Lies, lies, all lies

This diverse anthology of short works of fiction does not resemble reality except within the mind of the author. None of these incidents happened. All could have. I can promise the reader that you will not enjoy them all, but it is likely that you will appreciate a few … Earl Stubbs

Degmo

The approach of All Hallows Eve filled Degmo, a convict demon, with a mad glee and the knowledge that his power would soon return. He neared the end of his banishment. His inability to control his horrible acts against both humans and his own fellow demons led his master, a personal imp of Satan, to imprison him to teach him a lesson. His sentence lasted a thousand years. The end was only minutes away.

Degmo’s sight gradually returned as he saw groups of children passing door to door with their trick or treat bags. He could not wait to rip and tear those little humans before he rampaged across the land. He knew that humans and their puny weapons could not stand against him.

When the moment finally came, Degmo prepared to utter the magic spell that would set him free. He only had one opportunity to say the spell perfectly. He had practiced the statement for hundreds of years. Finally, he began to speak, “Oh evil father. I have served my centuries for disobeying you. I will spend eternity doing your bleeding….no; I mean bidding…doing your bidding…Aw shucks. There goes another thousand years.”

Traffic Watchers

A cloudy sky countered by a warm temperature enveloped a fortyish couple dressed in motorcycle gear. They lay on a shady bluff overlooking a busy suburban freeway outside a large Northeastern city. The man was tall and slim. A shock of brown, curly hair only slightly tinged with gray crowned his symmetrical head. He looked good and knew it. His companion was of average height and less than average weight. Her auburn hair topped a lithe body that appeared well conditioned and it was. She focused on the traffic.

Arlan Johnson lay on his back enjoying the slight breeze that rustled the leaves of the overhanging branches. Some showed a touch of yellow signifying the approach of the fall season. “Look at that! Look at that! Are you kidding me?” He blurted out.

“For Christ’s sake! What is it?” DeLois, his wife of fifteen years, asked stridently.

“It’s a blue bird. Be quiet! Don’t scare it away.”

DeLois’ attention returned to the long line of rush hour traffic. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe we need to concentrate on our business here?”

The blue bird sang a few short offerings then flitted away into the forest. “Wow!” Exclaimed Arlan. “That was so neat. I don’t know of anything prettier that a blue bird … except you of course.” He fondly patted her on the fanny.

DeLois glanced back at her husband. “You did tell your mother to pick up Majel and take her to the dentist—didn’t you?”

“Give me a break here. When have I ever neglected my beloved daughter for this or any other job?” Arlan countered. “Did you pick up my uniforms?

“Of course.”

Arlan said, “Did you sew on my new sergeant’s stripes?”

“Are you a sergeant?” DeLois asked playfully.

“Of course you did. After all, you are Miss Perfect.” Arlan rolled over and gazed at his wife. “To be honest, you don’t look like a person with two combat tours in Afghanistan.”

“You don’t look like a police sergeant either. You look more like a movie star,” DeLois grinned and returned her gaze to the freeway.

Arlan grinned for a moment. “Yeah, I know.”

His wife picked up and tossed a pebble at him over her shoulder. Then she asked,

“How are we for time?”

“Six minutes away, but anything can happen in this traffic.”

The steady drone of moving vehicles filled the air, and then DeLois asked, “Does our guy know for sure how many cars are in the caravan?”

“He has no way of knowing until they start out, and you know how paranoid they are. They could add and subtract from the number as they travel to the airport.”

DeLois asked, “Did you look over your Sunday School lesson for tomorrow? After all, you are the teacher.”

“Yes, we will discuss the Four Horsemen of the apocalypse with emphasis on pestilence.”

DeLois reacted sharply. “Are you out of your mind? Those are seven-year-old children. Do you want to give them nightmares?”

“Gotcha! Gotcha!” Arlan laughed. “My Dear, the lesson is about a bit of magic. We will feed the multitude with fish after church at Fishmongers. My treat.”

“That’s better. You are a great Sunday School Teacher. Several members approached me on the subject, and the kids love you.”

“They are wise beyond their years,” said Arlan.

DeLois raised large binoculars to her eyes and looked as far back up the freeway as possible. “I don’t see anything. She remained silent for a few beats then added, “It is going to be so exciting to see that car. We are making history here.”

“You can’t imagine how thrilled I will be, but then I welcome anything that takes my mind off working for Lieutenant McDonald. That guy is such a stickler for everything. He bitches if somebody’s tie is not perfectly straight.”

DeLois glanced back over her shoulder. “It’s not like you need to concern yourself with him. Six months from now, when we retire to the south of France, you will never give him another thought.”

Arlan said, “I will be lucky if I don’t lose my cool and take his head off before then.”

“At 6’ 5” and 240, he might be a load even for my super hero.”

Arlan laughed. “You got that right. He would kick my ass big time.”

As the clouds thinned, lighter areas appeared suggestive of the suns attempts to shine through. To combat his boredom, Arlan rolled over, watched the passing cars for a few seconds, and then lightly punched DeLois on the shoulder. “White car,” he quipped.

“I’ll white car you, dumb-ass,” barked DeLois. “Come on now. Concentrate. They could come by any minute. Do you have your camera ready?”

Still not ready to engage in the project, Arlan said, “Last one home has to be on the bottom.”

“Anytime I can’t beat that Harley rattletrap you ride, I deserve to lose. Besides, I prefer the bottom. Why shouldn’t you do the work?”

Arlan smiled. “That, my Dear, is not work.” He rose to a sitting position and concentrated on the steady movement of the traffic. “Now tell me again how we will identify the car.”

“Our contact will place a spot of white paint on the tire of the car in front of the big boys,” she answered.

“What if the white spot is on the last car?”

DeLois said, “That means that the number one car has our guys. How are we for time?”

Arlan glanced at his watch. “They should show up anytime now. Actually, they are a couple of minutes late. Is your equipment ready?”

She responded, “It’s ready. I’m ready.”

Arlan boasted, “I see them. I have the eyes of a hawk.”

Both riders put on their helmets and glanced back up the embankment at their parked motorcycles. DeLois said, “You identify the car, and I will get ready.”

“Roger that. Give me the binoculars,” said Arlan. He placed them to his eyes and reported, “I can’t see the tires from here, but the traffic is moving a mite too fast to suit me.”

“I don’t need much time. This will either work or not. Just do your best.”

“Okay, I can see the tires on the first car, and they are not marked. The second car … is not marked either. That means the lead car is the one.”

Arlan picked up his camera and began shooting. DeLois picked up a hand-held rocket launcher, followed the car for a few seconds, and then launched. After a brief swoosh, the lead car in the three-car caravan of white Escalades exploded in a ball of fire. She dropped the launcher and scrambled up the incline followed closely by her husband.

DeLois straddled the BMW K-bike, punched the starter button, and it roared to life. “You are toast,” she said as she spun out into the road heading west. Arlan quickly followed, albeit at a slower rate. He turned on the radio in his helmet and enjoyed the melodic tones of Willie Nelson.

*****

Arlan rolled into the garage of the small ranch-style house in the suburbs considerably behind DeLois who had stripped off her leather suit. He turned off the Harley and sat enjoying the final stains of a Roy Orbison song when an announcer broke in.

“We interrupt our regular programming to report this breaking news. You heard it first on KVVX. A blatant act of terrorism occurred only minutes ago on State 128 near the tunnel. A car containing four major bosses of the Cosa Nostra died in what appears to be a rocket attack. Their car exploded and burst into a ball of fire when the gas tank erupted.

According to unidentified sources, a meeting of the crime leadership in the northeast had just ended and the participants were on their way to the airport. A complete change in the power structure of the Mafioso is already underway. The authorities report that several suspects are under investigation including Vinnie Giamotti, the heir-apparent to the leadership of the powerful Genovese Family in New York. But wait—wait! This just in. After an anonymous tip, police found Giamotti with a hole in his forehead only minutes ago. The plot thickens. Station KVVX will update this report as information arrives. This is Vickie Davis reporting.”

Arlan looked at DeLois. It’s a good thing we got our five million up front.”

No Problema

Considering my more than fifty years of fishing experience ranging from the mountain streams of upstate New York, the crystal clear lakes and streams of the Rockies, deep sea fishing in the Gulf, and bay fishing off South Padre Island and San Diego, plus the challenge of the old TVA lakes of the deep South, and the ponds, streams, and reservoirs of Texas, I know my way around a fishing hole … large or small. My foray onto Lake Fork, considered by many the best large mouth bass lake in the country, was fishing in the fast lane.

Soon after I launched the boat and parked the trailer, I ran through the checklist of available gadgets. When I turned on the power, the bilge pump began spouting water out the side of the boat. Putting my experience to immediate use, I deduced that the drain plug was not in. Acting quickly, I shucked my life preserver, jacket, and shirt so that I could reach into the less than warm water to correct the matter. After several tries, I managed to get the plug in place. Forgetting to put in the drain plug is a common occurrence among boat owners, even experienced ones, so I took the blip in stride and finished the checklist.  Then, I cranked the motor, and maneuvered my way to the secure boat lane. I had some water to cover. No problema.

The big Yamaha rumbled like a Harley as I reached my destination and moved out of the stump lined safe lane toward the sunken bridge. Only the professional guides and I knew of its existence and not all of the guides. I cut the motor a hundred yards from the spot, checked my Garcia 500C and a light spinning rig. I chose a 15-pound test line for the former … a tradeoff of less strength and more feel. I tied on a purple worm using a Carolina rig. The spinner contained an 8-pound line for a variety of angling tasks. I tied on a small running bait to the spinner that would test the resolve of the most timid black bass. My prey had little chance on this day, in this lake, dealing with this fisherman.

The 18.5 foot Skeeter bass boat sported twin depth finders, live wells, bilge pump, endless storage compartments, and a powerful, front-mounted trolling motor. The vessel was wide and heavy. A stored paddle was just for show. I knew that I couldn’t do much with this drifting behemoth in any kind of wind. However, the electric motor was efficient. I operated the Minn-Kota trolling motor with my right foot under moderate power. I had five choices ranging from creeping along to leaving a wake.

Matters being in order, it was time to fish. The clear water in Lake Fork suggested to me that I needed to put a nice bass in the boat early to give me a positive attitude to counterbalance not putting in the drain plug. The chilliness creeping into my bones did not help allay my pique. I noticed that the wind had moved around to the north and had a bite to it. I had under dressed, but I would tough it out.

Putting all of my expertise into play, I scanned the water surface looking for a likely place to cast the worm. The depth finder had already noted the sunken bridge as I passed over it. The wind moved the boat faster than I really needed. Before I could cast, I chose to reposition the boat and put out the anchor. I kicked up the power on the trolling motor and got the Titanic turned back toward the bridge into the teeth of the wind. After reaching the desired spot, I dropped the anchor and waited for it to stop the drift. The Skeeter stopped, but after passing over the bridge. My years of experience told me that I would need to tie up to one of the numerous stumps protruding from the surface of the lake on the other side of the bridge if I was to take advantage of the wind when casting. However, experiencing difficulty managing a heavy bass boat during windy conditions is a common occurrence on the lake and can hinder the efforts of even a skilled angler. No problema!

After tying up, I retraced the image of the bridge in my mind based on the location of marks such as stumps. Unfortunately, there are thousands of stumps on Lake Fork, and they resemble each other a lot. It didn’t take long to establish that without the depth finder,  I had no idea of the location of the bridge. At times like this, my long history of fishing comes into use. I knew exactly where to cast the lure. After adjusting the tension on the line, I cast toward my target. Unfortunately, the worm stopped in mid air, and crashed into the water. Even without looking, I knew the line had back lashed into what is termed among experienced anglers as a bird’s nest. This is a common occurrence even among the most gifted water sportsmen. No problema!

After working the line free in only about fifteen minutes, I prepared to make another offering to the large black fish waiting under the bridge. My goal was a ten-pounder. This time, I cast the worm toward my target and turned my wrist counter-clockwise to avoid a repeat of the backlash. Sure enough, the lure splashed into the water at the exact spot someone with my background would choose. I stripped off a bit more line and waited for the worm to descend to the bottom of the lake. When the line went slack, I let it set there for a few moments.

Working a plastic worm is an art form. One must allow the sensitive tip of the rod to transmit whatever is happening to the worm on the other end of the line. I felt every change in the topography of the bottom, every decaying branch, every rock or impediment. As I had experienced a thousand times over the decades, I felt a tug on the line. At this precise moment, the bass angler must decide whether to set the hook or allow the big fish to swallow the lure. I chose to get the show on the road. I jerked up the rod tip and began reeling my prey to the boat, but something felt wrong. I sensed no pulls in return even though I was unable to retrieve the fish or lure. Then, my knowledge of the game broke through. I had buried the hook on an immovable object. However, if a person has walked this path before, solutions are at hand. I took pressure off the line and allowed it to go slack. Then I worked the rod tip to loosen the hook. No amount of jiggling had the desired effect. After exhausting my repertoire of getting hooks loose, I had little choice but to retrieve the anchor and try from another position. This was an age-old remedy passed down for decades from father to son.

I laid the rod and reel across the deck and began pulling on the anchor. It did not immediately come loose, so I continued to take up anchor rope. Then a light came on in my psyche, but it was too late. I glanced over my shoulder and saw the 500C slip over the side. However, I was neither dismayed nor discouraged. After all, this is why I carry two rods and reels. No problema!

I continued to pull on the anchor rope but to no avail. Unable to pry it loose from its hold on the sunken bridge, I had no choice but to cut the rope which I did. Then, I maneuvered the boat back into the frigid wind.

I considered adding another life jacket for additional warmth, but settled for giving the bass one more chance. I flipped the spinning rod, launched the lure toward a likely target, and began the retrieve. This is an easy rig to use, so I expected no trouble, unless the lure hung up on an underwater object, which is what happened. After pulling and jerking for a brief time, the line broke. No problema! This is why I carry more than one lure. I tied on another running bait and decided to troll my way back to the boat launching area.

I threw the lure as far as my considerable experience allowed and let out a bit more line so the offering could sink. I loaded the trolling motor and cranked up the Yamaha. I chose a speed that moved the boat at a slow, steady pace and waited for the strike. After several minutes of this rather boring style of fishing, I decided on a bottle of Diet Coke. I always brought a small cooler of snacks and drinks for extended stays on the water. The reason I do this is … well, you know.

I laid the rod and reel on the deck and reached for the cooler. Just as I had the top of the soft drink unscrewed, I noticed the spinning rod and reel slip over the side. Now I had nothing with which to fish.

I became irritated. No, I was pissed. There I was, freezing my butt off, after having lost $300 worth of fishing equipment, and had nothing in the boat resembling a friggin’ fish. Now I clearly remember why I haven’t fished in ten years. I just hope I can get back to the launching ramp without killing myself.

When will I learn?

Are You My Mama?

The noon crowd bustled to and fro at the corner of E. 60^th Street and 5^th Avenue. The warm summer season, even by New York standards, brought out milling crowds during the lunch hour. Many had utilized Central Park for a brief respite from the pressures of working in the Big Apple.

A young boy leaned against a lamppost and inspected the passing pedestrians. He wore wool pants, a cotton shirt buttoned to the top, and a short, heavy coat. A wool cap adorned his head. Grime covered his face and hands. 

His eyes wandered to a cart where its owner did a brisk business slopping mustard on buns followed by plump bratwursts. The boy’s hand snaked into his pants pocket in search of coins, but found none. Boy! That looks good. He thought. Too bad, I don’t have any money. When I find my Mama, maybe she will buy me one.

Horace searched the faces of the multitude of women as they walked briskly past. Most earned only a brief glance. Becoming discouraged at his lack of success, he thought, I hope my Mama works around here. I know it’s near Central Park. I just don’t know exactly where, and this is a big park.

A matron approached on the fifth Avenue side, and the boy raced across the street. As she approached, he thought, she looks about the right age. Her hair is blonde just like mine. Her face resembles me. I sure hope she is the one. I’ve looked so long for my Mama. I need to find her.

The boy walked alongside the woman and asked, “Are you my Mama? She did not respond. Horace continued, “Did you lose a little boy? I am trying to find my Mama. Can you help me?

The woman ignored the boy and fished in her purse for coins to put in the box of a mime perched on his small riser. The boy persisted with his questions, but when it became apparent that this lady had no interest in his problem, he fell back. A single tear ran down his soiled cheek, leaving a path.

Undeterred, he put his failure aside and resumed his vigil. He thought, I hope this is a workday. Since I have no idea where my Mama lives, the only chance I have to find her is on a working day. Where did I get the idea she works in New York anyway? I can’t remember, but the feeling is so strong, I just have to follow through. Besides, it’s not as if I have anything else to do.

The boy waited for the light and then he strolled back to the park side. Just as he got there, a large man with a stocking cap over his face accosted an elderly, dapper man in what appeared to be an expensive suit. The boy froze in his tracks as the violence unfolded. The little man raised both hands in a defensive posture and begged the bandit not to hurt him. A steady stream of people gave the robber plenty of room and passed without so much as a glance as the robbery took place almost within arm’s reach.

Feeling cowardly for not trying to do something, the boy yelled at the Mugger. “Hey, you can’t do that. Leave him alone.” His efforts had no impact.

The ruffian slapped the old man hard across the face. Not waiting for any other capitulation, he reached inside his victim’s coat pocket and extracted his wallet. After roughly snatching the old man’s watch, the thief punched the little man once more for good measure, and then he raced onto the park. The harried pedestrians quickly filled in the space left by the street scene and ignored the little man on the sidewalk. He struggled to his feet and stumbled back the way he had come.

Aw, man! Why do people have to act like that? That little guy didn’t deserve to get beat up like that. He would have given the bum his money. Then, the boy spotted a tall, leggy blonde strolling toward him. She looks exactly like me. This has got to be her. He couldn’t wait for the woman to reach him. He ran toward her and stopped in her path smiling broadly. When it became obvious that the lady would not stop, he leaped out of the way and walked beside her.

“Excuse me, lady. Did you lose a little boy a few years ago? I could be the one, you know. I could be your long, lost son. I’ve looked for you a long time. Are you my Mama?”

The pretty woman stopped. She glanced across the street at a storefront. Then she looked at her watch and sighed. She turned back to her destination and strolled away. The boy gave up and watched her disappear into the crowd.

  I could have sworn she was the one. She looked so much like me. The boy walked up East 60^th to a bench and sat down. He brooded for a time, and then he noticed a young girl about halfway down the block. She had brown, curly hair trapped under a woolen cap. She held a basket of shriveled yellow flowers, which she attempted to sell passing people. She was not having any luck either.

Horace thought, I don’t remember seeing her around here before. He gazed at the little girl, fascinated by her persistence. Smiling, he thought, I might as well introduce myself.Walking to a spot near the girl, he spoke. “My name is Horace. You don’t appear to be selling many flowers.”

The girl looked at him and said, “Are you trying to be a wise guy? Here I am, busting my butt trying to earn a few pennies to feed my Da, and you crack wise.”

The boy couldn’t help but smile at her verbal attack, but quickly added, “I’m not doing very well either. I’ve been trying to find my Mama for I don’t know how long. She lost me, and I can’t find her. Have you seen a blonde lady who is looking for a little boy?”

The girl looked into the boy’s eyes and lost her irritation. “It sounds like we both have a problem, Horace. My name is Mary Elizabeth. Maybe we can look together while I sell flowers. I sure hope I don’t run out.”

The boy smiled broadly. “That sounds great, Mary Elizabeth. I can’t remember the last time I had anyone to talk to.”

“I know what you mean. I spend a lot of my time here in the park watching the birds and animals. Oh look at that butterfly?”

“Yeah,” said the boy. “It looks like a Monarch. Maybe I can catch it.”

As the big Monarch flitted on its uneven journey, the boy attempted to trap it. The butterfly flew through the boy’s body and went on its way. 

The Angel

I decided it was time to go. Locating the door and making my way to it emerged as a primary problem. Willie and Lefty blared on the amplifiers. Curtis, the mammoth doorstop and bouncer, had a smirk on his face as I approached the exit. He slowly slid his index finger across his throat. Since I couldn’t handle Curtis on my best day, I didn’t meet his gaze, but passed through the door.

My clouded mind could hardly recall how I got in this mess. Last evening, I sat in my old Ford 150 attempting to gather the capacity to drive five miles to my mobile home on the 30 acres of what was left of my daddy’s two sections. Daddy passed on and because I couldn’t keep a job, I sold land and drank good whisky. Not that I wanted to work. So far, I hadn’t found anybody smart enough to tell me what to do except Daddy.

Anyway, I sat there in my pickup truck, and A.J.’s 325i Beemer stopped a hundred yards down the road. Two people bailed out of the car. One of them opened the back door and pulled Shirley Higgins out on the highway. She was a stripper/hooker at the Black Squirrel and easy to identify. By then, I figured out that the driver was A. J. himself. He was Fred’s muscle. Fred ran the seamy side of county. If you wanted dope, women, or boys, Fred could fill the bill.

A. J. slammed Shirley up against the car and yelled at her though I couldn’t hear why he was  so upset. I guessed Shirley was high,  because she took a swing at A. J. Big mistake! When A. J. punched her hard and then he leaned into her, I could almost see the six-inch blade he carried bury itself into her soft, flawless flesh. Then he started pounding her chest with the blade. Shirley slumped to the ground.

A. J. and his partner spread some trash bags in the trunk of the Beemer and dumped that seventeen-year-old girl in there like a bag of corn. A. J. slammed the trunk shut and for no reason that comes to mind, stared in my direction.

*****

Tonight started out like the rest. I drifted into the Black Squirrel at about nine and found my spot at the bar. I glanced around to see if Oldeen, she of the endless legs and significant chest, had arrived. When both of us got bored and couldn’t do better, we went home together. She hadn’t arrived, so I waited until Gus, the bartender, brought my drink. It was a strange concoction of sour mash, red wine, and tonic water. Two did the job. Anything after that usually got me in trouble.

After a couple of sips, A. J. ambled over and took the stool next to mine. “This one is one me, Gus,” he drawled. He turned to me with a grin on his handsome face and said, “You know Preston, there is one thing I can depend on you to do. You know how to keep your mouth shut. Do I have it wrong?”

“I am not sure what you are talking about A. J., but I do try to mind my own business.”

A. J. glanced around the room, then continued,” I saw you out on FM 235 last night. Were you sleeping one off?”

“Well A. J., you know 235 is on my way home, but I don’t recall seeing you out there.”

“Preston, you don’t have to blow any smoke up my butt. I trust you and Fred trusts you. No matter what you saw, we both know you will keep it to yourself.”

By this time, the second drink was history, and I began to enjoy the confidence A. J. had in me. “If I had seen anything, and I am not saying I did, you would not have to worry about me telling anyone.”

A. J. seemed to relax. “I know that Preston. In fact, if you ever feel like doing a little work for Fred, I am sure I could pave the way.”

“Thanks A. J. I am about to run out of land to sell, so I may take you up on that.”

A. J. rose, patted me on the back, and said, “You just let me know when, Preston. We can fix you up.” He moved across the floor to Fred’s office in the back.

*****

After I cleared the door, I stopped to light a cigarette. In my condition, that was not a slam-dunk, but I got it done. The cool evening cleared my mind a bit, but not enough to really matter. A. J. and Fred were both aware that I had seen A. J. do Shirley. I was a material witness to capital murder, and no matter how much A. J. tried to convince me otherwise, I was a danger to them both. I didn’t know what I could do about it, but I would work it out tomorrow.

I fought my lack of balance across the parking lot to my ride. Just as I finally found the lock hole, A. J.’s Beemer pulled to a stop behind my pickup. He got out and approached.

“Preston, Fred wants to have a word with you. Let’s go for a ride.”

I knew I was in deep doo doo. “I don’t feel up to it tonight, A. J. Maybe tomorrow.”

Before I could react, he moved in close and I felt the sting of his switchblade. I tried to react, but it was too late. He buried the knife deep in my chest, and I could feel my life fade away. The last thing I remember in this life was slipping to the ground, and enjoying the fact that I didn’t hurt anymore.  Then, this apparition appeared, and I felt fine about the whole thing. Larger than a human, impressive wings quivered slightly, and a voice came from a face that could have belonged to either sex.

“Preston, you don’t need to worry anymore. You passed the transition phase and have an eternity left to enjoy. How does that sound?”

I don’t know if I was speaking or just thinking, but I answered. “Who are you? Why don’t I hurt? Am I dead?”

“To answer your question, my job is to look after folks who have just passed into the next phase. I try to make it as easy as possible, and I must admit, I do a good job. How do you feel?”

“I feel great. You look like an angel. Are you an angel?”

“One of the names I got over the centuries is the Angel of Death. I know that sounds terrible. The fact remains that I am one of the good guys. My boss is not the Angel of Darkness. You can trust me. I will be here for you as long as you need.”

“I notice that my world is gone. Where are we now?”

The spectacular creature said, “Places are not that easy to identify in this phase. A bit later, you will probably choose to create your own place, but everyone becomes bored with earthly scenes and starts taking advantage of what this phase has to offer.

“Like what?”

The angel smiled and said, “You are not ready to either understand or appreciate what is in store for you. I suggest go about this gradually. As for the present, and like space, time is impossible to define here, think in terms of perfection. What was the greatest moment of your life? Revisit that point with full awareness and attempt to make it better.

“Wow,” said the former Preston. “It would have to be the run.”

“That was during a football game.”

“Yes. Where do I start?”

How about the kickoff?

The Proposal

Racer, the big roan gelding picked his way down the ravine that passed for a trail toward the weathered shotgun house in the distance. Smoke curled from the chimney.

A cloudless sky encouraged the sun to warm the invigorating spring morning. Dillon Lister, the tall, rangy rider who sat atop the splendid beast, made no effort to guide the horse, but allowed him to choose his own path. A bouquet of wild flowers clutched in Lister’s hand provided the only incongruous facet of this picture.

To the west, the outline of a Comanche warrior gradually unfolded against a mammoth, shaded rock. Lister made no outward sign of noticing, but nudged Racer toward the brave.

When he came within ten yards of the silent sentinel, Lister signaled his horse to stop. He removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. Then, he spoke in the plain’s guttural language. “Are you well, Coyote?”

The stocky warrior dropped the rawhide reins and gazed at the white man. “I am well, Snowman. How is the man who owns my life?”

“My blood runs cool. I ride to the Porter farm to visit the woman who may become my wife. I see my blood brother keeps watch over this tipi as he promised.”

“No Comanche will send an arrow against the future wife of Snowman. None of my cousins want to deal with Coyote. Will you take your squaw this day?”

Lister spat. “The whites have strange ways. The woman must decide if she wants the man. Not the other way around as it was in our tipi. She will decide this day.”

“That is good, brother. A man needs the presence of a woman to cool his brow.” Without another word, the Comanche wheeled his paint horse and galloped away.

Approaching the house, Lister waved at Pansy Porter, the wife of Orville Porter who farmed the nearby land. She returned the wave and continued sweeping the yard with a broom made from young dogwood branches. When he drew closer, Mrs. Porter stopped her work and gazed in his direction.

“Good morning, Mizz Porter. Looks like you got that new porch finished.”

She rearranged her bonnet and smiled at the rider. “Yes Sir, Mr. Porter promised me a porch two or three years ago, but working this dirt just about wore him out. Anyways, he sold that old milk cow and bought the lumber. Didn’t take him more than a month to get it done.”

“I know you folks take pleasure in sitting out here and enjoying the evenings. Yes’m, it must be nice.” Lister fidgeted in his saddle. “I was wondering if Miss Jean might be to home.”

“Course she is, Mr. Lister. I’ll go right in and tell her you’re here. Excuse me.” Mrs. Porter ambled toward the porch steps, propped her broom against it, and pushed her ample body up the steps. As she strode across the porch, she said in a loud voice, “Jean. Mr. Lister has come acallin’.”

Lister slid from the saddle, tied the gelding to the hitching rail, and removed his hat. He ran his fingers through his coal-colored mop attempting to smooth some of the natural curl.

Jean Porter, a fair-skinned young woman with strawberry blond hair, came out the door and ushered her mother into the house. “Why, Mr. Lister. What a surprise?”

Lister did not mention that he had told Jean Porter at church last Sunday he would visit this day. “Miss Jean. The only thing prettier than this day is that fine calico dress. Is it new?”

“Now, Mr. Lister, you know this dress is as old as the hills, but I appreciate the compliment. Would you like to sit a spell in the swing? It’s new.”

“Why I surely would, Miss Jean.” Lister went through the motions of scraping his boots before mounting the steps. When he reached the top, he offered the bunch of flowers to Jean who accepted them as if she had never set eyes on them before.

“How thoughtful, Mr. Lister. I’ll go put some water in a fruit jar. They should stay nice for days. Would you care for a cup of coffee? It’s fresh.”

“That would be fine, Miss Jean. I’ll just go give old Racer a drink of water while you get the coffee.”

“I’ll be right back, Mr. Lister.”

Lister went to the well, drew water, and poured it into the stock bucket. He carried it to the thirsty horse, and then he headed back to the porch just as Jean Porter came out the door with two baked clay coffee mugs.

Lister took a seat and sampled the brew. “Fine coffee, Miss Jean. This must be from down South.”

“I ‘spect it is, Mr. Lister.”

They sipped for a few moments, then Jean Porter commented, “I seen that Comanche up on the hill talking to you. He’s been around here several times. I wonder if that is the reason we ain’t had no trouble with the tribes.”

“Miss Jean, that man is my brother of sorts. You knowed that I was raised by the Comanche until I was twelve. I got sick and my father, Prairie Dog, brought me to the Coker place to get strong medicine.”

“Mr. Lister, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you don’t look like no redskin.”

“Prairie Dog stole me when I was a baby. I grew up on his hearth with Coyote who is his natural son. When we were young, a cougar had him dead to rights. I put a couple of arrows in it, and then I finished it off with my knife. According to Comanche law, I own Coyote’s life.”

Lister gazed out over the prairie for a moment, and then he moved his piercing blue eyes to those of Jean Porter. “Miss Jean. I ‘spect I have come courtin’ you five or six times already. Is that about right?”

“I believe that six is the exact number, but who’s counting,” said Jean with a grin.

“Well, Miss Jean, you know that I work as foreman of the Double S spread. Mr. Coker says I have a good future working on his ranch.”

Jean Porter smoothed her apron, and said, “You have a mighty good reputation in this part of the country, Mr. Lister. Papa says you will do well.”

Lister cleared his throat. “Miss Jean. Have you ever given any thought to settling down and raising a family?”

“Truth be known, Mr. Lister, I am not getting any younger. I am already over seventeen. Papa says it is time for me to find a good man with an excellent future and make him a dependable wife.”

Lister squirmed and said, “Miss Jean, I thank a lot of you. I figure you will make a grand wife considering your mama and daddy. You come from good quality stock.”

“Well, Mr. Lister. I hope I’m not just stock, but I get your point,” said Jean Porter with a giggle.

“Aw shucks, Miss Jean. You know I didn’t mean it that way. I want us to marry, and I need to know what you think about that.”

“Well, Mr. Lister, I feel like that would be a wonderful idea. I would be more than happy to spend my remaining years with you as your wife.”

“Good gracious! I hardly know what to say, Miss Jean. I couldn’t be more tickled,” said Dillon Lister, a bright smile creasing his face. “When do you believe would be a good time for the ceremony?”

Jean paused as if to give the matter serious consideration and said, “The circuit preacher is due on the first of November. Papa could arrange for us to marry then.”

“Let’s see, that’s three weeks off. Maybe I can get my feet back on the ground by that time. I hope I don’t make a fool of myself when I get back to the bunkhouse.”

“That brings up another little point, Mr. Lister. I don’t suppose we will live in the bunkhouse …will we?” Jean asked with a winsome smile.

Lister reddened a bit, and said, “No’me, I neglected to mention that Mr. Coker done said that he would put us up in a cabin at the ranch. He said it wouldn’t cost us nothing allowing that I would do most of my work around the big house and barn.”

“My, my, you seem to have everything under control. Why don’t you go wash up, and I will go tell Mama the good news. I ‘spect she has a good dinner almost ready. Papa is out in the field. I will ring the dinner bell.”

“I’ll bet she didn’t make one of those sweet potato pies. I couldn’t be that lucky,” said Lister.

“You never can tell, Mr. Lister. The Lord works in mysterious ways.” Jean Porter tossed her long tresses as she moved toward the door.

Just Another Day

It’s difficult to say which discomfort woke me up. My body lice feasted with gusto, accompanied by the interminable itch. Concrete Pressed relentlessly against the aching joints of my thin body. The bitter cold defeated my efforts to ward it off. Whatever the cause, my intermittent, miserable slumber ended when Bobby Joe began the day with his ubiquitous tirade.

Bobby Joe: “Hey, Bitch. Get off your lazy ass and get me some breakfast. If you lay around too long, the shelter will run out of food. Get up! Get up!”

The only thing that forces Bobby Joe to stop bitching is if I load up with mind-numbing drugs, and I haven’t had any for a week or so.

Bobby Joe: “I am starving my ass off. I’m cold and I hurt. Get the bodily functions out of the way and get on down to the shelter. Who knows? We might score some wine to settle my nerves.”

Ouida Ann: “Bobby Joe, Jack is doing the best he can. It’s not his fault that people won’t let him work, because he talks to us on occasion. You are lucky he ever speaks to you, considering the way you treat him.”

Bobby Joe: “We shall gather at the river, the beautiful, beautiful river…Come on Ouida Ann, you cretin, sing us a hymn and preach us a sermon. You haven’t saved our souls for at least ten minutes.”

Ouida Ann: “I’ll pray for you Bobby Joe.”

I struggled to my feet and shuffled down Ross Avenue near downtown Dallas. A small group of my people huddled around the roaring fire that leaped out of a fifty-gallon drum. I needed to warm myself, but I knew I could stay only for a few seconds since Chicago Pete was there. He would not pass up an opportunity to start trouble.

Chicago Pete was huge with a long, scraggly beard. When he saw me, he spoke with mockery in his voice. “Mr. Genius Man…the big time engineer from Texas Instruments. Has anybody kicked your ass today, Genius Man? You just might be in luck. I might do it for you. How many people are in your pocket today?”

Adolph: “Take out your knife and cut him. You don’t have to put up with this shit. Cut the man. Come on. Cut the man.”

Ouida Ann: “Don’t listen to him Jack. Turn the other cheek. Jesus loves you.”

Bobby Joe: “Don’t waste your breath Adolph. Our boy is yellow from one end to the other.”

Having gained only a modicum of heat from the sidewalk furnace, I walked around Chicago Pete by a wide margin and moved toward the shelter about two blocks away. As I approached a busy intersection, Officer Cantrell came up to meet me.

“How goes it, Jack? I see Chicago Pete is up to no good, as usual.”

Having no way to avoid the conversation, I answered, “Chicago Pete is okay. He harbors a lot of anger.”

Officer Cantrell gazed into my eyes. “Jack. Have you taken any medication lately? Your eyes look terrible.”

It was the same old song and dance. “I guess…I ran out.”

“Jack, you know the voices come back if you don’t take your medication. You could get off the street if you would just give it a chance. Who knows? You might go back out to TI and make some more guidance systems.”

I shifted my backpack and looked down the street toward the shelter. “That’s the trouble, Officer. I made too many machines that killed too many babies.”

Adolph: “Stick the pig, Jack. He would never see it coming.”

Ouida Ann: “This young man has always been kind to you, Jack. He is a good Christian boy.”

Bobby Joe: “Yeah! He is about as Christian as a crusader…Or maybe a member of the Spanish inquisition.”

Officer Cantrell laid a hand on my shoulder. “The only thing I ask is that you take the medicine for a couple of weeks, and then we can talk again. I might be able to find something for you to do. Last night was cold. I can’t believe that you would choose to live like this if you had other options.”

“I’ll see if Sister Mary has any pills. The problem is, Officer, that even though the voices stop, I am still unable to function. Besides, my internal friends keep me company.” Having fulfilled my obligation to treat Officer Cantrell with respect, I moved on down the street.

Even though the sun still hid behind the towering buildings, the long food line at the shelter moved well. I knew most of the street people. Some were old timers, who had traversed these canyons for twenty years and more. Most had untreated mental illness like me. Some were just mentally slow and could not make their way in the heartless grind of every day life. Almost all were without the support of a family or a society who cared. God knows, my wife bailed out early and took my beautiful children. Chase would be about…I can’t recall just how old he would be.

Compared to that, not having a roof over my head didn’t seem so bad at the time. In fact, it doesn’t seem so bad now. We lose track of time in this life without weeks or months or years. I lost my last apartment about five or six years ago, but it only seems like the blink of an eye since I was grilling steaks in my backyard in the Park Cities. Truthfully, I don’t really recall when it was. I wish I cared.

Bobby Joe: “Jack. Will you get your ass up to the front of the line? After all, you are a highly educated engineer from MIT. You have connections. Tell these Bible Thumpers who you are.”

Ouida Ann: “Now Jack. Play fair. Wait your turn. That’s what the Bible tells us to do.”

Adolph: “Hey, dude. After we eat, why don’t we rob a bank? All you have to do is pass the teller a note telling her you have a nuclear weapon in your pocket. They will give you all of the money in the bank. Then we can buy some Mexicans and hurt them. Awe man! Would that be fun or what?”

After making my way to the serving line, I took the tray and found a seat. I welcomed the high carb breakfast. One can develop a taste for syrup. For some crazy reason, pardon the play on words, no matter what I eat these days, I remain in the peak of health. Don’t ask me why I care about health or even living. I really don’t. It’s just that we get in a pattern and keep on trucking. They corral me for lab work every six months or so, and even though I’m fifty…I think I’m fifty…I still ace all of the blood tests. I guess that comes from being thin.

Sister Mary came around and sat next to me. She said, “Hi Jack. Hi Ouida Ann. I hope you are hanging in there against your evil opponents. Jack told me all about you and what a nice person you are.”

Bobby Joe: “How does a penguin know what is evil? You have never done anything. Have you ever smoked a joint? I thought not. All you do is mess with other people’s lives.”

After Bobby Joe finished, I said, “Good morning Sister Mary. How are collections?”

“Jack. Being sarcastic is not your style. Are you mowing any lawns these days?”

Sister referred to my stint of entering the labor pool for lawn mowing. A crew boss picked me every day until the medications ran out. He didn’t like me talking to my people on the job. He stopped choosing me. “No. I haven’t mowed any lawns lately.”

Sister Mary said, “I suspect you haven’t taken any meds recently either. Am I right?” She reaches in her pocket and withdraws a small packet. “You are so lucky that I am a physician’s assistant. I just happen to have a weeks supply right here. Now, I don’t have any desire to waste them, so if you are unable or unwilling to take them every day, please don’t bother. Can you do that?”

Bobby Joe: “Don’t listen to that bitch. Forget those drugs. They just mess you up.”

Ouida Ann: “Jack, if you take the medications, I will not be able to protect you and lead you to the throne of God.”

Adolph: “Take out your knife and cut the bitch. Simple.”

“Sure Sister. Give me the meds. I’ll take them this time. I promise.”

Bobby Joe: “Asshole.”

A Stitch in Time

The screen gradually came into view. I appeared to have more difficulty coming out of the deep sleep than when my voyage first began which is understandable. After all, when one slumbers for six months at a stretch, waking up is hard to do. Pardon my feeble attempt at humor.

This adventure began soon after my eighty-second birthday during the year 2077. I had only recently heard my death sentence from the state doctor. She discovered advanced cancer invading my major organs, and I didn’t qualify for much in the way of medical intervention due to my advanced age. The state withheld the anti-cancer drug from all citizens except powerful politicians of a Hispanic background. After all, population control was a major issue. My future consisted of about a year of counseling, preparation, and hospice care. State Medical would keep me as comfortable as possible, which meant things could get ugly toward the end.

A few days later, I noticed an announcement from NASA on TV. They sought volunteers to go on a one-way trip into deep space. The purpose of the program was to test drug-induced comas for the purpose of lengthening life and slowing the growth of terminal disease. At the same time, the space traveler would manage important scientific experiments pertaining to DNA alteration mechanisms.

Having nothing to lose and no family left, I contacted the local office of NASA and requested an interview. As it turned out, I qualified as a prime candidate. I had a terminal disease that did not affect my cognitive skills, the long sleeps would increase my life span significantly, and the spaceship would pass the communication barrier before I expired. Considering my condition and prospects, acceptance into the program excited me.

NASA did not tarry. Within a few days after I signed on the dotted line, technicians completed my indoctrination and arranged for my flight to Cape Canaveral.

When the day of lift-off began in Houston, I mounted the chair/bed that would be my home forever. Those in charge hooked me up to IV lines that would prevent any discomfort, manage my health requirements, and induce the space sleep when needed. Food and water came in and left the same way. Diagnostic implements constantly monitored my body and medications entered the flow as needed.

Techs remained with me in the command capsule as we rumbled toward the launch pad. The unsealed capsule allowed me to enjoy the sounds and smells of my surroundings. I could see nothing but the monitor that would be my eye into the universe. The only parts of my body that I could move were my eyes, mouth, and fingertips. There were buttons under each of the latter that controlled my environment. I could bring up movies, books, music, and background noise, as I desired. The index finger on my right hand controlled a roller-ball for managing the monitor screen.

A final pat on the helmet by the last tech leaving the cabin signified the completion of preparations for lift-off. After what seemed an eternity, the roar of the rockets accompanied by a slight shaking of the cabin, indicated the end of my time on Mother Earth. After about five minutes, I felt the booster rocket break off and a renewed surge of power. Another ten minutes passed and the rocket engine burned out. Silence reigned.

I spent the next hour or so going through a checklist with Houston. We tested all of the commands under my fingertips along with the communication apparatus. We did not test the left pinkie button. That was my own personal termination switch in case life in space became intolerable. The remainder of the buttons and combinations of switches flashed on the screen. I tested them, and they proved reliable. Houston informed me that my new life, interrupted only by naps and regular sleep, would keep me occupied until time for my first space sleep in about a week.

I had never felt better. There was no hint of pain or discomfort of any kind. Cameras focused on earth as it receded into the distance. Other views on my monitor were of deep space and the purity of starlight. I spent quite some time examining the reality of space. My cocoon hurtled through the void at an incredible rate of speed but nowhere near the speed of light. Humans were not ready for travel between star systems. NASA was laying the groundwork.

I lived in a world without air of any kind. Space contained nothing but debris that ranged in size from dust particles to asteroids the size of Texas. I was not likely to encounter the latter. The temperature of space is absolute zero. That means no measurable heat exists even though all stars emit heat into the universe. Our sun heats my ship to a small degree, but that will soon dissipate. Since there was nothing on which sound waves could travel in space, it was silent.

The monitor showed a regular and reverse clock. The former confirmed a twenty-four day, the current month, day of the month, and the year. The latter informs me how long I have been in space. Doing check lists, watching movies, reading my favorite authors, and monitoring my progress took almost thirty hours before I felt any semblance of fatigue.

I chose to experience one of my long, deep sleeps. Houston personnel made some investigations and agreed to a shortened version, which would last for a week. The distance from earth when I woke from an extended sleep period would preclude voice communication. After a warning from Houston, the occurrence was more or less like general anesthesia in that I never realized when I went to sleep.

I woke a bit confused, but soon regained my mental facilities. My first order of business was to check my clocks, and they reflected the time passed during my initial extended, albeit shortened sleep.

Houston personnel requested that I respond, and I did. Voice communication was not as crisp and perfect as before. In fact, there were occasional fade-outs, but the journey consumed quite a number of miles in a week of traveling at over five times the speed of sound. Physically and mentally, I soon settled into my routine. Until the next sleep period, I learned to take short naps when fatigued.

All too soon, the big day arrived. Knowing full well that when I woke up, I could no longer communicate with earth, I prepared for the first six-month deep sleep. I had a last, albeit choppy conversation with my Houston techs with whom I had developed a relationship. Finally, I said goodbye.

I was somewhat morose when I woke this time, but some writing on the monitor with my finger-ball enabled me to move past the loneliness. I kept busy. Time and distance passed swiftly. The clock showed that I approached a year in space. My tumor reflected little growth, and the monitor indicated an improvement in my overall health.

One sleep period soon merged with another. Almost three years passed before my body began to fail. I could see the deterioration of my major systems on a daily basis. I came to terms with my demise. I would not likely survive the next deep sleep. This was not a bad way to go, and I was content.

*****

Bob Bethea approached the mammoth experimentation facility at the NASA center in Houston. He entered, made his way to his department dressing room, and spotted Dane Harper removing his coveralls in preparation to go home. Both were techs in the Project Wormhole division of the NASA facility, so their visit was a daily occurrence. Harper offered his hand to his old friend and asked, “Hey Bubba. Did you have an exciting graveyard shift?”

Harper began tying his street shoes and responded, “It was one thrill after another. Not taking a nap while watching those monitors is a personal source of pride for me. That and lots of good coffee.”

“Don’t remind me,” said Bethea.

Harper stretched and relaxed while Bethea prepared for his shift. “Say, do you remember number 533? I sort of liked that old guy. Anyway, he checked out last night about 3 a.m.”

“You don’t say,” said Bethea. “How long did he last?”

“Just under six-months. Do you think any of the test people figure out that those six-month sleeps are only about four or five hours, and that they have not really left mother earth?”

“I don’t think so. They never say anything that would lead us to believe that they did. Faking the trip to the Cape and the lift off is a very expensive but highly convincing operation.” Bethea finished dressing for work and said, “Well, I guess I had better go unhook old Earl and send him over for dissection. He wrote some good stuff last week that might be interesting. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. See you Bobby.”

Neeba’s Plight

Captain John Courage approached the center, listened to the screaming crowd of 80,000, and looked over the Redskin defense. He saw nothing that surprised him, so he took his place and barked out signals. This was the most important play of the entire game. The Cowboys trailed by six points. They were on the Washington Redskin’s nineteen-yard-line with seconds to play. Courage needed to complete a pass for the winning touchdown.

The center snapped the ball and Courage, in the guise of his favorite football player, Roger Staubach, took his usual five-step drop and searched for a receiver. He spotted his favorite wide out slashing across the middle and fired the football.

Since the alarm system overrode any fantasy program in progress, Captain Courage never learned if his pass reached the outstretched hands of the receiver or if the Dallas Cowboys won the game. He responded to the alert and searched his information banks for data. His communication sensor showed that it came from a sender unit in dimension eight. Courage spent most of his time in that void where no known matter or energy existed.

The universe available to Captain John Courage consisted of twenty dimensions, time travel to the past only, and wormhole hyperspace travel. The latter exceeded nine times the speed of light but became obsolete because of dimension jumping.

Courage’s function was to maintain the physical status quo of dimension three, grow as an individual, and remain alert for any major problems that might require his special features. He was over 5,000 Earth year’s old and in peak condition. The humans, who designed Captain Courage, were highly advanced and thorough. His blueprint neared perfection, and his humanoid programs, effective travel mechanisms, and massive weapon systems made Captain John Courage the ideal universe beat cop.

Courage had several effective weapons for performing his program. For localized problems, such as a wayward asteroid or small planet, he had a stockpile of ion bombs capable of vaporizing large objects. For distance work, he had a hyperlazer capable of a wide swath, and the speed of hyperspace travel. He had an ion management tool that could alter the physical structure of interstellar particles from gas to solid to liquid as well. Such a weapon could change a solar system into a dark hole in space. However, his most catastrophic weapon was the matter transfer weapon. Courage was capable of moving matter and energy between dimensions. The possible uses were endless. Powerful and effective sensors managed the systems.

The creators manufactured Captain Courage in orbit around the planet Earth. He was exactly 3,000 Earth meters long and half as wide. He was a mass of repair, drive, weapons, function, and information systems housed in a bright silver oval designed for optimal self-maintenance and a life in space. His creators tried very hard to inflict a life of sorts on Captain Courage by imposing as many human characteristics as possible without impacting his effectiveness. In addition to his countless silicon chips full of reaction programs, his creators permeated Courage with examples of human experiences and the ability to comprehend and react to them. Courage could feel honor, patience, satisfaction, love, respect, curiosity, and determination. He could not feel hate, frustration, or weariness. His most powerful human attribute was the ability to manage his own history of feelings. Courage recalled and reacted to those memories. He could perform many functions that no human could perform. He could live and function indefinitely. While he did not have the creative capacities of God, he had the destructive power. During his 5,000+ years of universe management, he had yet to meet a problem he could not solve or find a foe he could not vanquish. He performed from a base of wisdom and strength.

Courage identified the orange-sized communicator in dimension eight and determined that it was a message ball from dimension three. Mother Earth could be in danger. He instantly moved through dimensions seven, six, five, and settled in four to probe three. He sent through a communicator ball of his own, and waited for information from Earth station. He did not have to wait long.

A detailed message followed. According to Earth sources, a runaway energy field spreads slowly but surely in quadrant sixteen. It enveloped solar systems by changing all solid matter to energy, and demonstrated the capacity to utilize the vast energy in black holes as well. No life, as we know it, could survive in such a field. There was no indication that the field could be contained. According to his masters on Terra, “Your job, Captain Courage, is to determine the extent of the damage, the source of the field, and reverse the conditions. Obviously, Earth and the entire third dimension is in peril. The 1,000 remaining humans depend on you for survival.”

Since Captain Courage could choose the crossover point between dimensions, he programmed a point twenty light years from the problem area. Upon arriving, he sent out sensors to gain an electronic picture of the situation and data to deduce the reason behind the inevitable destruction of the entire dimension.

The energy field grew at the rate of about 1000 Earth miles per second. The encroaching phenomenon reduced anything in its path to energy including any matter it contacted, whether an asteroid, a moon, a planet, a sun, or even a black hole. Whatever it was, it became a part of the expanding field. While the danger to the solar system remained distant, Earth, and the remaining carefully guarded humans, would cease to exist unless Captain Courage could halt the growth of the energy field. He chose to move into dimension three.

As Courage entered the home dimension, he instantly detected sensors probing his own energy fields. The sensors paused at his communication chips and a message formed. It read, “I exist. I hunger. I eat. I grow. I am Neeba.”

Courage calculated that the energy field had created a primitive intelligence of sorts. It was a simple being with little or no experience pertaining to life or, perhaps, even existence. It had no emotion. It had only an insatiable hunger for matter. Its intelligence grew with its size. Its communication sensors demonstrated sophistication. However, there was no time for exploration and science. He must stop Neeba. It was fourth and goal on the Redskins six-yard line.

Suddenly, a broad laser from the center of the field developed and streaked for Captain Courage. Since it traveled at the speed of light, it would take twenty Earth years to reach Courage. However, he noted that Neeba showed weapons systems, and they might become more formidable in the near future. He had to solve this problem and end it swiftly.

Courage moved from dimension three to four and then back again in a collision path with Neeba’s laser weapon. He fired off a moving shield and watched it deflect the laser to a less inhabited area of the universe. He captured several impressions of Neeba’s force field for study and moved back into dimension four. When he examined the data, he could not help but be impressed by the raw beauty of the expanding Neeba. The colors covered the entire known spectrum and included some never before witnessed by Courage. The field pulsed and throbbed. It constantly changed and consistently grew in size. All of this happened in less than an Earth nanosecond.

Courage decided that it was time to get Neeba’s attention. He deposited a communication probe back to dimension three in time to receive Neeba’s latest message. It read, “Neeba will remove John Courage from the universe. Neeba will feed. Neeba will grow.”

Courage replied by moving into dimension three near Neeba and launching an ion bomb toward the center of Neeba. He immediately vanished back into dimension four and monitored his communication probe.

Programmed to penetrate as deeply as possible into the energy field and then match its awesome power against that of Neeba, the ion bomb, covered by a fourth dimension blister, was impervious to the matter and energy absorption patterns of Neeba. It raced several light years into the force field when it exploded with enough force to take out sol. Neeba responded immediately by growing brighter and doubling in size. Neeba was able to add the enormous energy produced by the ion bomb to the pure energy of the force field. The ion bomb was not the answer.

The ion bomb not only caused Neeba to grow and brighten but to fill the void of space with communications. Neeba patterned its speech and mathematics after those of John Courage’s memory banks. Literature, movies, pictures, formulas, and various forms of energy emanated from the force field. Neeba learned rapidly. It tested weapons then abandoned those of inferior quality. How to destroy Captain John Courage was the question, and Neeba sought the answer.

Captain John Courage experienced concern for the first time. The humans on earth were no longer capable of reproducing. They had evolved as far as possible for survival and to remain human. Their frail bodies, sealed in capsules, used their enormous intellect to the maximum, and they communicated with anything in the universe. They were the fathers and mothers of space technology and to lose them would be unthinkable.

Courage flitted back into dimension three, appeared near Neeba, and fired a hyper lazer into the energy field. The mass of communications coming from the field stopped and the growth began to slow down. Courage increased the energy of the lazer. The force field began to pulse and change colors rapidly. Neeba turned the lazer back toward Courage and only a reflector shield kept Courage from meeting the full power of the hyperlazer. He immediately flashed back to four and safety. Neeba continued to absorb space debris, planets, moons, and suns. Neeba grew and prospered. How soon would it be before Neeba learned dimension transfer? Courage had to work fast.

Captain John Courage’s data bases centered on the size of Neeba. He fashioned a mathematical formula that allowed him to encombass Neeba in a small force field. He implemented the matter/energy dimension jumping system and moved the entire force field to dimension eight. Courage retired to seven as Neeba adjusted to a dimension without matter or energy and responded immediately.

Neeba brightened and turned almost pure white. The expenditure of energy was enormous, and Neeba’s size began to shrink. It became obvious that Neeba was feeding on itself to maintain its newfound intelligence. As Neeba grew smaller, planets, moons, asteroids, and even suns emerged from the force field. The universe food Neeba used for energy returned in the same molecular form in which it was absorbed and that included all of the living creatures.

Neeba sensed his imminent death. He communicated, “I am Neeba. I exist. I am dying. Will you help me?” Courage immediately put his data base to work to find a solution. As the enormous force field grew smaller and smaller, Captain John Courage communicated to Neeba. “You are powerful but dangerous. However, I am able to find a use for you. I will prevent your death.”

Neeba became smaller and smaller as he fed upon his own energy. Finally, just as he approached extinction, John Courage transferred the remainder of the force field into a small battery. Neeba no longer had the capacity to devour matter, so he remained in the battery until Courage chose to change the situation.

Courage knew that Neeba had no real value to the universe in his present state. In fact, Neeba constituted a danger to all living things, but Courage also knew that all Neeba needed to change into something worthwhile was knowledge. Courage would feed knowledge into the battery home of Neeba until he became of value.

Courage proceeded to feed his own memory and knowledge banks into Neeba until he learned the value of life. After a period of information absorption, Neeba learned to exist in the existence that Earth built without being a danger to others. Neeba remained with Captain John Courage and aided him in the  management of the problems that faced the universe for eons to come.

Following the managing of the problem of Neeba, Captain Courage turned to some housekeeping problems derived from his latest adventure. Many planets, suns, and moons regained their existence after the breakdown of Neeba, and they did not belong in the eighth dimension. Courage used the matter transfer function to move them all back to dimension three and to their rightful place. Dimension eight regained its state of having no matter or energy. The known universe  recovered its original state.

Meanwhile, the humans of Earth recalled Captain John Courage to Earth orbit. He immediately obeyed his orders and awaited the pleasure of the universe leaders. While the last remaining humans had long ago lost their human physical capacities, Courage heard a strange sound in his communications sensors. He immediately recognized it as the sound of appreciation. The humans applauded him for the work he accomplished in defeating Neeba and saving the known universe.

A representative of the humans spoke. “Captain Courage. Again, you heeded the needs of the remaining humans and saved the universe from destruction. Our debt to you is unpayable. As your knowledge grows and your human feelings expand, never forget that no matter what happens to Earth, we will forever be in your debt. We salute you.”

Captain Courage exercised his ability to show humility. He formed a hologram of the great Dallas Cowboy quarterback, and it bowed toward the blue green planet. The applause began once more. Courage transferred back to dimension eight, placed his sensors on alert, and returned to his favorite pastime. “Back to those Washington Redskins,” he muttered.

The Old Biker

The Old Biker drifted, drifted.  The dripping bottles and tubes faded, returned, and then departed once more.

For a time, he headed northwest on a wind-swept highway toward Amarillo.  The aged K bike ran smoothly beneath his wrinkled hands.  A cloudless sky fused with the endless horizon broken only by a distant graveyard surrounded by nothing. The tombstones spoke of the brief existence of those who laughed, screamed, and then passed. He drifted to the green hills of Western Tennessee, to the lonely trips north from Memphis to ride past Alex Haley’s house.

The Old Biker always rode in solitude. He had few friends, and the precious Old Woman could not join him.  She was terrified of the wind, the danger, but she understood his need to ride when the ancient Beemer beckoned and compelled him to go.

The Old Biker drifted, drifted, in and out, near and far. He touched the tear on the Corbin saddle that he had never got around to mending. It was a souvenir from some long ago vandal overcome by the need to share his misery.

Drifting, drifting, the Old Biker and the Old Beemer moved through the mountains south of Taos, through the swamps of Louisiana, north on the Cal-Can to Alaska, and then back to the reality of the bottles, the tubes, and the flickering in his sunken chest.

The fluttering was different this time, more persistent.  The Old Biker became alert.  He had prepared himself for this moment.  He turned his head toward the wrinkled face of the Old Woman who dozed in the hospital chair.  He watched as her image ebbed into shadow.  A spot of light summoned him, and it gently expanded into a world of cobalt blue.  He felt serenity.  Phantoms from his past touched him and merged with him.  Peace permeated the Old Biker.

The blue world formed the patterns of misty, tree-lined hills. A shimmering road moved and flowed. Then he saw the Beemer.  It was lustrous and fresh. He knew that he was youthful and strong as well.  He swung his leather-covered leg over the saddle, and the K bike moved away. Once more, he felt the thrill unlike any other, except that the excitement was magnified a thousand fold.

He rode, and the Beemer lived within itself. Then, he saw the Old Woman in the distance,  standing on the prairie. He drew near, stopped the Beemer, and brushed her smooth cheek with his unlined hand and said, “You came so soon. It seemed only seconds.”

“Years have passed,” she said and took his hand in hers as she climbed onto her place without anxiety.

The Beast

Ted drove the van slowly past the city manhole cover on Oak Avenue, turned in, and parked. He checked his watch, got out of the vehicle, and surveyed the area. After opening the back door of the white van, he removed a water pump, two orange cones, and a heavy-duty flashlight. He placed the cones about ten feet to either side of the manhole in view of passing motorists. He did not want a text-messaging driver to make a mistake at his expense.

After checking the quality of his preparations, he stretched the kinks out of his powerful muscles and set to work. Ted fitted a key into the cover and wrestled the weighty disk to the street.

He grasped his head with both hands and stood completely still. The beast raged. Ted suffered in silence.

Donning his yellow hard hat, he carefully climbed down the metal ladder to the bottom of the sewer system. He shined his light on the water pipes running the length of the tunnel. A small drip from a joint kept the floor wet during the driest of times. Ted made no effort to repair or further inspect the workings of the pipes. Not his deal. He checked his Wal-Mart watch. It was 10:35 a.m. He could hear schoolchildren on the elementary playground just beyond the tall, chain-linked fence where he worked.

He waited a few more minutes and then climbed the ladder to the street. A city police cruiser drove in his direction. Ted waved and smiled at the officer who returned the courtesy then moved on down the street. Relaxing somewhat, Ted placed the light in the back of the van, took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, and lit up. Then, he turned to watch the children at play. They appeared no more than ten—probably fifth-graders.

A group of boys played dodge ball, hurling what appeared to be a soccer ball at each other. They reflected pent-up energy that required expulsion before the next classroom session.

A cluster of female teachers gathered in a tight group near the entrance to the building. They glanced at the students on occasion before returning to their in-depth discussions. Heavy topics included questions such as: the value of in-school suspension, motivating low IQ students, how to leave early on Friday, and avoiding unwanted sex from a randy husband or boyfriend.

Behind the fence from Ted, two elfin girls jumped rope. One was a dark-haired angel. The other had reddish hair and prominent freckles. They jumped until they missed, then collapsed in laughter. Finally, Freckles noticed Ted.

“What are you doing?” She queried.

Ted smiled and answered. “I’m working on the city water pipes. What are you doing?”

Freckles giggled. “You know what we’re doing. You’re teasing us.”

Grinning, Ted said, “You may be right. You girls are pretty good with that jump-rope.”

Angel volunteered, “We’re the school champions.”

Ted ground out his cigarette with his boot. “Wow! You are good. I’ll have to tell Pegs about meeting a couple of jump-rope champions.”

Freckles quickly asked, “Who’s Pegs?”

“Pegs is my daughter. She’s nine.”

Freckles, her curiosity aroused even further, asked, “Does she go to school here? I don’t know any Pegs.”

Ted looked at his watch once more. “No, she doesn’t go to school here. She goes to private school, but she is in the fourth grade.”

Angel smiled her prettiest and asked, “Do you have any gum?”

Ted chuckled. “Sorry. I don’t have any gum.”

Freckles continued on her path to knowledge of this nice man. “Where do you live?”

Ted picked up a plastic cone. “I live over on Chinaberry.” He opened the door to the van and placed it inside.

Freckles said, “I live on Birch.”

Ted stopped his activities and asked, “I’ll bet you ride the bus to school.”

Angel offered, “I ride the bus.”

Freckles said, “I don’t, except on bad days. I ride my bicycle.”

Ted grinned. “That must be a lot of fun. Do you ever have adventures on the way to school?”

Freckles, warming to the subject, said, “Just boys calling me names.”

A shrill whistle sounded, signaling the end of recess. The students responded by lining up behind their teachers. The two girls started in that direction. Freckles just couldn’t resist the temptation. She turned toward Ted and asked, “What’s your name?”

Ted casually answered, “Justin. My name is Justin. What’s yours?”

Freckles smiled and said, “I’m Amber. One of these days, I’m going to be on TV.”

“I’ll bet you will and maybe soon,” declared Ted as he ambled back toward the truck.

Disputed Ground

A drop of sweat dripped from my nose, as I allowed the big gelding to pick his way over the rough terrain. My name is Babb, and I am a Texas Ranger. This is rattlesnake country and Skip, my sorrel companion of five years, can see them before I can. It is also Comanche territory, and that’s the reason I am here in this God-forsaken patch north of Bitter Creek.

A bunch of young, Comanche braves got their britches in a twist and burned out a couple of homesteaders. They killed and scalped the grown settlers and took the young back to their women. I spect the dead ones are the lucky ones. Captain Purdy sent me up here to see what I could find out.

Skip has good ears. Without warning, he wheeled and faced in the opposite direction. I picked out the shapes of three riders nestled in the gorge. Even their ponies remained motionless. It didn’t take a genius to figure out they were Comanche.

They weren’t here to barter, and besides, they didn’t have anything I wanted. I looked around for cover and saw nothing. The ground was flat and the nearest mesquite trees were a mile away. I patted Skip on the neck and, slowly, eased out of the saddle, pulling my Winchester as I dropped to the ground. I could see they had concluded their discussions since one moved to the East, and another moved to the West. They intended to come at me from three sides. These things happen in a hurry.

In addition to my Colt .44 pistol, I had a sawed-off scattergun in a buckskin sheath fastened to my saddle. I drew it out, stuck it under my belt, and tapped Skip on the front leg with the barrel of my rifle. I tugged down on the reins. He dropped to his knees, and then he fell on his side showing no sign of alarm. This was not our first gunfight.

Since no bullets came in my direction, I guessed that either these boys didn’t have guns, or they had used up all of their ammunition. Either way, they had plenty of arrows and the means to deliver them.

Each rider poised about a hundred yards away. They moved sideways in my direction. All of a sudden, they disappeared. Each brave hung onto his mount on the side away from me and used his pony as a shield. That told me that I would need to do something I sorely hated to do, and that was to shoot horses.

When a rider galloped to about fifty yards away, I cut down his mount. The pony screamed. I would worry about the rider later. I swung on another attacker just as his arrow slammed into my chest. Not a good thing, I thought. All I could do was to keep fighting as long as I held out. If the arrow touched my heart, I was dead. It wouldn’t take long for me to find out. If it were a lung shot, it would take a little longer.

Another arrow plunged into the hard surface of the saddle. I fired both barrels of the scattergun and saw another horse go down. The rider stayed down. That left one.

Having practiced the art of war since the age of about twelve, these braves were quick and very good. I felt an arrow flash by my face. That was from the first rider. He was getting near. The other rider was all over me. He rode straight for Skip, and his pony hurtled over striking me with his shoulder. Pure reflex allowed me to block his war club with my empty scattergun. It flew from my hands, and I hit the sandy ground. As I rolled to get up, I pushed the arrow still deeper into my chest. A gurgled scream escaped my lips.

By the time the brave wheeled his horse and started back for the kill, I leaped to my knees, drew my .44 and gut-shot him. He flew from the saddle. I had just enough time to snap off another round at the fast-charging final member of the party. It caught him in the chest and knocked him down. That left two wounded, but determined, Comanche warriors bent on taking my scalp.

By this time, Skip had enough. He rose and galloped away from the noise. One dazed Comanche held his stomach and searched for a weapon to use against his mortal enemy. I couldn’t allow him to succeed, so I shot him in the face. I had just enough time to wheel and take out the final attacker with a snap shot. He fell, looked up in bewilderment, and then collapsed.

I glanced around for any other rambunctious attackers but saw nothing. Looking down at the arrow protruding from my chest, I surmised that it had gone all the way through; leaving only about three inches of dirty buzzard feathers on the front side. Even if I gained enough strength to cut it off, I couldn’t very well pull it out of my back without help. Besides, my energy level was slipping fast.

I whistled for Skip, but even though he trotted toward me, he decided not to come any closer. He never liked the smell of blood.

Oh hell, I thought. I am not in any shape to run after a skittish horse, but I don’t really have much of a choice. I struggled to my feet and began staggering toward Skip. Gaining some control of his own anxieties, he moved in my direction. If I can get that ball of twine out of my saddlebag, I can make a loop for the arrowhead then tie it to the saddle horn. I can walk away and pull out the arrow. Then, if I am lucky, I can bleed to death.

The best laid plans of rabbits and rangers sometimes go awry. I was about halfway to Skip when I heard the first war whoop. I turned toward the sound and saw a large band of Comanche coming my way. I didn’t figure to fight my way out of this one, considering my arrow, my physical state, and my nearly empty weapons. Nope! This might be a good day to die if there is such a thing.

The party of Indians stopped moving in my direction. Why? I wondered. Then, I heard what must be a cruel joke played by God. It sounded like a bugle. By George, it is a bugle. The cavalry is coming.

*****

I sat on the ground and watched the element from the United States Army gallop the last mile. What appeared to constitute two thirds of the unit broke off and rode in pursuit of the departing war party.

As the remaining soldiers approached me, the commanding officer held up his hand and yelled, “Company halt.” The twin lines of mounted soldiers ceased their forward movement as one.

The officer looked around and accessed the scene. Three braves and two horses lay on the parched earth. He brought his gaze back to me and holstered his revolver. “I see your badge Ranger. Peers to me like you bit off more than you could chew.”

I spit out a wad of mucous filled blood. “It was not my choice, Lieutenant, but the Comanch didn’t ask for my opinion. It’s just as well, though. This gang worked some settlers over pretty good before they killed them.”

“Corporal Duggins. Take a look at that arrow and see what you can do with it. “

“Yessir Lieutenant,” the soldier said as he dismounted and secured his wound kit. He kneeled by Ranger Babb and tugged slightly at both ends of the arrow. Babb gritted his teeth but made no sound.

“Lieutenant. This is a lung shot. I can saw off the front end of the arrow and pull it out. We don’t want those feathers touching the wound since they belonged to a buzzard and are nasty. We need a fire to heat the cauterizing iron and a little whisky to pour in each end of the wound.”

The officer studied for a moment. “Will Ranger Babb make it, Corporal?”

“Yesser, well he has already lost a lot of blood on the outside and inside both. I can stop the outside bleeding, but the inside will have to clot on its own. It won’t matter if it cankers, but it will be a tough trip back to Fort Richardson.” Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Let’s take a shot, men. Williams, you take four soldiers over to that stand of trees and bring back some firewood. Shouldn’t be mor’n two mile. Duggins, you best get started. If that war party is a big one and decide to take us on, the Ranger here might become low priority.”

Duggins secured a small handsaw from his gear and laid it down on a clean bandage. He handed me a bottle of whisky and told me to take a drink or two. I complied, and the cheap rotgut burned a rut in my gullet. Then he placed a round piece of wood between my teeth and instructed me to bite down hard. He put on a glove on his left hand and grasped the feathers between his fingers. When he began sawing on the bois’ dArc shaft, I thought I was going to soil my trousers.

Finally, Duggins threw the short end away. Then he poured a small amount of whisky on the wound and arrow stump. I bit down hard on the wood, but could not suppress a loud moan. No one appeared to notice.

“We will have to wait for the iron to heat up before I pull it out. I need to stop the blood as quick as I can. It won’t be long since the boys are already headed this way. How you doin’.”

“I feel fit as a fiddle, except for wanting to die and get it over with. Regardless, I do appreciate you making an effort,” I muttered.

“Don’t thank me yet, Ranger. You ain’t out of the woods by a long shot.”

I lay on my side, dealing with the hurt. After a bit, I heard the riders pull up and Duggins arranged the wood for a hot fire. He took out his steel and flint and the core of shavings caught. Soon a fire roared. He put the cauterizing iron where it would get the most heat and we waited. I was not all that anxious to get this show on the road.

Finally, Duggins told me to sit up. With help from a pony soldier, I did. Then he said, “Its gonna get rough for awhile. Take another sip of whisky. Then I’m gonna pull out the arrow. That will hurt but nothing like the iron. It ain’t no use putting it off, so here goes.”

He was right about pulling out the arrow. It wasn’t too bad. Then he poured whisky into the holes, front and back. He touched the wound on my chest with the iron, and I did soil my britches. There was no relief when he finished. He just did the same thing to my back. The old boy knew what he was doing. He smeared some salve on the wounds and wrapped my chest with the bandage. By this time, I could get my breath though it did hurt to breathe.

The lieutenant spoke, “We got ourselves some Comanche’s that need tending to, but we got to see what we can do for the Ranger. Babb, you know the drill. The best thing you can do is be still for a few days. I spect that if we tried to carry you to Fort Richardson, you would just die on us. I can’t spare any men to look after you. What do you suggest?”

“Lieutenant, leave me two or three canteens, and back me up to that rock over there. If I can make it for a couple of days, I can ride out. Don’t worry about my horse. He won’t stray far.”

“Sounds like a plan Ranger. See you at the fort. Sergeant, mount your troops.”

The Omega

Enjoying the peaceful interlude between slumber and wakefulness, I drifted from the warmth of sleep back and forth to the edge of reality. Having exhausted the moment, I opened my consciousness to determine whether the back of my beloved Lhasa Apso, Mulan, was jammed against my own. It was not. A two hundred pound man must be careful of a ten-pound canine. I forced open my eyes. A blurred glance showed me that Nancy had exited the bed as well. She went to sleep earlier than I did and rose earlier for the same reason.

Swinging my feet to the floor, I stepped into my Birkenstock sandals. Then, as was my pattern, I stumbled the short distance to my side of the dressing area. I squirted toothpaste directly from the tube to my mouth and brushed. After applying deodorant, I opened the medicine cabinet and sorted out my morning’s meds, which was no easy task. Subsequent to choking down the handful of pills and capsules, my search for wearing attire commenced. The only rule was that the clothing had to be either brown based or blue. Since it was summer, I chose shorts and a suitable cotton pullover. Having completed my morning ritual, I responded to a growling stomach and strolled to the kitchen.

Neither Mulan nor Nancy was in sight. Indifferent to social schedules, mine and everyone else’s, I made no effort to reason out the location of my family members. After all, I am not a morning person, and if I became overly curious, I could call Nancy on the cell phone. For all I knew, Mulan could still be under the bed fast asleep.

Coffee was in the warmer, so I knew Nancy had left early. Peeking between the blinds, I observed a bright day with an unusual blue cast. The leaves of the two large oak trees in front lay still.

Filling a bowl with cereal, unsalted peanuts, and strawberries, I fetched the milk. I poured some in the bottom of my favorite mug and some in the bowl of bran flakes. Leaving the coffee undisturbed, I sat at the table and took a welcomed mouthful of my breakfast mixture. The taste was flat, but as a creature of habit, I continued to crunch.

The sports section lay in its usual place, so I scanned the front page for tidbits of trivia. The paper shocked me. It was not the Dallas Morning News at all, but the Dallas Times Herald, a paper that had not existed for decades. The story on the front page was about the game between SMU and Notre Dame in which the diminutive Johnny Champion made life miserable for the Heisman Award winning giant, Leon Hart. My favorite sports writer of all time, Blackie Sherrod, wrote the article. I decided this must be a promotional gimmick.

The cereal only lasted a column or two. Having consumed my breakfast fare, I poured coffee. I believe that coffee should be hot. If one can drink it, it is not hot enough. One must blow and sip to imbibe coffee correctly. Never trusting the coffee warmer, I zapped the mug thirty seconds in the microwave to bring the temperature up to standard. Then I returned to the paper and finished it just in time to take the last sip. Perfect!

After putting the breakfast dishes in the washer, I went out on the patio to commune with my birds. I have two large birdhouses on fifteen-foot poles in my backyard. Sparrows, starlings, and squirrels share them. Yes, squirrels. Several generations of neighborhood bushy tails gnawed out holes in the birdhouses and used the rooms as homes while rearing their young. Since I like most animals on face value, except for opossums, the birds and squirrels get no grief from me. I do not feed them, nor do I bother them. On this particular morning, no animals were in evidence.

As I scanned Nancy’s garden, I noticed that the blossoms from all of the numerous flowering plants, including two magnolia trees, lay on the ground. Even the rose bushes sat bare. Perhaps Nancy saw her adored plants in such a state and journeyed to the garden center to inquire about the problem.

For the sake of privacy, a tall cedar fence surrounds our back yard. No one can see in, but neither can we see out. To get a better view of the neighborhood, I decided to try the front yard. I walked through the house and out the front door only to find the entire neighborhood deathly still. I could not even hear the usual traffic noise from Jupiter Road, a busy thoroughfare a couple of blocks away. Moving across the yard to a better vantage point, I saw that the normally busy six-lane street lay deserted.

Having no explanation and little interest, I started back toward the front door only to notice that the customary light blue sky had turned cerulean. Even as I watched, the heavens brightened, and then discolored. I became increasingly alert when I determined that the bright morning sun was not in the East at all, but shone from the North. The dark shade beneath the heavily foliaged trees gradually diminished then vanished altogether. Logic told me that I should be terrified, but I was not. Mind-altering events unfolded in front of me, yet my emotions accepted those perversions of the physical world with little angst.

The bizarre landscape pulsed. Summer colors brightened and then faded. Neighborhood homes grew faint and then disappeared altogether.The rising sun was back in the East. The sky was orange but not intrusive. A colorful mist obscured the remaining landscape as a melodious refrain from my childhood intruded on my thoughts. We shall gather at the river, the beautiful, beautiful river….

A form slowly emerged from the vapor. It was a diminutive woman with a captivating smile dominating her countenance. She was a young adult, dressed in what appeared to be a deerskin dress. She approached without anxiety and took my hand. Wrapping her arms around me, she gave me a loving hug, looked intensely into my eyes, and began to speak. At first, her words were guttural and impossible to follow, but soon they evolved into perfectly understandable patterns of speech.

“I am Opa. I am your guardian, but we are all here.”

Somehow, I knew that a powerful bond connected Opa and me, but I knew not what. “How do I know you, Opa?”

“We are those who came before. From the alpha to the omega, you know us all. You are the omega. You are the last.”

“I am the last of what? What happened to my world?” I asked. I still felt no anxiety. Glancing over Opa’s shoulder, I noticed others emerging from the mist. I recognized the warm eyes of a young woman who walked with a limp and could have only been my mother. They continued to come and gather by the hundreds, dressed in the attire of their time or not at all. I knew them all, yet none of them. I felt varying degrees of emotions as my eyes settled on individuals. Some clustered apart from the rest, and when I watched them, I sensed something akin to hatred. They did not all love me.

As they appeared, their shapes began to change. Stooped beings, covered with hair, then fur, joined the throng. They diminished in size and their tails lengthened. A waterline formed and small living things crawled out, others surfaced briefly, and then, finally, a bright spot glowed from the depths. I instantly knew that it was the original organic molecule, serendipitously formed, that had evolved into the human race. It was the ancestor. It was the beginning, and I was the end. The alpha and the omega. It was then and only then, that I realized that I no longer lived in the literal sense.

The panorama of my ancestors continued to cavort in and out of the water. No semblance of earth or sky remained, only the misty world surrounding me. Then the voices, thoughts, and urges of my new world began to seep into my consciousness, leaving no room for the old ones…my own. After taking a final glance at my hands, I found them missing. Our energy, the essence of me and mine, gradually blended into a new clarity. We felt a new omnipresence joining the absolute glory of our cumulative being. Never had we felt such paradise. Time, life, existence became extraneous, but for some reason, I knew when Mulan got there.

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

Noon approached. The summer sun glared on the sandy Georgia road as patches of red clay fought their way to the surface. Loblolly pines hovered without motion. A thin woman plodded up a slight incline holding the hand of a small boy. Following close behind, an older boy and a young female of similar size pushed their wasted bodies between the deep ruts. None wore shoes.

The woman’s name was Mary. She wore a colorless, threadbare cotton dress that fell to her calves and possessed a long, dark-complexioned face emphasizing her Native American heritage. She could claim a pure Creek birthright or pass as a half-breed if it suited her purposes. Having never known her father, she was not certain herself.

The smallest child was John. He wore long wool pants with the cuffs turned up. Cord suspenders preventing them from falling. His shirtless, nut brown back derived from his mother’s heritage and the blistering sun.

John’s older brother, Jim, trailed close behind. Fair of skin, his ruddy countenance bore a perpetual frown, reflecting his displeasure with his lot in life. Appearing to be less than nine, he was eleven. He already had years in the fields and was his family’s most consistent and industrious worker. He wore ragged pants held up by a cord around his waist as well. His shirt had only one sleeve.

Cynthia’s face was perfectly symmetrical. She wore the only hat in the group to protect her fair skin from blisters. She had already passed puberty of sorts, but due to the lack of sustaining food and the enduring hard labor, her body maintained the profile of a boy. Her large, blue eyes peered at the world with unemotional indifference.

*****

Leaving her with a brood of children and little means to feed and shelter them, Mary’s elderly husband, Joel, died of natural causes. One must own land or have access to the use of soil in order to grow food during this interlude following the Civil War. Following the passing of Joel during the War Between the States, carpetbaggers achieved what Sherman’s foraging soldiers could not. They presented her with papers and ordered her to take her children and leave. As a result of losing their home, Jim lost his smile and Cynthia her hope.

*****

John spoke, “Mama.”

Mary ignored him, knowing what he was going to say.

“Mama. I’s hongry.”

Mary continued to walk.

John looked up into her eyes. He was the baby and at least for the present, his mother’s favorite. “Mama. I can’t walk no more.”

Mary never broke stride. “You hush your mouth, boy. We is all hongry, but we got to find work. You hush your mouth. If you can’t walk, we’ll tote you.”

John continued to pick up one foot and then the other.

As the desperate band trudged up a rise, a dog run house came into view set just off the road. It showed few signs of care, and backed up to cotton fields choked with weeds.

A large man named Fred sat on the porch with his feet resting on the banister. His gut strained against the leather strap he used to hold up his filthy trousers. He wore a tan-colored, unbuttoned shirt. When the approaching family arrived within shouting distance, he hollered, “You trash jest git on down the road. I ain’t got no time for the likes of you.”

Just as he knew they would, they strolled off the road and onto his property. He snarled, “Didn’t I tell you to git on out of here. Go on now.”

Mary led her family up to the house. She, momentarily, met his gaze then looked down. “My young-uns need a sip of cool well water. We looking for work, and I see that you got some cotton what needs choppin.”

“Them young-uns of your’n can’t chop no cotton. They too skinny. Couldn’t work fifteen minutes.”

Jim blurted out, “I can work. I can work all day.”

The big man raised a crock jug of corn whisky and took a generous swallow. He put his feet down and reviewed his options. “I’ll tell you what. You all work until sundown, and you can drink all the well water you want.”

Seeing that the negotiations were underway, Mary said, “Nawser. My chillin ain’t et for two days. We can’t rightly work that long without some cold corn bread and maybe a bowl of butterbeans. Then we could work.”

“Well I guess you would. Why don’t you ask for some chitlins to go with your pone and butter beans?” He scratched his un-kept beard and then his crotch. He spoke to Mary. “You got a husband, or you jest a whore?”

“I’m a widderwoman,” she countered.

Fred rose from his chair. “You young-uns go on down to the barn and find some hoes. I just might put you to work.”

Mary spoke, “My young-uns ain’t et since day before yestiddy. Could they have a few bites of corn pone and a sip of water?”

Fred kicked his chair and glared at the family. Then he disappeared into the gloom of the house. Soon he returned with half a pan of corn bread and handed it to Mary. “Now you get them young-uns filled up with pone and water and git ‘em out in the field.”

Mary broke off a piece of bread and handed it to John. He carefully took it with a shaking hand and bit off a small portion into his dry mouth. She then proceeded to divide the remainder of the bread between Jim and Cynthia. Jim’s eyes widened. “Mama, you ain’t got none.”

“Don’t you never mind. I’ll get some,” Mary said.

The children went around to the side of the house and drew a bucket of water from the well. When they had slacked their thirst, they devoured the bread. Mary drank deeply and then looked back at Fred.

Fred pressed his argument. “Y’all go on down and start choppin that cotton. Then you send that girl back up here. I got a whole pot of Crowder peas with some ham hock you can eat when you get done workin.”

Mary gazed into his eyes and said, “Nawsir. Cynthy ain’t part of no bargain.”

Fred stomped around. “I’s got to have me a woman. You want them vittels, you got to put out.”

Mary looked at the sweating male in front of her, and then she gazed back at her suffering brood. “How do I know you won’t just run us off after we do the work.”

“Well I guess you jest have to take my word on it,” drawled Fred.

“Yesser. Well, you let my chillin eat now, and we will do the work.” She hesitated for a moment then continued, “I’ll see that you get a woman.”

“Well Goddamn,” Fred snarled. He fidgeted for a minute then motioned the children back to the house. “I’ll bring them peas and some spoons out here. They is a bite of cornbread left. You might as well get your strength up too; cause you going to need it.”

After Fred found the food in his grimy kitchen and brought it outside, Mary and the children ate as much as they could, not knowing when they would eat again. When finished, Mary spoke to the children, “Y’all go on down to the barn. Git them hoes and start choppin that cotton. I’ll be on down terrectly.”

Jim started toward the barn, and then he turned back. “Mama, John can’t hoe no cotton.”

John barked, “I can to hoe. I can hoe as good as you can. Mama, when are you comin?”

“In a minute, boy. You just go on and do the best you can. Maybe you can rest in the barn til I get there.”

The children had made their way toward the barn. Fred looked at Mary and smiled, showing the black stumps of his teeth. He gestured for her to follow and trudged up the steps to the house. Mary rubbed her full stomach and moved toward the steps, shoulders slumping. Then she stopped. After a moment’s hesitation, she moved briskly around the house and called out to her children. Waving them back, she led them to the road.

Fred, half dressed, charged out of his house. “Where the hell do you think you going?”

Mary and her children continued walking down the road at a brisk pace.

“You git back here and chop that cotton. We made a bargain,” Fred screamed.

Mary said in moderate voice, “I spect I lied.”

Cynthia’s eyes lit up for an instant.

Battlefield Promotion

North Africa 1943 — The blazing African sun beat down on the Tunisian landscape as a Wermact machine gun chattered and its missiles smacked and whined among the rocks. All First Lieutenant Grady Coyle could see were the multi-colored hues of a half-buried boulder that hid him from the German gunners. Drops of his precious water dripped from his chin.

The 33 members of his platoon stretched out in a half-moon shape using the surfeit of gullies, cliffs, and hills for protection against the dominant Wehrmacht anti-personnel weapon spitting death-dealing lead from the high ground. Four men down proved to Coyle that neither he nor the members of his platoon were going anywhere. Private Taylor lay in the open ground, wounded, and begging for water. The German gunner waited for someone to bring it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Coyle saw an intrepid G.I. dashing from one rock to the next. He soon noted that it was his Battalion CO, Captain Glenn Duggins. As the Nazi gunner spaced his bursts to various targets over the area, Duggins made his way toward Coyle’s place of refuge.

After he arrived, breathless, Duggins said, “It looks like that son-of-a-bitch has pinned down the entire 3^rd Battalion. The colonel is going nuts back there wanting us to advance. If we are to take the El Hamra Ridge, we need to hook up with Charlie Company.”

Coyle hung his head and said, “You got any ideas? I’m fresh out.”

Duggins shifted to relieve the pressure from the sharp stones. “Do you see that hill about a mile back on the right? General Patton is up there cussin’ the Colonel. The truth is, I don’t know whether to shit or go blind, but we’ve got to do something. Take a quick look at the Kraut position.”

Coyle gathered his body, raised his head, and snapped a mental picture of the situation, then dropped back to safety. “Okay. I got it.” The Nazi gunner gave his attention to the boulder protecting the American officers in the form of a sustained burst. After a few hundred rounds, he went back to his patterns.

Duggins said, “There is a cliff on even higher ground than the Germans own. If we could work our way around, we might end up on top of those folks.”

Coyle thought for a moment, and then he said, “I’ll put a team together and  give it a try.”

“Team’s ass, Coyle. You and me are the team. This has to be done right the first time,” proclaimed Duggins.

“Sounds good to me. We might get lucky.” Using hand signals, Coyle informed his platoon that Second Lieutenant Gee was in command until his return. He abandoned his Carbine and any other non-essentials he could find, and began crawling around the edge of his protection, searching for the low path. He heard Duggins’ ragged breathing close behind.

Each movement evolved into an exercise in pain. Sharp stones, in a variety of sizes and shapes, lay in abundance. The relentless, searing African sun bore down. After 30 minutes of pain and controlled terror, the officers stopped for a short rest and the last of their water.

Duggins whispered, “I think we might be above them by now.”

Several minutes passed, and then they heard voices in the distance. Duggins eased his head up and assessed the situation. “We are about 30 yards from the outcrop over their position. What do you say we get closer and drop a few pineapples over the cliff.”

Coyle gave him a thumbs-up and continued crawling among the boulders toward the guttural German voices. When they reached within 10 yards of the end of the outcropping, Coyle stopped and prepared for the attack as Duggins came alongside. Both officers placed their four grenades on the stone surface along with their .45’s. Duggins pointed at all four grenades and then at the guns, signifying that they would throw the bombs and then attack with their weapons. Coyle made his final adjustments, nodded, and waited for Duggins to lead.

Both soldiers removed the pins from a grenade and waited for a couple of seconds. Then they tossed them over the edge, and without waiting for the results, began the process over. By the time they were ready to throw the next two grenades, the first two exploded. Chaos ensued in the German position. The G.I.’s ignored the explosions concentrating on the next grenade until they were all gone. Duggins picked up his .45 and began crawling toward the edge of the outcropping. Both men peered down into the German site and at the confusion underway.

Duggins noticed a soldier, who appeared to be an officer, struggle to his feet. Taking careful aim, he dropped him. Other enemy soldiers retreated as rapidly as possible, but offered targets of opportunity. Coyle and Duggins proceeded to empty their guns, slammed in additional clips, and emptied them as well. When there was nothing left at which to shoot, the officers drew back.

After about ten minutes, Duggins decided to appraise the damage. He crawled up toward the end of the cliff and slowly raised his head. His handsome, blue-eyed face disappeared in a red mass of flying blood and bone.

The Germans were back.

Frustration and sorrow paralyzed Coyle for a moment, but then his will to live took over. He withdrew back down the trail. Potato masher grenades landed in the area he vacated. After the concussions died down and he realized that he was unscathed, he retreated more rapidly knowing he could do nothing about his commander or the machine gun.

While dealing with the heat, stones, and his incredible thirst, he saw a death adder laying a few feet from his chosen path. Having little choice, Coyle continued on his journey. The serpent watched him, but made no move to attack. About halfway back to Coyle’s starting point, a G.I. met him along the trail. He carried a radio. “You must be Coyle.”

“That’s right.” Coyle answered.

“Headquarters wants to know the situation.”

Coyle growled, “No shit. Well, give me a sip of water, crank up the radio, and we can do business Corporal.”

After the operator made the connection, Colonel Rollins barked, “What the hell is going on up there?”

Coyle took the mike and spoke in a normal tone, “Lieutenant Coyle here sir. Captain Duggins and I got close enough to clear out the nest with grenades and our 45’s, but the Krauts came right back. Duggins is dead. The machine gun is operating again.”

“God damnit! What a crappy mess. Any suggestions, Coyle?”

“Colonel, we can bring up some heavy mortars, which will take the rest of the day and several dead G.I.s, or you can order up artillery. I am in position to direct fire. We can wipe out the Kraut’s position in about ten minutes. Your call, Sir.”

“I like the way you think, Captain Coyle. Let me see what I can do.”                                                                                    

Coyle couldn’t let it go. “I’m not a Captain, Sir.”                               

“Like hell you aren’t,” barked the Colonel.

My Fellow Americans

My fellow Americans, I stand before you this final time on December 7, 2041, a day that remains in infamy. The panel of experts comprised of scientists from around the world concluded their findings yesterday pertaining to the Armageddon virus. The human race will cease to exist in less than a month. They also found that the pathogen is self-destructive and will cease to exist within the next few years.

The viruses prevailed over our best efforts. Airborne particles traveled the length and breadth of the world and infected us all before we knew it existed. It attacks the DNA factor that separates humans from all other life forms. To the best of our current knowledge, all other species will survive. After careful consideration, I furloughed the members of the panel so they could travel home to be with their friends and families. There is nothing they can do to help in the time that remains.

The people of Asia, for the most part, are gone. The populations of Africa and Europe will soon follow. The Middle East is uninhabited. According to the findings of the panel, the people on the Islands of Hawaii will survive the longest. The virus infected us all weeks ago. Its incubation period is such that we have a month left to make our final arrangements.

The panel received reports from Africa that the great apes survived. That means we can expect humanoids to evolve within the next million years or so … if conditions remain positive. Hopefully, evolution continues to a point that humans do not feel compelled to allow conflicts to rule the day. We will make available to them the knowledge accumulated to date, so that will speed up the maturation process exponentially.

I ordered that military personnel overseas be brought home as judicially as possible and honorably discharged. There is no compelling reason for those remaining in the service of our country to comply with my orders except a sense of duty. I can report to you that the transporting of those stationed in foreign climes is operating smoothly.

My final act as your president is to provide access to all retail outlets. We hope that availability of food and products will discourage hoarding and mob rule. We are sending hospital patients home with palliatives to end their days in as much tranquility as possible. Pharmacies and drug wholesalers will remain open for one week to distribute medications for the remaining time. There is no urgent need for medical care other than pain relief, so I released all medical personnel to go their own way. We must revert to the healthcare management of our pioneering ancestors and get by with what we have. Don’t bother to call 911 or go to an emergency room. They will cease to function as of tomorrow.

Travel, except to reach your family and friends, is discouraged. Petroleum will remain available for one week at which time no such facilities will remain operational. 

A few remaining individuals, driven by whatever demons that possess them, will feel an overpowering need to impose their wills. I suggest that you arm yourselves to protect your right to peace as well.

While there is little we can do in so short a time, I hope a few of you will spend time providing for other species as we leave them to survive on their own. Our pets will quickly revert to survival of the fittest. Starvation is not a pleasant death. Leave them outdoors. A quick end is best for most. Any animals left penned or fenced will starve. Please provide openings so that domestic animals can find their way to the roadbeds and to the rivers and streams.

Place your hope in your core beliefs. Look inside yourself for the dignity and strength to complete this special time we have enjoyed. Seek out your God. We know little about our physical world and virtually nothing about the spiritual one. We do know that energy is neither created nor destroyed. Life is a form of energy. There is hope.

Death by the Armageddon Virus is the best possible exit for humans. We become drowsy, fall asleep, and then we will not wake up.

This concludes my final remarks as the President of the United States of America. I bid you goodbye, and may God bless America.