"The Story of the Story"

Living as he did, moving around, cross country every few years, Seth didn't have any childhood friends. No one who knew him now could tell you what he was like back then, and how that got him to the place he was at now.

Not that this was necessary, but it would have been... useful... given the circumstances.

In the small conference room with the window that overlooked the river, Seth took a moment to reach between his legs to grab the lever and pull, carefully, so his chair would rise just a couple of inches. He placed his elbows on the brown melanin conference table, wiggled his seat so the chair would settle, and waited.

The door opened with a loud click and the the managers stepped into the room. The non-descript lady from HR with the brown hair, glasses and sensible suit sat down first. Seth didn't look at her. The tall man with the close cropped blonde hair entered next. He was the Vice President of Operations, and while he wasn't happy, his clothes were as sharp as his pointed chin. His shoes and his hair glistened with polish. His socks matched his belt and tie, and blended artfully with his three-buttoned suit.

The Vice President of Operations smiled. Thin-lipped. Grim, Seth thought.

"How have you been, Seth," he said.

"You really want to know?" Seth said, smiling.

"What I really want to know is what's wrong. What's happened."

"I think you know that already. What, specifically, do you want know?"

"You want specifics? Here." The Vice President opened a manilla folder. "Missed meetings, here, here and here. Missed deadlines. Missing projects."

"And?" Seth said, still smiling. The Human Resources lady handed a binder clipped sheaf of papers to the Vice President.

"Here's a report from IT, analyzing your computer use," he said.

"We do that?"

"Yes. In fact we do. Just about every keystroke."

"What's it say?" Seth said, smiling wider, openly curious.

"This one is just for yesterday. Twenty-two minutes on something called 'websudoku.com,'" he said.

Seth laughed. "That was a record."

"What?"

"Nothing. What else?"

"Pointlesswasteoftime.com. Thirty-two clicks between 12:30 and 1:57 pm. I'm guessing that's not related to our work here."

"Hmp. Probably not," Seth snorted, looking up at the two managers across the table to see if they were laughing with him. They were not.

"Here's one called 'marvel-dot-com-slash-digitalcomics. Seems like you were on there for about 97 minutes."

"They put up new ones."

"New what?"

"New digital comics. Didn't I just say that?"

"So, you're telling me that you read comic books for 97 minutes yesterday?"

"Well, probably not that long. I'm sure I got up for coffee at some point."

"I'm sure. What about this latest..." the Vice President of Operations paused. "...incident? Can you explain it?"

"Which incident? You mean...?"

"You hurt people, Seth. They feel betrayed."

"Most of them laughed."

"Most of them didn't know that you were serious."

"It didn't take that long to clean up. And the smell is almost gone."

"What were you thinking, Seth?"

Good question, Seth thought. I was thinking that people needed a good laugh. That I needed a good laugh. That I needed something creative, something innovative, something surprising, unuusual or even fortuitous to happen here, where nothing of the sort ever happens. I was thinking that an eruption, an explosion of sorts, would be good for our souls.

"I don't really know," Seth said.

The Vice President made an "Mmmhmm" noise and stared at Seth for 10 long seconds. Seth stared back for five and then looked around. It was a dark day outside -- on TV they said rain was coming this weekend. Hundreds of feet below, on the edge of downtown, the river looked choppy as it flushed over the old dam.

"Is there something you want me to say here? What do you want me to do?"

"I want to get your reaction to this. Is this the contribution you think you should be making here? Is this the contribution of someone who wants to be here?"

Seth looked down at the table. The he stood up and turned around, toward the window, and the river. He thought about what it was like, a long time ago, in the summer by the river, to tell his Mom he would meet her in two hours at the picnic tables and take off with his friend, Clay, into the heart of the fair with ten dollars and a stack of ride tickets. And how Clay stood by him when he threw up on the Tilt-a-Whirl and they each won a plastic bow-and-arrow at Skee-Ball and spent the next hour hiding behind the bench next to the roasted corn stand and seeing if the suction-cup arrows would stick to girls' backsides.

"What do you think?" Seth said.

"Are you playing games with me?" the Vice President said.

"Alan!" the Human Resources lady's voice rose, concerned.

"Seth. I don't see how we can keep you here. We're going to have to end our relationship."

End our relationship, Seth thought, and laughed. He exhaled, deeply, realizing he hadn't been breathing for quite a while, as breathing goes.

"Thanks," Seth said. And he shook their hands.

# # #

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"Inky Black Depths"

There's no crying in war, thought Roger as he peered over the craggy, khaki-colored clay of the trench where he and his team lay in wait. Nothing yet. He exhaled, deeply, his mouth a brown, round "O," like he was blowing smoke rings. He didn't smoke, of course. No one in his family did, what with the stories coming down from when they were young about how Grandpa Larry died of emphysema and Dad had his lung collapse at 18 after a six-year, two-pack-a-day habit that seemed, from the old pictures, to be driven by a need to have two Marlboro packs rolled up in the sleeves of his white t-shirts, just so.

But he found himself thinking about what it would be like to be leaning back against the counter of his Dad's 7-11 store back home in Middletown, wearing that garish polyester uniform, crossing his arms, just so, taking a drag and blowing out slow.

He peered over the trench again. There's no crying in war, thought Roger. There was movement on the other side, under the white angular, rusted outdoor rooftop that covered filthy metal tables and flimsy plastic chairs of what once was a cafe on the edge of this desert town. Not a lot of movement...a shifting shadow, hunched and quick, that disappeared behind an overturned table.

Roger motioned to Lopez and Jake with two fingers and then pointed. Take 'em out. Two cracks of automatic rifles, a shout and a cry and it was done.

Roger hopped out of the trench and walked to the cafe, impatiently, and the two men followed. He didn't want to run, but wished he could just be there, now, instead of watching the overhang and the chairs and the tables and the bodies grow larger with each heavy step.

The bodies lay on the concrete patio. It was a man and a woman -- a boy and a girl, really, their faces smooth and hopeful to their last breath. Her head was on his chest, like they were laying together at night in a park, looking up at the stars. Only the growing red stain told a different story, seeping out through and behind her long, coal-black hair, soaking his white cotton shirt.

"Couple of kids," Lopez said. "Shouldn't have been here."

"Just where we thought they'd be," Roger muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jake said, startling Roger. He nearly raised his gun.

"Nothing. It's nothing, Jake."

"So what do we do with them?" Lopez asked.

"Nothing," Roger said. "Let the locals take care of it."

"Of them, man. Of them," Jake said.

"That's what I said."

"No, man. You said 'it'. You called them 'it'. They're not 'its'. They're them. They're people. Two dead people. Dead kids. Don't even know what they did or what they're doing here. No guns on them. Look at them! They look like a couple of sweethearts out on a date."

"They are," Roger said. "Don't ask me any more questions."

"I didn't ask you any questions. I was telling you. These are people. That's all I'm trying to say."

"Jake, you better calm down. Right now," Roger said and he turned his back to his comrade. He looked down at the couple, at the girl and her boyfriend, how nice they looked together and how strange and aloof she's seemed when they met the first time, months ago, and she told him what her father said about Roger, his people, their mission. He asked, and she told him what she thought, and he recalled how her speech widened her eyes and wet her lips as she pointed and gestured and her slim fingers grabbed and held his wrist with startling strength. She had passion that was...unquenchable. Until now.

Roger heard the stamp of boots on concrete, felt his neck muscles stiffen.

"You having second thoughts? Are you thinking about what we've done here? Are you even human? You'd better be thinking." Jake grabbed his shoulder firmly.

Roger spoke without turning around. "Lopez."

A loud click. Two steps. A long pause.

"Shit. I'm cool. I'm cool," Jake said, finally, raising his hands and walking away.

Roger raised the first three fingers of his hand to his right eye, and curtly wiped away the wetness that had gathered there.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

# # #

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