrator of your story considers her an arrogant, delusional piece of work?

I know what you are thinking.  You want to know what was so special about this woman that she decided to spend most of her time documenting her life.  So, what was it?  To be reasonable and honest – nothing, not a thing.  She was a middling woman with a mediocre education who lived in a modest house with no husband.  The only thing she ever did that was noteworthy was to appear in this set of paragraphs.  Nothing more, and believe me, I have looked.

She was just a person, an average person.  Why write about her?  That one is easy; she, like every single person on the face of the earth, thinks that they are unique, that her life has a real purpose.  Sigh, do I really have to say it?  Do I have to say that if everyone is special, then no one is? Do I have to tell everyone that believing that your life is interesting enough to write about makes you a delusional human?  Do I really need to say all that?

The sad truth is we all live, and we all are going to die.  If it gets us through the night, it is perfectly fine to think that we are special and live an important life.  Maybe, just maybe, that is a lie, and we all are going to struggle to get by.

The best I can do is wish you all good luck; that seems reasonable enough to me.  I am the narrator, I AM SPECIAL, I am not one of you…I know things.

 

 

Squam Lake
(a piece of flash fiction)

Kellen was dead, and that was a good thing.  She felt safe, as safe as a young woman prancing around the middle of Reverse Vampire territory could.  She thought she knew what was what (after all, she was a woman of the world, right?). Lucky for her, I’ve got her back.

Behold all who hear me; I am a modern-day Van Helsing. And, yes, I am talking about THAT Van Helsing.

Author’s Note:  Not that I need to brag, but I am a direct descendent of the great Van Helsing. Yeah howdy, little old me, the man nearly everyone calls Hillbilly Jedediah, carries the DNA of the greatest monster hunter that ever lived.  What does your DNA look like once it is untangled and exposed?

My tale won’t take long to tell.  I am working on a memoir, but I need to live several hundred more years before any publisher worth their salt will give me a sit-down.  So, here it is (such as it is).

It was a day like any other at Squam Lake, androids were dreaming of electric sheep, and the U.S. dollar was in a deadly tug of war with the Japanese Yen.  All seemed to be right with the world.  Of course, I didn’t sleep; how could I when all hell was breaking loose everywhere I looked.  I can’t save everyone; that’s impossible; I have to pick and choose.  This day, for reasons far beyond my capacity to understand, I decided to give her my attention.  Usually, I would say that if someone is foolish enough to go to Reverse Vampire Central (during an RV convention, no less), they deserve whatever they get.

How did I find him out?  It’s just one of those things, some real inexplicable nonsense.  It was the kind of lapse that can be made 1000 times and never get you in trouble.  Maybe it is just lousy RV karma. Maybe he “just ain’t living right,” as every evangelical will tell you is the reason for everything bad that happens to any poor son of a biscuit that happens to zig when they should have zagged.  Yeah, it finally happened; I was able to expose him, to show him for what he truly is.  I exposed him, I directed a bright light on his deepest colors.

It was a simple e-mail…short, nothing more than a few words.  I intercepted it the way I usually do; a simple keylogger sent the message directly to me.  “They are tricksy rabbits.” That is all he had to write.  What happened next will make your toes curl.

After I received the message, it took me two seconds to call her. “Get the heck out of there, dagnabbit; he is the one I have been looking for.  Evan is the Reverse Vampire!  I am sure of it; run as fast as you can.”

She made it two steps before her left hamstring was ripped from her leg.  I didn’t want to think about what I knew he would do with the fresh, human meat.  One thing is sure, he didn’t like it at room temperature.

I could immediately sense it; I felt her pain.  What else could I do?  I gathered up my resolve, opened a portal, and headed east.  You know, I didn’t have to save her; it wasn’t my job.  Looking back, I guess I kind of felt sorry for her.  Who knows, maybe I even liked her.  I have since given it lots of thought, and I still don’t know why I risked my life that day.

The encantation complete, the portal opened up only a few feet from Evan.

“Put her down, Now!”

Evan looked back at me; he was half-crazed, licking the blood off the detached muscle.  I could tell he was silently cursing in his feeble little mind, a half-sized brain with only enough room inside for murder and carnage.

So, I did it; I used The Device.  It does take a heck of a toll on me but, like I said, I guess maybe I like her. As it stands, she is fine (I sent her back to a time just before the trip to Squam Lake), Evan is a fetus (best I could do), and I really need a beer.  On second thought, my cousin, Naomi Crump makes the most vile moonshine I have ever experienced, and I could use a three or four-day bender.

I Love You, too
(a piece of flash fiction)

Sensitive hearing can be a good thing, but lots of times, having it is totally inconsequential.  Did you hear that?  Yeah, so what?  Can’t you hear it? I think I hear something, but I’m not sure.  Know what I mean?

I was in the bedroom at the back of the house when I heard the mail truck pull up at the end of the drive.  Astonishingly, I could hear the engine, but I don’t really know how to monetize this super skill I inherited from my mom and grandma.  I am sure that they could have heard the person in the truck breathing.  Don’t believe me, do you?  Well, I am pretty certain their hearing was that good.

I mosied through the house and out the front door.  I wasn’t expecting anything special; most days, the mail truck passes me by.  I get a big, fat nothing.  I haven’t received a letter in years, all my bills are emailed, and junk mail was outlawed years ago.  There isn’t much reason for me to receive any mail.

I could hear the ticking as I approached the mailbox I built from the lumber leftover from my barn.  A lightning strike burnt it down years ago.  The fire took most of the wood, but there was enough left over to build a mini replica of the building to use as a mailbox.

Tick, tick, tick… The cadence was constant; there were no missed beats.  When I got to the box, I could see the large envelope stuffed into the container.  It didn’t have a specific form; it was just foam and plastic.  I wasn’t sure what to do, so I grabbed the package and threw it like a frisbee across my front lawn.

Sure, I half expected an explosion, but nothing happened.  The package landed on the grass with no fuss at all.  I steadied myself as I walked toward it.  And yes, I took a minute to look around to see if anyone was watching me.

As I drew closer, the ticking started to accelerate.  The pitch became higher, indicating I needed to run as fast as possible in the opposite direction.  I slipped on the grass and caught myself with my right arm.  I flipped and turned until all eight limbs were aligned correctly.  That is when I turned on the speed.  As I moved away from the package, I could hear the frequency of the pitch changing.  I was sure an explosion was imminent.  I was right.

The blast was loud and powerful.  Luck was on my side, though; the force of the explosion went into the ground, the mechanism was designed to be face up when it exploded.  I was simply lucky that when I threw the package, it landed face down.  Fifty-fifty proposition, I guess.

I have no idea how long I was down.  I was drifting in and out of consciousness.

“The ringing in my ears was horrific.  I couldn’t get relief.  I placed my flippers over my head in a futile attempt to stop the noise.  That was the last thing I remember.”

“OK, just try to relax.  You are going to be fine.  Your injuries are not severe.”

The medical services personnel all looked concerned as I was taken to the nearest hospital.  During the ride, I was probed, poked, and scanned by various individuals and their instruments of choice.

I was taken to a room with a relaxing blue wave pulsing through its space.  It was more of a light blue, not the kind of hue that demands attention.  I was happy to be there.

As I woke, I saw her.  It must have been instinct that jarred me back to reality.  She was trying to inject me with a viscous, green fluid.  I took my one free limb and swung it as hard as I could against her head.  As she stumbled, I grabbed the syringe and plunged it deep into one of the exposed ridges on top of her head.  Whatever the fluid was, it was now coursing through the body of my sixth mate.  Her eyes became glassy as she lost her balance.  She was unconscious before she hit the floor.

No one bothered to come in and check on the commotion, and I wasn’t going to press the Call Button.  After a few minutes, I lost interest and went back to sleep.  After all, my guess is she is not getting up.

 

Happy Happy
(a piece of flash fiction)

Geez, that is soooo depressing. Can’t you write something with a happy ending?  Of course, she didn’t say that; the context was apparent between the lines of the email she fired off after reading yet another tale of woe.  Hmmmm…a happy ending?  A happy story?  Do I even know how to do that? Is that even plausible?

Kenton sat and stared at the tiny computer screen.  Taunt me some more and I’ll smash you, c’mon, try me.  No response; inanimate objects usually are steadfast in that way.  They are just like women who are too polite to decline an invitation (they just hope like hell you go away).

Tap, tap, tap.  There has to be a specific pattern to typing these keys that will produce a happy story, right?  Still no answer. OK, think for a few minutes, something will come; something, something, all right– anything.

He glanced over at his bookcase out of habit.  Tucked between two books was the letter that started this fiasco.  He could see a little white between the spines, a not-so-subtle message that the letter didn’t grow wings and fly away.  Go get it.  Read it.  There might be something new in there, something you missed the first 5,000 times you looked at it. He ignored the annoying voice in his head and continued to look at his keyboard.  Finally, the voice overcame him.  He got up and retrieved the letter.

Call me, OK?  OK, for sure.  No problem, I will be in touch soon.  All right, sounds good.  Kenton kept hearing the words, but they were no longer in her voice.  It had been so long that he couldn’t remember what she sounded like.  It’s funny how her parting words did not match the letter she sent five minutes after their last conversation.

He threw the letter in the small garbage can beside his desk and examined the length of his fingernails.  Perhaps these need to be clipped; they are not making perfect contact with the keys, that might be the problem.  That is not the problem, you idiot!  You are the problem.

There were prospects for a happy story; he could write about the delivery person who dropped off his beer order.  That was a pleasant exchange, one photo ID for all the beer he could drink in a week.  But, who knows, that guy might be a serial killer in his spare time.  He probably uses a dull ax as his weapon of choice.  Yes, I am sure of it; he had that look in his eye.  Murdering piece of crap!

Just as he was about to look at bunny rabbit pictures for inspiration, he received an email.

Kenton,

I can’t edit any of your pieces anymore.  You are too depressing for me. I’ll hand you off to an intern; I think Karen might be good for you.  I never was a fan of Kafka and that depressing nonsense he wrote.  You are way too much like him for my taste.  Sorry.

P.S.  Have you considered therapy?

He sat and thought for an hour before he replied with three bunny rabbit pictures and a link to a kitty cat video.  After he checked to make sure the email was sent, he put on the 1996 movie version of Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery and spent the rest of the evening cleaning his guns.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.