Nighthawk Short Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Mon, 21 Sep 2015 15:32:00 +0000

Guest Poster: Boris Glikman

Another fine writer who also writes in the genre of Twilight-Zonesque type stories. Please find posted below for your reading enjoyment, Boris Glikman's two short stories: "The Curious Story of Frank" and "Amerika". Both fine tiles I hope you enjoy. Happy Reading!

Russ Huneke

THE CURIOUS STORY OF FRANK AND HIS FRIEND Mr. STIMS, THE HYDROPHOBE

...so anyway, like I was saying, I was sitting comfortably in this nice chair when Mr. Stims told me what he wanted to do with his invention. But please don’t interrupt me again, because I am going to forget what I was saying and won't be able to tell you the whole story of what happened that day.

Let me begin again from the start, as I can’t remember now what I have already told you. My name is Frank. I finished school two years ago. I stay at home most of the time and watch TV. I live with my mum. I like her a lot. She is very smart and knows about everything. So I don’t see what’s wrong with saying, “That’s what my mum told me”, but the other kids used to laugh when I said that and called me a retard, which made me angry. Now I can’t hang out with them any more; my mum tells me I have a bad temper and could hurt them.

My only friend is my next door neighbour, Mr. Stims. I enjoy being with him. I love the brain games that he is so good at inventing. The game I particularly like is the one in which he asks me to guess what he is thinking of at that very moment. It is not an easy game to play at all.

Usually I spend time in his living room, where we drink tea, eat some biscuits and discuss interesting topics. But that day, Mr. Stims invited me into his study and asked me to sit in a comfortable chair beside his desk. He himself sat behind the desk, on which lay writing pads and folders, all neatly organised.

After staring at me in silence with an odd look in his eyes for about a minute, Mr. Stims started talking: “For the past five years, I have been engrossed in a fiendishly difficult task, as you probably have noticed Frank. I no longer need to be secretive about what I do, but I did want to apologise for being evasive and unpredictable in the past.”

He was right. He never told me what he did for a living, but it seemed to me that he was spending much of his time working on some scientific problem. All of his rooms were cluttered with books, whose titles I didn’t understand, and papers that were covered with calculations and formulas in his scribbly handwriting. And his strange ways did confuse me sometimes. I remember once asking him how he would like to be remembered, and it produced an odd reaction from him. He turned first red, then white and only replied that he had great hopes for the future. Another time I told him that even though we don't live far from the ocean, we don’t know much about it, and that there could be big sea monsters and other curious fishes living in its depths. For some reason, he got all agitated and started going on about the chemical properties of water. Then, suddenly, he stopped mid-sentence and started talking about something completely different. But I still find him a fascinating person to be with. He knows so many things and can always answer my questions.

Mr. Stims continued: “You might remember from your school days, my friend, what a polar molecule is. Well, water just happens to be comprised of polar molecules. This fact is the linchpin of my work.“

I did not actually remember anything about those molecules. To tell the truth, I really do not recall much from my school days. I was always surrounded by people brighter than me, which made me afraid to speak up and say what I thought, in case I might say something stupid. That is why I like Mr. Stims so much. He has never treated me as a fool and is always happy to listen and explain things to me.

“The fact that it is a polar molecule, does that suggest anything to you, Frank?” he asked. Not waiting for my reply, as he usually does, he continued: “I will get straight to the point. For your benefit, I will state it in simplified terms. The water molecule is a charged particle. Charged particles respond to magnetic fields. By creating a magnetic force of appropriate strength and by aligning it in the right direction, we can separate the water molecule into its constituent parts! We can turn liquid water into the gases of hydrogen and oxygen. The theory behind it is of course much more complicated than that, but what I have just stated is my work in a nutshell.”

He stopped talking for a short while, to give me time to understand what he had just said. But to be honest with you, I did not really see the point of it all. I thought it would be much better if you could go the other way and make water out of the invisible gases, so that people everywhere would have enough to drink, especially people who live in the hot deserts.

He went on to say, “The idea sounds simple enough. Let me tell you, putting it into practice was another kettle of fish; the years I have spent trying to create a functional apparatus, attempting to discover the right alignment. Failure followed failure. Many a time I was tempted to throw it all up in the air and just walk away. Only one hope kept me going. I cannot say it was a well-defined sensation, but it was something like…well, that by achieving my goal, all my past deeds would gain the meaning they were lacking.”

I looked closely at Mr. Stims’ face. Sweat had gathered on his forehead and there was a distant look in his eyes, but it quickly disappeared.

He then said, “Let me tell you a little of my past, as it will explain to some degree the present. I was a brilliant university student, majoring in chemistry. I was heading straight for a conventional academic career. But my personality did not sit well with the scholastic surroundings. The claustrophobic atmosphere and the daily routine were stifling my natural creativity; the imperiousness of the professors, the ceaseless competitiveness prevalent amongst the students. Once I left the university, there was no way back. To this day I remain an outsider to the scientific community. You, Frank, are the first person in the world to hear of my achievement.”

Although I was flattered, I still thought it would be better if water was made out of the invisible gases, so that people everywhere would have enough to drink, especially people who live in the hot deserts.

“But what are we waiting for!” he exclaimed. “Actions speak louder than words. Just one minute and I will show you how it works.”

While he was gone, I stretched my legs; they had almost gone to sleep. I also had an itch on my back where a mosquito bit me and I gave it a good scratch. I could not do that while Mr. Stims was in the room. When I am with him, I try to behave properly so he will respect me. I remembered dinnertime was coming soon and wondered what my mum had cooked for me. I hoped it would be fish fingers with mashed potatoes. That’s my most favourite meal in the whole world.

My friend wasn’t gone for long. When he came back, he was carrying a small, shiny box and a full glass of water. I thought it was really thoughtful of him to bring me water, because I was really thirsty. I was about to reach out my hand and say, “Thank you Mr. Stims, it’s really thoughtful of you,” when he put that shiny box over the top of the glass. There was a hissing sound and the water disappeared before my eyes. Well, it didn’t actually disappear straight away. For a second, it looked like the water was cut in half, like a fresh bread roll with a sharp knife, and then both halves vanished. I was a bit miffed, as I really did want to drink that water, but still the sight was so amazing I could not help crying out, “WOW!”

The room filled up with a funny smell, like a cross between rotten eggs and fresh pineapple. Mr. Stims must have noticed me sniffing for he said, “That’s nitrous oxide or laughing gas, as it's commonly known. The oxygen released by the process has combined with the nitrogen in the air. You have to be very careful with nitrous oxide. It messes with your mind.”

I knew he expected me to say how impressed I was and I did say so. He didn’t reply for a while and then he started a long speech. I can only remember bits of it:

“I have great plans, great plans," Mr. Stims said. "Imagine magnifying the strength of this machine a hundredfold, a thousandfold, a millionfold! Look at the map of the world, Frank! Look at how much space is taken up by the oceans. Two thirds of our planet is water. Two thirds! How much land is wasted because of it! So many regions are overpopulated. This leads to stress, stress leads to crime. And on top of that, the world population is growing at a faster and faster rate. What use is ocean water? We certainly cannot drink it. And in any case, many regions that are now ocean used to be land once. We need to reclaim that land. And we need not stop there. The time has come for the oceans to go! We will make them disappear, just like the water in this glass. Certainly, this might cause some climate changes, but they will be easily fixed. And just imagine...land, land, land everywhere! One great continuous continent! No barriers between countries! The whole world finally united as one, living in peace! Room to plant crops, room for cattle to roam! Spaciousness that, at present, mankind doesn’t even dare to dream of! Whole continents underneath the oceans are just waiting for us to populate them! The potentialities are breathtaking in their scope! Yes, there will be a price to pay. That price will be paid by the ocean inhabitants - but we need not concern ourselves with that. Intelligence arose on land and it is the land dwellers that will rule this planet. And I will go down in history as the man who made it all possible - the new saviour of humanity!”

Mr. Stims was getting very excited. Whenever he gets excited, he walks from one end of the room to the other and waves his arms around. Well, he was certainly doing that; his arms swung like the blades of a windmill and he shouted out, “Liberation from the tyranny of water! The time has come! The possibilities are endless!”

It was all very interesting, but I was getting rather hungry and kept thinking more about the fish fingers with the mashed potatoes. It was then that a terrifying thought startled me so much that I felt like someone punched me in the stomach. I realised that without oceans there would be no more fish, and without fish there would be no more fish fingers for me to eat. Fish fingers really are my most favourite food in the whole world.

I said, "Hey, wait a minute Mr. Stims. I really like fish fingers. You can’t kill all the fish. Give me that shiny thing! I don’t want you to destroy the oceans."

“Fish, shmish,’’ he replied. “Who needs them? They don’t sing, you can’t pat them and they smell terrible.”

He refused to give me the box. A scuffle broke out between us, because I was getting a bit angry about not being able to eat fish fingers any more, all because of his stupid invention. I reached for the gadget and tried to take it away from him; it was then that I accidentally pressed the round red button on its top. What happened next was the strangest thing of all. You know when you blow up a balloon, and then let it go without tying it up and it flies all around the room, letting out air? Well, something similar happened to Mr. Stims. All this vapour started coming out of his eyes, nostrils and mouth and he was getting thinner and thinner and changing in shape before my very eyes. Then he just fell to the floor, or what was left of him, for by now he looked like a gigantic squashed raisin.

"I am very sorry about this, Mr. Stims," I said to him, "but I really do like fish fingers. They are my most favourite food in the whole world."

I then took the box that was lying on the floor and broke it into small pieces. You both know what happened after that.

The two detectives exchanged glances and one of them said, “Looks like it’s going to be a long night for all of us, Frank.”

AMERIKA IN THE SKY (IN MEMORIAM)

I remember that day starting off ordinarily enough. There I was playing in the open field not that far from home, the sky azure with nary a cloud blighting its face.

I was alone as usual for my mother didn’t let me play with the other kids. I didn’t really want to play with them anyway. I always knew that I was different and could never relate to them. I could see things that they could not see and understood matters that they had no inkling of. I was way ahead of them; in fact, I believed that I was way ahead of most adults too, although, as my mom had repeatedly told me to do, I kept that view all to myself.

This disparity between my physical and mental development did cause me problems; there was always the inner conflict between the body’s desire to be a child, carefree and frivolous, and the mind’s desire to think deep thoughts and explore complexities and subtleties of the world.

That day the body scored a victory for there I was playing in the open field, in my white shorts, blue T-shirt and a crumpled Panama hat…

The lay of the land is so perfectly flat I can see unencumbered all the way to the horizon. A strange sensation grips me, that the sky is a giant snow globe enveloping me in its grasp, which makes me feel slightly queasy and claustrophobic. I feel trapped in this glass-bowl sky and have a strong urge to smash its walls and break free from its eternal imprisonment.

As the day proceeds, the heavens rotate slowly on their axis. Towards mid-morning something very odd catches my eye on the eastern horizon. It is something that I have never previously seen in the sky, but there it is before me, slowly rising from beneath the edge of the earth.

By some process, the continent of North America has become attached to the celestial sphere at the place where land and heavens meet. It is slowly getting detached from the crust of the Earth, like an old scab being peeled neatly from a healed wound, without any tearing at the edges.

Could this be that new natural phenomenon of celestial tectonics, in which portions of the sky acquire the properties of Earth’s mantle and exert an irresistible attractive force on any land that they come in contact with? I remember hearing in the news some geologists positing the existence of this process and warning of its consequences. Their concerns, however, were dismissed as alarmist talk, coming from doomsayers with private agendas. By grim irony, America had been one of the most vociferous deniers of these predictions.

And now I’m watching America being carried along by the turning of the heavens. I can clearly see its unmistakable shape and the features of the land: the whiteness of Alaska, the mighty rivers, the mountain chains, the major cities, the wheat fields, the Mojave Desert, the pine forests.

At first, while the continent is still at a shallow angle in the sky, the American people are enjoying their unique experience, smiling, laughing, some even waving to me down below. They are taking delight in their position in flight. Those cities at the edges of the continent are enthralled by their intimate contact with the sea of blue sky. Californians are especially jubilant at finally being above all others in the most literal sense possible. They are being carried on the privileged port side of the continent, sailing the celestial ocean blue. Some of them are waxing down their surfboards, getting ready to ride the heavenly waves.

This uniquely peculiar positioning of America gives its citizens powers over us just in virtue of their altitude. They are privy to every bit of our existence, looking down, God-like, upon the rest of the world. Our complete exposure to them inevitably leads to a temptation that is too strong for many of its citizens to resist. And so regardless of the consequences and in total disdain of the decorum, they toss things down. All kinds of debris and other unmentionable substances shower upon my head, while I am powerless to retaliate.

As the heavens continue their inexorable turning and the continent rises steeper in the sky, it becomes more and more difficult for the people to maintain their traction upon its surface. The initial wave of fun and mirth gives way to first signs of panic and despair. All the living and non-living things that depended upon gravitation for their stability and viable existence now realise what it is like to have it as an adversary.

If not for the overwhelmingly desperate gravity of the situation, it would be almost comical to observe the way the people are trying to respond to the predicament that they find themselves in. It looks like a disturbed anthill on a gigantic scale, with millions of Americ-ants scurrying frantically in random directions, trying to save their colony from some uncouth hooligan poking at it with a stick; little bugs struggling against some capricious, unyielding force which is ruining their arduously constructed nest.

The way American people resemble tiny insects produces in me a certain indifference to their fate. This sensation is very similar to that experienced when you look down, from a great height in a plane, at people on the ground. You can’t help but see them as ants and, consequently, their lives and activities assume the same insignificance and triviality as their physical appearance.

At midday, America reaches the highest point in the sky, hanging precisely upside down. If I felt claustrophobic before and hemmed in by the celestial sphere, those sensations are so much worse now, given that there's a whole continent looming right above my head, threatening to fall and annihilate me together with itself. How long can America remain hovering and defying all the fundamental laws of physics?

The people are now in their most precarious position, desperately trying to hold onto anything that is firmly rooted in the ground, to blades of grass, to soil itself. Even when some of them lose all grip on land, they still attempt to find some protuberance in the fabric of the sky that they can grab, to save themselves from this disaster, to give themselves just one more instant of life. Their position in the sky, that only hours earlier gave them such superiority, becomes the greatest threat to their survival. They are all equal now, from the highest politician to the lowest drifter. Gravity is the ultimate lecher; all of us are reduced to just our bodies when we enter its realm. It grants no preferences, respects no individuality. Our status, age, whether we are innocent or sinful, famous or obscure is without significance in its domain.

For an instant, it appears to me as if I am the one in the sky, upside down and it is America that is on the ground. America has always been invincible in the past. Surely it is not possible that it is now in this helpless position; surely it must be that it is our land that is suspended in the heavens. And so I cannot help but drop to the ground and hold fast to the tall grass growing in the field, to stop myself from falling. The familiar solidity of the ground reassures and comforts me for an instant, yet, at the same time, it intensifies, by contrast, the bizarreness of the events in the sky and make them seem all the more unreal.

No human eye has ever beheld the sight of a whole continent in the sky. It is entirely possible that what I perceive is the brain’s best attempt to make sense of the data flooding through the senses; to fit the input into familiar categories that it has evolved over millions of years to help it comprehend the ordinary world. Yet, it might not necessarily be an accurate picture of what is really happening out there.

I am torn by two conflicting thoughts that occupy my mind simultaneously and seem equally valid. Is it the case that I am the only one who sees America up high? Could it be that, given my tender years and my particularly unique intellectual make-up, it is my brain alone that does not repudiate this vision, while everyone else rejects it as impossible? Is it up to me to yell out to the whole world, “ America has no visible means of support!”, just like that boy who cried out, “The Emperor has no clothes!” Or is it only this morning that I have caught a glimpse of America in the sky, while the rest of the world saw it a long time ago? How long then has it been going up into the sky and landing on the ground again, without me noticing it?

Or is it indeed the case that America has been going up and down together with the heavens for years and years, without me nor anyone else ever observing it, until today? That would certainly explain why, all this time, America has held such sway and influence over the rest of the world, for its special vantage point would have endowed it with unique and vastly extensive powers.

How must we appear to them? Are they envious of our safe location on the ground or do they look upon us as being immeasurably poorer for not having tasted the mysteries of the sky, for just as depths of the oceans conceal undiscovered secrets, so heights of the sky must contain unknown enigmas that we, down on Earth, can never be privy to? What thoughts must be running through their minds when the vastness of the heavens envelops them? Do all of their past troubles and crises appear utterly trivial to them, compared to what they have to deal with now?

The light is eerie and unnatural, due to the almost total blocking of the Sun by the continent. Some rays are still able to sneak around the edges of the landmass, but the diffracted beams are of completely different hue to normal sunlight. America has always cast a long shadow upon the rest of the world. It is no different now, for the ground is covered by a giant umbra in the shape of the continent. Within it, I can discern the smaller shadows of the people scampering about; once they lived on Earth, now only their silhouettes remain.

A million voices I can hear in the distance, I think they are calling my name. “Save us Boris! ” they cry. My name is amplified a million-fold across the sky and the land, as their screams intermingle with the urgent cries of my mother incessantly calling me back home. But what can I, a young boy, do to help? I am a powerless observer of the catastrophe. All I can do is stand and bear witness to this evil. That is the most I can do, to commit myself to record it in the most vivid detail, so that it will never be forgotten.

Why have I become the focus of their attention? Why isn’t The Lord coming to their rescue? Why are myriads of accusing eyes boring through me with rage? Are they blaming me for their predicament? Am I the one responsible for this disaster? Or am I the saviour? Are those feelings of premonition foreshadowing my destiny - portents that I’ve sensed my entire life but have always denied and suppressed, never having the courage to admit their authenticity to myself, let alone to others - are they now being validated? I never could face up to the inner voice telling me that truth about myself. Perhaps it is up to me and me alone to save America from destruction?

Just wait till I tell the other kids in school about this. They have always ostracised me and treated me as an eccentric outsider. I have never been able to count on a single person to come to my defence or say a good thing about me. And now a whole continent is putting its faith in me to rescue them. Surely this will change those guys’ opinions of me.

As I look up at the sky, some people hold hands and silently look into each other’s eyes as they fall; others are kissing, hugging and whispering last words of love to each other. Quite a few are engaged in, well, more intimate activities. I look away, not wishing to intrude upon the privacy of their last significant moments together. Mothers are wrapping arms around their children, hoping to shield their offspring from the impact of the earth. Men are writing their final wills and testaments. Some are resigned to their lot; a few, white with anger, are raging against the impending eternity. Many are in denial, pretending that nothing untoward is happening. Others have gone into shock and are paralysed by terror. Not a few rationalise the disaster by saying that man is born a fallen being and that it is the destiny of all of us to fall, sooner or later. Some people see this as a just and deserved punishment from God, while others are begging God to help them.

There are deafening screams of that hysterical despair that only the imminent arrival of death can evoke, and yet, even though those screams pierce my being, I am no closer to understanding their meaning. How can I ever hope to comprehend what the American people are undergoing up there in the sky?

Surrounding each person, as they fall, are pieces of their broken lives. Some try to catch these shards and re-build their lives into more meaningful and happier versions. Others just cannot be bothered, completely ignoring the fragments.

Oh the humanity, dropping from the once secure abode that has turned treacherously against them. But what can one do when one’s whole life has been reduced to just the act of falling? How does one deal with their world becoming upside down? All the survival instincts developed over eons of evolution are now inadequate and irrelevant. All the measures that mankind took to protect itself against the elements and vagaries of fate have become lethal burdens instead. Houses, streets, clothing, electricity, all the trappings of civilisation – none of that defends them from what has befallen them.

The falling people now discover that gravity is the polar opposite of hope, for while hope makes you light, raises you up and frees you from the worldly concerns, gravity brings you down to Earth and crushes you and your dreams.

If I could, I would turn the whole Earth into the cosiest bed for them to land safely on. They then would be tucked in for recuperative sleep, so that when they awoke they would think it was nothing but a horrible dream.

Is this The Rapture America’s theologians have been prophesying the coming of? Why are people falling down instead of rising up then? Why is there suffering instead of bliss? Why are the virtuous being punished?

The only way that this could be The Rapture is if we are the ones who are in the sky. Perhaps religious leaders of America are trying to convince their flocks right now that it is the rest of the world that’s up in the sky and so they the American people are not falling down but are in fact ascending, as The Rapture prophesied. Maybe, citing Psalm 19:1, “The Heavens proclaim the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of His hands”, they are trying to prove that this isn’t the real apocalypse but merely an apocryphal one. Surely, they are reasoning, God would not permit such events to take place in the realm that affirms his majesty.

How horribly ironic this psalm appears now; it is as if the Universe had conspired to repudiate it as comprehensively as possible and the sky, that has always been thought to be a heavenly domain, is now revealed to be base and corrupt, a source of evil and pain. And if this passage of The Holy Book has been reneged, does that imply that all of the Book is now invalid and no longer holds true?

Or is this the second fall from grace? Perhaps the death of the Messiah was not enough to atone for the original sin and America, being another of God’s beloved children, needed to be sacrificed too?

I recall watching on the news, a long time ago, that horrific footage of American people jumping out of burning skyscrapers. If their attempts to save themselves by leaping from buildings a hundred storeys high seemed tragically futile then, how much infinitely more futile and tragic are their attempts to save themselves now, jumping off America that is positioned thousands of storeys up in the sky.

It’s the children I feel for the most. All their childhood they have dreamed that persistent nightmare of endless falling that all children dream. How many times have they woken up with a start or a scream from such a nightmare, only to be comforted by their mothers with a hug and a reassuring word. Now I can see them desperately begging their mothers to embrace them and tell them that this falling is just that same old bad dream. How they yearn for that moment of awakening, when all the inextricable troubles and horrors that were confronting you dissolve, in an instant, into inconsequential shadows and gossamer threads and terror is replaced by a wave of relief washing over you as you realise that you are safely in the comfort of your bed, and a young day, pregnant with promise, opportunity and discovery is awaiting you.

My anguish over the plight of the falling is so extreme that I can feel another being coalescing and hovering beside me; a being identical to me in every respect except that it is made entirely of pain, for there is not enough room in my body to contain all that sorrow. Yet, my despair is intermixed with an odd sense of envy. The plummeting people possess the ultimate freedom, the intensity of which I will never get to experience. Death throes have become the purest and most authentic life experience for them, for only on the brink of annihilation does life shed the frumpy dress that she wears during the day of our existence and stands before us in all her natural, radiant glory. Now they can savour life as it truly is, free of all the grime that besmirches its true visage. Perhaps upside-down life is life as it should really be led, for it is only then that the dross and delusions of everyday life fall away, and just the essentials of existence remain.

All the delusions that once kept the American people warm and secure at night, the delusions that sustained them throughout their daily struggles and helped them through their darkest times are now destroyed: the delusion that one is special and unique; the delusion that one is destined for greatness; the delusion that one is a genius whom the world doesn’t appreciate; the delusion that one will find a soul mate meant just for them and whose love will save them; the delusion that one is above the laws of humanity and deserves to be treated differently; the delusion that a lucky break will come to one in the end; the delusion that somewhere some person, angel or god is working on one’s behalf, trying to help one with one’s journey through life; the delusion that one is protected by fate and special luck from bad things happening to them; the delusion that there will come a day when one will begin to live happily ever after; the delusion that one will find meaning in one’s tribulations and that one’s struggles will be justified in retrospect; the delusion that it all will turn out well in the future; the delusion that one alone, out of the multitude in the present world and throughout the course of history, will be spared from death; the delusion that one does not have any delusions.

There are kids putting on the Superman costumes, believing that they will be endowed with the powers of flight, while some of the teenagers cannot suppress their competitive streaks and are racing to determine who can fall the fastest and hit the ground first and hardest. Young ladies, dressed in bikinis, are performing synchronised falling routines, to give beauty and grace to their descent. Young men, to show that they are not scared, are somersaulting and twisting their bodies, as if jumping off a diving board. A small ensemble of dignified gentlemen wearing formal evening dress are playing “Closer My God to Thee” with elegant aloofness. One man in particular strikes me in the relaxed attitude that he adopts: lounging on a deck chair with a can of beer in one hand, cigarette in another, as if he is a spectator in a front row seat, watching a once-in-a-lifetime extravaganza of an apocalypse.

It doesn’t take long for an apocalyptic sect to spring up in the upside-down America. Rapid conversions take place, with the new believers donning transparently blue garments woven from the sky’s fibres. These clothes apparently will allow them to merge with the heavens and attain immortality. So many people take up this new faith that wide expanses of America become monochrome azure, especially in the southern regions.

America, once the creator of dreams, has become the dream destroyer. Special extermination squads are searching out for dreams to annihilate so that if America can’t have them, no one else will either. All over incinerators are erected and thick clouds of smoke discharge from them, comprising of dreams reduced to their base elements: deep yearnings, burning ambitions, ineffable hunches rumbling just below the conscious mind, half-remembered childhood premonitions.

As if to make up for their existence being cut short, some people age in a highly accelerated rate, which enables them to cram the rest of their lives into the last few instants of being. One infant turns into a boy, then a teenager, then a grown man, and finally a greybeard in a matter of seconds. Weddings take place and are then consummated. I hear babies crying, I watch them grow, they'll learn secrets of the sky I'll never know. Parents teach their children the facts of life, how to act politely, how to tie their shoelaces. Boys turn into adolescents, have their first shave and diffidently ask girls out for a first date. I see friends shaking hands, saying, “How do you do?”, they're really saying, "Goodbye to you", and I think to myself what a horrible world.

I no longer know what to believe. The vision that is confronting me has no stable, constant form but keeps changing incessantly, like a kaleidoscope with infinitely many pieces. The bizarreness of what I am seeing makes me wonder whether this is not an optical trick that Nature has played upon me, a mirage of sorts, similar to fata morgana, where whole buildings appear suspended in mid-air. Perhaps a particular interplay of light, shadow and dust up in the atmosphere today has produced this infernal illusion, and America is still on the ground, safe and well, and everything is as it should be in the world.

Could it be that all those lives depend solely upon me, upon how my senses perceive reality? What a terrible dilemma to be in, millions of lives at stake, all contingent upon whether or not I interpret it to be an optical illusion! Perhaps, if I just believe strongly enough that it’s a trick of the eye, then they all will be safely back on Earth.

What if, indeed, America has always been a mirage, without any reality or substance to it? Or was America just a fictional construct representing the Promised Land on which we could pin our aspirations for a utopian existence? Was it an archetypal symbol of an all-powerful, all-good Leader that humanity could look up? Could America have been a mass delusion assuming a corporeal form, as they often do in times of crisis and hysteria? Is it really possible that a country like America could have ever existed; a country that was omnipotent and beneficent, that always came to the rescue and saved the rest of the world from the enemies of mankind? Or what if, all along, America has been my own, very cherished delusion that gave me sustenance and identity, an invention of my own overactive imagination? That would certainly explain why I’ve always felt an uncannily powerful personal affinity with it and why I’m feeling such grief in seeing it being destroyed. These questions arise fleetingly in my mind and then dissipate away.

The scope of the tragedy is so all-encompassing that even the fictional characters of American culture are affected by it. There goes Homer Simpson, stopping in mid-air and asking for directions, confused as to which way is down. Superman is tumbling too, powerless to stop his rapid descent; his power of flight having been destroyed together with America itself. Amongst all the falling rubble, I can make out Dorothy’s house spinning wildly, looking in vain for the Land of Oz to alight upon.

All the television sets are still working as they drop, even though they are unplugged. To stop the population from panicking, every live broadcast of the disaster is taken off the air and many people are lying on their plummeting couches and watching the regular television programs.

Falling is such a leisurely activity; one doesn’t have to do anything. One just needs to relax and let the inertia carry them along. Yet some of the people just cannot accept and surrender to the laws of gravitation. Instead they are striving to overpower the senselessness of falling and to fill it with activity and meaning, for even gravity cannot conquer man’s thirst to go on living.

The historians and current affairs experts are analysing the events even as they are falling, looking for their causes, and trying to determine what repercussions there will be for America and the rest of the world when the continent crashes to the ground. It appears that they believe that by explaining the factors that brought about America’s downfall and by establishing the exact time-line of the disaster, they can somehow make themselves immune to it. Or perhaps they believe that through their words and diagrams, they can disempower the catastrophe and intellectualise it away.

The business tycoons see this as a unique opportunity to put their entrepreneurial skills into practice; some are attaching advertising billboards to the clouds, while others try to re-arrange the stars to spell out the slogan “Coca-Cola Takes You Higher!” Hollywood is able to maintain its veneer of glitter and glamour, for even the pull of gravity cannot make it reveal its true visage. The Mouseketeers are singing the “Mickey Mouse March” in perfect unison and pitch. The Vegas showgirls are smiling broadly and performing their high kicks and other dance routines - no cataclysm can wipe those grins from their faces.

Even now, the relentless self-mythologising that America is so famous for has not ceased and the movie directors are engrossed with creating their own interpretations of the calamity that has befallen their land. Steven Spielberg is making it into a big blockbuster disaster movie, albeit one with a happy ending; the Coen Brothers are able to transform the annihilation into a quirky comedy; Ron Howard turns it into a gentle, feel-good love story while Michael Moore’s documentary exposes the omnipotent global organisations that allegedly conspired to destroy America.

To gain a better understanding of the causes of the catastrophe, the President of the United States gives an executive order to establish a Commission that will investigate the crime that has been perpetrated against America. The commission is given unrestricted investigating powers and is directed to evaluate all the evidence and present a complete report to the American people. The first task that the commission sets itself is to recreate the exact sequence of events that led to the disaster, as well as a complete full-scale reconstruction of the catastrophe itself.

With both Hollywood and the government reconstructing the fall of America, I find it difficult to determine whether what I’m seeing is genuine destruction taking place or its re-enactment.

The madness of bureaucracy does not cease and hotly debated issues continue to consume the legislative body of America. The dispute about health care reform still rages unabated, with committees and sub-committees holding sessions debating which particular system to adopt, while all around them the country is breaking into pieces.

The Federal Government’s biggest concern appears to be whether the banks would be able to maintain their profit margins and whether the car companies will be able to continue their production in this new, free-fall environment. Consequently, the government devotes all of the relief efforts to the financial institutions and to the motor industries, while the people continue their helpless plunge.

The politicians of America are still engaged in their petty disputes, tossing heated words upon one another, oblivious to their rapid descent. They are passing motions, censuring, making character attacks. Ordinary people, too, are preoccupied with such concerns as not being able to use up their retirement funds.

It seems utterly ridiculous. Those actions are so trivial and senseless, pregnant with their own contradictions, given the situation they are in. And then a realisation strikes me – aren’t we ourselves, down here on earth, all in exactly the same situation? Aren’t we also nearing our own oblivion, each day closer to hitting the ground? Yet, we go on doing exactly the same foolish things, wasting our lives on the same meaningless activities.

Morbid curiosity compels me to observe what happens to the people when they strike the ground. But instead of their bodies looming larger and larger in my field of vision as they approach Earth’s surface, they become fainter and smaller still, until disappearing from sight altogether. They then re-appear; only they are no longer their corporeal three-dimensional selves but instead have turned into life-sized monochrome cardboard cutouts. Even those enterprising few that managed to strap on a parachute also turn into cutouts, with a cardboard silhouette of the parachute attached to their cardboard shoulders.

As I watch these cardboard figures approach the ground, another transformation takes place, with the cutouts changing into small photos of those same people. These snapshots now shower upon me like torrential rain.

Still, I cannot help but stick my bony kid arms out in the hope of catching at least some of the people, but only manage to catch the photos. Although in a daze, I instinctively glance at them and see in these snapshots the lost souls as they appeared in happier times, with their families, friends, pets; the way that they like to be remembered, and not how they looked in their desperate final moments. But although their lips are smiling, I can definitely discern a look of piercing admonition that the eyes of the dead often possess, beseeching us to explain why they were allowed to suffer so much and not be helped. There is also perhaps a shade of wistful sadness at not being a part of the living world any longer.

I turn one of the photos around, to see if any last words have been scrawled on its back and find four lines of verse printed in neat, childlike handwriting:

In the mighty nation girt by two giant seas,

Constitution of Laws becomes a piece of paper.

Its people too will float to the ground as such,

The country’s zenith being their nadir.

Every other photo that I pick up has exactly the same inscription written on its back. The handwriting varies but the words remain the same. Obviously this is the final message that the American people wanted to convey to the rest of the world.

I know I have read something similar to this before, something in my memory resonates with these words. Yes, now I remember, it is a quatrain from the Book of Prophecies written by that renowned medieval seer. This particular verse has long been considered to be indecipherably cryptic. Now it makes perfect sense and I understand why this grotesque metamorphosis is taking place. Didn’t one of America’s past presidents, not that long ago, dismiss their Constitution as being just a scrap of paper? And when the Constitution turns to paper, aren’t its citizens next?

I shake the photos furiously, trying to bring them back to life and make them three-dimensional again. Alas, they dissolve into a sticky fluid that drips down from my hands in tear-shaped drops. Are these tears the final lament for the lost America? Yet when I lick some of the liquid from my fingers, it tastes like Diet Coke.

Not only have the people of America become papery, their money too turns into worthless scraps of paper and I do not even bother to pick up the greenbacks that land at my feet. The US dollar, once the leading currency in the world, reveals its true nature to be nothing more than a piece of paper dyed green. Nevertheless, some of the falling have their arms full of cash and other possessions, hoping that these things will save them or soften their impact.

Now I understand why the Ancients, in all their wisdom that has been scorned by modern science, divided the Universe into four elements: Earth, Fire, Air and Water. They knew that each element is a separate realm that is completely distinct from and eternally inimical to the others. One just has to accept that the sky is an alien domain where inexplicable, beyond belief, events take place. The sky is a foreign country, people do things differently there. For far too long we have taken air, and by implication the sky, for granted as an intangible, invisible substance and now it is coming back with a vengeance, wreaking havoc upon America that is unfortunate enough to have been caught up in its clutches.

I feel like this is a personal duel between America and me, to determine who would crack first. For the first time in my life my mind is on the verge of packing up and calling it a day. It cannot take it any more; it just has no strength left to process the fantastical sensations deluging it. Yet, I force myself to continue watching for it is my duty to do so.

The extreme mental strain of the situation forces me to face something that my defence mechanisms have been trying very hard to suppress all this time. No, I can no longer deny it and have to be honest with myself. I have to admit that a few years ago I did write a short story titled “Amerika in the Sky” (with “Amerika” deliberately misspelled to stress the fictional nature of the story). From a very early age, I was always scribbling stories with fantastical settings and bizarre happenings; in my mind I was a child prodigy, a kind of a literary Mozart, except that, until just a year ago, I never shared my writings with anyone, they were my own secret domain. The idea for this story came to me in a dream and it described a situation very similar to the one happening right now, with America being attached to the heavens, then turning upside down and breaking into pieces with people falling down. And now I am paralysed with fear that it is my story that acted as a kind of a spur, causing reality to mimic its fanciful events. A similar thing has happened before, when a book called “The Wreck of the Titan”, was published 14 years before the Titanic disaster and described, in detail that was remarkably similar to the real occurrence, the sinking of an ocean liner. Perhaps my story also planted a prophetic seed in the fabric of reality, like a seed that is needed for crystals to grow around. Maybe some yet-to-be events are so deeply imbued with potentiality that only a little kick, like imagining them or describing them in writing, is all that is needed for them to actualise and burst into the real world. But how could I even imagine that such an outlandish, completely surreal scenario, one that contravenes the deepest laws of physics, could ever come true? Yet, surely, my American friends, the very friends who are falling right now, have to share some of the blame for this calamity, for they read “Amerika in the Sky” with pleasure, shared it with others, talked and wrote about it, lauded and applauded it. Heck, it even got published in an American magazine! They, therefore, reinforced the strength of the potentiality of America’s fall, and it was then only a short step from the fall being real in their minds to it assuming a solid form.

As the continent remains at the apex of the sky, buildings' foundations start to loosen, roots of plants are no longer able to cling to the soil; the mighty rivers empty their banks in a downpour of unprecedented proportions. Mountains too begin to disentangle themselves from their foundations: there go the Rockies, followed closely behind by Mt Rainier and Mt McKinley. What a sight it is of these titans that once towered haughtily above the rest of the land. Now they are twirling unceremoniously, like pebbles tossed into a river from a bridge. The bunkers built into the mountains, in which the elite sought safety, are popping out of their hiding places, like heated popcorn, and plummeting down too.

There go Mt Rushmore’s gargantuan busts; their granite eyes are shut tight, for they cannot bear to watch what has become of their country. A land that they put so much effort into creating, developing and preserving the unity of has been broken into myriad fragments. The Statue of Liberty is falling disrobed, the torch extinguished, bewilderment and anxiety etched deeply upon her once proud face. Lady Justice is following not far behind. The sword has dropped from her right hand; the scales, unable to maintain any balance, are seesawing wildly in her left hand and the blindfold has come off the face. But what is the point of her seeing clearly now, how can an evil of this magnitude ever be avenged?

Those quintessential American characteristics - eternal optimism, justice and opportunity for all - are on their way down. Plunging next to them are the shattered pieces of the Great American dream, intermingled with fragments of dreams of glory, wealth and happiness.

Even at this desperate time, the pursuit of fame and fortune is too irresistible for many of the people and they battle against one other as they try to catch up with and grab the pieces all for themselves. Hordes of these Americ-ants swarm all over each dream crumb, scuffling amongst themselves for a taste of it, just like ants teeming over drops of strawberry jam.

One scrap of the American dream ends up dropping right at my feet. I pick it up immediately, hoping that it will endow me with the confident “can-do” spirit that the people of this land are so famous for. Yet, on its descent, the dream fragment has become, like the people, just another useless scrap of paper, devoid of any potency or vitality.

“Fast food” used to be the perfect symbol of American life. Before it was food that was easily disposed with. Now values, dreams, people, the country itself have become disposable too.

After all the signs of civilisation and life vanish, the ground itself begins to give way and disintegrate. The earth slowly loses its compactness and adhesiveness, first dripping down in small spurts and then in great lumps. Here and there, the liquid magma substratum is peeking through the locations where the entire continental crust has come off. Land that for billions of years worked hand in hand with gravity realises what it is like to be in opposition to it. Only now will America reveal its true nature, free of all pretences, just as people lose their facade and expose their real selves during the times of crises.

All my life I have been entranced by America, that inexhaustible source of influence, entertainment, invention, humour, innovation and creativity, and wanted to understand whence came its boundless talents. That’s why I harboured a secret wish to grab America by its legs, turn it upside down and give it a good shake, so that all the secrets stashed in its hidden pockets would come tumbling down at my feet. And now no more secrets remain; all the deep and eternal, ancient and modern mysteries are revealed with the uprooting of the soil. All the closets have opened up and divulged their carefully concealed stories, except that the question of who was behind the Kennedy Assassination still remains unresolved; with the destruction of America disappears the final hope of ever determining the truth behind this hideous enigma.

The body of America is twitching in its death throes. Some outer sections of the carcass have not as yet received the message that the end has come and are still displaying signs of life, just like a dead dinosaur’s claws that continue to move while the nerve signals rush from the brain to inform them that it is all over.

As the continent continues to break up, it becomes a terrifying melting pot. A colossal downpour of bodies, concrete, trees, mud, water, cars, houses, rock, soil all mixed together into a horrible blend threatens to engulf the world below and destroy our lives too. Eerily, I keep hearing disembodied laughing emanating from the falling deluge. It seems that in the turbulence of the maelstrom, the laugh tracks have become detached from the sitcoms and they provide a bitterly ironic soundtrack to the catastrophe.

I run around, picking up the debris, trying to salvage what I can. Is it up to me to rebuild this country from all the bits and pieces that are descending and covering me from head to toe? But attempting to put it all together again would surely be a futile task, like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle that has innumerably many pieces.

Some of the light beams refract through the dropping water, leading to colours of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky, showing on the faces of the people falling by. This effect adds an incongruously cheery, multi-hued aspect to the grey, amorphous sludge of devastation coming from above.

Thankfully, some clouds appear and block these scenes of chaos, but then they quickly disperse. Again, I'm unable look away from the largest catastrophe ever witnessed by the human eye. But what right do I have to observe the deaths of others; to look, God-like, upon the numberless agonies? Who am I, a small boy, to watch scenes of suffering so terrifying that even Death itself turns its bony face away in fright? What right do I have to continue living, while millions are defeated by the irremediable evil of extinction?

Is it just America falling or is it all of mankind? I feel like I am the odd one out, stubbornly holding my ground and remaining ludicrously motionless. How tempting it is to join the plunge, to become one with the deluge! The avalanche is calling out to me with all its might, it is so persuasive in its roar. Let me fall too! I want to plummet together with them!

Oh the horror, the horror of it all! Surely this day will live forever in infamy! Where are You, God? In You they trusted! Don’t You have a special relationship with this land? Haven’t You always protected and looked after it? I ask only one thing of You and I will never ask anything of You again - expunge from the fabric of spacetime the moment when America became attached to the celestial sphere. But God, who sees everything, remains silent and does nothing.

A young mind should never have experienced such absolute evil. Yet here I am, drinking it all in, still heedless of my mother calling me to immediately return home.

Such an unimaginable occurrence! And yet, despite of it being utterly inconceivable, it is nonetheless occurring. Indeed, there is even a certain inevitability about it, just like the slow uprooting and the plunge of a mighty tree that has been weakened by age or storms.

Maybe it was meant to be this way and some good will come out of it. Perhaps it was necessary to throw this country up into the air and let it shatter into a billion pieces, so that, when all the intermingled fragments of the cities, forests, rivers and mountains settle back on the ground, a better arrangement of America will emerge. I cling to this faint straw of hope, trying to use it as ballast in my mind’s turmoil of despair.

But my sanity can no longer endure the relentless onslaught upon the senses, and I can distinctly feel my inner self separate into two halves. One part is an idealistic child that I was before this day, a child that would never accept that such horrors could take place, a child whose mind would refuse to accept what his eyes see. The other part is a strange, unfamiliar being that I know not at all. It is he who perceives this hideous tragedy, for the person that I have always known myself to be cannot be a part of this occurrence.

A new, terrifying thought seizes me: what if the sky has become a mirror and what I am seeing is, in fact, my own country? Could it be that we are the Americans, we are the ones undergoing these tribulations? Is America a distorted image of my own land? Are the happenings in the heavens a deformed reflection of our own actions and lives?

If the sky has turned into a reflective surface, then I should be able to recognise in it the land features surrounding me. Yet, when I look up, all I can see is an image of my own face, magnified grotesquely, staring back at me with a sneer. The birthmark to the right of my upper lip looks just like an odiously black anti-Sun. But the face in the sky is not of my present child self; rather it is the face of me as an adolescent, as a middle-aged man, as an elderly greybeard. Obviously everything in the sky is subject to rapid aging this accursed day. In desperation, I scrutinise the giant eyes for a sign of support and wait for the vast face to speak words that will explain the meaning of what is occurring. But its eyes remain stubbornly cold and no sound emanates from its lips.

After an interminable span of time, the continent begins to move away from the zenith. The Sun re-emerges in the sky, whole and wholesome, able to shine again. For a moment the sky seems to be empty and blue again, with its innocence intact, the way it was early this morning. But morning was a million griefs, a million irreparable lives ago; morning took place in another epoch altogether, when things like this could not be envisaged.

A fortunate few have managed to survive the near total destruction of the landscape of North America and are approaching the horizon and security of the ground again. Thank goodness that they will be able to descend safely and be lauded as heroes; survivors of the most horrific journey that any human being has ever had to undergo.

Alas, that is not to be, for when this god-forsaken continent reaches the horizon, it collides sharply with the stubborn ground that is already there. Before my terrified eyes a cataclysm, even worse than the one I witnessed earlier in the day, starts to unfold. A relentless process takes place as two continents attempt to occupy the same location at the same time, and one of them has to lose out.

Northern Canada and Alaska are the first to go. Bit by bit they are torn apart, as the stationary earth refuses to shift and stands firm its ground. Those remaining alive, who I thought would be the lucky survivors, are crushed to dust. The process creates a horrible grinding noise, like a million fingernails scraping together across a gigantic blackboard, and it resounds across the span of the land.

I cannot help but rush to their aid, to try to save at least some lives. But after a few steps I halt, for I recall that the horizon is just an illusory point in the distance that keeps receding further and further as you walk towards it, and so I will never be able to reach the doomed ones.

By now, more than half the continent has been ground into fine powder. The major metropolises of the United States, the founts of so much knowledge, art, music and creative energy are pulverised into nothingness. Icy pieces of Alaska intermingle with the glassy shards of New York City and with bits of Los Angeles tinsel. Would it ever be possible to reconstruct America from these clouds of dust? Cities, civilisations, entire countries have been rebuilt from ruins before, but this is annihilation on a scale from which there's no coming back. The land of endless possibilities, a country that once offered so much opportunity to everyone, is now itself bereft of any future prospects.

Well, there goes the New World, I think wistfully. America, I hardly knew you! I never did get to visit you. I was going to fulfil my destiny there, make it my home, for I knew America was the only place where my unique faculties would be fully recognised and appreciated.

No longer will we have America in our lives. It is gone in the most terrible fashion, right before my very eyes. And yet, its ashes will settle all over the world, infusing every cell of the remaining planet. Forever more, it will provide fertilisation for the world to go on progressing the way America once did, and we will be able to state proudly that we now all have a little bit of America in our very souls.

Many years have now passed since the day we lost America. For a long time, the heavens were stained red with the blood of the hapless victims; clouds had a bone-white aspect to their coloration, and fragments of the final despairing screams continued to resonate through the sky. The sky had become a death trap, a mass grave of singular proportions, its mysterious beauty forever blighted by the destruction it had wrought upon the millions. Now we could see that, instead of being a fantastical wonderland, the sky was a place where reality assumed its harshest, most pitiless form, a place where destiny was reduced to just one option, and you were compelled to follow that option unequivocally, a place in which you were given only one path to tread.

Death itself was not able to watch so much pain and carnage and was inconsolable, crying the rain down that day. It could not bring itself to accept what had happened and tried to refuse entry to the millions of new arrivals knocking on its door and asking to be let in, for it did not foresee their coming and strenuously denied playing any role in their demise.

Never before had so many died at the same time, in full view of the rest of humanity; all the previous catastrophes were trivialised by comparison. Nothing would ever make the world regain its lost innocence and America, whose ceaseless creativity once brought the world so much entertainment and pleasure, now became the cause of humanity’s greatest sorrow.

This was an event unique in the absoluteness of its tragedy. Nothing in it could have been construed as having any positive features, unlike the things going on down on the ground which always possess both good and bad aspects. With this singular occurrence, there was no angle that could provide an alternative perspective; it was an incontrovertible and unambiguous catastrophe of unparalleled proportions.

The fall of America disrupted the very fabric of society. It wasn’t just a small “hole in the stocking” that could be darned and become invisible. Instead it was a big, ugly tear that threatened to grow larger and larger, and bring down the very foundations of the civilisation that mankind had taken thousands of years to build.

The world gasped, the world cried, the world mourned, and then it went on living. For a long time afterwards, all our activities seemed frivolous by comparison with what had transpired above. A disaster like that raised the question of the value of human life. When the entire continent was destroyed, not only did the lives of the fallen become insignificant, but our lives too lost their meaning. America may only have loomed over the world for a dozen or so hours, but the trauma of its demise has continued to hover above us ever since, threatening to crush us with its enormity.

“Where was God while America was being destroyed?” we asked. Did God look the other way and ignore what went on that day? Or was God Himself paralysed with fear at what He witnessed and could do nothing to help the victims? Was this event such an unexpected aberration of the natural order of the universe that not even He foresaw it coming? Was this His will being done or was this done against His will? Was God predestined to do this to America or could He have chosen not to do it?

Time itself stopped in the face of such tragedy and then tottered on uncertainly, in a punch-drunk manner, the way we staggered around in a daze down on Earth. And so we could not tell if days or years have passed by, for Time trudged forward erratically, sometimes taking steps back, as it too tried to reverse the flow of the events and return back to the innocent happiness of the past.

Eventually, we regained our composure, our sanity, our humour, our joie de vivre; we were able to laugh, love, smile and hope again, but we would never recover our ability to dream, for America was the source of all our dreams.

We realised that like the Sun, the Moon and the seas, so the continents too are compelled to rise and fall. We could not delude ourselves into believing that senseless tragedies like that only happened in America. We had to accept that one day our land too would be thrust into that same bottomless pit in the sky. We recognised that the redness of the sunsets and the whiteness of the clouds, whose colours we always took for granted and indeed were enchanted by, were actually a harbinger of the fate that awaited all mankind, a forewarning of the blood and bones that would fill the sky.

Ships were forbidden from approaching the ugly gash of a gigantic scar that laid across half of the Western Hemisphere and reached into the very flesh of the Earth, like a third-degree burn, with skin and underlying tissue destroyed. That, however, didn’t stop the morbid sightseers from taking chartered flights over what once was a mighty country, to gawk at what became known as Ground Absolute Zero. There was talk of constructing a memorial or even of re-building America itself, but how does one rebuild an entire continent?

The tattered advertisement signs that continued to cling tenaciously to the clouds were the only remaining physical evidence that there once was a spot that for one brief, shining moment was known as America with the lot. We were the last generation to have America as a vital part of our lives. Our descendants will never believe that such a land could have ever existed and will scoff at our accounts of it as just myths and fairy tales.

Naturally, given such an irrefutable and immeasurably tragic event, plethora of conspiracy theories arose denying that it had ever occurred and that instead America was “playing possum”, just like its native marsupial. These deniers pointed out that Americans have always been masters of simulation – one only needed to look at Hollywood, that pinnacle of artifice. It was entirely possible, one theory claimed, that the American government staged destruction of their own continent so that it could assume dictatorial powers. Another conspiracy theory went further and insisted that this was America’s ultimate gambit, to feign annihilation of their land, so as to evoke the world’s unreserved sympathy and support, which would then be utilised to extend American hegemony upon the Earth. Others alleged that they had evidence that a secret NASA experiment had gone terribly out of control and instead of launching just a shuttle, all of American continent got propelled into the sky. The most outlandish claim was that the annihilation of America was indeed authentic, but that it was perpetrated deliberately by the military-industrial complex, as the only way they saw to save America, both from its external and internal foes, was to destroy it.

The philosophers debated endlessly about the nature of this event and what meaning such a tragedy could possibly have. Eventually, two opposing schools of thought emerged: one that claimed that this event had infinite meaning and one that claimed that this event had no meaning at all. In either case, the catastrophe could be analysed forever and still its true sense would not be determined. This gave philosophers of both camps immense satisfaction, for they could now occupy themselves with this dilemma till the end of their days.

Historians too analysed exhaustively all aspects of the catastrophe, studying its causes and publishing a vast number of weighty tomes which recounted in finest detail everything that took place in the sky that day. The underlying intention of their work appeared to be that their erudite words would nullify the cataclysmic changes that the disaster had wrought upon the collective consciousness of mankind and would restore the dignity of human life.

I’m no longer the small boy that I was back then. No, I was not a small boy ever again, for the suffering I witnessed and felt in my very bones that day turned me irrevocably into a man. I understood that life itself, whether up in the sky or down on Earth, is an act of falling; each hour we are closer to hitting the ground, the soil waiting to receive us when we make the final impact. What I saw that day exposed the absurdity of trying to impart meaning to our lives whilst we are in free fall towards our doom. When one witnesses life reduced to its last moments, the ultimate futility of our actions becomes patently clear.

I realised why one is destined to be forever alone, for we all just pass each other momentarily on our descent and then continue along our divergent trajectories. The most you can hope for is a fleeting contact with another being. But I also understood, after watching America in the sky, that just as falling while holding onto someone is unwieldy, with less manoeuvring and freedom of action possible, so it is much more graceful to live your life by yourself, without anyone else in it. Your life then is dependent upon you alone and is not affected by every movement and weight of the other person. And so I have stayed alone in this world, without a friend, an offspring or a soul mate, alone and graceful in my flight down to the ground.

That day I lived through the most authentic experience of my life, the reality of reality hitting me with full force and making me shed forever my youthful illusions. Yet at the same time, I still find it hard it to convince myself that it was not some phantasm created by the overactive mind of a precocious child.

For years, I could feel the presence of millions of spectral figures hovering just above ground. Every time that I look up to the sky, I still can see and hear it all again: the chaos, the destruction, America writhing in its final death throes, a thousand lives being cut short with each passing second.

I felt that I was given the responsibility of living out all the curtailed lifetimes, that it was up to me to accomplish all the deeds left undone, to give voice to all the words left unsaid. The fallen had entrusted me all their talents, all their aptitudes, all their special and unique gifts that were lost together with America. This was my inheritance, my destiny, the price I had to pay for having witnessed America’s fall. By watching their deaths, I had entered into a covenant to complete living lives cut short and to fulfil millions of unfulfilled dreams and ambitions. And so now I no longer live for myself, but only for them. I am living out their existence.

In the end however, what I have written is only a clumsy depiction. Words that I used to convey what I saw and felt that day were created and defined in a world in which America still existed. Words like “tragedy”, “fear”, “life”, and “death” have since become bloodless beings that lost their life-force together with America itself. And so I will speak no more, except in that most authentic, most profound language of all – absolute silence.

Short Stories on www.shortnscarystories.com

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Tue, 31 Jul 2012 16:27:00 +0000

Well after a little sojourn I am back at the keys. I've had a couple of my short stories posted on a fiction site called www.shortnscarystories.com. It's a pretty good site and I've read some interesting stuff over there. My two stories are "THE HIDING GAME" (formerly on this Blog) and "DEAR BROTHER". I hope you will check them out if you have a chance. Here are the links. As usual, comments, Facebook Shares, ratings, and Tweets are MOST welcome!

http://www.shortnscarystories.com/the-hiding-game/
http://www.shortnscarystories.com/dear-brother/

Name Your Favorite Blogs

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Tue, 24 Jul 2012 14:01:00 +0000

Right now I'm looking for your favorite blogs in Fantasy and Science fiction and Weird fiction. Feel free to post your blog here, or a blog that you think is interesting.

Writing on Demand and Setting Goals!

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Sat, 21 Jul 2012 00:25:00 +0000

Greetings fellow BLOG enthusiast, and thank you again for coming to my blog. Whether you did so by referral, search, or just blindly tripped over it in the darkened corner of the internet. Whichever way you came, I am glad you are here. I want to talk a little bit about writing on demand, because it is something that I have just discovered. While doing a cross blog with another author, I realized...much to my surprise...that I am actually capable of writing on demand! This is an aberration for me because usually it takes me maybe a week to get an idea straight in my head. However, my counterpart in this small experiment suggested a cross blog and to give it a THEME. We settled on Nightmarish things, and I think my short story fits a bit into that niche...at least it's in the ballpark. The idea did take a few days to come together, but I found that giving myself a theme, digging deep into my right brain, and juxtapositioning contrasting elements actually works pretty well for me. Normally I would feel that 5 single spaced pages would be a grueling task, but with a definite direction in mind they seemed to fly by with ease? How did something that often seems so hard, become a bit easier. I simply set a goal. A goal I wanted to attain and a deadline I wanted to meet! Even though no one would have shot me at dawn if I didn't make the deadline on this, it was a personal thing and I wanted to prove to myself that I could achieve what I wanted to do in a specific time frame. I like the story that emerged entitled, THE HOT NIGHT. Not one of my best, but short enough to digest quickly and I believe interesting enough to keep people reading. So it looks like goal setting is another useful device in spurring writing. If you have writing friends and you are working together with them, it seems a good idea to have them set a goal for you. If you miss your own goal, you don't care as much. But if another person is expecting something of you at a given time it tends to spur you on more as you really want to come through with the goods! Would love to hear any and all thoughts on this Blog post. As usual, more fun will be on the way! I am thinking of more strange weirdness that all of you fans of bizarre fiction would like to sink your teeth into. Along the way I will through in some more inspiring down to Earth stuff too, to keep things lively. Hope you will return as my Blog evolves, and feel free to bring your comments as usual.

*On a serious note, I want to extend my sympathies and prayers to the families of the Colorado Theater victims. This was a horrific and cowardice act committed by a subhuman, deranged, and pathetic thing. I won't even call him a man, because he isn't worthy of that title. May God rest the souls of those who were lost, and heal the souls of those who survived!

Lazlo's Krazy Shack: Short Story Swap NOW!

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Fri, 20 Jul 2012 00:00:00 +0000

Here's a story of mine posted over at Lazlo's Krazy Shack! Click the link Below to get to my story, "The Hot Night".

Lazlo's Krazy Shack: Short Story Swap NOW!

Story Sharing

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Thu, 19 Jul 2012 23:35:00 +0000

To All who would like a fresh perspective on some unique horror fiction, please check out the new short story from Author, Lazlo Azavaar. I think you'll find his brand of story telling both creepy and satisfying...with no unpleasant after taste :-). Clicking the STORY SHARE TAB at the top of this Blog will lead you over to him in record time! ENJOY!

Story Experiment

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Wed, 18 Jul 2012 17:06:00 +0000

Greetings All,

I and a fellow writing friend have agreed to commit to a shared short story writing page on this blog called STORY SHARE PAGE. Stories will appear both on this blog and at Lazlo's Krazy Shack. These will usually be tales in between the ranges of 500-2,500 words tops. They will be predominantly in the genres of horror/weird tales or fantasy. Please do leave your comments as we would appreciate your input immensely. If you enjoy a particular story, we hope you will mention us to your other reader friends.

Kind Regards,

Russell Huneke

New Guest Blogger at Nighthawk Fiction

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Tue, 17 Jul 2012 14:38:00 +0000

Today I would like to present a post from a fellow fiction writer, Gina Marie Long, a writer of werewolf fiction. Please check out her Blog and webpages at the bottom of this post. It is a pleasure to have her insight!

A BAD READ: WRITING LESSONS LEARNED

It's happened to everyone at some point. We start reading a book and soon discover, something doesn't feel right. It sucks.

But do we stop reading the tripe or continue on…trudging our way through it, determined to finish it no matter what? At some point you realize, as you whisper to yourself, "I am on a quest. I'm going to get through this thing if it kills me."

So much for our initial unbridled excitement of reading a great story and losing ourselves to another world, devouring word after word, and getting to know characters that seem as real as your next door neighbor. Not.

I almost lost my mind. But I did read the whole thing.

No, I won't say who the author is or the name of the book. That's not nice. Especially since I felt this person is truly a friendly, well-meaning human being. However, the novel (or writer) did a fantastic job of throwing in my face so blatantly (yet not intentionally, of course) several writing lessons. The following is my list of what drove me bonkers while reading the book, and in turn, the mistakes I want to avoid when I write my own books:

1) Get to the point. Or at least tip me off that something exciting is about to happen. Create some suspense.

2) Why am I being told in great detail about food, driving, clothes, houses, non-essential characters…things I don't give a rat's ass about and that do not move the storyline forward at all. I will skim or skip reading these parts…looking ahead for the good stuff. And I encountered this throughout the entire book. Boring.

3) Before starting the book, I was given the impression the main character had "special" abilities or powers. Nope. No supernatural mojo related to him at all. Supernatural elements were in there, just not belonging to him. Did I not read the synopsis correctly?

4) The main character spent a large percentage of his time "away" from the main location in the book. (I don't want to say where he went because it gives a huge clue as to which book I'm referring to, just in case the actual author comes across this posting, and I'd rather the book stay anonymous to avoid hurt feelings. Just saying…) Anyway, I thought the chunk of time the main character stayed away from the central site was ridiculous and broke the flow of the story (not that it had a great flow to begin with). The main setting was a great place that the author could have kept the character there without removing him from the hotspot where all the action took place. As I read pages and pages with this character stuck in this "other place", I constantly kept thinking, "Get him out of the ____ and back to the ____!" Weird.

5) The book is part of a series. I did know that going in. I like reading series and write them myself. Each book in a series tends to wrap up a specific issue or problem that the story focuses on. Usually loose ends are tied-up but perhaps a deeper, overall aspect of the plot is unresolved, leaving a cliffhanger to draw the reader into the next book. But this book left the story completely hanging, dangling out there in no-man's land. Nothing was brought to a close. I finished the last paragraph and said, "That's it?! No way." It just stopped. No answers at all, which ticks off readers. We expect a cliffhanger in a series, but the author cannot walk away in the midst of the story without revealing some answers! I felt empty, confused and upset as I kept pressing my ereader button forward and backward, about five times, thinking a page had been accidentally left out.

6) And did I mention already I don't need to know every single item of food the characters are having for breakfast, lunch and supper?

I rarely have anything negative to say about books that I read because I usually enjoy everything. Sure, some are more exciting, some are duller. But it's unusual for me to skim through ¼ of the book, attempting to speed up the completion of it because it's frustrating and boring. To make a blog posting based entirely on the effect of one specific book should tell you something. For me, these were writing lessons learned, or perhaps mistakes I already knew to avoid but refreshed/reinforced in my mind.

So, am I going to buy the next book in this series to find out what happens next? No. I'm not into any further torture.

Feel free to connect with me! I don't bite. Really.

Gina Marie Long

Author of Young-Adult, Paranormal Thrillers, Urban Fantasy

http://www.ginamarielong.com

http://www.facebook.com/ginamarielongfans

ginamarielong@gmail.com

Guest Blogger Tuesday, July 17th!

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Sun, 15 Jul 2012 23:37:00 +0000

On Tuesday, July 17th, please look for my first Guest Blogger here on Nighthawk Short Fiction, Gina Marie Long. Gina will be sharing her thoughts on fiction writing and what makes a good read. Hope you'll check out her post on Tuesday! - Russ Huneke

Blogging and some Ranting and Raving!

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Sat, 14 Jul 2012 20:49:00 +0000

Ok enough of Tom Cruise. Back to business now. Check out a backlink from my writing friend Lazlo at Lazlo's Krazy Shack. Some good tips on writing there. Also some upcoming guest blogs will kick in next week with a few of my online writing friends. Hoping this will stir things up and make things more interesting for all you reading and writing folks. I was also recently tipped off by an online friend that a particular book called "50 Shades of Gray" is number 1 in Kindle store. This "Erotica" book is nothing more than a piece of trash smut and horribly written to boot. And it makes #1? With lots of bad one star reviews? I guess a sense of values and morals is not necessary to be a best seller sometimes. Just eschew with them and you can make lots of money? Well it isn't for me, and I think a lot of people who sweat and suffer over putting together good quality writing would agree. It's a sad world sometime when people are more interested in what they euphemistically call "erotica", which is nothing more than soft core pornography, get ahead monetarily while the real writers suffer for every dollar they make. It really makes me sick. I always said if you just want to make money, dream up something that appeals to the dregs and degenerates of humanity. We have no shortage of those!!!! However if you want to keep your integrity, fight the good fight, and just make a decent lifestyle by constantly and honestly networking with other genuinely artistic and talented people, then I'm with you! Don't let money be your God! Greed gets you nowhere! Just look at what it's done to our country because certain individuals on Wall Street and other places just couldn't get enough. OK, I'll get off my soap box now. Feel free to rant here. It's an open forum!

Keep the faith!

Lazlo's Krazy Shack: Serious Writery Updates, Part Deux

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Sat, 14 Jul 2012 04:36:00 +0000

Lazlo's Krazy Shack: Serious Writery Updates, Part Deux

The Reason Katie, Nicole, and Mimmi ran away!

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Fri, 13 Jul 2012 12:59:00 +0000

And...on a side note I thought I'd add a little spice to the blog with some REAL WORLD insanity. And now...without further ado...here he is...the man who HAS to do something, because he's the ONLY ONE WHO CAN...And..........he's also cuckoo for freaking Co-Co Puffs! The one...and thankfully the ONLY...Mr. KSW...Mr Scientology Whackjob Wonder. Tom...LOSING IT...Cruise (just listen for the frigged up laughing)

Guest Blogging

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Wed, 11 Jul 2012 19:03:00 +0000

Has anyone out there done the Guest Blogging thing? Well obviously quite a lot of people have and the premise seems pretty simple. Me, I'm trying to build up traffic and share content about writing to benefit myself (and incidentally others since guest blogging is a win win for both parties and builds up notice on both sides) by increasing notice of my writing on Amazon. Pretty much the same thing just about any Writer would want to do. I don't wish to languish in the vapor zone forever. Has anyone had good success in Guest Blogging? I'm sure it takes a while to really reap the benefits. Like I said before, marketing is about 10 times harder than writing itself. It can be a real bitch. Please share your thoughts and any advice on it you may have.

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Wed, 11 Jul 2012 15:11:00 +0000

Second FREE SAMPLE short story posted. A bit more in the demented area, but still in the surreal area of fiction. A bit more aggressive than my usual (and a little bloody near the end). Hope you'll check out and comment on THE HIDING GAME..........This means YOU Lazlo!!!! This one's right up your alley! Click on the 2nd NEW STORY tab at the top of the page. Cheers!!!!

Peanut!

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Wed, 11 Jul 2012 13:08:00 +0000

On a non-writing related note, yesterday marked the 17th week of wifey's excursion into Motherhood. Having not yet determined the sex yet (we will find out in her 20th week), we just refer to the baby as "Peanut" ha ha! Hasn't started kicking hard yet, but it was an active little stinker on the 12th week sonogram. Could see its little head, hands and feet flipping around all over. Moves around a lot, which I guess is good! Doctor says "my they're an active one!" Heartbeat good so far. Keep praying everything goes okay! Happy 17 week, Peanut. We love you very much. Maybe I'll write a story about you ha ha ha!

Comments?

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Tue, 10 Jul 2012 22:13:00 +0000

I'm trying to get feedback from people. If you happen to stumble on this page and you are into writing at all I hope you will post a comment. If nothing here interests you and you want something to talk about, please comment on a topic you would like brought up and I'll be glad to create a post about it! Obviously it should be about writing in some shape or form. If you have a good story on your own blog, hope you will post a link here so that it can be shared. I would like this to be a place people can come to to and share thoughts and ideas and their art. Hope you'll make this a better site by posting your comments! Thanks much!!!!!

New Short Fantasy stories

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Mon, 09 Jul 2012 13:05:00 +0000

Hello All. Hope you are keeping cool. Trying to find new markets that accept inspirational fiction in the tradition of The Twilight Zone. I was thinking of trying to get some short stories published that have been sitting in my computer. I have quite a few of them now, I'd it would be great if I could get them out for other people to see. If anyone knows of any markets that publish this kind of stuff, please do leave a comment here, or better yet, drop me an email at rhuneke@hotmail.com. Thanks much!

Free short story (comments welcome)

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Thu, 05 Jul 2012 15:11:00 +0000

Hi All,

As you can see below, I have decided to try something new and offer one of my short stories (well, kinda short, it's 11,000 words...so long short) to anyone who likes fantasy and Twilight Zone type fiction. It's also a little inspirational as well. If you happen to read it, and you want to leave a comment, I would be very grateful for your thoughts! You can comment on this post if you like, as the story goes very far down the page and comments could be missed. Would appreciate any thoughts you might have if you read!

All The Best!

Sample Short Story (In The Twilight Zone Tradition)

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Thu, 05 Jul 2012 14:50:00 +0000

FORGIVEN

Russell Huneke

She slid the card over to him and he glanced at it.

“What’s that?” asked Henry, sipping his coffee.

“It’s John and Marie’s phone number. Remember them?”

Henry’s mouth filled with a sour taste that was not the coffee, and his tone turned acerbic as he mused over the phone number that sat splayed out before him.

“I think I’m still trying to forget them!” he said with a tinge of anger wagging off the end of his tongue.

Joan’s fingers pressed over the card that had come out of the old rolodex she had pulled from the drawer of the chest she was cleaning out. She had made up her mind today to start eviscerating the old chest that had been lingering like a squalid eyesore in the corner of the den for years, never replaced by anything new. It was a fixture that seemed to stay year after year, but this morning her eye had caught sight of its morose sulking façade once too often and she decided out it should finally go. She hadn’t banked on finding anything like this. A sore memory wedged in the back of her mind. Finding the card with the number was like reopening a deep old wound. She winced with regret of it.

“Aren’t you going to throw it away,” asked Henry, in an almost commanding tone as his coffee cup hovered just inches below his lips. Joan looked at it for a moment, her mind half woven in a web of reverie; she didn’t answer immediately.

“I guess I should,” she said with a wan little smile that looked more like a frown bent forcibly upwards. “After all, it’s been ten years since we’ve even seen them!”

“Good riddance!” said Henry, and slugged down another swallow of coffee with a scowl. “Throw it away, Joan. We don’t need to hang on to them…for any reason!”

Joan nodded her assent and looked up.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“I am,” said Henry and turned away, moving into the living room toward the glow of the television light that lit that room. Joan watched him walk away and pressed her lips together. She looked at the card, more pensively now than she had before. Not only was there the phone number on it, but the address of John and Marie’s house in Heightstown. She thought briefly of their house, happy times flittering through her head. Times her and Henry had spent with them. Times before…

Her hand moved toward the wastepaper basket with the card dangling loosely from her fingers. She parted her grip and dropped it in, the sole piece of debris in the basket. Then she turned quickly away from it and tried to wipe her mind clean of tangled thoughts that knotted in her brain. Henry was right! They were old news. Yesterday’s news. And yesterday belongs to yesterday. So she thought!

She was on the phone with Helen for at least an hour, catching up and filling in the empty spaces of the afternoon with compressed chatter and the latest up to date news of what was happening in each of their lives.

“I’ve been chewing at your ear for over an hour now, Joan. I completely lost track of time. I guess I should be letting you go now?”

“It’s ok, I can chat a few more minutes. I’m not in any rush to take out the garbage.” And with that comment Joan’s eyes swept down to peer into the den wastebasket she was standing next to. The card she had thrown away earlier was still sitting lonely in the basket, she had thrown most of the other stuff away in large black plastic garbage bags, but the card with the phone number and address still lay there in the bucket a solitary item. She reached down and grabbed at it. She couldn’t seem to help it. It was like an impulse action, like yelling “ouch” after you burn yourself or hit your thumb with the hammer. No thought was involved in the action.

“Garbage,” chortled Helen in a snort over the line. “How enjoyable!”

“Yes,” said Joan in a slightly detached voice as she turned the card over and over in her hand again, perusing the worn script writing. Her own handwriting, faded over the years like a ghost. “I was cleaning out the den chest and you’ll never guess what I found?”

“What’s that,” asked Helen, curiosity peaking in her voice.

“John and Marie’s old phone number. The address too! Can you believe it?”

“John and Marie? Why you haven’t spoken to them in years, have you? Not since that big blow up about…what was it about anyway, Joan?”

“Oh, …personal stuff. I can tell you it had to do with Matt, but I don’t want to get into any more or we might be on this phone for another hour!”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

Joan sighed. “You didn’t. It’s old news anyway.”

“At the risk of prying even more Joan, did you ever think about patching things up with them?”

For a moment there was silence on the phone and Helen spoke again to make sure Joan was still there.

“Joan?”

“Actually it had crossed my mind, but you know how Henry can be once you’ve crossed him. Once crossed…you’re crossed out! That’s just the way he is. You bring up their names and he just shuts down and walks away.”

“So what are ya gonna do?”

“Not sure. I don’t want to upset him but…” Her voice seemed to fade, and then came back in a wave. “Helen can I call you tomorrow. It’s getting late and I want to get dinner started before Henry gets home. You know how it is when a man reaches his fifties. So set in his ways, he just has to have dinner at five o’clock sharp!”

“I know what you mean. Frank’s the same way. Ok, girl. I’ll catch up with ya t’morra. Sleep well!”

“You too, kiddo!”

“Bye.”

The connection was broken with a click. Joan found herself staring more and more at the card, moving it over in her hands like a fragment of memory she couldn’t let go of. Her gaze turned up and met the clock on the wall. 4:00pm. Another hour before Henry would be home. She could have dinner ready in about thirty five minutes if she was efficient, which she always was.

Joan put the card down on the table top. It didn’t go back into the basket this time. She walked over to the kitchen desk and rifled though some intermingled boxes and bric-a-brac on the desktop until she came across the notepaper and envelopes. Her hand paused a moment over these items and then something in her face shifted and clicked as she made up her mind. She took a single piece of paper and envelope and sat down at the table and moved the card closer to her. Her script was edgy and awkwardly slanted. Her nervousness showed in the uneven scrawl but she had decided in her mind to do it. And she was the type of woman whom, once she had decided to do something, she rarely reversed her decision. With a slightly trembling hand, she began:

Dear Marie and John,

I know it has been some time since we have spoken or contacted each other in any manner. I know that things ended badly with us, and I am not sure if I will even mail this letter. For one thing you could have moved away long ago. I guess I wouldn’t know since it has been so many years. I found your address and phone number on a rolodex card while cleaning out the den. I remember how good things used to be between us all…even Henry. But…oh, dear, you know how he can be sometimes. I suppose I could have tried your number, but I feared once your voice came on the line…well, I just wouldn’t have the guts to talk…and would hang up.

Now I don’t blame you if you still are angry, but life is very short indeed. If by some chance you should receive this note (if you are still even living at the address I have here), I was wondering if you two might consider…would please consider, maybe a meeting at “Monterey Jack’s” out on Highway 22? Remember how much we used to love that place. It’s still there. I drove by just a few weeks ago, only now it’s under new management.

Anyway, if you would consider…you don’t even have to write me back. Just show up at…let’s say 8pm on Friday the 18^th? I think maybe we were wrong about a lot of things. When I saw the card with your names there was hurt…but there was also loss. The loss of two dear friends. Don’t worry about Henry, I’ll get him to go somehow. He may kick like a mule and be a bit irascible about it…but I have a way with getting him to do things he doesn’t want to do! So what do you say? Friday, November 18^th at 8:00pm? If you decide not to come, I will assume that you either moved, or are still too hurt to talk again. Either way…I assure you I will understand. But it doesn’t hurt to try. K? Here’s to hoping we see you…soon.

Hopefully Yours,

Joan

She had folded the letter up and addressed it about fifteen minutes ago. No return address. She typed their address on the outside of the envelope using her old green Olivetti manual she kept stashed in the crawlspace behind one of their closets downstairs, just in case they were to recognize her handwriting. She kind of liked typing on a typewriter instead of a computer keyboard. There was something about the hammers of the typewriter hitting the paper that made everything seem so much more definite, more permanent…more real.

The letter sat on the kitchen countertop for the full fifteen minutes before she found the nerve to actually pick in up. She’d made sure she put extra postage on the letter, to be sure it got there. She looked up toward the kitchen clock again. It was 4:15. Ten minutes to walk to the corner and back again would give her just a little more than a half an hour to have Henry’s dinner for him when he got home. And he was rarely ever late.

Without delaying any further, she snatched up the letter and stuffed it into her purse as she strode out the door of their second story apartment. By the time she reached ground level and opened the door she felt the bitter snap of a late fall wind as it side-swiped her skin and tussled her hair. She drew up the collar of her windbreaker and pushed through the wind as it continued to lick at her in full, heavy gusts.

The mailbox was only about a hundred feet or so down the street. She preferred to mail it there on the chance that Henry might see it in their own mailbox and notice the address. She didn’t want to open up that can of worms. She could just imagine what a tangled argument she would get into over that one! No, she’d deal with him after it had been mailed. It was going to take all of her art of persuasion to get him to go along for the meeting anyhow. She supposed if worst came to worst she’d go alone, but she would really rather have him with her. She didn’t relish trying to talk to him about that, but she supposed that she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

She reached the mailbox and fished the letter out of her purse and held it by its corners with the thumb and index fingers of both her hands. The wind growled at it, making it shake and ruffle in her hands. If she didn’t keep a good grip it could get snapped up by the wind and she didn’t think she had the guts to write the letter again.

Clenching the envelope close to her bosom with one hand, she tilted back the metal mouth of the mail monster and forced the letter down its throat. Quickly she let the metal door swing closed to avoid any possibility of the letter being sucked out by the sighing lungs of the wind as it continued to swirl around her. Cautiously she sneaked the mailbox door open again to peer down into the gullet of the postal box. Yes, it had made it into the innards of the box. There was no going back now. A little part of her wanted to reach into the mailbox mouth and try to grab the letter back. But the urge was just a twinkle, and it died off quickly, like a sparkler burning off into a smoky hiss.

What’s done is done! she thought to herself, resolutely. Besides, she doubted that they would even show up for the meeting. Still…it was possible. After all, they had all been friends prior to the falling out for nearly twenty years. She supposed it was all in God’s hands now. And God how she needed Him!

She had waited until Henry had gotten home, ate dinner, and was properly satisfied and drinking his after dinner coffee before she sprung it on him, or rather not so much sprung as gradually slipped into the conversation by way of segue.

“How was the steak, Henry?” asked Joan.

“Delicious,” he said, slapping the sides of his somewhat pendulous stomach with great appeasement. His midriff had crept up as he’d encroached further into his fifties, knocking back several belt notches in the process. Joan had exhorted him about his growing beer-belly, and to some extent he had tried to keep it in check. But still, Henry loved his food. “I know at least half the reason I married you, Joanie was your cooking. That rib-eye was done just right! Not too much fat or gristle. And the potatoes were to die for. It must be the mayonnaise you put in that gives it the extra zing!”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

“Superb!”

“Would you like your coffee now?”

“Indeed I would. Dinner isn’t complete without that last cup of Joe.”

Henry was in unusually bright spirits. Perhaps this was her lucky day. It was Friday, and Henry, like most working people, was always in a better humor on Fridays. It might not be as painful as she had dreaded…telling him about the whole John and Marie thing. Well, she could hope, couldn’t she?

She poured the coffee into Henry’s cup, giving him a beneficent little smile as she did so. He mustered a shy little grin back at her and added his cream and sugar, stirring after with the spoon making a strident “clink” against the cup's interior that slightly unnerved Joan.

“What did you do today?” asked Henry with an abruptness that seemed almost as though he were probing.

“Oh, not too much. Just continued cleaning out the den,” she paused and then added, somewhat reluctantly, “and did some writing”.

Henry’s eyes poked at her over the rim of his tilting coffee cup.

“Writing? You mean your poetry again?”

“Nnnn-o. Not that kind of writing. More like…like letter writing.”

Henry lowered his cup to connect with the saucer with another disquieting “clink” and Joan felt herself tremor ever so slightly.

Into the valley of the shadow of death, Joanie! Don’t chicken out now!

“Letters? Who do you have to write letters to? Most of our friends are local.”

Joan’s eyes snuck away from Henry’s trenchant gaze and her shoulders drew up near her cheeks, as if protecting herself. Her head turned slightly away as she fingered the rim of her own teacup.

“Well…these are people I haven’t talked to in a while and I just thought…”

“-Now wait just a damn minute here! Does this have anything to do with that number you found earlier. About those two!"

“John and M-marie,’ she said, bracing herself for the worst that was to come.

“I know their names!” he scoffed, slapping the meaty palm of his large hand down onto the tabletop; upsetting the coffee cup as it swished hot coffee over the lip of the cup and into the saucer and across the table. “I’d just rather not hear them, if you please!”

“You don’t have to shout,” said Joan in a placid tone, trying to contain the verbal gunfire. The walls of the two family home were thin, and the people downstairs were liable to hear. “Please, keep it down. We have neighbors…remember?”

“Nevermind about them! They can mind their own business. I want to know what you think you’re doing?”

Henry rose from his seat abruptly, the chair scraping gutturally across the floor with a blunt, wooden sound. He paced fitfully while wringing his hands together in little manic spasms.

“You know how I feel about them, Joan! You know how I feel!”

“Yes…I know,” said Joan in as tranquil a voice as she could muster. “But Henry it’s been ten years now. Don’t you think this thing has gone one long enough between us and them?”

“Not for my taste it hasn’t! Have you forgotten?”

“No I haven’t forgotten.”

Henry felt he had blown off enough steam to sit down again and try and compose himself. He took another slug of coffee and tried to regain his composure.

“They were our supposed best friends, Joan. Matt was the miracle child. You had him late and the doctors had always told you you wouldn’t be able to have children at all, and there he is. And completely healthy to boot! So we turn to our dear friends and figure they’d be honored to be his Godparents! Our “friends” for nearly twenty years and you’d think they’d be thrilled! What do they tell us instead? No! Not “maybe”, not “we’ll think about it”, just flat out “NO”! Oh…I’ll tell you it still grinds my gears to even think about them. And they didn’t even give us a reason! Not one God-forsaken attempt at a reason!”

“I know, but maybe it was just too…too personal. Maybe they didn’t want to have the responsibility?”

“Oh c’mon Joanie. The chances were nothing would happen to us! Real friends would have been honored to be named! Couldn’t they at least give us some kind of an excuse? Even if it was a half assed one? Something?”

“I remember. The more I asked Marie about it, the more agitated she got. We were moving at the time to this house anyway, so I figured it best not to press. Just to let it go…and we did. For ten long years Henry, we’ve let it go. Doesn’t there seem something wrong with that to you?”

“I call it a stroke of luck. Happening to be moving at a time when we find out what kind of friends we had may have just been a blessing in disguise, Joan. And besides, they never bothered to call on us throughout this whole time. They can stay in New York, and we can stay in Pennsylvania and that’s just fine with me!”

“Oh Henry, you know we never gave them either our new address or number.”

“Don’t give me that, Joan! It’s the modern age. Computers! They could have Googled us probably had our address and phone number in five minutes!”

“We’re unlisted.”

“Well then the house address at least. No, Joanie, don’t shovel this back on me like I’m the bad guy. They had just as much ability to make things right as we did. Now that’ll be end of it. I don’t want to talk any more about it. I don’t want to hear another word about John and Marie Wilson! Clear?”

Something heated up inside Joan’s guts, and for the first time in ages she found herself genuinely angry with Henry.

"Now you just listen to me, Henry Morrison. For ten years I've gone along with your resentment, your refusal to budge on this matter. Often I felt it was against my better judgment to do so. Are you going to take your grudge to the grave with you? I think it's long overdue that we hear them out. If they will even let us hear them out!"

"Joanie, I just don't think..."

She reached across the table and grabbed his bolt-like bony hand in her own and squeezed it. It was part intensity, part stifling, and part insistence...with love mixed in there somewhere between the layers.

"Then don't think, Henry! Just do!"

She squeezed his hand a little tighter as if to punctuate the emphatic tone of her request.

"I don't know, Joanie," he said, the words tumbling off of his tongue like wooden blocks. "I..just..."

"Henry, I never ask you for very much. Just this once? Please. Just try?"

Henry looked at her, the pleading in her eyes, like a wounded animal. His anger was quelled by his sympathy. He just couldn't say no to Joan when she looked at him like that. And he gathered, after giving it some thought, that no one could say no to Joan...if she looked at them like that.

"Well.."

"Just go with me, Henry. They probably won't even show up. I don't even know if they still live at the same address. If we go and they're not there, at least we can say we tried to reconcile, right?"

Henry folded Joan's hand into his own. Their grip dissolved from firm to warm and affectionate.

"Well, I guess I can at least meet them. And who knows, they might not even show up. Probably won't. And we can both go to our graves with clear consciences!"

Joan patted Henry's back hand and let her grip fall away.

"Thank you, Henry. I appreciate it," she said.

Henry just nodded and sipped at his coffee as Joan collected the dishes for washing. It was quiet the rest of that evening.

Joan was the one who drove to Monterey Jack's, figuring Henry would be tense enough without having to deal with late rush hour traffic. Besides, there was every possibility that they would just be turning around and going back home.

"This is probably just a waste of time and gas," said Henry, offhandedly. His face looked hard and crimped with sternness.

"What in the world am I supposed to say to them...if they even show, that is?"

"Stop premeditating things so much," she said as she reached over and rubbed his knee, consolingly. "Just let things unfold naturally."

"Naturally?" he said, turning to her with a cocked eyebrow and quirky look in his eyes. He shook his head. "Gonna be damned awkward after all of these years, Joan!"

"I know, but just do your best, kay?"

"I'll try," said Henry, gazing errantly out the window at the string of sequined headlights that marched out ahead of them slowly, as if adding to the whole drama of the situation.

"What time are we supposed to be there?" asked Henry.

"Eight o’clock."

"It's nearly eight o’clock now. If this traffic doesn't break, we may miss them all together!"

"Don't worry. It's just a couple more miles to the exit. We'll make it in plenty of time!"

“What the hell happened up there anyway? It’s locked up tight as a drum”

Joan craned her neck and peered up at the siren lights that smeared through the night as several cop cars and then an ambulance stitched through the throng of choked traffic toward some instance that could not be seen by them at this distance.

“Looks like a pretty bad accident. There goes the ambulance,” said Joan with a cringing in her voice. She hated seeing ambulances.

“Probably some damn fool wrapped himself around a telephone pole again! When will people in this world learn how to drive. It makes me mad!”

“Me too…and sad. But we should be getting off before we even reach the accident. It’s undoubtedly rubbernecking causing most of the delay.”

“People are ghouls, I tell ya!”

“Agreed.”

"Getting back to cases, I'll tell you this much, Joanie. I'll wait fifteen minutes past eight for them to show. Not one minute more!"

"Of course. Like you said, they may not even show. But let's just see what happens. “

Their Chevy Malibu pulled up outside of Monterey Jack’s restaurant and Joan killed the engine. They both sat idle in the car, observing the awninged windows and the parade of lights that marched down the railing of the iron banisters that crawled up the ramp to the front door. Monterey was one of those restaurants that had a sparse adornment of small, white lights all year around, keeping an errant flavor of Christmas pervading its atmosphere…even when it wasn’t anywhere near Christmas.

As it happened this was mid November, near Thanksgiving. Joan and Henry exited the car and stared at the façade of the restaurant for a moment with a palpable pause. Both felt a slight quiver in their stomach, but neither told the other.

“What time is it now?” asked Henry, his voice feeling flat and apathetic to her ears.

“Mmmm…around five of eight,” she said, twisting her watch quickly into view. “Guess we should go in and wait…if they aren’t there already.”

“Joanie, you’re the eternal optimist!”

Joan turned and looked at him, pursing her lips. It was not quite a smile. There was something uneasy in her lips. Perhaps it was trepidation…or may uncertainty. In truth she was as unsure about what she had committed to as he was. But she felt she had to follow through with it. She’d never be able to sleep well at night again if she didn’t get this thing resolved-one way or another.

Joan began to walk, and Henry snatched at her wrist firmly, but not painfully-forcing her to stop in her tracks.

“Joanie, are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, his gaze was pointed and somber; a dark jasper gleam in his deep brown eyes.

“I’m scared, Henry. I’m more scared than I’ve been in a while. But I think I…I think we have to do it. It’s the only way now.”

Henry’s eyes banked to and fro, scanning over her face with a movement like pinballs. She was quite serious about this whole thing. He had to admit he was somewhat curious as to what-if anything-would transpire tonight. And he also felt the fluttering queasiness of unease writhing in his guts. But let it be done with, he thought.

“Joanie, what do we say to them? If they do show, I mean?”

Joan’s pursed lips blossomed a little, like flower petals, and she gripped his hand affectionately.

“I’m not sure.” She paused a moment. “C’mon, let’s go.”

Harold squeezed her hand slightly and smiled dimly, his eyes softening as he looked at her as a small grin lit on his cheeks.

They walked up the ramp and into the restaurant.

By the time they waited in line and reached the hostess for seating it was eight o’clock on the nose.

“Table for four, please,” said Joan.

The hostess looked slightly askance at her and Joan added: “Two of our party hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Oh,” said the pretty brunette girl with the large twinkling eyes as she stood behind her podium. “Your name please?”

“Last name is Morrison.”

“About a fifteen minute wait, is that okay?”

“That’s fine,” said Joan.

“We’ll call your name when your table is ready. Please have a seat”

“Thank you very much,” said Henry, chiming in. His eyes glanced errantly at the young brunette with the kind of distant appreciation of young beauty that a man of his age felt willing to allow himself. He loved Joan, yet still he was taken by the appeal of the girl, if only in a displaced kind of way.

The hostess scribbled their name down, flashed another full lipped smile, and clutched some menus to her breast as the previous party followed her into the dining room.

Joan and Henry took a seat on the leather benches that surrounded the waiting area and sat quietly. It was an uncommonly placid atmosphere for a Friday night. Joan though more people would be coming out to eat on the weekend, but perhaps it was the economy keeping them home with a bowl of popcorn and an on-demand movie over Netflix or a DVD. Whatever the case, the sturdy silence only heightened their sense of disquiet, yet neither would stir the other. For a while they only sat quietly and waited as bodies streamed in and out of view. Joan kept craning and looking for Marie’s familiar shape, or maybe even a coat of hers she might recognize. Unless of course they had really changed a lot in the ten years since they had seen them. There were so many unknown variables. She was beginning to wish she had never found that card with their number on it. Maybe Henry was right? Maybe it really was all in the past and should stay that way. Still-she couldn’t help but want to speak with them again. Even if they never spoke again. Even if their differences were irreconcilable. If that were the case in the end, no one would be able to say that she, Joan Morrison, hadn’t given it the old college try!

Time slipped away as the minutes ticked away-sometimes feeling quick, at other times agonizingly slow. And all of the time their eyes kept moving over the people as they came in the door. Every face was checked for familiarity, ears were tuned for a familiar voice floating ethereally in the air. Thus far nothing recognizable.

Wrists twisted and snatched glances at watches. First ten after eight, then fifteen.

“Let’s face it, Joanie. They probably aren’t coming. They’re either still too mad, or…or never even got the letter. Maybe not even in this state anymore. We’re wasting our time. But we gave it a shot.”

“Well, now hold on Henry…they could still show. Besides the hostess said at least fifteen minutes for the table. And anyway, what’s to say that we can’t still have dinner even if they don’t show?”

“Joanie, both you and I know good and well that neither of us is going to be in the mood to eat after this! You know how punctual they always were! If they aren’t here by now…”

“Just five more minutes, Henry…please?”

Joan’s face looked haggard, desperate, and pleading; a mix of emotions coalescing into one confused expression on her face.

“All right, Joan. Five more minutes…and that’s all.”

Her head tilted back against the wall and her eyes closed. She could feel the warm moisture of tears beginning to well up in her ducts. She wanted to break out balling, but that kind of thing wouldn’t do in public. She would have to be brave. And she would also have to accept the cold reality that maybe friends once had were gone for good from their lives. And maybe she would just have to learn to live with it-all over again.

“Morrison?”

The chipper little brunette’s voice chirped in the air and at first Joan hadn’t been coherent enough to hear it. She had dozed slightly with her head there against the wall, and Henry shook her arm with some urgency to rouse her.

“Joanie!”

“What?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, your table is ready, if you will come with me.”

Joan crawled up out of slumber, her eyes banking around. Still no sign of them.

“Well, you see, it doesn’t look like our other party has arrived, so we might have to cancel on the table…”

Joan’s eyes darted toward Henry with a stifling look.

“What was the name of your other party, perhaps they called and I can check that if you like?”

“No, that won’t be…”

“YES!!! Could you check on that please?” snapped Joan, obliterating the rest of Henry’s sentence and leaving him looking at her with grim disapproval in his fiery eyes.

“Their last name is Wilson. Mr. and Mrs. John and Marie Wilson.”

“One moment, please,” said the brunette as she turned to a pad on the podium to check for a notation of any kind. She leafed through a few sheets before the expression on her face changed. As if she recognized something. Then she walked back toward Joan and Henry and said, “If you will follow me please?”

Both of their throats felt clenched. They both wanted to say something, but it was as if their vocal chords were frozen and they found themselves helpless to do anything more than follow the directions of the small brunette girl as she stitched through the dining room crowd to the back corner of the room. As the murky lighting grew clearer on the sconces at the back booth, two faces came into view and both Joan and Henry felt themselves stiffen in surprise.

“I’m sorry for the mix up. We forgot to note your names when the Wilson’s arrived. I hope you can forgive us,” said the girl, laying out the menus onto the table as Joan and Henry’s eyes connected with the eyes of the couple in the dimly lit booth who were John and Marie Wilson. They were smiling pleasantly at them and only after the hostess made her departing comment did they begin to realize just what had happened.

“A waiter will be with you shortly. Again, please accept our apologies and enjoy your meal.”

The bubbly brunette strode away as Joan and Henry’s knees began to break into a sitting position in the booth. Joan sitting next to Marie, and likewise Henry next to John.

“It is a bit much to process at first, isn’t it Joanie,” said Marie, breaking the fragile silence between them and thus eliminating the gap that had separated them like an abyss for ten long years. Her voice was gentle and smooth, with a calmness to it that connoted tranquility. “We’ve been waiting. You know how we always come early to everything.”

“Marie…John! It’s…been…”

“A long time, Joan,” said John, both his voice and his face emerging from the darkened booth like cool air emitting from a darkened cave.

“Yes it has,” said Henry.

“I…I don’t even know where to start.”

“Don’t think of it as starting, Joanie,” said Marie reaching over and touching her hand gingerly. “Let’s…let’s just call it picking up where we left off, ok?”

Joan looked at Marie’s hand as it cupped over her own. It was a little more vein stripped and aged spotted with the passing of the years, but she could feel the compassion in her touch. Joan put her own hand over Marie’s in an equally warm manner and returned a smile.

John’s voice pulled the conversation toward Henry as he said, “And what about you, Henry old man. How’s the hardware business been treating you?”

Henry’s voice was more rigid and less jovial than John’s, the injury of the years past bubbling up again, but he did the best he could to make conversation.

“Oh…not too bad,” said Henry, fondling at his knife and fork errantly and, unlike Marie, quite unwilling to make solid eye contact with his counterpart. “It’s a bit rough these days being an independent in this economy. It’s all about the giants no matter what. You know the big guys like Home Depot and Lowes and such. It’s a struggle…”

John kept his eyes on Henry and smiled attentively as he listened. Henry continued: “…but you know me, John. I can be a very stubborn sort.” Henry’s tongue seemed to underscore the word "stubborn" as his eyes met John’s for the first time in less of a look and more of a glare.

“I dare say you are, Henry. I must admit you have always been a very tenacious sort indeed,” said John in his polished English accent.

“Indeed!”

John’s voice fluttered a little in a humored little chuckle as he watched Henry’s glare bloom into a glower. John took it all in stride, though. Not so much as a furrowing of brow or a gnashing of teeth as he looked at Henry, who was obviously uptight and determined to reignite the angry flames of the past and fan them into the present…but not just yet.

With Henry near derailing the good nature of the moment, Joan steered the conversation in another direction.

“You still live in Heightstown? Well…that’s a silly question, isn’t it? You must, I mean…you got my letter, obviously.”

“Actually, we moved over a year ago,” said Marie, “but somehow the forwarding was still active and it was quite a shock to get it. I never thought to hear from you again after what happened. But, I was touched by your words, Joan. I really was. I guess you could call it something of a minor miracle that we received your letter at all. One of the few times the post office has fowled up for the better I suppose.”

“And they were her words, not mine!” chided Henry as his voice morphed into an angry snarl.

“HENRY!” blurted Joan aghast.

“It’s all right, Joanie,” said John. “A man has a right to say what’s on his mind. Let’s have it then.”

“Henry, how rude! What is your problem?” said Joan. “These are our friends!”

“They were our friends, Joan! So why don’t we drop the whole charade of pretending that nothing went wrong between us. We all know that’s a load of crap!”

“I must apologize for him, Marie…John. He wasn’t up for this meeting and I forced him into it. I guess it’s really my fault.”

“If there’s fault to be placed here Joanie, it isn’t on you and I know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Henry’s penetrating gaze grew fiery as he scowled at Marie, and then more so at John.

“Going right for the throat, aye, old boy?”

“You bet your sweet life, old boy!” The sarcasm in Henry’s voice dripped heavily from his lips like viscous tree sap. Round one had begun. After a ten year sabbatical, it was on again. The great Morrison/Wilson feud…part two!

“I’m sorry, John…Marie. Perhaps this was a bad idea. Perhaps we should go!”

Marie reached out toward Joan’s wrist and grasped it with enough strength to stop her, but delicate enough to let her know she felt no animosity.

“No, Joanie. Please don’t go. Let Henry say what he feels he needs to say. Let’s clear the air once and for all.” Marie’s eyes slid toward Henry, her gaze easy and light and without acrimony. “Please Henry, do continue.”

Henry’s face beaded with sweat and he withdrew a hanky from his rear pocket and mopped at his forehead aggressively.

“You were supposed to be our friends. Of all the people in the world we wanted to be Godparents to our only son, it was you two. And you refused to have any part of it. I would have thought you would have been honored to be asked. And we would want no other two people on Earth to take care of Matt in the event that we…weren’t around. Yet time after time…without reason…you refused. Didn’t you care? Didn’t you know how much that hurt…to have your own friends reject you like that?”

“I have to admit, Marie…John, it was a slap in the face to us…that you didn’t care enough to even…”

“Is that what you thought? That we didn’t care!” said Marie, her voice a mixture of hurt and, for the first time, incipient sternness. There was hurt on both sides of the table and it was just beginning to leak into the tone of Marie’s voice… in the way of sorrow and despair.

“What else were we to think?” insisted Henry.

“You’ve got it all wrong, old man. I assure you,” said John.

“Then what was it?” demanded Henry.

“I suppose we shall have to tell them, John,” said Marie looking at her husband, leaky eyed and her face taking on an ashen tinge.

“I suppose we shall, my dear.”

Joan and Henry pinned their attention to Marie as she sunk into a deep sigh.

“How long have you two known us…these last ten silent years included.”

“All in all, about thirty years I’d say.”

“Well…you see, before we met you…”

“And when I was a roaring young buck of twenty-five,” added John with a slight laugh meant to ease the moment.

“Yes…way back then. Well…we had a son. His name was Jeremy.”

John slid closer to his wife and wove his fingers into her left hand and slung his arm around her shoulder to bolster her strength and display his compassion. It wasn’t an easy story to tell.

“A fine young lad with all the charm of his mother,” said John.

Joan and Henry’s eyes widened at this dark secret and they exchanged quick, astonished glances.

“You mean, you two had a child?” asked Henry.

“Yes. We did.”

“The boy only lived four years…there was an…an accident you see,” added John.

Joan and Marie didn’t need to ask what happened as the answer came to them before they could form the words.

“Jeremy loved animals. Small wildlife, birds, butterflies, squirrels, what have you.”

Marie sucked another breath and tried to gain her composure, John gripped her hand more tightly. She continued: “One day we went out marketing. North Main was very busy that day. One of those streets you dread crossing at rush hour. I had Jeremy by the hand. I thought I had a secure hold on him when he caught sight of a squirrel and wanted to run to it and pet it I suppose…”

Marie broke down and began to cry profusely. Picking up where she left off, John continued with the story: “You see the boy pulled away from his mother and ran out into the street. A car caught him head on and…well. Medics did all they could. Jeremy died the next day after a long struggle on the ventilator. He’d sustained a massive head injury from the impact. He was our only son.”

Henry’s eyes turned moist, the rage that had previously encompassed him evaporated under the grief of the story. Joan gripped his hand as if the loss were her own, her other hand clasping at her mouth, stifling her own anguished sighs.

“So you see,” said Marie, taking the handkerchief that Henry had offered to her. “We never had any more children after that. We couldn’t bear the idea that it could happen again. And we couldn’t bear the memory of Jeremy that such a child would bring back to us. I suppose we didn’t trust ourselves to be in care of any child. The pain was too great!”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Joan in a strangled, pleading voice.

“We were too ashamed,” said Marie. “So when you brought up the guardianship of Matt, it brought back all the memories of Jeremy. I suppose we should have fessed up, but somehow…we just couldn’t bring ourselves to do it. Even in the face of losing our closest friends, we couldn’t tell you. Pain like that has roots deep in your heart, dear friends. I’m sorry we didn’t have the courage.”

“It’s our fault too,” said Henry, seeming to take the reigns of consolation and burying his animosity under a newly sprouted compassion. “We shouldn’t have pushed so hard. We should have known there was some very good reason why you had refused us.”

“Can you ever forgive us,” entreated Joan.

“All is forgiven…it was long ago. Let this be forgiven…and forgotten. You are our friends, and always shall be,” insisted Marie.

“Amen to that,” said John.

“We…can understand if you don’t feel much like eating now. We had no idea about…”

Marie waved her off with her hand, still holding the handkerchief that she had been blotting her eyes with.

“No, my dear. Let’s enjoy ourselves. A good cry always makes me hungry anyway.” Marie mustered a small giggle.

“Quite right,” said John, hoisting a water class up as Joan, Marie, and Henry followed suit. “Let’s have some merriment here. ‘Fraid this will have to do in the absence of wine.”

Glasses clinked together and smiles exchanged. Around that time conversation began to flow freely and a waiter finally arrived to collect orders and recite specials. The night went well, as did the dinner. Closure had finally seemed to come to them all.

They all stood in entranceway of the restaurant after a very satisfying meal and a very liberating conversation. They had caught up on so many things. Laughed at a lot of old things, as well as many new things. Even Henry was in good humor and willing to admit he was wrong about his opposition to the meeting. They gathered under the sparkle of a crystal chandelier with mirrors reflecting around them, seeming to expound their happiness.

“Marie…John, it is so good to have seen you again. We must never let anything like this come between us again,” said Joan.

John and Marie smiled beneficently back at her and nodded. They were smiling, but somehow Joan detected a note of sadness in their eyes…as if their emotions were torn; like something bittersweet.

“I believe we have all learned a lesson from this, Joan,” said Marie. “Life is much too short to quarrel like this. You can’t buy back years. But we can start anew…and make up for a lot of lost time.”

“We agree, totally,” said Joan. “Don’t we, Henry.”

“I must admit,” said Henry, rocking almost jovially on his heals. “I’ve never been more in agreement!”

Marie and John shot back passive smiles, again somewhat subdued; somewhat melancholy.

“Oh!” chirped Joan. “We must get your number. You do have a new number, or a cell phone where we can reach you?”

“I’m afraid we’re rather old fashioned, Joan. We don’t have a cell phone. I know it sounds odd in this day and age. But that’s just us.”

“Too much interruption and jangling about those mobiles are,” said John.

“Well then we must get your home phone.”

Marie and John’s eyes shifted, catching each other out of the corners of their eye.

“Oh my dear, I’m afraid we’ve been having some frightful trouble with our home phone. The phone company can’t seem to figure it out. It would be useless for us to give you that number right now. They might even have to change it.”

“Confounded modern conveniences,” added John with a plucky laugh.

“Oh, I see,” said Joan, deflated.

Marie and John exchanged looks as they could see the sadness brewing in Joan’s eyes like an overcast just before a storm.

“But let me give you our new address. Do you have a pen, Joan?”

Joan’s mood suddenly lifted and a shimmering smile graced her face.

“Oh, yes of course!” she said, brightly and fished through her purse. She waded through the snarl of junk she had never found time to clean up until finally she found a ballpoint and an old business card from the bank she went to. She handed Marie the pen and card.

“There you go.”

Marie smiled, took the pen and card and scrawled out their address.

“There you are, love.”

“Thank you,” said Joan, adding: “Will we see you soon?”

“Well we have some personal business to attend to so we may be away for a little bit. But leave me your number and we’ll ring you up as soon as we can”

Marie looked a little nonplussed at the comment, as did Henry, but she withdrew another errant scrap of paper from her purse and scrawled down their number and handed it back to Marie.

“Please do call as soon as you can.”

“Of course, dear,” said Marie and turned to John.

“Well, dear friends, I’m afraid we must be off now. Henry…” said John, gripping Henry’s hand in a warm grip while pumping his arm. “It has been bloody well wonderful to see you again, old man.”

“Same here,” said Henry, “we must meet for a game of golf soon. You remember? It’s been a long time since I beat the pants off you, John!”

“Ah yes, the links. Yes it has been quite a time, hasn’t it.”

They all walked toward the coat check booth and Marie handed the attendant her ticket and claimed her coat. John did the same.

Joan embraced Marie after helping her on with her rabbit coat. The fur was so soft and smelled so nice.

“I just love your coat,” said Joan, not quite looking at Marie. Not wanting to say goodbye. She looked up and met Marie’s eyes. She thought she saw tears forming near the ridges of Marie’s eyes. They had become glassy. John’s looked almost the same way, and even a little bloodshot.

“Oh Marie, take care of yourself! John, you too. Goodbye…for now.”

“Be well, friends. Be well,” said John.

“Goodbye dear friends,” said Marie, giving Joan and Henry both a kiss on the cheek before swooping her arm into John’s bent elbow. “Be well and stay safe!” said Marie as she and John began for the door, their thin veiled smiles seeming to try and hide a deeper, more somber mood as they waved goodbye. Joan wasn’t sure what it was about their manner that was strange. Perhaps they were just overcome with emotion…as she was. Far too quickly they were gone from them.

Marie turned to Henry.

“Now aren’t you glad you came?”

“Yes, Joan, my dear. You were right again…as always.”

“Pardon me, ma’am, is this yours?” asked the coat check girl, holding a small black purse in front of Joan. Joan took it and inspected it.

“No…not mine. I have mine-“

“That’s Marie’s purse,” said Henry. “I remember her carrying it when we came over to the coat check kiosk. See? It has her initials on the front in gold letters.”

“Oh dear,” said Joan, holding the purse to her breast. “She must have left it on the counter when she claimed her coat and forgot to pick it up. She’s going to be frantic without it.”

“Damn,” said Henry.

“Maybe I can catch her!”

“Oh, Joan, they’re probably gone by now!”

“Well, you never know…I’m going to dash out and see if they’re still here!”

Henry only shook his head as Joan hurried toward the parking lot and stood at the entrance steps, scanning the lot for them. She ran down a little further with the purse clenched in her hand and called out:

“Marie! John!”

A pause to listen, but no answer came back.

“Marie!....MARIE!!!!”

She only saw the faint jewel twinkling of red tail lights as a car pulled out of the lot. But it could have been any car, as she didn’t know what type of automobile they drove. Finally the lights oozed out of sight and she mounted the steps and returned to the inside of the restaurant. She swung around the corner to the coat check kiosk and was met by Henry’s half humored, insinuating gaze.

“I told you, you weren’t going to be able to catch them.”

“Never mind, smarty,” said Joan as Henry helped her on with her own coat; him already wearing his own fleeced leather jacket.

Suddenly Joan stiffened and she perked up.

“Hey! This turns out even better!”

“Whatcha talkin about?”

“I mean now we have the perfect excuse to drop in on them and see them again! To return this!”

Her face had bloomed ecstatic as her small hands gripped the leather bag. She hopped up and down several times and Henry looked away, slightly embarrassed.

“Joanie, contain yourself!”

“And the very best part is that we can go out and see them…tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow? Oh Joanie I don’t know about-“

“But we have to, Henry. Don’t you remember? They said they’d be going away for a while, so the only time we could see them again before they leave would be tomorrow.”

“But we have no idea when they are leaving, Joan?”

“Then we’ll just have to get there very early in the morning. I’m sure they won’t mind, under the circumstances. She must be going crazy without it anyway!”

Henry sighed deep, socked his hands deep into his pockets and tilted his head back.

“What time?”

“Better make it pretty early so we don’t miss them. Figure…six am.”

“Six am!” blurted Henry, his voice coming out louder than even he imagined. He looked at her with a little furrow in his brow. She returned a sheepish smile. He smiled reluctantly back at her.

“There goes my Saturday!”

“Twenty-Four White Eagle Lane. That’s what she has written here. Twenty-Four White Eagle Lane, Nanuet New York.”

“I probably could have found it myself in half the time it takes this damn GPS to!”

“Oh Henry, we both know you couldn’t find your way out of a paper bag without it!”

“T’aint so!” said Henry, eying the street signs for White Eagle. “Technology…bah!….a lot of bloody rubbish it all is, may-tah!”

Joan turned to him and crimped her forehead a little saying, “That has to be the most God-awful English accent I’ve ever heard!”

“Yeah, well I try…”

The car oozed on, slipping down side roads as the mechanical feminine GPS voice droned out instructions.

“There! Up ahead! Doesn’t that say White Eagle?”

“Where?”

“To your right. Look. LOOK!”

“Well SHE hasn’t said anything about it yet,” barked Henry, jabbing a finger toward the dashboard mounted contraption.

In point four miles make a right turn onto…White Eagle Lane.

“There you go,” yelped Joan. “She agrees. Make a right…quick!”

“I AM turning!”

As they turned and cruised down the road, a large white bi-level with a roofed porch and small rounded front steps and a circular driveway came into view. The mailbox had the number 24 inscribed on it in ornate script numbers.

“This must be it.”

“Wow,” said Henry. “Looks like ol' Johnny must have moved up in the world since we last saw them. This is a far cry from that small cape cod he used to have! They must be rich now!”

“It certainly looks like it. I should have guessed by the fancy rabbit coat that Marie was wearing. Before she used to wear imitation fur.”

“They got the bucks, that’s for sure!”

Their Malibu pulled in front of the large, contemporary house and parked in the street.

“Oh, but Joanie, look. No cars in the driveway.”

“They must have them in the garage,” said Joan, getting out of the car and slamming the Malibu’s door. Henry followed suit. The aging Malibu doors sounded weary as they creaked on their metal hinges. “You know rich people don’t leave their cars outside to oxidize!”

“Oh yes. With all my millions I forgot!”

“Let’s ring the bell.”

“What if we wake them up?”

“So what…we buried the hatchet, remember. They’ll be only too happy to see us!”

“I hope we’re not pushing our luck here, Joanie,” said Henry as they moved up the driveway and up the front porch steps. “That hatchet was only just buried!”

“Shush!” said Joan, and rang the doorbell.

“Would you look at this spread,” said Henry, unable to get over the lavish atmosphere of the house and grounds.

“Be quiet!”

Henry bit his tongue and they both stood silent, listening.

“Do you hear anything?”

“Not a thing. I tell you Joanie, they must still be asleep. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea?”

“Should I ring again?”

“I don’t-“

“May I help you folks?” came a striking voice from behind them as an elder man in work overalls and a cap strode up the front lawn. He looked like a landscaper, or a yard-worker of sorts.

“Who are you?” asked Joan.

“Well, Miss, I could very well ask the same question of you. I’m the groundskeeper here, Wimfred’s the name.”

“Oh…you work for the Wilson’s?”

“Yep, worked for them for over five years or so, I reckon.”

“Oh. I see,” said Joan, feeling somewhat awkward. “Well we just came by to return something to them. We’re old friends. We rang the bell here but-“

“T’ain’t no one gonna answer that bell there, Miss.”

“Why…I don’t understand,” said Joan, looking at Henry who’s expression was equally confounded.

“I’m afraid you’re a day late and a dollar short to be callin on the Wilson’s”

“Why?” asked Joan, something creepy beginning to shiver her bones. “What do you mean?”

“Sorry to be the one to break this to ya, Miss, but the Wilson’s ain’t with us no more.”

“You mean?”

“Yep. Dead. Died just last night, matter-o-fact. Ugly accident out there on Route 22. Some crazy drunken kids slammed into em. I heard about it late last night. Shameful thing it is. Damn shame!”

Joan felt faint, but forced herself to push for more information.

“Did they die immediately?”

“From what I hear from my sources, through the grapevine of course, they lived for a spell. Paramedics worked on em. Tried to save em. But all too much busted up. Weren’t nuthin more the could do!”

“Oh, Henry,…it must have been right after they left us. It must’ve been late last night…right after we said goodbye. I…I never thought it would be goodbye for good!”

Joan collapsed into Henry’s arm, snuffling and sobbing and him petting her and trying to get her under control. He turned toward Wimfred, his eyes looking foggy like smoked glass and said, “Mr. Wimfred, you don’t know what time it happened, do you. I assume it was late…maybe around twelve midnight. We left them around 11:00pm.”

“Mmmm, not that late, son. From what I understand from my friends at the paramedics it was closer to 8:00pm, earlier in the evening.”

“That’s not possible,” said Henry, his eyes shimmering with uncertainty as Joan pealed her face from his shoulder.

“Fraid it is possible. You folks must have yer times mixed up. Crash was around 8:00 pm, give or take a little.”

Joan and Henry exchanged incredulous looks.

“Did your friends…the paramedics…did they tell you anything else about the accident.”

“Well…hmmm…come to think of it they did bring up something that was rather peculiar. They said all the way to the hospital in the amb-u-lance and even into the ER, they both were muttering to themselves. They was barely conscious. It was almost as though they was talking to someone. Like…like they was havin a conversation with someone. Odd kind of thing to happen. For them both to be doin the same kinda thing, doncha think?”

“Yes…yes it is odd,” said Henry.

“Anyways, they both passed near midnight. Poor souls. And they was good people. They got all this from investing smart…that is before the crash you see. Still, all in all they were very cautious in how they invested their money and it paid off. But they ain’t got no kids or heir to their estate, so I guess the state gets it. Now ain’t that a bitch! Don’t even know if they even had a will…whole thing could be intestate for all I know.”

“Thank you very much for the information, Mr. Wimfred. Please excuse us. It’s just…just such a shock. They were good friend’s of ours. It still doesn’t seem real. I still can’t believe it.”

“I know how you feel, son. The circle of life is a crazy thing. You don’t know when yer comin, and ya don’t know when yas goin. And they was mighty fine people too.”

“They certainly were.”

“Generous to a fault. Never forget me and the missus every Christmas. Shoot now I’m fixing to gush up! I sure will miss em.”

“We will miss them too,” said Henry in a voice that sounded like it was crumbling.

“Well, I guess I done enough damage for now. I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news.” Wimfred reached over and patted Joan on the should as her mascara streaked down her cheeks in tarry runnels. “Be strong, miss.”

“I’ll try,” croaked Joan with a rasp that scraped up her throat like sandpaper.

“Well…I be seein ya.”

They watched the old man shamble off, the tattered bottoms of his overall pants brushing over the grass as he walked around the corner of the house, and then out of sight. As quick as he seemed to appear he was soon gone. And for a while there was only silence between them.

“Now just take it easy Joan. Don’t go on and on!” said Henry as he and Joan sat in the front seat of the Malibu, her head resting on his shoulder, drawing comfort. Henry slung his arm around her and stroked her hair slowly, not knowing quite what to say…or what to do.

“But Henry, how can it be?”

“I don’t know Joanie.”

“They were with us just last night. Just last night…and they were fine. And now they’re dead and gone! It isn’t fair!”

“No one said life is fair, Joanie. More than not…it isn’t.”

“But that man. He says they were in the crash at around 8:00 pm, and they couldn’t have been! They were with us around that time. I know what I saw. I saw them clear as day. I felt them, touched them, and heard them! You did too!”

“I know it. They were as there as there can be.”

“So what is that funny old man talking about? Maybe he’s the one with his times mixed up?” She peered out the window a second toward the house. “He must’ve slipped a few gears in his old age. Nice old gent…but really!”

Joan’s head slunk down and she looked at the purse she still held gripped in her tight, small hands. The purse that was Marie’s.

“And I still have her purse.”

She looked into the purse and waded around in it a little, feeling guilty doing so.

“If she has money in here, maybe we can donate it to some charity or worthy organization in her name. I think she’d like that.”

“I think so too.”

“Hey, what’s this,” said Joan.

“What’s what?”

Joan reached into the purse and pulled out an envelope. An envelope that looked faintly familiar judging by the typewritten address with several characters dropped lower than the others. She knew in and instant what it was. She opened the envelope and unfurled it.

“This is my letter!”

“What?”

“The letter, the one I wrote to Marie asking her to meet us. The one I almost didn’t mail to her!”

“So, she kept the letter? So what?”

“Well, wait a minute. She has something scrawled down here at the bottom. It says…it looks like, ‘urgent’ and then after it- it says…’must make this appointment!’…with several exclamation points next to it.”

“I guess she didn’t want to forget it?”

Joan’s eyes went fixed and far away, her stare looked vacuous, but her mind was racing.

“Henry…what if that old man was right?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“I mean,” she said turning to him with alacrity in her voice and her eyes wide like saucers. “What if they really did have that accident at the time he said…sometime near 8:00pm?”

“Oh, Joanie, you’re talking crazy talk. How could they be in an accident and on the edge of death in one place, and still be with us at the restaurant at the same time. It…it doesn’t make any logical sense!”

“This isn’t about logic, Henry!”

“Oh…what are you talking about?”

“Bilocation!”

“Bi…what?”

“I’ve heard of it, Henry. It’s when people are present in two places at the same time. They had a story about it on the Discovery Channel. Many reports of it. That when something was urgent enough…if the need was critical enough…a person could somehow some…way, be in two physical locations at the same time!”

“Oh go on Joanie!” said Henry half laughing, and a little creeped-out by the idea.

“You’re probably right about what you said before, Joan. The old man just had his facts wrong and the accident took place later rather than earlier. That sounds more sane.”

“Well, then what about the accident on Route 22 at nearly 8:00pm? The traffic we were stuck in…the ambulance? And how about the fact that we never actually saw them come into the restaurant…and when I ran after them for the purse…they seemed to have just disappeared as well too? And the fact that they wouldn’t give us a phone number, and seemed to want to hurry off? And the purse! Henry, maybe it wasn’t an accident that she left it there? Maybe she wanted us to find this letter…and the notation she made at the bottom! See? ‘MUST make this appointment!’ Must, Henry. MUST! How do you explain all of that?”

“I…I don’t know Joanie. I can’t I guess. But do you really think?-“

“I don’t know for sure either, Henry. But maybe…just maybe…for however short of time, they came back to us…”

She turned to Henry, their eyes twitching and studying one another.

“For the sake of forgiveness, Henry. They came back to us…one last time.”

Creating Content

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 22:55:00 +0000

I'm by no means any expert at creating content for share with other Bloggers. In truth I've been doing it for a very short period of time. Heck, I just blew the dust off of this Blog after two years. I guess the whole idea of content and tweets and blogs is kinda like when Mr. Spock in Star Trek used to do that raised eyebrow thing of his. You want not only to target a specific audience, but get them to raise an eyebrow and say, "Hey, that looks interesting" and get them interested. It's a slow grueling process to build up an audience, but one I am confident that after some time...maybe a whole lotta time, it will be worth it in the end! Hope to hear your opinions on this issue. Till next time.

Quiet Day

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Tue, 03 Jul 2012 00:13:00 +0000

Went down to the beach and read the Kindle. Still say it's the best beach reader going. Have to catch up on all of the stuff I've hoarded away.

Self Publishing vs Publishing with a Publisher

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Sun, 01 Jul 2012 16:31:00 +0000

Would be interested to hear some of your views on self-publishing. If you've been successful, perhaps you can share some advice with the rest of it. Obviously I still put my work out there for the traditional publishers to look at. And if they take it it lends more credibility to your work. So I figure it doesn't hurt to play in both arenas, the publisher and self published arena. The more you do, the better your chances! As always, I welcome all of your comments and ideas.

Mining for Ideas

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Sat, 30 Jun 2012 13:02:00 +0000

A lot of writer's I know talk about the arduous task of finding good ideas to write about. Many write once they get what I call the "Trigger". For example, Stephen King said the idea for "IT" came when he was walking across a small footbridge and imagined a troll(or some equally unpalatable creature) lurking beneath the bridge by the water. That is a "Trigger" around that you build your ideas. Personally I don't believe you always have to wait for the Trigger. I believe that everyday we walk through life we pick up information and store it in our subconscious and don't really bother to look at it very much. Sometimes what I do is literally sit and think about the things that transpired in a given day and try to stick certain things next to certain circumstances and see if they spark any kind of story idea. For example if I saw a strange person getting into an elevator, I might start thinking about what could transpire with that person and the elevator? What if the elevator went down and the doors opened and it was Hell? Something like that. Sometimes I just think and think until an idea comes, simply by putting one strange circumstance next to another in your mind. Kind of like making a puzzle when you're looking for the pieces. You keep trying and eventually two pieces will fit together. Then you keep going until you get all the pieces together into one big puzzle where you can see the entire picture! Story writing (any kind of story writing, short story, novel, play, movie) is a lot like that. Just a though. Works for me anyway. As usual, let me know your thoughts! Hope to hear from you!

Writer's Block vs Writer's Fear

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 14:39:00 +0000

I think there are two types of writer's block that an author can experience. The first and more well known one is the one where you just can't think of anything good. Most people have this kind and it is frustrating. The other kind is what I call Writer's Fear. This one's a bit more insidious. In this one you might have an idea of what to write, but your afraid you might screw it up because you don't know how to phrase things, or don't know the proper information. In this case I suggest simply getting a pad and writing down ideas longhand. If you brainstorm long enough you will find you come up with a series ideas that you can then link together. That big blank page really sucks sometimes, and it takes going back to the tried and true old method of pen and paper to get things rolling again. Just my thoughts. Works for me. Any other ideas, please do post a reply!

Short Stories vs The Almighty Novel

noreply@blogger.com (rhuneke) — Thu, 28 Jun 2012 16:01:00 +0000

I truly believe that there is a misconception out there about short stories. Someone asks you what you write and you tell them you are a novelist, immediately their eyes arch and they nod, very impressed. On the other hand if you tell them you write short stories and they nod also, but this time with a kind of a "that's nice" smile. It's just a natural thing I guess. Most novelists seem to garner more credibility than those writers chose to write collected fiction. Possibly because a novel seems more epic, more expansive, more complicated, and thus takes much more skill to write. This is very true. A novel is a very hard thing to write. Take my word for it. I'm over 30,000 words in on one of my own, and with an aching case of writer's block with it right now, and I can tell you it's definitely hard work. I myself have always considered myself a short story writer. I just happen to really like the format? It's probably because I have such a short attention span. I've read my share of novels and I am a notoriously SLOW reader. So I think short story collections are very viable. I think they will enjoy a comeback with the rise of ebooks. I myself do tend to prefer a tangible book, but I have come to really respect the Kindle. The one with the electronic ink. I bought my wife the Kindle Fire for Christmas because she didn't have a tablet or iPad like I did, so it was kind of an all in one deal for her, but you can't beat the regular Wifi or 3G electronic ink/digital paper reader for reading outside or on the beach in direct sunlight. And the battery lasts a good long time!

I think now is a PRIME time for short story writers who have had a hard time in the past getting short story collections published because publishers shunned it because collections by unknown or little known authors didn't sell well. Well, Amazon KDP, Barnes and Nobel, Smashwords, and Apple iBook have changed all of that. True, it still requires talent and skill. But at least now there is a good, viable outlet for authors besides traditional publishers.

In the past it has been big name authors like, Harlan Ellison, Ray Bradbury, and Richard Matheson who had the clout to make a living selling short stories and the occasional novels they wrote. Now it is within the grasp of the rest of us! I think people really love short stories. Think about it, just about every drama TV show...heck every TV show really...that you've ever seen is basically a short story right?

So I put as much as I can into my short story writing, because the writing is THE most important part. Getting people to see and find and read your stuff is something that will come in time with vigorous promotion. But nothing can replace talent and good story telling and devotion to the craft!

What do you think? Look forward to any and all comments!

Keep Reading and Writing!!!