"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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"An Afternoon in Autumn, When Johnny Had Nothing Better to Do"

Johnny sat at the desk, hands poised lightly on the keyboard. It was a child's desk. Small, brown wood stained with old cheap metal handles on each drawer, dangling like door knockers.

On the desk was a green folder labeled 2005 taxes, a nearly spent spindle of recordable discs, a plastic cup adordned with colorful letters spelling the names of two kids, he guessed, Brian and Ben, filled with some strange, be-ribboned poupourri. The desk was dominated by the laptop computer, large keyboard and screen fitting uncomfortably close to the cheap HP printer with the cables and wires crumpled about in a vain attempt to keep out of site.

To the right was the "in box" on top of the old black steel filing cabinet -- blanketed by a pile of unopened bills and unfiled papers arranged like a still life of a waterfall. The checkbook was balanced, open, in between like a bridge from the filing cabinet to the desk.

He stood, stretching like a calico cat in his orange and black Bengals sweatshirt, and decided he needed a snack. Paydirt -- an unopened box of Thin Mint Girl Scout Cookies. He quietly broke into the package, took three...and then three more, poured himself a glass of milk and shuffled back to the office.

"I sure wish they'd get home soon," he said out loud, to himself, just to hear a voice speak. The words came out in croak, like someone else's voice, and he was startled for a moment, but only a moment.

Johnny ate a cookie, gulped down a mouthful of milk, wiped the excess away with the back of his hand and reassumed the position, fingertips at the ready...asdf...jkl;

A click. A key turning, lock sliding back, like a turtle going into its shell. Door opening with a grunt. Coats rustling, children's footsteps drumming across the kitchen and up the stairs. Heavier footfalls. Her. Down the hall. Toward the office. Door opens. Gasp of surprise.

"Who the hell are you?" she says.

Johnny stood up quickly, dark brown cookie tumbling over his three-day beard.

"Johnny," he said.

"Get...out...of...my...house," she shouted with authority, but he could see she was trembling.

"I was just, you know. Working," Johnny said, trying to be helpful.

"Working? What do you mean, working? Who are you?" She had brown hair and brown eyes and wore a red sweater that stretched over her hips. She wore thin black leggings and New Balance running shoes.

"It's me. Johnny. Don't you remember?" Johnny thought he was going to cry, and was determined not to. She didn't speak.

"In the grocery store. I was right behind you. Told that little boy of yours that Reese's would rot his teeth. You thanked me and smiled. You have a nice smile."

"So?"

"So I thought you'd want to return the favor."

"Return the favor? We chatted in the grocery."

"I needed to borrow a computer."

"Get out. Now. I'm calling the police."

"Oh, now that wouldn't be very nice."

She turned and ran, heading for the kitchen. Johnny grabbed her arm. She spun and socked him on the head with her other forearm, then kicked him in the crotch. He fell to the floor. He heard the tell-tale "beep...beepbeepbeep" of a cordless phone dialing 911 and swore under his breath. The he saw a rainbow flash of light as something hard and resonant struck him in the temple. An old brass tea kettle or something... he'd seen it on the fireplace when he walked in.

"I'm really not very good at this," he thought as he lost consciousness.

* * *

"So ma'am, you really don't know what he was doing here?"

"I have no idea. He said we chatted in the grocery line. I sort of remember. I think it was like a month ago."

"And he was working on the computer?"

"I don't know. He was in the office. That's what it looked like."

"Hey sarge! Come over here," a voice from the office called. The sargeant and the woman entered the office, where a young detective was peering at the laptop screen.

"Did you write this, ma'am?" the sargeant asked.

"Are you kidding me?"

"I don't kid," the sargeant said.

"No, sargeant. I did not write that."

"Well, ma'am, this is one for the books," the sargeant said, and walked out of the office. "I gotta get some air."

"I'll join you," the woman said.

A young uniformed officer tapped the detective on the shoulder.

"What does it say?"

"Hmmph. Read it yourself."

The officer peered over the detectives shoulder and read:

I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...I like to eat, eat, eat...apples and bananas...

# # #

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"Cold Feet"

I'm sitting on the ground. Brown dirt, tree roots, grass. My feet are in the grass. The green shoots wriggle up between my toes. Cool, damp.

I lean back. Tree bark. Rough, thick, knotted, grooved, carved by gnarled fingers.

I look up at the sky. Branches, leaves. Seeds encased in tiny propellers. Blue sky, clouds. Wispy white faces, skeletal hands, grasping, clawing at...blue.

I breathe. Deep, full. Exhale. Dramatic pause. Just another day in paradise. This is supposed to be relaxing.

Crack, crackle, rustle above. Bird? Squirrel? Chipmunk. Red-brown, black and white. Arms outstrectched, leaping, running.

I look out, straight out. Wide green field. Park. Soccer net. Sunny day. Too sunny. Squint. Glad I'm in the shade. Seagulls, gliding. How did they get to Minnesota?

Tickle on my hand. Tick! No, ladybug. Smash! No, brush off, lands on a blade of grass. It's outside, her home, not mine.

Rumble, grumble, ramble, hiss. Truck. Driving, interrupting.

Time, ticking. Time to go. Time to pick up kids, make lunch, play, remember, remind, cajole, convince. Discipline.

What to do next? Plan ahead. What's next? Plan ahead. What's next? Plan ahead. What's next?

Decide later. Time to go.

Another day in paradise.

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"With Great Power..." - A Dom Parker Story

A Dom Parker Story

* * *

Dom had flown too far, too fast. Again.

At least I brought a shirt this time, he thought.

The last time he flew, he'd wanted to see how fast he could go. He'd spread his wings and circled high over the skinny part of the bay that the locals called The River. He built build up speed, then shot like a cannon. He'd flown miles before he splashed down in the ocean at the southern end of the island, cold, shirtless, with just enough pocket change to take a city bus back home.

This time, he came prepared. He was glad he'd told his Dad he'd go biking with him. His Dad immediately came through with gear useful to a kid with 16 foot-transparent wings that sprouted from his back on command. Skin-tight spandex pants and shirt, and a little pouch where he could fold up a matching windbreaker and stash his house keys, cash and a cell phone. He'd cut two slits in the back of the shirt, so thin you'd never notice them, but just right so he could slip his wings through without ripping the kind of gaping holes that had been baffling his mother of late. He looked like a superhero. A really, really skinny superhero.

But landings. In the comics, everyone lands so gracefully. I land like God's using me as a skipping stone.

He must have flown eight miles tonight. His back ached his arms and elbows were scraped red and raw. So he sat for awhile, on the beach, staring at the ocean, picking at the sand. He made a small pile: Two clam shells, no clam; a stick that once held a popsicle, or maybe a corn dog; four cigarette butts; six flat stones, two round ones; one penny, the most money he'd ever made at the beach. Michelle said she found three dollars once, but Dom found that hard to believe.

Where are you, Michelle?

A golden retriever ran by, splashing, chased by a couple in sweats. Dom waved. It was late, too late for the bus, so he'd have to fly back home, no matter how much his back hurt. He stood and started the climb the the hill, to the rocky cliffs on his right, where he could more easily get some air.

Funny that I land here, Michelle. It had been almost a month now, when they walked here and watched the sun set and talked about life and friends and what the stars might have to say. And then it was time to go and she said she'd be leaving for awhile, and she couldn't say where or why but she was and then she kissed him, briefly but so softly on the lips and walked back to her car and Dom's mother shouted, so he rejoined his family on the beach as they packed up the blankets and towels and cooler for the drive back home. She was gone ...

Then she screamed. Screamed? No, that's here, now. Where?

Another scream.

He looked around frantically. Two silhouettes, at the top of the cliff, the tourist overlook, the one with the binoculars for a quarter. One cringed, arms over her face, by the railing, fending off what, in the moonlight, looked like a swarm of bees. The other figure looked like a vampire -- guiding the swarm like a conductor.

Cyril. What's he doing here?

Without thinking, he ran. Up the cliff, clamboring over rocks.

Cyril turned to look at him, his face, even paler in the moonlight, framed by his long black hair.

"Dom. So nice you could join us," he called.

What's with the evil genius voice, Cyril? Dom kept his thoughts to himself. He was on the trail now, the one that led up to the vista point, so he could run.

Oh great, Dom thought. Cyril had turned to face him and the swarm turned on him, a pale cloud of rocks and dust and shells and bottle tops and popsicle sticks and whatever other garbage Cyril could find.

Dom kept running. He closed his eyes.

I can't do this.

His jaw clenched. He could feel tears welling. He was breathing hard.

I can't do this.

He opened his eyes and saw the girl, leaning on the railing, staring at him in horror.

Not Michelle. Dammit. Tracy...from Calculus.

The swarm had almost reached him, and he nearly froze. The last time, he'd felt it's sting -- death by a million cuts. There was pain, and it never stopped.

"I can't do this!" he shouted out loud. But inside he knew.

I will do this.

Dom leaped. The wings blossomed from his back, great and ghostly. They carried him over the swarm. From the top of his arc, he glimpsed Tracy, on her knees, eyes wide in awe. He stopped for a moment, as Cyril tried to redirect the swarm.

Then, Dom dove, and in a moment, his outstretched slammed into Cyril's chest, knocking him to the ground. Dom stood over him, not sure what to do. Cyril smiled his most ingratiating grin.

"Well played, Dominic. See you in school." A cloud of dust burst in Dom's face. When he finished coughing, Cyril was gone.

"Who...who are you?" Tracy called. She doesn't recognize me.

"I just wanted to help," Dom said. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"Do you have a car?"

"Yes. Yes, I do." She was recovering, getting her bearings. Staring at him. Dom backed away and turned to the side. She walked toward him.

"Good. You can drive right? 'Cause I don't have a car here or anything."

"I'll be okay, now." She paused. "What are you?"

"I'm just a kid, you know? I just wanted to help."

They stared at each for a moment, Dom half in shadow, Tracy's pretty face cut and scraped from the swarm.

"You make a funny angel," she said, and smiled a little.

Angel? Angel?!

Dom had an overwhelming urge to run.

"I...I'm glad you're okay."

And he ran.

# # #

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"Swing and a Miss"

I never saw it coming.

Here I am in this dank, mildewy basement, with the rotted wood frame, creaking under the weight of the old house above me. Here I am, leaning on a metal shelf filled with old paint cans and brushes and pans, my feet kicking a stack of cardboard boxes, each overflowing with yellowing newspapers and lined notebook pages, poking out the sides. Here I am in the dark, surrounded by concrete walls, down the shag-carpeted stairs from the locked and barricaded door.

What had I done to deserve this?

I check my hands. I've found that's the best place to start. Caked in white-gray powder. Thick patches of dirt under my finger nails. There's something dark on my arms...paint? Multiple shades, splashed lengthwise down my forearms, shaped like Bob Marley's hair.

Elbow scratched, bruised. My hands and arms are, too, I realize. I must have fallen down the stairs.

Sneakers? Caked in mud. Thick mud, dried. How long have I been down here?

I hear a creaking, the click of a latch. I look to the stairs, but the sound is coming from above. A door opens in the ceiling, and I squint in the bright light. I see a silhouette of a man.

"So," I call out. "It happened again?"

"Yeah," the voice said. Male, curt, all business.

"You OK?" I ask, because I should.

"Fine," he said. "But that's just me. What do you know."

"Dirt, mud cakes, paint and dust and dirt on my hands."

"Anything else."

"I'm cold and tired and would like to get the hell out of here."

"Unlikely,"the voice said. It must have been bad this time.

"When?" I figured I should sound intereested. I guess I was. The truth was, if I could get him to feed me, I could hang out here as long as I had to. Beats working.

"Don't know yet."

"What happened? Can you just tell me what happened?"

"You really don't know."

"I really don't know." I was starting to get angry. Not a good idea.

"What's the last thing you remember," the voice asked.

"Who are you?" I said, testily. Testing.

"It doesn't matter." Oh well. "What's the last thing you remember?

"I remember arriving at Greenwood. Am I still in Greenwood? Stopped in at this burger place. Sat in the booth by the window. Had a burger and a cup of coffee, a danish and some hash browns. The food was delicious."

"And then?"

"And then I ask for a glass of water. And the waitress comes back, but she's not wearing that little pink and white number she'd been wearing. She's grown four arms, out of her side, like a spider. And her face and body are all hairy. And she's got these sharp needles for teeth and these pincer things sticking out of her mouth. Her eyes are big black goggles, like a bug right? Only giant. And she starts walking toward me, and I realize that the cooks look like this too --just as beastly only wearing aprons and chef hats."

"So what did you do?"

"Well, first I asked for more coffee, but she didn't seem to have any. She said something I didn't understand. I remember I said it again and again, but she didn't seem to understand. The others started gathering around. There must have been dozens of them."

"Thirty-four."

"What?"

"There were 34 people. In the diner."

"Wow, that's a lot."

"Yes. It is a lot." He sounded very grim, kind of mean.

"So anyway, I kept yelling and they all started crowding me, you know? Getting closer and closer."

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know. That's the last thing I remember."

"Convenient."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"I think you can tell me. I think you can tell me now. NOW." I jump. It must be like 12 feet in the air, and I hook my hand around his leg, start scratching at the floor. My eyes are closed because the light is so bright now I can't see a thing, but I can tell this guy's wearing rough cotton-polyester pants and has on tall leather boots. Something hard hits my hand and its slips off his leg. My nails -- long, almost claw-like dig deep grooves in the wood floor. I growl, just to let him know I mean business. But the growl is met with a sharp blow to the jaw, and I fall back down to the floor, knocking over a cardboard box and sending papers scattering all over the floor.

I'm pissed. "Tell me now!" I scream again and again and again until the door until the ceiling slams shut and the latch clicks and I'm all alone again.

Thirty-four. At least I won't be hungry for awhile.

# # #

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"Chicken Little"

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Jackie hung by the tips of her fingers from the edge of the six-story Randall Building, her long, lavender nails leaving a thin white trail on the concrete cornice.

"Me neither," Jackie said to the voice from the roof, straining to hold on a few moments longer. "But here I am. A little help please?"

"Let me get back to you on that," the voice said. Jackie stiffened, and her too-sweaty fingers slipped a couple millimeters.

"Don't take too long." Sonofabitch, she thought. I left the coffee pot on. I left the coffee pot on and my place is going to burn down. Shit.

"Oh, I'll take my time. I'll take all the time I need."

"I'm getting kind of hungry," Jackie said, trying to be funny, though she knew the woman on the roof was in no mood to laugh. Not with her, anyway. It had been self defense, of course, but the woman on the roof wouldn't take that into account when assessing who is to blame the mess in her apartment. The mess who'd been so...together...in bed with the woman just a few minutes ago.

The woman on the roof peered over the edge. She had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and thin lips hidden by thick red lipstick. Jackie noted that she was filing her nails. Great.

"I'll bet you are. I just have one thing to ask you. " She paused.

"What, already?" Jackie could feel her plams growing more wet and slick. She closed her eyes and whispered a short prayer.

"Testy, testy."

"Wouldn't you be? C'mon!" Her hands slid another inch. She opened her eyes and spied a ledge about 10 feet below. It looked too far the first time she saw it, but now, if she could angle her legs just right...no...impossible.

"What I want to know is, who..."

"Who? Who what?" Jackie shouted. There wasn't much time.

"Who is the one who ..."

Too late.

# # #

What's *Your* Story?

Hi, it's me, Chronic. The Author. Just thought I'd check in. How do you like the site so far? Good? Great.

From what I can tell, about 100 or so people have visited, and most have left quickly. That's good. That's the idea.

And they haven't come back. That's not so much the idea.

If you happen to drop by today, or perhaps tomorrow, or even another day, drop me a line. And if you're so willing, answer the following questions:

1) How do you like the stories? Delightful? Odd? Boring? Really boring? Make you want to throw myself through a plate glass window?

2) What's your favorite? Why?

3) What's your least favorite? Why?

4) Are you interested in writing a story for One Minute Stories? Would be happy to share the spotlight (more of a candlelight, or a matchlight, really, but you get the idea).

Thank you for your support.

PS -- My take is twofold, by the way: 1) some of the stories are pretty cool, some are kind of boring, and I've been in a kind of thematic rut that parallels a real-world rut. OK for me -- it's therapeutic. 2) People aren't looking for a daily dose of rip-roarin' really really short story action. They're looking for amusement. The blog needs more amusement.

"I didn't say that"

So, you say you want to be a cowboy.

I didn't say that.

Of course you did. Everyone wants to be a cowboy.

I don't.

Don't be silly. Why else would you be here?

The sign said, "Fulfill Your Dreams." I figured it was bullshit, but I'm lonely and pathetic. I'm walking around, it's late, I'm never going to sleep, I figure what they hell, has to be worth a laugh.

Yes. I understand. You want to be a cowboy.

Umm, OK, so this is a metaphor, right? Like, being a cowboy is a metaphor for fulfilling your dreams, for getting in touch with your inner child. So, being a "cowboy" is sort of like doing what you truly want to do, deep inside, right?

If you say so.

If I say so?

If you say so. You're the one who came in here. People come in here for all sorts of reasons. They have all sorts of dreams. You know, it's hard to fulfill dreams from a streetcorner shop.

I'll bet.

I mean, you don't usually get to pick up fulfillment at retail.

That's true.

Damn right it's true. And yet, here you are.

Here I am.

So. What can I do for you?

What do you mean? I came in here because the sign said you could fulfill my dreams. I get here, they take my 54 bucks and they send me back to this office with cheap wood paneling and shag carpet, and you telling me I want to be a cowboy. I don't want to be a goddam cowboy. I've never wanted to be a goddam cowboy.

No need to shout.

I'm not shouting!

I said there's no need to shout, but you can if you want. Shout all you want. Just tell me what you want.

I want my dreams fulfilled.

Yes, of course. But what dreams?

You don't know?

Did I say I did?

Kind of. You said I wanted to be a cowboy.

Well you do, don't you?

Now we're just talking in circles.

Look. Everyone has dreams. Everyone has the ideal life they wanted to lead, but somehow got off track, just like you. And they find themselves wandering around late at night wondering if the answer to all of their questions is in a little storefront on the street where the tourists come to shop. And you know what?

I guess I don't.

The answers are here.

Really...

Yeah, really. If you're willing to take the next step. To cross the line.

The line...?

The one that separates your reality from the dream. I have in my hands two pills...

Like in The Matrix, right?

Yes. Like in The Matrix. Christ, that movie screwed up this business. I have half a mind to sue those bastards. As I was saying .. I have two pills. The pill in my left hand will show you your dream. The pill on the right will transform you. You will be the man who embraces the dream...the man who embraces his destiny.

Right. How will it do that?

It changes your life.

How?

You take it.

I don't get it.

I imagined you wouldn't.

You're full of crap. I want my money back.

No refunds. You signed the form.

I'll call the police!

You do that. Look, I tried.

You tried? You sold me a load of bunk. You jabbered on and on about destiny. You call that trying?

You're right. I'm full of crap. I was just messing with you.

You were?

Depends.

Depends? On what?

Nothing. Just, go, OK?

Alright. I'm going. You're nuts, you know that?

I know. Take care of yourself.

* * *

"So, Boss. How'd it go? That guy looked pretty pissed."

Sorry, Jane. You took care of him, right?

"Yah. He'll be OK. But he'd have made a lousy cowboy."

You think so?

"Oh, yeah. Looked terrible in the hat."

# # #

It's Only Rock and Roll

A man and a woman sat alone in the dark.

"I'm miserable," she said.

"You are not."

"Am too."

"Why, pray tell?" he said.

"I just am. Isn't that enough."

"No. You need to let it out."

"Says who?"

"That's what they say."

"They do not. They are not miserable."

"I guess that's why they call it the blues..."

"Oh no."

"What?"

"You're going to quote song lyrics at me, aren't you."

"Am I blue? Blue for you?"

"Please stop."

"In the name of love?"

"No, in the name of all that's holy!"

"Once more, in the name of love."

"You know, if I could leave right now, I would."

"If you leave me now, you'll take a way the biggest part of me."

"Whoo, hoo, hoo... Okay, that was funny."

"I'm easy. Easy like Sunday morning."

"You're going to be dead. Dead like a door knob. You know, quoting lyrics is not wisdom. It's a substitute for wisdom. It's a substitute for thinking. It's a substitute for empathy. I need a little empathy here. I need a little understanding. It's not like you don't know why I'm miserable. It's not like you have no responsibility here."

"I will be you father figure..."

"I don't need a father figure. I need you. I need your mind. I need your heart. I need your soul. I need you to listen to me. Not to judge, not to joke. Not to see it as one more chance for you to show off how clever you are at coming with up vaguely appropriate song lyrics. I need you."

"I know..."

She stared at him for a long time in the silent dark. She thought back on their time together. How they met at the Simple Pleasures show. How they danced, slow and sexy. How his wit and humor dazzled, how his passion flared. And she recalled how she'd realized that this wit and charm and passion may well have been all there was to him, and that, maybe there was nothing left to learn, this was all there was, that if you scratched the surface of this man, all you'd find was...more surface. She sighed, and took his hand.

"...and what do you know?"

"...that it's only rock and roll..."

"And?"

"And I like it! Oh yeah!"

# # #

"I'm Not Listening"

My name is Frederick. I'm standing atop a rock. Or a mountain. It's really high. I'm above the clouds and I see gray all around me. Oh, look, there's a bird. An eagle? It sees me. It wheels gracefully in the sky, high above. Now it's coming for me. Claws outstretched. Like my face is a fish...definitely an eagle....

I took the helmet off.

"Not bad," I said. "The clouds are a little blotchy."

"Thanks. I'll make a note of it."

"And the eagle, man. "

"What eagle?"

"The eagle. The bird, with the claws. It came after me. With the claws, man."

"There was no eagle, dude." Crouch looked at me like I was crazy. Like maybe he was a little scared. But that didn't make any sense.

"Ah, yeah. There was an eagle. I saw it. I was standing on your mountain."

"Yeah, I saw that. No bird, though."

"Listen. I was standing on the mountain, looking around at the clounds."

"Right. I saw that. Mountain and clouds. A little wind to blow them around. You saw them moving, right?"

"Yeah, I saw that. And then this great big bird. I swear it was an eagle. It sees me, and then it goes tearing after me with its claws."

"And then what," Crouch says, staring at his monitor.

"And then I got out of there. I thought it was going to tear my head off."

"Yeah, right. It's VR, man. It can't hurt you."

"Ha. So there was an eagle."

"Um. No."

"So how do you explain it?"

"Maybe you fell asleep. You dreamed up the eagles."

"One eagle. Were there supposed to be more?"

"No. There weren't supposed to be any. Didn't you hear me? There weren't supposed to be any," Crouch looked almost manic. He grabbed my arm. I pulled away. He stood up and glared at me.

"I heard you. What makes you think I didn't hear you? But I'm telling you there was an eagle. In the program."

Crouch looked like he was about to grab me again. I wasn't going to let that happen. We locked eyes, just for a second. Then he shook his head and laughed.

"You're right," he said. "I was just messin' with you, man."

"I knew you were. You son of a ..." I was laughing now. "I'm outta here. You coming?"

"Nah. I have some stuff to clean up here."

So I left him.

Two days later, I call Crouch at work to see if he wants to buy me that drink he owes me for testing his VR thing. The receptionist tells me he doesn't work there anymore. So I call his apartment and I get his machine.

So I go to his apartment, and I buzz a few times and then I turn to go and then, I don't know why, I mean, I don't know him that well, but you know, something seemed wrong or something. So I buzz the manager, this well-meaning long-haired goateed guy in a black Judas Priest t-shirt, and I tell him Crouch hasn't been at work for two days and we're kind of worried about him, so we trudge up the three flights of stairs to his room and he knocks and knocks. And the manager guy turns and looks at me and I look at him and I point at the door and he shrugs and turns the key.

I push past him, because I have to see, you know? And there's Crouch, just where you'd think he'd be, laying there on the couch his jeans and no shirt, but he's wearing that funky VR helmet wired to his notebook and his mouth is open and there's this little run of drool running down his cheek.

I shake him and he doesn't move, so I take the helmet off his head and he lets out a little groan while the manager guy is dialing 911. And without even thinking about it, because if I thought about it I would have thought better of it, I put on the helmet.

I'm on the mountain, in the beautiful sun above the perfect clouds drifting gently in the wind across the bright blue gray sky. And then I see it, the eagle, soaring into the sun, a limp human figure gripped tightly in its claws.

# # #

"Friend of the Devil, Part 1"

Part 1 of 2
------------------
I sat on the pier and and admired the yachts. Loved the names they gave. Pride of Nantucket. Sally's Revenge. First Million. Aqua Holic.

Hell, they might have been Legos for all I cared. I had a job to do and it was time I got back to it. I stubbed out my cigarrette on the weather-beaten wood planks and slung my notebook case over my shoulder.

Once more into the breach, I thought.

I ducked under the chain leading to the cabin cruiser at the end of the pier, the Sea No Evil. No signs of life evident.

"Anyone home?" I called out. Something shuffled from below decks. Seconds later, a tall, thin man in a white Polo shirt and white shorts, anachronistic pencil-thin mustache and gelled, jet-black hair emerged from below.

"You're here! You're here! Welcome, welcome. Permission to board." I'd been warned about his penchant for saying everything twice.

"Thanks," I grunted and gingerly hopped onto the yacht. I hated boats. I've always hated them. Nothing against the sea or boaters per se, I just prefer to know what's underfoot, that if I stand still, I'll stay still. I just like it that way.

"Grant Schuster," I said, putting out my hand.

"A pleasure, a pleasure, Mr. Schuster," he said. He had a weak grip, but I'd learned a long time ago that judging a man by his grip tells you more about yourself than the other guy. "Your reputation precedes you. One's reputation always does, doesn't it? I've read you for a long time. A long time."

"Call me Grant, Mr. Fastenal. You mind if I record you?" I took out a microphone that was wired to the notebook in its case.

"Not at all. Not at all. And you may call me Bal. Everyone calls me Bal."

"Bal," of course, was short for Ballentyne Preston Fastenal, as he knew I knew. It was a name tailor made for headlines, and the New York Post copy editors were no doubt delighted. His buddies were "Bal's Pals" and his girlfriends were, you might have already guessed, "Bal's Gals." When he briefly dallied and then broke up with the lovely actress Valerie Gusera last month in Los Angeles, the headline writers could barely contain their glee: "BAL DUMPS GAL VAL IN SOCAL!" blared the tabloids in 36 point type. But that's not why I was here.

"OK, this is Grant Schuster, Providence Informer, interview with Ballentyne Preston Fastenal... Bal ... June 17, Newport. Mr. Fastenal."

"Bal, please. Call me Bal."

"Bal. Are you ready to get started?"

"Of course, of course. Once more..."

"...into the breach, yes. Mist-...Bal, you're heir to a vast fortune. You've been a playboy, a philanthropist, a sailor and..."

"...and a bit of writer as well, like you."

"Yes, and a ... writer. I did read your autobiography. Fascinating." It was, of course, self-involved drivel. Did I need to tell you that? "So, what I think our readers want to know is this: With all that you have and all that you've done and all that you are, why did you decide to operate an international criminal cartel?"

"What? What?"
-----------------------
Check back in the next couple days for Part 2!

"Cold Feet"

This one's a little long...I know, it's against the rules. But hell, it's my blog.

Hope you like it...as always, let me know what you think...

-- Chronic --
-------------------

It was winter. The chirpy meteorologist on Channel 11 said that the mercury would dip to 12-below today and the weekend wouldn't be much better.

It couldn't have been much worse.

I'm the guy who works the night shift down Miller's Tool and Die. Like Harry Chapin said, "I watch the metal rustin'...I watch the time go by..." Unfortunately, there were no mysterious women at the diner that night to love me and leave lonely. Just a plain, tired looking waitress named Tracy and the Mexicans who, you know, sling the hash and stuff, back there in the back.

That 12-below morning I finish up my usual breakfast -- a stack of buttermilks and a side of corned beef hash -- and head outside. It really is cold now, the kind of cold where even the air feels hard, like you could crack it in your teeth. I pull my collar up and walk fast, head down like Joe Frazier, and go straight at my Olds.

"Gotta light?"

I look up from my crouch and shove my hands in my jacket pocket. There's an old guy leaning on my car. No hat, no jacket, just an gray sweatshirt. I said he's old but he's tough old. Square jaw, square military haircut, big, weathered hands holding a pack of Marlboro's. He might have been an old Marlboro man for all I know.

"Naw," I said. "Sorry, buddy." I stopped in front of him. Expected him to get the hell away from my car. I looked him in the eye. He held my stare. I took a step back.

"What do you want?" I said, my voice almost cracking. I was wondering what the hell was wrong with me, why I was so spooked. I would have wondered more, but I was too busy being spooked.

"I need a ride. You're gonna give me a ride."

"Where're we going?" I said, playing along.

"I'll drive." You know, I didn't even look to see if he had a gun or a knife or something. His voice was a command.

"What the hell," I said, "I got nothing better to do." I tossed him the keys and got in the car.

After a few coughs and gasps, the Olds engine turned over and we got on the highway. The old man didn't say anything for awhile.

"You gonna tell me where we're going?" I finally said.

"Back to work."

"My work?"

"Yeah."

"What, you think you're gonna rob the place? There's nothing to steal there."

"We're gonna blow it up."

"With what?" I thought I'd play it cool.

"Stuff I got in the trunk."

"My trunk?" He didn't respond. He had this sly little smile. Made me want to punch him. But he was driving.

"So," I said, calm as I could be. "I'll bite. Why are we blowing up Miller's Tool and Die."

"Do you like it there?"

"It's OK. I do what I have to." Where was he going with this?

"No. Do you like it there? Is this the life you imagined? As a kid, did you dream about this?"

"About what? Doing security on the late shift? Who would dream about that?" Not me. First I was gonna be a cop. Then I joined the army when I got out of high school. Signed up to be a paratrooper but I washed out. Too much drinking. I guess I didn't apply myself.

"It's time for a fresh start, Joe." How'd he know my name?

"Who are you, my guardian angel?"

"Ha. Yeah. Something like that."

"Ha...what? Something like what?"

"I'm here to take care of you, Joe. It's time to start over."

Clearly, this guy was insane. I'll tell you, I thought about jumping out of the car right then. But we were going down the highway about about 80. I wasn't dead yet, so I decided I'd let this thing play out a little longer.

"I don't need anyone to take care of me. Who the hell are you?" The old man just laughed. "Come on!" I was yelling now. "What's your name?"

"Please...allow me to introduce myself," he said, still laughing. Or maybe he sang. I kind of think he sang it.

We careened off the exit without slowing down. We skidded around the corner and down the service road that led to the plant.

"We all have dreams, Joe," the old man said, and it was almost like he had a tear in his eye. But he wasn't sad. "We all have dreams. We want to be powerful. Men of action. We want to fly. Leap tall buildings. Right wrongs. But we grow up. And we do what we can. We submit. We let teachers tell us our potential. We let bosses rule our days and spouses rule our nights. But you can take it all back. You can start over Joe. What would you do, Joe, if you could start over?"

I shook my head. I think I'd drifted off while he talked. I was thinking about Mayzie and how she said goodbye when she went to college and I went into the army. I wondered how she was doing. You know, I bet she has a half-dozen kids by now.

"I don't know. Maybe college. Maybe I'd have tried a little harder. You know, done a little more." I admit it - I was flailing around ... I didn't know what to say. "I have to tell you, I don't really think about it."

"You think about it, Joe. Right now. You think about it."

And, you know, as he parked the car got out and pulled a wooden packing crate out of the trunk, my trunk, I guess I did think about it a little bit. I mean, I didn't know what the hell this guy was talking about, but I thought about it. Wouldn't you? And you know, I made my choices a long time ago. I can live with what I'm doing.

I mean, it's lonely. I live alone. I work at night. Not much chance to meet women that way. Haven't really been with anyone in a long time. I guess that's why I still talk to Mayzie. Not that she hears me - I'm not sure where she is now. My boss is a jerk, but I can take it. The job, well the job's a job. It's not police work but it's security. And it's secure. But damn, it's boring. I mean, can you imagine, sitting in that chair, eight hours, every night, staring at the same four TVs, the same four channels, where nothing moves. Eight hours a day. Nothing moves. I don't even know what they do there -- I never see anyone working there. It's must me and all those machines, all that metal.

"Help me out with this, Joe." And the old man takes out this contraption. All wires and tubes and stuff. Hell, I mean, I knew what it was. I helped him take it out of the crate. Why? I don't know... it was like I was hypnotized. Not really, but like that. Like the more he talks the more I think and the more I think the more I notice that all I hear is this voice and this voice commands. You know?

Your right. I don't either.

We take the ... thing ... over to my desk. I wonder where Matty is, but not for very long -- there he is, laying just like you found him behind the desk, blood still gushing out the tear across his throat.

"Open up," the old man said, and without even thinking, I pressed the button and the doors buzzed open. I know, I know ... I'm the security guy ... I never have to deal with a single threat in eight years, and I let this guy in.

So we put the thing down in the lobby. There must have been five or six bodies there, just like Matty's. He unrolls this coil of blasting cord... yeah, that's what it was... and I follow him. He rolls it right out of the lobby and all the way into the parking lot. He attaches the cord to he detonator. It was a classic ... you know the kind... the big red box with the plunger... push it down and kaboom! I felt like Bugs Bunny was going pop out of the bushes.

And then he stands up and looks at me.

"Joe, this is it," he says. "This is your chance, Joe. A new beginning. A fresh start. Everything is new. Clean slate. You stand up, you push it down and everything old is new again. You'll decide. You'll choose your own destiny. You'll be cleansed in fire and made whole again. You'll be you, but more so. For the first time, you'll be alive."

"So..."

"So all you have to do is push here. Just push here."

And I stared at it for a long time. I don't know how long. Could have been hours for all I know. And then, I feel his hand. It's big, rough. He grabs me by the wrist and puts my hand on the plunger.

"It's your choice," he says.

Well. What would you have done?

# # #

"You're a Winner"

"They announced today that the lottery reached a world record. You want me to buy you a ticket?"

"Why?"

"Why? Because for a couple bucks you could be a gajillionaire. Pass me that plate."

"Here. Yeah, well, you could have bought a ticket yesterday and still have been a gajillionaire."

"So?"

"So, what's so different today? What, $150 million isn't good enough for you but now that it's $365 million, now that's real money?"

"Ha, ha. So, you're saying we should buy tickets every day."

"I don't buy them at all."

"Why not? You don't win if you don't play."

"I don't believe in it."

"You don't believe in the lottery?"

"That's what I said, yeah."

"What don't you believe."

"That it's worth pissing my money away. You might as well throw your money into that garbage disposal."

"Whatever. You have a stick up your butt."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're afraid to take risks. You're sitting on the sidelines. You're afraid to hope."

"That's deep, man. So, what would you do if you won?"

"Well first thing is, I'd never work at Denny's again."

# # #

Another Note from Chronic

To those few, proud souls who are checking this out once in awhile: I'm once again falling behind on updates. While writing a One Minute Story is supposed to be an exercise in speed and stream-of-consciousness storytelling, it actually takes more mental agility than you'd think (or, anyway, than you'd think from reading these).

For what it's worth, work has gotten in the way of such healthy diversions. And now, preparing for a [major work project that will remain unidentified], I'm on the couch at nearly 2 am watching The Net, which states fearfully that our whole lives are on the computer! Wow! Look at Sandra Bullock hack!

Never fear (or fear a lot, if you'd like): I'll be back...

"The Sword of Harlan"

A Magical Adventure Story

"You have a simple choice: submit or die," Lord Larkon said, pale eyes gleaming with bloodlust.

Harlan said nothing. He waved his sword as he had been taught as a child in the danja school. Like a cobra, Master Wirt had said. Steady, seductive. At the cusp of battle, enemy will not know whether you'll strike or sleep. Harlan smiled despite himself -- Master Wirt's lessons made as little sense now as they did then.

"You smile. You are a fool. You know you don't have the power."

Harlan's smile grew. Your enemy will boast to mask his weakness. He will insult to hide his ignorance. His rage will be your strength. He waved his sword, back and forth.

The sky crackled with eldritch energies and Larkon, towering over Harlan and flush with power, drew back his spiked mace.

"I'll make your head my standard and crush your body to dust!"

When he shouts, he'll strike, Master Wirt had warned. Like the cobra, you'll dance.

The mace came crashing down and Harlan danced nimbly backward, and with one fluid motion brought his sword down on Larkon's arm, its keen edge cutting through the chain mail and drawing the evil one's black blood. His eyes widened, lightning lit the sky. Larkon clutched his arm and hissed. Harlan backed away.

Strike once, and you'll live to bite again. Stay, and the mongoose gets stronger, more clever.

"Master Wirt sends his regards," Harlan said, saluted, then turned and ran, laughing.

# # #

"Lies, All Lies"

The Halpern County Botanical Garden was the last place I expected to find myself on a cold, blustery winter afternoon, but there I was, admiring the orchids, zinnias and austrolopitheceze afriansers or whatever the heck flowers they had growing here.

Natalie was with me, of course, or I wouldn't have been there. Natalie loves flowers and gardens. She's such a girl. She even wore a flower print sundress, I noticed, flowering out like an inverted tulip from under her off-white hand-knit wool sweater.

"Jason," she said. "Look at this one. Do you think we could grow one like this?"

"Sure," I said. "But you'd have to turn the heat up. It's hot in here."

"I hope it's not too hot," she said and grabbed my arm, hugging it close.

And it was. My arm, sweatered, under a wool trenchcoat I was too lazy t0 carry, now itched like I'd just rolled around in poisin ivy. I was just short of sweating, and felt a little ill, the way I'd felt in September, when I'd finally finished cleaning out my apartment, and packed away the padlock that locked the storage room that held the boxes of pictures, essays, stories and old letters I'd carried from home to two universities, three dorm rooms and five apartments before we'd moved in together. The last boxes wouldn't fit in the car, so I left them, thinking maybe I could come back later, and maybe, maybe I just wouldn't. And I didn't and now I can't help but wonder what it was that I was thinking, to leave those boxes behind, with the sci-fi story I'd written in 8th grade and the 50-page unfinished fantasy novel and the much-lauded sermon written and delivered for the senior class youth service and the letters and pictures from Jeannine and from Laura.

And my skin prickled because it was just hot in here, and Natalie's bright blue eyes looked at me playfully, but with an edge of what? Yearning? Hope? And I remembered the time we went ice skating just after the ball dropped on New Year's eve and she glided so smoothly over the moonlit surface of the lake and I pushed my legs back and forth, me swinging oafishly like a porch swing following her, shimmering like a luna moth, and how warm I felt, uncharacteristically free and unusually perfect I was in her presence and how I reached for her hand and my fingers just touched the tips of her red woolen gloves, not so much that she even noticed, and I stumbled on the ice, caught myself, and knew I would try again.

And in the garden, I squeezed her arm. "It's just fine," I lied.

# # #

"I Sing the Body Electric"

"The hills are alive...!"

Oh, God.

"...with he Sound of Muusssiiiic!"

Please stop.

"The songs that we siiiinnnnng..."

He's not going to stop, is he?

"For a thou...mill..lots of yeeeearrrrs!"

You need to stop now.

"The hills are aliiiiiivvvve...."

No, you really really need to stop now.

"With the sou-ou-ound of mooooosiiiiiicccc!"

OK. I'm leaving.

"Raindrops on roses and whiskers and kittens..."

I'm walking out that door.

"Bright yellow panties and warm woolly mittens..."

I won't come back.

"Bright yellow packages tied up with string..."

You'll regret this. I'm gone. I'm never coming back. You'll miss me. I'm taking the car. There will be consequences!

"These are a few of my favorite things!"

Good bye. I'm closing the door. Good bye.

"Thank God."

# # #

The Boy Who Could Fly

Not a story...a note from me:

I've been working on this comic book script. I'd written about 50 pages of this novel about a kid who grows psychic wings and can fly, when I ran into my usual problem with plotting (thus the genesis of One Minute Stories, where the story is over before I need to think of more plot points...but I digress). So I got the idea that maybe what I have is comic book characters -- where instead of an intricately plotted novel I can create intricately plotted episodes around characters. Oh, and I can't draw for @#$#.

So anyway, it's really late, so I thought I'd share the comic book script as it stands so far... it's on my other blog, the appropriately named My Chronic Impending Disaster.

Click here to read Part One ...

Then click here to read Part Two...

If you do read this thing, your comments or suggestions would be most welcome...thanks, y'all! G'night!

"The Waiting"

"Call me back in like...two minutes."

"Gotcha. Two minutes."

"That'll work for you?"

"Oh yeah. It'll work."

Pause.

"Is it two minutes yet?"

"No! And it's two minutes after we hang up."

"Oh."

"Okay then?"

"Yeah. I got it. I'm going to hang up now."

"Good."

Pause.

"Why haven't you hung up?"

"Why haven't you hung up?"

"I wanted to make sure you were off."

"Aha! But if you hung up, it wouldn't matter, would it?"

"I guess not."

"So you're the one who's not hanging up!"

"The one...besides you."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"You want me to call you back?"

"Nah, I think we're good. I'm smiling right now."

"Me, too."

# # #