"Peter Flak: Big Time Detective -- Part I"

"FLAK! GET THE HELL IN HERE!"

Detective Peter Flak didn't flinch. He smiled, because he'd been practicing not flinching at Captain Johannson's roars, and it filled him with pride to know that he'd succeeded.

He stood slowly, careful not to hurry. Flak smiled and nodded at the Captain, who stared smoking holes in his skull as he strode, slowly, to the coffee pot. His ceramic mug was a favorite. On it was printed an old-fashioned camera with a bursting flash. The tagline was "Smile! You're on Candid Camera!" He calmly, slowly, filled it with steaming coffee, then carefully tore open a packet of sugar and poured the sugar into the coffee in a circular pattern around the edge of the mug. Then he reached for the tiny cups of creamer and, turning the opening flap away from him to avoid splashing half-n'-half on his suit, he very deliberately peeled back the cover and poured it into the coffee, again in a circular pattern. Then, Flak reached for a stir-stick, dipped it into the coffee, stirring around and around, and then in a figure-eight pattern to ensure that the coffee was properly...

"FLAK!"

Flak flinched this time, but didn't look up. He could feel Johannson's hot breath on his cheek, and the pungent odor of salami, brown mustard and provolone that his obviously long-suffering wife must have packed him for lunch that morning.

"Coming right over, sir!" Flak said brightly.

Captain Carl Johannson and Peter Flak were a study in contrasts. Where Flak was tall, thin and wiry, Johannson was built like a block of concrete. Where Flak took great care of his full head of thick dark hair, Johannson's morning routine included just enough time to comb the remaining wisps of long steely gray hair over his bald, oily scalp. Where Flak's face seemed sparkling and smooth even at midnight (due to his frequent trips to restroom with the electric razor he kept in his coat pocket), Johannson's five-o'clock shadow sprouted by noon and by 8:00 pm when he threw on his tan trench coat and time-worn fedora, you could have forgiven the cops at the front desk for sometimes assuming they were letting a homeless man out on his own recognizance.

It was five-o'clock, Flak noted. Johannson looked like he had gray nails sprouting from his jowls.
"How's your day going, Captain?" Flak said, trying to lighten the mood.

"Flak." Whenever the Captain said his name it was always began and ended the sentence. "Shut up. You've already taken up more time than I have for you."

"Sorry, Capt..."

"I said shut up. Flack. You have an assignment."

"That's great! I..."

The Captain cut off Flak with a a low growl. "Take a look," he said, and slapped a folder down on his cluttered desk. Flak grabbed the folder, sat up a little straighter. Paper clipped to the inside cover was color glossy of a well-coiffed man -- blond hair, blue eyes, strong trustworthy chin, thick healthy hair -- and Flak recognized him immediately -- it was Lane Bannister, the new anchor for the NBC-7 11:00 pm news.

"That Bannister...he's a good looking guy, sir," Flak said. "For a guy, sir."

"Not any more he's not. Look at the next photo."

Flak lifted the photo to find another color photo. Past the deep bloody gashes and cris-crossed knife cuts, the chunks of bare scalp and the garish hole where the left eye used to be, Flak recognized the same strong, trustworthy chin that made Bannister the hottest newscaster in the state.

"What a shame, sir," Flak said, choking back the bile that suddenly lodged in his throat.

"Yeah? How so?"

"He won't be much good on TV now, sir," Flak said, swallowing. He flipped the pages of what was obviously a rather extensively detailed forensic report.

"Damn right, you jackass. He's dead!" Johannson exploded. "And those sons-of-bitches down at the station have specifically requested the 'Super Cop' they profiled last month to lead the investigation."

"Well! I'm quite flattered, sir!"

"Listen. Flak. You know and I know that the Super Cop profile was a snow job put together by the Mayor's PR department. You know and I know that there is no way I'd let you anywhere near this case," Johannson snorted, and cleared his throat, which sounded something like a vacuum cleaner trying to suck up a sock. "But, the conglomerate that owns the TV station informed the mayor's office, who informed the police chief , who informed me that they expect nothing less than our own Super Cop on this case, on penalty of budget cuts." Johannson spat into his ash tray. "So the Super Cop they will get."

Flak smiled, his full set of teeth gleaming.

"Don't worry, sir," Flak said, still smiling. "The station, the mayor and the public can rest assured that I will not rest until we find the vicious animal who did this to one of our most beloved citizens."

"Flak."

"Yes, sir?"

"Just don't screw this up. And stay away from the cameras."

Flak smiled more broadly.

"I'll do my best sir. But it always seems to be the cameras that find me!" he said.

Flak left Johannson's office practically bouncing. He walked quickly past his desk, dashed down the stairs and out the front door. From the sidewalk, he pressed a speed-dial code on his cell phone.

"High Profile! Janey speaking!"

"Janey. Pete."

"Pete! Super Cop! How's the screenplay coming?"

"Janey, listen. This is it! A heinous crime against a high-profile media celebrity...and it's mine!"

"No, kidding? Bannister, right?"

"How did you know?"

"Are you kidding? Everybody knows! Poor Lane..."

"Yeah. Listen, your my agent. Make the most of this, right?"

"You know we will! Keep your hair in place, Petey. You got your soundbites?"

"Of course."

"Let's hear it, Peter..."

"'This cop will not rest until we bring the perpetrator to justice!'"

"Gold! I'll meet you tonight at Marty's. 10:30?"

"See you there!"

Peter put away his cell, looked up at the sky and took a deep breath of city air -- the mixture of exhaust fumes and tobacco smoke delivering a unique sort of buzz. This was it. Even more than with the Super Cop story, this was going to make him a star. And from there? Technical advisor in the movies? Maybe even some on screen roles.

Damn! he thought. I've gotta go home and shower!

# # #

NEXT TIME:

Will Flak resist the siren call publicity in the case of a celebrity murder?
Can he keep his teeth clean and hair in place?

and...

Who killed Lane Bannister?

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"Dreams Have Eyes"

Leaves falling. Colored leaves -- red and yellow. Deep and beautiful. These aren't just fall leaves. They're the Autumn leaves from which all others were shaped and colored. I'm on the Massachusetts Turnpike amid the foothills of the Berkshires. I drop down the off-ramp like an eight ball in the corner pocket, like I'm rolling off a table, like I'm falling off a log....

I wake up on the floor. Twisted my arm. Get up. She'll see. To the bathroom. Take a leak. Wash hands. Take a drink. Water's soapy.

Go back to bed...Nah, not yet.

Step downstairs, quietly. Can't wake the kids.

Slide the door to the deck back...slowly. Shoot. Gotta fix that.

Bare feet in the snow. I don't care. Flurries falling on my hand. So sharp...so...ephemeral. No rhyme or rhythm...it just falls.

I'm on my knees now. So cold. What was I thinking? I want to go back. To the Autumn. To the fall. Where everything is ... perfect. Where there's not so much pain. Where what you see when you close your eyes is what you see when you open your eyes.

She's here. I can't see her but I know she's there. Her arms are crossed and she's shaking her head. She's saying something. Something about frostbite, about losing my toes. She's right, of course. She's always right. Usually. She was right on the day we met, when I told her she was lucky she found me that day, besieged as she was by that sad collection of geeks and losers when I slipped in and held her eyes long enough that the rest slunk off and disappeared into the bar, and I told he she was lucky she found me. And she said, with this twinkle in her eye, she said, no, there was no luck at all. It all happened the way it was supposed to happen. Meant to be, she said. I laughed. But she was right.

I want to scream. But I don't. I won't.

I'm flying a kite on the beach. Chatham. Cape Cod. White houses, The ocean is choppy. The kite fights me. I fight back, pulling back, letting out a little line then yanking the line like I'm setting a hook. The wind comes steady, then in gusts, a slap in the face. The kite dips and I run until it catches an updraft and I sit, digging my heels into the sand. Got it. I could do this forever. A dog runs by. Golden retriever. Bumps my knee. I trip, and fall. I let go. The kite shivers, shimmies and shakes. It's gone.

She's grabbing my shoulders. Pleading. I can't move. She pulls harder, cursing. Very rude. Can't talk that way in front of the kids.

I fall. I'm on my back.

Look at that sky!

The snow, falling harder now, lonely white crystals in a black night sky. The frozen breath of an unseen god. Oh, please.

Hard to believe these tiny, lonely specks join together into something so thick, so strong.

So cold.

I'm moving. Sliding. My head hits the floor. She's begging now. Is she crying? Really crying? I didn't think she...

I rise. Stumble, grab her shoulder for support. She lifts me up. I go to hug her. She stiffens.

Dreams have eyes, you know. They're watching. Like a suspicious lover, they know when you're true, and they know when you've strayed.

Forgive me.

* * *

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"The Shortest Story"

I went down to the coffee shop just down the block from my office to buy myself a coffee when all of a sudden this car drives by through the puddle left by the rain last night, the first we've had in a long time what with the drought and all and I remember the thrill we had last night when I sat with my kids by the window, counting the seconds between the lightning and the thunder, wondering how close the electric flash was to the old maple tree in the front yard and secretly imagining it split in twain with a tremendous, dramatic crack, but nothing like that ever happens here, which either makes us really lucky or really unlucky, depending on how many dramatic surprises you want in your life, like your mom suddenly dropping dead from anyeurism or an airplane heading toward your 53rd floor window and not stopping like it's supposed to, or a Jetta weaving to the right just so, so its tires could splash through a deep puddle like a toddler in a yellow slicker and rainboots and soak a passerby who just wanted to get himself a latte and forget, for a few minutes, that the really cool stories always happen to other people while stuff like this just happens to me, although I guess that's OK because when the really cool stuff happens to those other people, they don't often live to tell the story.

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"A Distant Shore"

"So. Here we are," Anna said.

Martin and Anna sat at the edge of the little pier, dangling their sandaled feet just over the water so that every third wave or so would lap at their toes.

"Here we are." Martin didn't look at Anna. But he didn't have to. He knew that he'd see her blue eyes staring out over bay, the corners of her mouth crinkled just so, they way she did when she tried to suppress a smile. He knew she was wearing that paisley sundress, the one with the spaghetti straps, and that the morning sun was glistening off her tanned shoulder and that if he looked he'd want to run his fingers over her skin and lay his palm across her collar bone and wait in silent hope for her to tense in refusal or slide closer in casual assent...

"You didn't call last night. I thought you were going to slip out of here without..." Anna said.

"Yeah, well. Maybe that would have been better."

"Better for who?"

"Whom."

"Whom? No one says 'whom'. Not out loud."

They sat silently. Tied to wooden post next to Martin, the sailboat bobbed. Windy day. Good sailing weather.

"I suppose," Anna said, "you won't be able to correct anyone's grammar out there." She fingered a pendant between her fingers. It was an opal held by a greying silver chain. Martin had found it among his mother's effects, and gave it to Anna on the occasion of their first year together. She rubbed the stone with her thumb, and looked to the sky.

"I guess not," Martin said. "Anna, I... this isn't personal. You know that, right?"

"Everything is personal, honey."

"What I'm saying is that, you know, I have to do this."

"No you don't. But you're going to." Anna smiled, and brushed away a single tear. She sniffed, and looked Martin in the eyes. "It's OK."

"Really? Is it really OK?"

"No, not really," she said, and stood up. Martin closed his eyes and imagined grabbing her legs, clinging to her like a three-year-old. Anna took off the necklace and held her hand out to Martin.

"I've made my choice," she said. "What's yours?"

Martin stared into her blue eyes for a long moment. Their first kiss had been on a morning just like this one. They hadn't slept all night, just sat on the beach, staring at the ocean and each other, reveling in the perfect conversation, each afraid to break the spell. Finally, the sun rose in an orange wave and he reached out and brushed her cheek with his hand and her lips with his and, later, as their shadows began to lengthen and then disappear they left, hand in hand.

Martin closed his eyes. He knelt down and unwrapped the rope that tied the boat to the pier. Anna gripped closed her hand around the pendant and threw it as far as she could into the ocean.

# # #

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"A Clean, Well Lighted Place" - A Comic

NOTE FROM CHRONIC, The Author:

I've been trying my hand at writing comic book scripts over at PencilJack, and having a lot of fun with it. I connected with a terrific illustrator, who drew up a script 'o' mine, which was an odd, possibly funny (though Mrs. Chronic didn't think so) little slice of life/horror story. 'Twas the first time I've ever had a script illustrated, and I'm quite pleased with the results... enjoy!

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Click upon each image to see them writ large...




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"Burrito Dreams"

I had a burrito for lunch today and I think I'm going to pay. It was what "Burrito del Soul" calls an "Especial", stuffed with guacamole, cheese, pico de gallo and chopped steak, wrapped in tortilla about as big as my thigh.

I actually brought my lunch today -- leftovers from last nights stir fry in a Tupperware bowl -- but I couldn't face it. Just had to get out of the office. So I emptied the bowl in the trash and rinsed it out so the wife would think I was saving eight bucks today. It's the little lies that get you through the day sometimes.

Like last week, when I was sitting at Burrito del Soul, eating this very same Especial, munching on nachos, sipping a soda and mulling the Sudoku puzzle when this woman walks by. I call her Jane. I call her Jane because she looks like this character named Jane in an American version of a British TV show that was on air a few years ago for about the blink of an eye. Jane is dark haired and curvy, with big blue eyes and a penchant for wearing bright red lipstick and tight white sweaters or loose button-down tops and pants that hug those curvy hips.

I don't know Jane, but I've ridden the elevator with her a few times -- up to the 47th floor, down to the parking garage. One of those characters you see all the time who you never talk to but you make up stuff about just for fun. I'm a married guy, you know? I don't just go chatting up women. There's only one reason to chat them up, you know?

So Jane ends up sitting one table over facing me. She's got her own soda and one of those taco salad tostada bowls, and she's by herself reading this chick lit book about a young mom whose husband cheats on her and she ends up reviving her life and getting to choose between four different suitors, including that skunk of an ex husband. Hey, my wife read it...I was just looking over her shoulder, okay?

Anyway, I'm looking at Jane and she looks up, I catch her eye and I smile and nod, because that's what you do when you see someone you recognize but don't know and you know that she knows she's seen you before but doesn't know you either. And she knows that too so she smiles and nods and goes back to her book and I go back to my Sudoku. And then I look up again and for some reason say:

"That Chad sure is a bastard, isn't he?"

Now, you see, that's not a pickup line. Because no one man in his right mind would broadcast the fact that he'd read this trashy chick novel, and no woman would be impressed by this. At best, she'd assume you didn't go for the opposite sex. At worst...let's not go there.

"What?" she says back with a 'you talkin' to me?' sort of look.

"Chad ... in that book ... can you believe she'd even think of taking him back?" Then she laughs, which was what I was going for. Anything for a laugh some days, you know?

"Well, they were married for seven years. There's a bond there."

"Yeah, but if I'd slept with one of my employees in my wife's bed ... I'm pretty sure my wife would call that 'unforgivable'." See, I even mention my wife here.

"Well, may she just 'didn't understand him'," Jane says, still smiling. I laugh back.

"You'd make a great girlfriend," I say and suddenly get this shiver through my whole body...and I mean my whole body.

"Too bad," she says, smiling and holding up her left hand to show off the silver band there, the silver band I had, of course, noted the very first time I'd seen her in the elevator on the way to the 47th floor.

I can't speak, so I just smile and laugh a short, breathy laugh. She shakes her head and goes back to her book. I look back at my newspaper and shove a nacho into my mouth. I'm gonna pay for this.

# # #

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"Sign of the Times"

"Here ye! Here ye!"

"No, no. It's 'Hear ye!'"

"That's what I said."

"No you didn't. You said 'Here ye! Here ye!"

"You're telling me there's a difference in what I said and what you said?"

"Well, yes, of course. In the first instance, you are, perhaps, calling people over to speak, crying 'over here! over here!' You're speaking of a place aren't you?"

"I suppose, but..."

"Now, in the second instance, you're crying 'Attend to me! Listen! For I have news! Hear, ye, to the important tidings which I bear."

"Bare? Far from it, I'd say. As a matter of fact, I'm rather sweaty in this ridiculous costume. But the king requires it, so that is what I wear."

"What are you talking about? Where?"

"Well, right here, in fact."

"I'm sorry. What did you hear?"

"I said that I'm right here. That's what I said."

"Well, I'm not sure I should write anything here, but if you have a quill and some ink, I'm sure I could scribble out something for you."

"What were we talking about again?"

"Your town crying. You're spelling your cries wrong."

"I most certainly am not."

"You are."

"I think we'll just have to agree to disagree."

"I disagree. I'll do nothing of the sort."

"I can't here you...."

"Stop that!"

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"Checking Up"

A one-minute sequel to this One Minute Story...

The woman stared at the door of the little house, wondering if she should ring the doorbell. Or knock. Or, if she stood there long enough, would the occupant sense her presence outside the door, the way her husband used to flinch and growl when she stared in the early morning, careful not to touch his sleeping face, bristling with days of scruffy beard.

She shifted the bundle of cloth so she could cradle it gently with one arm. She pressed the doorbell. Hearing no sound, she knocked weakly, then firmly on the door.

No answer.

She sighed, dramatically, as if someone might be watching. She looked at her bundle, the mysterious bundle she'd received a few hours before, with such a rush of hope and possibility. What had she been thinking?

She carefully unwrapped the bundle, just to look at it. The blankets held an old shoebox. She pulled the top off of the shoebox, which revealed an old ragdoll, blonde-haired and pig-tailed. It smiled up at her. She picked it up, put down the shoebox, and, looking around now to be sure that no one was watching, hugged it close, the yellow yarn brushing her cheek like a soft kiss.

The doll was surprisingly warm, and growing warmer.

When she was a girl, she used to stand by the dryer, waiting for her mother to unload her favorite blanket. She'd grab it and swaddle herself in its warmth, quickly, before it cooled. She thought about her blanket and her mother -- now older and sadder -- as she held the doll and rocked back and forth on the porch of the little house where the man had sent her with the doll.

But the warmth didn't fade like the blankets. In fact, it grew warmer.

She drew back to take a closer look, cradling the doll's head so it wouldn't flop. There were the little black knit eyes and the wide, red stitched smile.

The eyes...blinked. A puff of sweet air brushed her face.

The doll wriggled.

The woman stumbled back, nearly falling down the porch's concrete steps.

"What are you?" the woman breathed.

"Shhh," the doll said, and closed its eyes.

The door opened, and a black girl, no more than six, stood, nearly eye to eye with woman. The girl didn't speak, just stared, at this strange, disheveled woman on her sidewalk.

The woman stopped, composed herself, brushed the folds from her business suit. She took two steps to the doorstep, now towering over the girl.

"I believe this is yours," the woman said. The girl's eyes widened. She smiled.

"Can I have her?"

"Are you OK?"

"Uh huh," the girl said and thrust both of her arms out expectantly. "I am now."

The woman handed the doll to the girl, who mumbled a 'thank you' and closed the door, leaving the woman standing at her doorstep holding a child's blanket.

As she turned to go, the house began to glow, and she heard shouts of joy and laughter.

# # #

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"Customer Service"

She drives up in a white Toyota Corolla, one of about a dozen brand spanking new Toyotas that just came off the car carrier here. Why buy a white car when you can rent here for $37 a day? That's what I always say.

She rolls down the window and hands me the rental agreement.

"Thanks. How you doin' today," I say, like I always do. It puts the customers at ease, y'know? I'm here to help.

But she looks at me and frowns. I look at her folder. Jennifer Grayson, 39. From Chattanooga, Tennessee.

"You from Chattanooga?" She nods, still frowning. Tapping her foot on the gas. "Pardon me, boys!" I smile my best smile. Yeah, she's probably heard that joke a few times, but not here. I'm smiling like I want her to smile. Sometimes, I just need a smile out of 'em, you know? And I think maybe they need a smile, too, as they head out of the lot to their business trips and their family vacations and who knows what else. I'm here to help, right?

So, I'm smiling and she's just sitting there, tapping her foot and scratching the back of her head with those manicured fingernails. I think they call that color "fuschia". Or maybe "ecru".

"Can I help you get somewhere, ma'am?" I say, still smiling.

"Away," she says, real quiet, like a sigh.

"What's that ma'am?" Thought I'd best ask again, just to be sure.

"Nothing, nothing," she says, staring straight ahead now.

"That's funny," I say, "because I thought you said you were trying to get away..."

"I did ... forget it. It was a joke." I lean out of my little hut. Nobody's waiting behind Ms. Grayson.

"What are you trying to get away from? If you don't mind me askin'..." I say that last part just to be polite. I always find that a little courtesy goes a long way in this business. Lets you get to know folks.

"Everything ... just everything," she says, and then she looks right at me for the first time. Pretty girl. Green eyes. Blonde hair, cut short. Nice tan. Sleeveless T shows she's been working out her arms. She says, "Have you ever just wanted to go some place...some place where no one and nothing can find you? Not your husband, not your kids, not your boss, not anyone. Have you ever just wanted to go away?"

She's shaking now, shivering like the temperature just dropped 40 degrees. But it hadn't.

"Well, you know, ma'am," I say, laughing a little. I'm hoping to put her a little more at ease. "I just have this little hut here, all day long. There's not much of anywhere to go for me."

She smiles a little, let's out a weak laugh.

"But you know," I say, "in my experience, people who say they want to get away, they really just want to have something to go to. You know what I mean?"

"I think so..."

"Here," I say. Hold on just a minute." I turn around and pull out an old cardboard box. It's got a logo from one of those dot-com companies, from when I ordered up that book about the Civil War and the big book about President Lincoln. The one 'bout how he freed the slaves. I think...haven't got to reading it yet. The books aren't in it now... now it's full of, well, all sorts of things. I find what I'm looking for.

"Here you go...you take this." She takes the yellow bundle and looks at it like it's some kind of alien egg, like something's going to jump out of that little bundle and bite her on the nose.

"What...what is it?"

"It won't bite you, ma'am. Open it up."

She unwraps the bundle and finds the little doll inside it -- little blonde yarn pigtails, blue dress and all that.

"Why...who does this belong to?" she says, staring at the doll.

"I don't know for sure, but look on the back." She turns it over, and she reads the label on the back, which the words, in a child's handwriting, 'If I'm lost, call my mom!" and then a name, 'Tanya L.' and the first five digits of what looks like a phone number.

"Is this a local number," she asks me.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Have you tried to find this little girl?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I can't really get out to do a proper search." At that she smiles a real smile, looks at me with this furrowed brow like she's trying to decide whether to hug me or call the cops, and then she laughs.

"That would be some place to go to, wouldn't it?"

"It certainly would, ma'am," I say.

She laughs, shakes her head at me. I hand her back her rental agreement and step back into the hut as the white Corolla drives off down the frontage road to the highway.

That's what I'm here for, you know? I'm here to help.

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"Ants in One's Pants"

"I'm feeling a little uncomfortable," said Joannie.

"Don't worry," said the man in the white lab coat with his back to Joannie. "This will only take a few minutes."

"Could you be more precise?" Joannie asked, with an emphasis on precise that hinted of her two semesters in Oxford 20 years prior and a lifetime devoted to increasing her ability to account more accurately for life's variables, from the careful planning that reduced her wake-up-to-office time by 20 minutes to the meticulous pruning of her diet to those foods that allowed her body to extract maximal nutrients and minimal waste such that the time she wasted on the toilet was down to three minutes and 37 seconds each week.

The man in the white lab coat, who she knew only as "Simpson," said nothing, but turned around and tightened the thick leather straps that held her wrists, and she articulated a clipped grunt. From her prone position on the steel table, she lifted her chin adjusted her eyeballs downward to get a better look at the man, Simpson. She couldn't see much: thick dark hair, dark eyes, two-day stubble, white lab coat, head down, always down as he reviewed the checklist on his clipboard, pausing here and there to check the computer monitor with the red and blue graphs and simulated dials.

"I mean," Joannie said helpfully, "I would like to know when this will be..." She paused, seeing the right word, and then decided upon... "...finished."

"We're ready," Simpson said in the low, throaty growl that substituted for a proper speaking voice.

"When you say, 'we'," Joannie said, voice cracking slightly, "does that include me? Because I'm sure that I'm not ready."

Simpson again said nothing, and Joannie sighed and resumed counting the visible squares created by the cross-hatched bars that held the white speckled, factory-issue drop ceiling. She was at 48 when she felt the needle prick the skin on the underside of her left forearm and at 64 when her body stiffened and tensed, her back arched and teeth ground so hard that she could feel the sharp edges of the flecks of hardened calcium newly trapped under her tongue. Her fortunately smooth nails dug into the palms of her hands. Her skin screamed, as if Simpson had attached millions of tiny fish hooks to every inch of her skin, and then, all at once, each tiny fisherman pulled, and reeled, and pulled.

"I'm feeling very uncomfortable," Joannie said.

"Don't worry," Simpson said. "A few more minutes."

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"What They Knew"

They didn't know it when they saw it.

You know how you're always told that you will? That you'll know it when you see it? It doesn't matter if you're talking about love, art, obscenity, or, in this case, a two-story, four-bedroom house of recent vintage in a decent school district, Jason had always thought that he'd "know it when he saw it" -- know that it was the right place and the right time.

But he was wrong. She knew it. He didn't. So they didn't know it.

When the walked in the door, before she even took off her shoes, Rachel gave a little leap and clapped her hands; Jason imagined she did the same thing on her seventh birthday when she tore off the gift wrap on a new Barbie.

Jason felt nothing.

It was an OK house with high ceilings, shiny wood floors, stone counter tops and stainless steel fridge and stove. The reproduction had an automatic ice maker, which Jason thought was cool. But, you know, big deal, right?

Rachel dashed up the stairs with a stream of "look at this! Oh, this is nice's, I've always wanted that's..." while Jason stared out the window, over the massive deck where he imagined kicking his feet up with a beer on a little plastic table and his guitar in his lap singing out off-key tunes to the night sky.

"So?"

"So. What?"

"How do you like it?"

"It's OK."

"OK? OK? Don't you think it's just perfect?"

"Well, sure I guess." Jason thought about the back deck in their own house. You couldn't even go back there in the summer, with all the mosquitoes. Probably the same here, he thought.

"I need to know how you feel. Jason. Wake up!" Rachel's voice was sharp, crisp, like a drill sergeant and it snapped Jason to attention.

"What does it matter? We'll like what you like."

"But I want to know what you like. I want you to care."

"Well, maybe I don't."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. I'm just talking."

"Talk some more."

"I...I don't care where we live. I just want to live somewhere. If it makes you happy, it makes me happy. I really could live anywhere."

"Jason."

"What?"

"Jason." Rachel said again.

"What? What?"

"That is the biggest load of crap I've ever heard."

"Oh, I'm sure you've 1eard bigger."

"No, I don't think so."

"Look, what can I tell you. Maybe this just isn't the right place."

"What does the right place look like?"

"I don't know... I'll know it when I see it, right?"

"Yeah, right," Rachel said, and she turned her back to Jason and slipped on her shoes. Jason stared after her, and then followed suit. Back in the car, Rachel drove, and Jason started singing the song on the radio out loud, drumming on the dashboard..."Mis-ter Jones and me...runnin' through the barrio..."

Rachel didn't take her eyes off the road.

"What are you so happy about?" she said.

# # #
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"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."

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