Two-way Street

An Anthology

Published by the students of English 306

Fall 1998

Department of English and Philosophy

Idaho State University

Pocatello, Idaho

This magazine was written, edited, and published by the students of English 306. All errors are the author's own. Design and layout were done by Kathleen King. All rights to works herein revert to the authors upon publication.
 

Pamela Anderton.........................................................................The Decision

Daniel G. Brown.........................................................................Lost at Sea

Judy Cameron.............................................................................The Sea Goddess' Bard

Nathan Dirkmaat.........................................................................The Haunting of Mind, Chapter 4

Sachiko Fukuoka.........................................................................One Thousand Paper Cranes

Lyle K. Hall.................................................................................Musings

Summer Hansen..........................................................................Exploration

Ben Kennedy.............................................................................. Dirk Slander: Man with a Mission

David Kirkham............................................................................O'Manjo's Last Waltz

Casey Larsen...............................................................................Wackenhut SS

Colby Matter...............................................................................Johnny Walker

Shaun McFerrin..........................................................................Clockwork Tales

Jeremy Royal..............................................................................Underlying Corruption

Sara Wilson.................................................................................Fading Away

Notes on the Contributors

The tall man standing at the edge of the Haunted Forest looked directly at Siggford, waved, and disappeared. Perhaps the villagers were right in advising him to take the long route around the forest instead of cutting through it. Siggford hesitated. He could feel the warmth of the morning sun beating on his back. As he brushed his sandy blond hair off his forehead he found he was already perspiring. Watching the dense forest in front of him, he considered his options. He could travel through the forest in a day, or take three days to walk around it. Shaking his head and rolling his eyes he set out towards the forest. He stayed up too late listening to the villager's tales of these woods. Someone probably made up the stories to discourage curious children from wandering off and getting lost in the trees. Entering the forest he felt uneasy, but nothing seemed unusual as he wandered on through the morning.

Around noon he found a stream meandering through a clearing where it ended in a pond. The clear water sparkled invitingly in the sunlight. It reminded him of a diamond he'd seen once. He stooped at the edge of the pond and reached in with both hands to cup the water when he realized what had been bothering him all morning. With his hands poised half way between the pond and his mouth, he strained to catch any sound. He could hear the stream running into the pond, but that was all. As he looked up from the pond a chill ran down his spine as he found himself face to face with the biggest man he'd ever seen.

Now why would he call that creature a man? True, it stood on two feet and had hands and a face which resembled a man, but that thing was not a man. It was covered in matted brown fur from head to foot with what appeared to be blood strewn liberally throughout its body. It smelled like a dead animal. Its mouth was closed, but two sharp teeth stuck out over its lower lip. The black eyes stared at Siggford, but they held no thought. Only emotion. It leaned back its head and howled a howl that shook the ground. Or was it just Siggford who was shaking?

Before he could move, or even react, the creature grabbed his arm and started pulling him out of the clearing and back through the forest. Siggford had been awed at the size of the creature when he'd been kneeling at the pond, but his fear grew as the creature continued to tower over him. Next to this thing he felt like a child confronted by the reality of his darkest nightmare. It would be useless for Siggford to do anything but follow him and try to keep up, which he barely did even at a full run. After a few minutes he considered stopping, but knew he'd only be drug if he did. He preferred to suffer the painful knot in his chest to the cuts, bruises, and sharp needles offered by the forest floor.

As suddenly as the running began, it stopped. Not anticipating the abrupt halt, Siggford ran into the solid bulk of the creature getting a mouthful of bloody fur in the process. As Siggford coughed and choked, trying to clear his mouth of the bitter taste, the creature yanked his arm again to pull him to his side and then pushed him into the meadow now in front of them. He could still taste the creature. It tasted of dirty socks and manure which was bad, but the underlying taste of blood was what brought him to his knees as his body rid itself of his breakfast. Siggford felt his stomach muscles clench and bile rise over and over again. He couldn't stop it, even if he'd tried. Strangely, the creature just watched.

When he recovered enough to look up again their eyes met. This time the creature's eyes were human. They held thought and reasoning. He stepped toward the creature in confusion, but was pushed back, though more gently this time.

"Stay here," the creature grunted.

"What?"

Siggford shook his head. Could the creature talk? Did that make it human after all?

"Stay here," it repeated and pointed at something in the meadow.

Siggford turned to follow the direction of the creature's finger. He blinked in confusion as he faced a two-story European style cottage with shutters and a well standing next to it in the middle of the meadow. What was it doing in the middle of an uninhabited forest? Turning back to the creature, it nodded, gave what Siggford guessed was a smile, and turned and walked away. As he left, a flash from the right brought another creature in front of him. This one was black and growled at him while a green liquid dripped out the corner of its mouth and fell to the earth where it sizzled like acid. Its arms reached for him right to the edge of the shadows, but no further. It seemed the monster was trapped in the shadows. He was glad he'd met the other creature first. Why it hadn't eaten him he might never know, but it hadn't. But what would happen when night came and there were no more shadows. Would that be the end? It would be best to try to find something to use for protection. He nervously turned his back on the snarling monster and walked to the house.

"James Edmund Siggford."

The voice startled him and he whirled around to see the man he'd seen at the edge of the forest this morning. Up close he could see the man was a couple inches shorter than he was, and had hair that was more gray than brown. He wore dark brown trousers and a clean, white work shirt. Over his arm rested a brown jacket which matched his pants. Though the man dressed simply, he carried himself in a way that demanded respect. His posture was straight with his head at an angle to view the world, but not place himself above another.

"Welcome to my home," the man said.

"Who are you?"

The man smiled and brought his hand to his chin, as if considering, before answering.

"My name is Jeremy Thompson, and, you might as well know right now, I'm a ghost."

Siggford's mouth dropped open and he starred at Thompson.

"I understand you've been through quite an ordeal this morning. What do you think of the Bukwas?"

"The what?"

"The Bukwas."

Thompson walked over and sat in one the chairs, motioning for Siggford to do the same before he continued.

"The Bukwas are those creatures you met today. They were men, until they drank from the Diamond Springs. Hal Baker, he's the first Bukwas you met, he saved your life you know. He made sure you didn't drink from the spring and then he brought you here where you'd be safe. It took considerable will power for him to do it too. Part of the curse of the Bukwas is that they must either turn other men into creatures like themselves by getting them to drink from the Diamond Springs, or eat them before they can leave the forest. Hal went against that. There's never been a Bukwas willing, or able, to do the same. You should be thankful to be sitting in my house right now."

Siggford shook his head in confusion.

"Then why am I here? Why didn't he eat me?"

"Only a human free of the curse can break the enchantment. Hal knows that. We all do. I led you to the place where you would meet Hal. As I said, he's the only Bukwas who could save you. That young man is exceptional, as are you. I've waited years for a combination like the two of you. Hal will need our help to make it through his ordeal. We must care for him the best we can."

"We? It sounds like you want me to stay."

Siggford paused and glared at Thompson.

"Do I have a choice?"

Thompson closed his eyes for a moment. When they opened, they were moist.

"The curse of the forest began hundreds of years ago when I refused to sell my home to an enchanter. Of course I didn't know he was an enchanter, but that's neither here nor there. I spent twenty years searching for the answers to break the curse before my death. Since then no human who has entered this forest has managed to stay human, and alive. I know you have the strength and courage to break the curse. But it is your choice. I neither can nor will force you. Defeating the Bukwas could cost you your life as it cost me mine. The choice is yours."

Siggford looked at the man. He died trying to break the curse. The same curse he was now asking Siggford to break. But Thompson had an obligation since the enchantment was his fault. Siggford had nothing to do with this, yet he could die trying to stop it.

What difference would it make if the enchantment wasn't broken? The villagers never came here. As long as no one entered no one would be cursed. He laughed in mockery at himself. What about future travelers? Travelers who didn't see the need of making a three day trip around the woods instead of the one day trip through it. He wasn't the only one who'd use that logic. He wasn't the only one who would reject tales of enchantment until they found themselves caught in the middle of one. There would be more coming this way.

He looked up to find Thompson's green eyes watching him. Siggford smiled and nodded.

"I'll do what I can."

The breeze from the Indian Ocean moved across my skin like freshly ironed silk as I stood on the fantail of the aircraft carrier looking up at the night sky. It is an impressive sight to look upon the fires of those uncountable stars. If you were to take the grandest starlit sky that you could imagine, then imagine it after God has thrown another bucket of stars across the dark. That is like the night sky at sea can be.

Flight operations had secured several hours earlier, and I used the opportunity to escape from the steel interior of the ship. I tried to get some fresh air at least once a day to deliver my senses from the smells of jet fuel and sweat that pervaded my world. Days are long when the ship is underway. The fifteen or twenty minutes of fresh air I could get in the evenings rejuvenated me.

There is no deeper dark than the dark at sea. The stars are bright in the sky, but they don't lower themselves to light the deck of the ship. Warships practice light security and no white light is allowed to breach the weather decks. White light travels for miles at sea. The only light on deck is what meager light your retinas can collect from the moon and stars. There seemed to be no moon in the sky on this night. I could barely make out the vague shapes of the aircraft parked around the flight deck.

I stood there for some time letting the stars persuade me that my home wasn't really all that far away, when I sensed someone's presence. Half way through a turn toward the feeling, my arms were grasped and I was being pushed toward the catwalk.

I remember calling out, trying to figure out what was going on, when I heard a gruff voice say, "This just ain't your night swabby, you're going for a swim with the fishies." And another, higher voice said, "You wanna try and pull rank on me now, you dick?"

Going over the side at night is almost sure suicide. I had known men that were blown off the flight deck by the blast of jet engines, and they had survived, but that was during the day and they were seen going over. Nobody would even know I was missing until I failed to make the morning muster, by then I would be miles behind the ship. I yelled for help once before a large hand clamped across my mouth and wrenched my head back.

The two propelled me toward the edge of the deck and I felt the ridged sole of a boot push against my lower back. "Bye-bye!" said the high-pitched voice, almost giggling, and I felt the boot push hard as the hands released me. I bounced off the outside rail of the catwalk with my chin and felt my skin tear. There was nothing to grab. The next moment I was windmilling through the air, trying in vain to find a handhold.

When I hit the water, it felt almost solid before I passed through the surface and submerged in the wake of the ship. I felt an instant of renewed panic as I thought of the four twenty-one foot diameter screws that pushed this two-hundred-eighty ton monster on her path, and what they might do to me if I were to be sucked through them. I could hear them turning under the water and I felt suction from the current they generated. I surfaced spitting warm seawater and screaming for help. The only sound to return was the churning water. The giant silhouette of the ship grew smaller as it drew away. I floated in her wake and hoped someone had seen me go over. The night seemed even darker now.

I remembered my water survival training and bent to remove my boots. The sea water seemed to have glued the laces and it took several tries to get them loose enough to remove my boots. My arms swept arcs in the warm water and I imagined my boots tumbling away far below me. I wondered how far they would travel before they hit bottom. I released the buckle of my pants, and slid out of them, tying hard knots in the bottoms of each leg, I swung the waist down onto the surface of the water. The air filled my pant legs and I had temporary water wings. The air only stayed in them for about ten minutes of floatation, but it saved me from having to constantly swim.

I bobbed in the slow waves and tried to think. My chances for being rescued were not good. I knew from experience that men lost to the sea at night were seldom ever seen again. My thoughts turned to my wife and two sons. I hadn't been home for over four months. There were only a couple months left on this deployment before we were due to be relieved by another carrier. I vowed to stay alive, I would make it home again. I was going to beat the sea.

The new day dawned after what seemed a lifetime of slapping my pants to the surface to re-inflate them. I watched the sun rise from the surface of the sea in a great blazing disc. If anything, the sea was more imposing in the daylight. The only sight in all directions was the horizon. My watch showed six a.m., they would be looking for me by now I hoped. I had been missing for eight hours. Between cat naps, I slapped my make shift floatation device against the Indian Ocean. The sun rose higher and my lips chapped and began to split. I floated in more water than I can imagine and wished for something to drink. My eyes kept returning to my watch, although I didn't really care what time it was. I thought back to the last time we were in port and how my buddies and I had gone fishing at Jebel Ali. The only thing that we caught were sharks. I tried to think of something else. It was unbearably hot even though I floated in water. The sun reflected off the surface and burned me. I prayed for the night, when it came I prayed for the day again.

The second day found me still clinging to my dungaree pants. I napped more than I had the day before, even though I vowed to stay awake and vigilant. In all directions, there was nothing but the vast expanse of the sea. I imagined my boots lying at the bottom of the ocean and willed them to get up, to begin following the ship. Turn the ship around boots, bring it back. I imagined an octopus wearing my boots and following an invisible trail to tell my shipmates where I could be found. It hurt my mouth to smile, so I slept.

The third day the sun rose the same way, a blistering silver disc boiling straight out of the ocean. My arms ached from swinging my pants, my lips ached, my chin burned where the salt water washed the split I had received going over. My tongue threatened to fill my mouth to overflowing from thirst. I was so tempted to drink from the water that surrounded me, but I knew that to do so was to relinquish life. I would beat the sea. My eyes burned from the glare the sun god put across the water and from the salt that Neptune put into it to season it to his taste, but not to mine.

On the fourth day, the sea was winning. I had done over eighty hours of filling my pant legs with air. My name seemed destined to grace the doors of Davy Jones's Locker along with all other drowned sailors. The crystal of my watch had flooded sometime during the night, time stood still. I composed a farewell letter to my wife and children in my head, but I knew they would never know my final thoughts were of them. US Navy ships are only required to search for lost sailors for three days, I wondered if my watch had stopped when they quit looking for me. My cat naps had begun to get longer every time, I only woke up when I sank low enough in the water to inhale the sea. The green surface was flat today, the sea extraordinarily calm.

The ship was in my dreams, bearing down on me, captained by two dark murderous forms. They were calling to me as the ship drew near, "This just ain't your day swabby!" A high pitched laughing danced across my brain. I could hear the pulse of the screws turning the sea. The pulse began to sound like the rotors of a helicopter. I had almost convinced myself that it was a final cruel trick that the sea was playing before it claimed me, when I heard it again. I didn't know whether I was awake or asleep anymore. A diver splashed into the water near me and I felt welcome arms relieve me from my task of staying afloat, I still gripped my pants in case I was dreaming. Moments later a yoke was placed about me and I felt myself being raised from the water along with my rescuer.

As I lay on the floor of the helicopter, I imagined hearing someone say "Man, you are one lucky dude. They gave up the search for you yesterday. Three days and you're dead, but not you man." I could feel hands raising my head and giving me small drinks of cold fresh water. I grabbed for the canteen, but didn't have the strength to take it.

"It's a lucky thing we spotted you, shipmate." another voice said to me.

I was lifted into a stokes type stretcher and a blurry face appeared before me "They've got the two dudes that tossed you in custody. It seems like it was a case of mistaken identity. They thought they were tossing someone else over." He laughed a quick short "Ha!" and looked at me like I was the hero, and not him. I would have cried if there had been any water in me to spare.

The chopper followed the octopus wearing my boots and landed on the deck I had left four days earlier. I felt the stretcher being offloaded, bouncing me toward sickbay. I looked at the sea one last time with burnt red eyes before they brought me into the interior of the ship and I said to it, "I beat you!"

The sun had just climbed above the rock columns and wave beaten, natural arch that formed the eastern wall of the bay; a sheer rock cliff rimmed the western border. The late summer off-season was finally nearing its end and the raging surf was beginning to tame. The waters were still too rough for fishing, but Kiauch had his skiff out in the center of his father's sheltered bay.

"I don't know, Rajath." Kethral shook his head as he watched his willful, eldest son maneuver the skiff across the bay. The young minotaur's dark form showed up clearly against the white of the spritsail even at this distance. "Kiauch worries me."

"He's well away from the stacks and arch. As long as he doesn't go beyond the headland, he should be fine," Rajath reassured his brother.

"No!" Kethral snapped, "I mean all that bard nonsense."

"Oh." Seen separately, one could easily mistake one brother for the other. Both had the same golden brown coat, but where Kethral was square built and powerful, Rajath had a sensitive, slender grace.

"Ever since that storm on his initial voyage all he talks about is becoming a bard. A bard of all things! Before then he couldn't wait to be a fisher."

"Having a ship snap in two under your feet is enough to unnerve anyone," Rajath pointed out as Sekra, his bride of less than two months joined them on their vigil. "Give Kiauch time. He'll come around."

"He'd better," the elder Os'Liath grumbled. Long ago, he had promised his first born to Vestiya, and the Lady of the Sea had no tolerance for oath breakers.

Sekra smiled as she watched her nephew. Being new to the family, she saw what the others seemed to overlook. Despite their outward differences, her brother-in-law and his son were practically identical. Once either one of them got an idea in his head there was no dissuading him. Sekra very much doubted that Kiauch ever would 'come around.'

Sekra gasped as a great wave buffeted her nephew's skiff. "I don't know," she said as Kiauch nosed into it and, aside from a good dousing, managed to keep his boat afloat. "Look at the way he's sporting on the waves; that doesn't look like fear to me."

"Hmm," Kethral rumbled deep in his throat. "Ah, Sekra's right. Kiauch is no more afraid of the sea than he is of breathing. He's just being obstinate."

"It's not so bad, Kethral, your son has a very sweet voice and the Bardish Art is one of the honorable trades," Sekra began.

"No!" Kethral's ready temper flared. "Let the other children choose as they may, but Kiauch has the birthright and he will accept it!" he bellowed and without looking back, stomped away. He would not be a vow breaker!

Sekra and Rajath looked at each other briefly; then Rajath followed to calm his brother. If Kethral met his son in such a mood, it would be a rough evening for everyone.

Kiauch loved the sea, the roll of the waves beneath him, the wind and the spray in his face. He thrust down the daggerboard extending the keel for maximum stability as the seasonably rough waves tossed his skiff. Even in the shelter of the bay, the single person boat was almost more than the young minotaur could handle. Kiauch threw his weight against the boom as the next wave towered over him. He ran his boat straight into the wave and mounted it just as it was cresting. It carried him well over halfway to the shore before he slipped down its back and into the trough behind.

"Ha! That was easy!" Kiauch shouted to the depths. His heart raced with the thrill of the ride. However, taking the wave wasn't as easy as he claimed; he'd shipped a lot of water.

Kiauch half stood to untie the bailing bucket. The skiff lurched violently as the keel dug into the sand and the youth fought to keep his balance. Another wave was suddenly upon him, already cresting and curling its white fringes above his head.

The skiff's boom swung hard around catching Kiauch behind the legs and flinging him into the surf. The wave crashed down on Kiauch slamming him violently into the seabed. The harsh wave tumbled him in a confusion of frothing water and sand until, at last, it dumped him on the beach. Coughing and retching, Kiauch staggered to his feet and limped forward with successive waves urging him farther up the beach. He stopped at the edge of the tide where the light foam brushed his ankles before it retreated into the ocean. The young minotaur's stomach churned with the saltwater he'd swallowed. His lungs and throat burned, his nose and eyes stung, and he could barely walk. He clutched his ribs and he coughed out the last of the seawater. Kiauch shook his head. Never tempt the sea!

"Are you alright?" Aunt Sekra was suddenly at his side and Kiauch leaned into her for support.

"Yes," he managed between gasps. "Where's my father?"

"Not far," Sekra said. "I'll get him; he's talking with Rajath."

"No!" Kiauch exclaimed, then, clutching his ribs tighter, quietly added, "no that's okay."

The young minotaur settled down in the damp sand, favoring his sore legs and aching ribs. He pulled the finely wrought fife given him by the Sea Lady during his initial voyage from his shoulder pouch. He began to play.

"Kiauch, it might be better if you waited," Sekra began worriedly as she scanned the beach for Kethral's return.

Kiauch paused slightly, but continued his song. With every breath, his ribs reminded him that he was better off facing an angry father than an angry sea.

Kiauch's tune piped high and clear over the rough waves. It told of the gull's longing for bright days and pleaded the return of calm waters.

By and by, the bay calmed. Even the open ocean beyond the headlands swelled less violently. Sekra stood listening to her nephew. She sighed. The music was beautiful; Kiauch definitely had talent. The young minotaur played much better than her meager tutoring could account for. Sekra couldn't understand her brother-in-law's objection to it.

Kethral and Rajath appeared on the old wooden stairs leading down to the peer and Sekra put her hand on Kiauch's shoulder to stop the music.

Kiauch followed her gaze and, seeing his father, slipped the fife back into its pouch.

"It might be best if you didn't mention anything about music to your father today, Kiauch," his aunt warned. By the time Kiauch and Sekra reached the peer, his father and Uncle Rajath had the skiff pulled up onto the beach. The daggerboard was snapped off at the hinge and a long spiral crack ran up the mast. Both would need to be replaced. Kethral sternly folded his arms across his chest as his son limped up to him. Kiauch glance up at his father but couldn't meet his gaze.

Rajath and Sekra busied themselves with their nephew's skiff.

The burly minotaur lifted his son's chin and looked him in the eyes, concerned that Kiauch might have been hurt when he spilled from the skiff, but the youth's eyes were clear. "What have I told you about boating when the sea is rough?"

Kiauch drew in a painful breath. "The Lady Vestiya demands respect. When her ire is raised, you dock your boat and let her have her way." He recited dutifully.

"That's right." Kethral lifted his son and sat him on the peer.

"Ow," Kiauch exclaimed as his Kethral checked over his son for injuries. The young minotaur had sizable welts on his legs where the boom had caught him.

Kethral wrapped his huge hands around Kiauch's ribs. "Breathe deep."

Kiauch winced as white-hot pain lanced through him.

"Again."

Kethral nodded, satisfied that though he obviously hurt, his son would be fine. The elder Os'Liath rumbled low in his throat and his voice grew stern. "Kiauch, you're not to take your skiff out the rest of the season or you'll have the weight of my hand, understand?" his father said gruffly. It was an empty threat; the skiff wasn't seaworthy and the season was almost over.

Kiauch nodded.

"You will help in the shop until fishing season starts and you are responsible for repairing that skiff. It'll be good practice; a fisher must know how to keep his ship in good repair."

Kiauch opened his mouth to argue. He didn't mind the extra work as such, but it would cut into his music practice time. Aunt Sekra came up behind Kethral and shook her head sharply 'no.'

With an effort, the young minotaur swallowed his protest. "Yes, sir, I'll fix the skiff."

"Good," Kethral was pleased. Rajath was right, Kiauch would come around and forget his foolish infatuation with music. "Now, you'd better get to the house and clean up before your mother comes home. If she finds out you were on the bay today she'll nail your hide to the wall."

The ghosts made their presence known at 9:36 p.m. the first evening. Later in life, when Rachel Fleischman thought back on the events at the house, she marveled that the exact time was so firmly set in her mind. She wasn't wearing a watch, and didn't recall asking anyone else the time. She remembered, almost as if the presences told her, wanting her to remember for their sake, and for the sake of posterity.

The four of them sat around the table in the kitchen of the haunted house. Rachel sat in her own chair while Julie sat in Mark's lap. Brandon remained standing, leaning against an empty chair from behind.

Mark's diary was open on the table and reached around Julie's body to record his first entry. He read aloud as he wrote. "Evening One: We have experienced no unusual events so far. Paranormal residents have not attempted to make contact. Morale is still high. Maybe our luck will increase later this evening."

Brandon smiled at him. "We have almost three hours 'till midnight. Something might happen yet."

Julie's arm was wrapped behind Mark's neck and her hand played distractedly with his dark, curly hair. "Happen? Like what? You really think dishes will start flying around and the furniture will rearrange itself? Come on."

Brandon shrugged. His brown eyes were noncommittal. "I'm not saying anything, just that we shouldn't jump to conclusions." He began drumming his fingers on the back of the chair. "I hate feeling . . . anxious like this, like I'm waiting to see what I got for Christmas."

Rachel nodded. "Or waiting to see what grades you received in Chemistry."

Julie groaned. "Please don't mention homework." Rachel and the others laughed.

Mark's eyes glinted. "Why don't we give the ghosts a call?" He looked at the others with a mischievous grin.

Julie rolled her eyes. She immediately took her hand away from Mark's hair and got up off the chair. She turned to face Mark with both hands on her hips. "You brought a Ouija board, didn't you? Even after Mr. Olson told you not to bring it?" Mark simply laughed.

"Are you ever going to grow up?" Julie asked, almost pleading. "It's all psychosomatic garbage. It's not real. You're just letting your unconscious do everything."

"I doubt you've ever tried it, so how would you know?" Mark countered.

"You're not the kind of guy I'd figure would have a Ouija board anyway," Brandon said.

Mark looked at him. "You're right. I bought it for the occasion. It really doesn't matter if I believe or not. What better way to see if there are ghosts in this place? If there are, they'll answer. If not, we can just pack it up and forget the whole thing."

Brandon shook his head. "Mark, a lot of people use Ouija boards and believe to get answers from spirits. Their houses don't have to be haunted to get a response. I don't think ghosts worry about long-distance phone rates." Rachel smiled. "Besides," Brandon continued, "how would we know that the spirit who answers is one that actually haunts this place?"

His logic seemed to convince Mark, who said nothing, but set his pencil next to the diary and gave a big stretch. Julie took the opportunity to speak up.

"I don't know about you guys, but I haven't found one creepy thing about this place." She was already dressed for bed and was wearing her blue silk pajamas. "This is like home." She said.

Rachel desperately wanted to mention the paintings and share her feelings with the group, but she was afraid the others wouldn't understand. The sucked-air, black-hole feeling of before had lifted somewhat, and Rachel hated to ruin the cozy atmosphere. She glanced around at the spacious kitchen. Decorative glass jars filled with spices sat in elevated rows on the counter, like bleachers in a gym. A faint odor of potpourri, which Rachel usually disliked, was present and gave the air a pleasing scent. Hanging and standing plants were placed strategically around the kitchen. Thankfully, none of the disturbing paintings was hanging here.

Julie paused thoughtfully, and then said "All we need are chocolate chip cookies melting in the oven."

Of course that did it. The next minutes were spent with everyone digging through cupboards and peeking in the refrigerator looking for ingredients. Rachel never considered herself very adept at baking, so she stood back and let the others argue over measurements and favorite recipes.

After Brandon and Mark concocted the dough, Rachel and Julie received the job of rolling the dough into balls and placing them in the pan. The two of them sat at the table amidst the boys' confusion. They finished the first pan, which Mark set in the oven to cook, and immediately began rolling dough for another.

Rachel worked in silence for a while. She wasn't sure how to react to Julie's skepticism about ghosts. From what she understood of Mr. Olson, he had chosen people who would be receptive to a supernatural experience. Julie definitely didn't fit that bill.

The widening chasm in conversation finally forced Rachel to ask "So, you like this place?" Julie considered. "Yeah, it's pretty cool. Like I said, it's all snug and quiet. I could do without those weird paintings though."

Rachel jerked in her chair as if slapped. All of her cozy feelings vanished in a breath. She looked at Julie with fear crawling up her throat. "What do you mean?"

Julie didn't notice Rachel's expression, concentrating instead on the cookie dough. Julie twisted her face into a mask of displeasure. "All those pictures on the walls. Some psycho artist. They should get rid of them."

Rachel's heart began to rush with alarm.

Julie, the skeptic, had noticed the paintings.

She had sensed what Rachel did.

The others had not seen, and Brandon and Mark now looked at Julie with mild confusion at her comment. No one was concerned. No one but Rachel, for Rachel had seen something that wasn't there . . . something that wasn't supposed to be there.

The timer on the stove gave a ding.

"Rachel, I think the cookies are done. I'm tied up here, could you check?" Mark was washing his hands at the sink, and turned and looked at Rachel.

"Sure," Rachel answered shakily. She pushed the chair back and stood. Distractedly taking a hot-pad from Brandon, she bent over the oven door and pulled it open. Rachel squinted slightly, instinctively preparing for the puff of hot air scented with chocolate.

What confronted her was something else indeed.

Cold.

A gale-force wind from the emptiness of space itself.

Rachel's body was suddenly met with an otherworldly storm, as if the oven were Pandora's box and all of the ills of the world were rushing out at one accord. Most of the cold rushed right through her, as if she were no more solid than air. But the force also seemed to pierce her chest, and began to course through her body, racing through every inch of every nerve, every vein. She felt filaments of the unearthly wind weave through her hair like hundreds of fingers. The passing of time became lost in the onslaught, and Rachel was frozen in place in eternity.

At once the assault was over, announcing its finality with an audible sound, like a clap of thunder. Rachel didn't move.

Mark stepped in front of her and pulled the cookies from the oven. Brandon glanced at Rachel's rigid form. "What's wrong? Are you all right?" She did not glance at him, nor did she speak.

Rachel felt frozen, as if her heart itself had been blown away in the unearthly hurricane and was lost forever. In this sudden, resulting nothingness, her only instinct was to weep uncontrollably. Before the tears could surface, however, the darkness took over, invading each of her senses and shutting out all else. Rachel Fleischman began to slip away.

Mark's voice: "Hey, the cookies came out perfect."

Brandon's voice: "Mark, set them down and help me. Something's wrong with Rachel."

"Rachel?" That was Julie.

They had seen nothing. Felt nothing.

Rachel was falling into the void the force had left in its wake.

Catch me.

"Rachel?"

"She's unconscious! Help me!"

"Rachel!"

Walking toward his mother's bedroom, Mark slowed his pace. His heart ached and felt heavy. His mother's illness hung over him like a shroud, turning his life black. She had cancer in her lungs and he didn't know why and who to blame. She didn't smoke, so why did it have to happen to her. He questioned. He stopped at the door, gathering his thoughts. What would he say to his mother?. He took a deep breath, gathered his strength, and opened the door quietly.

"Mom, how are you today? I'm sorry I haven't come to see you for a while." Mark said as he smiled at her trying to be cheerful. "Mom, I have a surprise for you today. I'm sure you will love it." He held his surprise behind his back with his right hand, but was so excited that he couldn't hide his feelings. He imagined her smiling as he revealed his gift.

Maggie lay in her bed , lost in thought, and showed little interest.

"Mark, is that you? Come close to me." She glanced at her son and tried to move her body to sit up, but she couldn't. She took a deep sigh and said, "I'm sorry, Mark. I don't feel good today."

She knew she was dying. She suffered from lung cancer for a year. She had two painful operations in the last couple of months that had drained all of her strength. She was getting weaker and weaker. Now she stayed in bed all day, reading, watching TV, seeing occasional visitors, and remembering her life. She found momentary relief with her visitors, but always she would quickly tire and have to sleep. She smelled death around her. An independent woman all of her life, she wanted to take care of herself, but she was too weak to do so. Her body was dying daily, but her mind remained clear so she started writing her journal. She asked herself again and again. Why do I have cancer? What did I do? What was wrong with me? She thought. There were no smokers in my family and I had a healthy life in the countryside. She tried not to think about it, but as much as she didn't want to accept it, she had to face reality. There would be no miracles and her life would be soon over. More than anything she wanted her life to end happily.

"Mom, it's okay. Don't try and get up." Mark talked to her quietly, holding back his tears. "Mom, look at this. Isn't it beautiful?" he said showing her a string of colorful origami paper cranes. Trying to be cheerful he looked into his mother's eyes, but he couldn't hide his emotion. The small, multicolored cranes were strung on thread, one on top of the other in 16 rows looking like colorful Christmas decorations. Each crane opened its wings as if it was ready to fly away into the heavens.

"Oh, my! What's that?" His mother said opening her eyes wide and smiling.

"This is senbazuru, one thousand cranes. My Japanese friend made it for you, Mom." Mark looked at her light greenish eyes again. "Mom, she said the cranes will give your spirit strength. I'll tell you the story she told me about one thousand paper cranes in her country. Do you want to hear it?"

"Sure. Tell me the story." She looked curious, and took in a deep breath of anticipation. Mark was glad to see the pink color of life return to her face.

"Japanese people sometimes fold a thousand cranes to make a wish or to give them to a sick person as a present. The crane is regarded as a symbol of long life and happiness. Paper cranes are also used as an offering to a shrine or a temple. This custom started during the Eighth Century. During the Heian period, a young girl was suffering from high fever. Her mother loved her so much and didn't want her to die, so she started folding paper cranes, praying every day and night. She continued folding the cranes imparting a bit of her energy into each one until all her strength was gone. She died but soon after her daughter got well and lived a long happy life. Before she died, she counted the cranes. It is said there were a thousand. Isn't it amazing?"

Mark looked at her face again. Maggie was fascinated by the paper cranes. A thousand paper cranes, surely a huge amount of work went into making them she thought. All that cutting, folding, and stringing. She was amazed. Imagine all the love and good wishes in each one.

"Mom, my Japanese friend said she folded it, listening to my concert piano pieces on CD to put my love for you into each crane. She believed that by doing that she could help to put more spirit and power into each. Isn't it nice?" added he, and knew she liked it.

"Senbazulu, one thousand cranes." She said to herself in a faint voice. She reached out to touch the cranes one by one, and smiled. "What a wonderful tradition!"

She felt warm inside. She imagined the cranes flying in her room. The dark room shaded with drawn curtains seemed to turn bright, full of light and love. "Yes, I see them flying," she told her son with excitement.

"Yes, you did." He nodded as if he were her father taking care of his daughter.

"Mom, where shall I hang them?" Asking her, he looked around her room. A comfortable breeze stirred the curtain in this room which used to be his own. When he lived there she gave him the best room which had enough light. He was her only child. She sometimes taught him English in this room when he was young. She was a popular public school teacher, teaching English, although sometimes she was strict.

He found an unused nail on the wall that had once held his grandfather's dark brown, clock before it was moved to the other side of the room. This is it, he thought, the right place for the thousand cranes. Just by the door of her room so she could see them when she lay in her bed. He hung it, returned to sit on the side of her bed, and checked how it looked from the distance. He smiled. Then he started talking about his upcoming piano concert. She was listening to him but closed her eyes little by little and drifted off to sleep. She was dreaming about cranes flying with her in the blue sky. Mark stood up quietly, and left her room. He couldn't bear that his beloved mother was getting weak and dying. He bit his lip to quell his pain.

A month later, he had a phone call from his father. He was afraid to talk to him, fearing that something bad happened to his mother. He had been so busy preparing for his piano concert that he couldn't visit her. He felt very guilty about the fact that one month has already passed since he last visited. What was he thinking? During that month he called her at least once a week. "She sounded fine, though," Mark thought. It was too difficult for him to concentrate on his piano practice and worry about his mother's condition, so he tried to put it in the back of his mind. He was irritated and frustrated when his piano performance suffered.

"Hi, Dad. What's up?" He tried to answer cheerfully on the phone. He was ready for the worst.

"Are you working hard for the concert?" His father's voice was quite peaceful. "Mom wants to talk to you."

What? He thought she was going to leave her last message to him? Oh, no. He panicked. His blood pressure rose, his heart beat quicker, his brow became sweaty, and the his left hand, the hand he held the phone, shook.

"Hi, Mark. It's me. Everything's okay over there?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm ready for the concert. How about you, Mom?"

He tried to be calm, and unemotional.

"Mark, I'm going to make your favorite chicken dish and a German chocolate cake tomorrow. Can you come over?" Her soft high pitched voice sounded like a high school girl waiting in anticipation for a friend's visit. After his last visit, his mother's condition had improved . She had gotten so well she could take a walk and resume her daily routine.

"Mark, that thousand cranes really worked. Can you believe it? It brightened my day the minute you brought it into my house. I've had visitors who are in awe of the cranes and wonder at the folding. I will treasure senbazulu for years. Thank your Japanese friend for me."

Mark had forgotten about the thousand cranes since his last visit. That was a wonderful gift for her. He didn't really believe its myth, but he wondered now that maybe it could be true.

Summer was over. Four months passed since he had a family reunion at his hometown. He sat on his mother's empty bed in the dimly lit room and looked at the cranes hanging on the wall. His mother had died. He read her last letter to him. For a moment, a cool fall breeze fanned into the room through the slightly opened window. He could hear his grandfather's old clock across the room ticking loudly. He thought that one of the cranes smiled down at him, broke free and flew in the sky.

He cried as he watched it fade into the horizon. "Take care of my mom," he whispered.

How strange the things that reach in and touch the heart. Sometimes the tears spring unbidden from some deep and secret place in my soul. And anguish sweeps across me just as the breeze sweeps across the desolate prairie. I don't know from where these feelings come. I only understand how powerful and consuming they are. And yet somehow out of this comes renewal. A reaffirming that even through all of my faults and all of my imperfections, I still care. I still love. And through this realization the tenderness that lives within is reborn if only for a little while longer. Such started the morning in which I looked into the mirror to see this young man whom I didn't really know. His blue eyes staring back at me. A body, a man, a shy secluded young man with a scar on his left eyebrow.

"This morning I roused from a fitful sleep. I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, always the first ritual of the morning. I stood there brushing away and glanced up at the man staring back at me as though he didn't know who I was. The moment was very disconcerting. The glance slowly lengthened into an incredibly intense stare."

Finally, to break the unbearable silence that hung uncomfortably between, words seemed to tumble from my lips. "Who are you? What has made you who you are?"

I decided that maybe I needed to examine these questions and the questioner as well. What are the burdens that weigh upon you? Where are the scars of the battles you've fought? Which ones did you win and which ones were lost? Do you realize that the very question is faulty? All battles that you fight are won, not singularly because of the experience you gain from them, but also because you chose to take on the obstacle, to tackle the problem and to care enough to expend the energy to deal with what was in front of you. The question of love and loneliness, each one friend and lover. Do you remember, are you sure?

But then there is the memory of Brittany my first love, that uncertain pang of love, maybe even lust but you know when you're young and in love:

I felt the touch of her silky skin against my rough stubbled cheek as I awoke. I had only come over to watch a movie, but now found myself awaking next to this plain, but beautiful girl, whom I had only thought of as a friend. Brittany awoke to find me staring vacantly at her tender frame, outlined by the down comforter. I quickly look away.

"No need to look away. I was hoping you would have stayed the night with me."

"Me?"

"Yes, I've admired you since we met. I wanted you close to me."

Was she for real? "I don't know what to say."

She crawled closer and touched her fingers to my lips.

She slipped off my faded black shirt, then pulled herself close to me. She wore only a long pale nightshirt. Her tender kiss was like nothing I had ever had before. This moment of tenderness was beginning to mean more to me as she softly stroked my hair and slowly lulled me to sleep with her sweet song.

I woke again to find her long pale arms around my chest and her head under my roughened chin. I was amazed that Brittany found me so attractive. I always saw myself as clumsy and unattractive. Here was someone who thought more of me.

As she rolled off my chest, I got up and made coffee. The strong pleasing scent of almond coffee filled the tiny apartment. I returned with two black ceramic mugs and some sugar. She was just waking up and gave me a tender smile as I handed her a mug. "You're a wonderful person, I love you."

"I love you, too," Brittany whispered.

We kissed deeply, so tender, so lovingly. I could taste a hint of almond in her mouth as our lips intertwined in that moment of desire.

I left soon after for home, but my thoughts were of her and me never parting. The thought of having Brittany with me forever ran through my veins I wanted to live with her for the rest of my life.

"Was I in love or lust?" I asked myself. Then I thought: I'm in love. Here is my one and only letter.

Dear Brittany:

What can I say to express what I am beginning to feel. This is too easy, I keep telling myself that this is too easy. Love for me has always been hard work and yet somehow with you things are flowing so smoothly. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I have so many things I want to share with you. There is so much exploration to do, and I am having such a hard time being patient. You inspire me and remind me of all the things I value most and how important they are. I don't know what I did in a former life to deserve meeting you (maybe rescued the pope, or something) but you have been worth the wait. I can't wait to get the chance to snuggle into you and watch a movie. In my mind, I can already feel the contentment.

Just so that you know, I have dreamed of you.....of us.

What I saw was......radiant. Thank you, Brittany

That was three months ago, why do we ever go back to believing? People grow apart or maybe we where never really together. Life moves on as we all must that is how it should go, I guess.

Like life, love is neither safe nor certain. I have really been pondering love lately. I have been wondering why I don't have someone in my life. And also, why I so desperately want someone in my life. Love has been such a source of pain for me. Each time it grows harder and harder to believe in. To believe that I will ever find someone with whom I can share all of my experiences.

And yet, even though I am wounded and sometimes even nearly destroyed by loss, something inside me whispers, ever so softly, "Don't give up...I am here." This voice speaks now, but softly, only very, very softly. Almost as though it is fading into the distance the way stars fade into the sky as it lightens into dawn. It is still there, but lately it feels as though having a harder time hearing it.

It seems sometimes that the aching torturous nights torment me. I see your face faded with age in my memory, or perhaps I hear a shred of your voice carried silently in my ears. Inside

I am hurting. I long so to be near you and yet will not allow it.

I watch people, some how I see my problems on a larger scale or the intrinsic nature that we all are connected. Here I am sitting in the middle of the mall seeking enlightenment and spiritual balance among all of the intrepid shoppers. Appropriate; is the word that springs to mind. Somehow all of this is strangely appropriate.

The people coursing by like a river all intent on finding their finds and acquiring their acquisitions. They are all unique and individual and wondrous.

Each of them has their own separate and distinct world in which they live. Worlds built of perception and experience and conclusions drawn from the past. It is intriguing. There is such a beautiful symmetry between them. As they walk within their world, they don't see the elegant dance of their interaction with the other worlds they touch.

We all touch each other. Always remember that. Will your touch be the one of the healer, the warrior, or the teacher? Choose a role with every interaction.

Within us all is the ability to reach out and touch the infinite. Doing this is not difficult, but it does require a special state of mind and spirit. If we are constricted by the shackles of our human existence it is exceedingly difficult to reach out and embrace this universality of spirit.

It is a fairly simple matter to sense the infinite for it is an important part of every one of us,but it is not so easy to let go of all that makes you who you are and merge with creation and all that is in it. You give up all of your drawbacks as well as all of your gifts, but in releasing these bonds you expand and can truly understand what life is and why you are where you are. We, each of us, are beings that existed before this lifetime and will exist beyond this lifetime. How can the spark of life be dimmed by the shattering of a mortal shell? Put simply, it cannot.

I am lonely.

Not the poignant, burning, aching, consuming loneliness, but a sad wondering loneliness. My love, I wonder where you are at this moment. Do you think of me, do you wonder at what I will be like?

I look out the window of my apartment, and the moon, full and beautiful, stares down at me with its silvery gaze. It winks as the misty clouds pass infront of it. Do you see it, my love? I want you. I need you. I have so many things I want to share. As I sit here on my bed, I can imagine the twinkling smile in your eyes. I can already see your beautiful smile and it comforts me.

My life isn't empty, quite the opposite in fact, but it lacks a special and arguably integral component. How precious it must be to see your own soul reflected back at you in someone else's eyes. What does fate have in store for me?

As I ask this question, the realization comes to me that perhaps I should not have the answer. Maybe the more important realization is that you should not put your expectations on what life ought to be, but rather allow it to flow naturally to you and appreciate it for the surprises it brings.

I used to have such a pleasant outlook on life; it was cotton candy and soda pop all the way. No, wait, that's a lie. I never liked life much at all. Don't get me wrong I like the touch of a strong hand and the smell of fresh rain, but I have trouble with the fact that no one knows "why" or to what end. I've often hated other people. Sartre said "hell is other people" and I truly agree, but it is a self induced hell. There's this girl named Sarah in one of my classes; she sits in the back of class knitting.

"Is my class so mundane that you have to entertain yourself by knitting?" the professor questioned her with a knitted brow.

"Well, actually it's crocheting, but I suppose that doesn't change your outlook," she grunted in reply.

"I don't think it's very responsible student behavior," an audible sigh escaped his pursed lips.

I could just feel the tension mounting in the room. It gave me this hot feeling all over my body, an excitement. I felt so pleased by her punishment. I suppose that is not very Christian behavior, but I also suppose I am not very Christian. Sometimes I feel I should be more accepting of other people, mind you not very often, but on rare occasions empathy overcomes me. You must already feel I am a rather unlikable person, but I don't believe that to be true. As I sit in my four cornered room writing to you, my reader, I suppose I might like you, given the proper circumstances. You see, I am a judge. I didn't want the job. I never applied and I don't enjoy it, but this is what I am. I know it seems impossible to believe that a twenty-one-year-old woman could be a judge, but it is true. I preside over a huge court and everyone and everything I meet is subject to my judgements.

I oversee all of it, from dew drizzled lush landscapes to decrepit bag ladies. Right now I judge my fingers and toes and the poor soul next to me. I judge proven scientific experiments and baseless philosophical arguments. I sit and stare at this nauseating orange tabletop in this disturbingly small cubicle. I shiver at the thought of how many fingers have typed on these same keys and the meaningless jargon or incredible realizations they have produced. Here I sit, producing what? I don't think I'll ever write the great American novel. Or maybe I will, but it will be a fluke. I could never set out to do such a thing, it seems so fake and self involved. I am just one human in the midst of a great crowd. I could create landscapes for you to escape into.

We could be somewhere else right now if you prefer. How about Detroit? Tina sits in her shabby basement apartment. She can barely see through the tiny windows, they're covered with that greasy film that occurs in a heavy smoker's apartment. She takes another drag off a Capri menthol light, and she looks at the cigarette in her fingers, thin long and white with the tiny Capri insignia. Her voice is raspy and deep, but she doesn't talk much. She's been told she looks a little like Kathleen Turner, but she thinks it's probably just the voice. She works in a convenience store over in the industrial part of town. There's a strip club over there, like there is in every industrial section, and her boyfriend likes to stop by there when he comes to visit her at work.

We could be there. But, I just think here is more interesting right now. I know I have no plot, no tiny intricate movements of characters deceiving and confiding in one another. This is just me right now, the funny things that flow through my head. What do you call it? Writing for exploration, or stream of consciousness? Yeah, that's accurate I guess. In all honesty I'd like to read about other people's thoughts more often. Don't you always think about that? What if you could know what other people were thinking? Well, I am thinking about you right now. Whoever you are, the funny way you walk or the amazing way you hold yourself. I am thinking that it is interesting that you spoke out loud and I wonder if you meant what you said. I am wondering whether or not you ever consider how insignificant we are, like specks of dust in the universe. Or maybe you think it all revolves around us, masters of the universe, a holographic reality. Maybe you're just hungry, skipped lunch and wishing you hadn't. I really want to know all the things you think.

"I know you think I'm a bit off now. Experimenting with all this stuff is a little on the short side of long, but this is my exploration. So I am talking to you directly. You could answer I guess, but I can't hear you. I am only words on paper, thoughts recorded. Is it insane to be speaking to you?"

"Yes," you say and roll your eyes, "of course it is."

"You've gotta try new things though, don't you?" I reply, happy to get you talking.

"Let's go away again, want to?" I whisper eyes pleading.

"Yes, Please do," you answer.

I know you're getting exasperated. I'll take you to my favorite place. It is of course a beach.

You are walking along the cement. You see the sand ahead and quicken your pace. The first step is delicious, the way you sink ever so slightly and you feel the tiny grains rolling across the bare bottoms of your feet. I can hear you smile. The surf sounds just the way it should, gentle lulling and soft. You move ahead toward the water longing for its lapping cool touch. It is that perfect kind of water, clear blue with a white sand bottom. You run into the water up to your knees and your jeans are soaked. I watch as you run away from the tide; it chases you teasing with its gentle warmth. You stand on the wet sand and as the tide rolls out again your feet settle more deeply into the moistness. Moving back, you lay on the beach. The sand here is a pleasant toasty temperature. You lean back and let your head fall onto the earth's pillow. You can hear the tide and surf, feel the movement in the core of you and beneath the sand. It is the same force that moves the moon. You slowly slip away into perfect bliss.

Your eyes betrayed you they were hazel and then green sometimes almost brown; I saw through them and could almost hear the blood pumping through your veins. I remember the courtship; it was so long, hastened touches behind a veil of darkness, an endless elusion. The night you could not help but come to me. I said "if you must." You did not answer, but arrived late. I fell asleep and heard the door. There was a candle lit and he was gone. You took me in your arms with such tentative strokes, touching each other for hours, knowing only you.

You left me once, driven off by all that had occurred, afraid, I'm sure, of what had yet to happen. Yet, you still touched me. Letters of such passion arrived and I snuck to the mailbox each day awaiting them. I read them over and over again. I sought out sky blue paper with drifting clouds and wrote to you, pouring my love into your soul with calm and easy strokes. We planned a visit, but I came to you ahead of time across a great distance, arriving in the first hours of daylight.

"Come downstairs I have a surprise for you." I beckoned on the phone.

You came not knowing what to expect and there I stood surprised to see you looking so real so handsome. That visit was my joy and agony. We bought a cheap bottle of wine on the last night and stayed up until I had to leave, wrapped together thinking this could be the only thing to make us happy. I would have stayed if you had asked, but you didn't and I knew why. Loose ends are everywhere. Eventually I did return and we shared dreams. I thought only of you and the way you made me feel, the things we could do for each other. Such is love; it tears your insides up, then mends, then tears you up again. The future is unclear and always will be, but we couldn't care less, each moment, monumental, each kiss like nothing else.

"My back is so soar tonight," I whispered stretching my body out.

You touched my shoulder blades, "Must be where you lost your wings."

I thrilled. Could life have more to offer? Yes it does, memories. These are mine and yours, wrought together, cast from the most precious of metals. And now?

The television is on, but it doesn't matter what is resonating. You look to me with expectation, a hand on my thigh the other on my breast. I sigh.

Memories, I much prefer, like the day we walked down to the piers.

"It's beautiful," I whisper as your hand traces along my fingers. We are standing at the edge of a pier looking toward the water. Seagulls fly through the air and a sunset begins its glorious show. You kiss my lips lightly, hesitantly.

"You are a siren, a mystical siren tempting me," you mouth into my ear.

I laugh and realize there are people surrounding us. I never saw them arrive, so enveloped in you. We walk to a small fish and chips restaurant. The food is good. The taste is of the sea and your kiss.

We are above the city, evening has fallen and I see you standing against the light of the buildings. There are children all over, speaking in some language I will never know. Again we kiss, on top of buildings, by the sea, on street corners. You never forget me. I feel nothing but the soft trace of your presence and the confidence of our togetherness.

"Have you seen my cigarettes?" You ask a bit aggravated your lips pursed.

I was so caught up in my memory, so imperceptible to you, but it was you. It was you and I in periods of elation. We hadn't much food, but love aplenty. And now?

"Yeah they're on the kitchen table, or maybe the chair."

Although memory is sweet and laced with breathtaking views what is there if the present is lacking? Now is what becomes my memory. Today is my comfort tomorrow. And while it is possible that we will part ways I much prefer to be looking back at these times as only a beginning to a long and fruitful memory filled with you. For the sea is not as pleasing if you are not there to look with me.

"Move your slag Princess!" The henchmen shouted at Princess Bithics, pushing her roughly with the end of his gun. The princess stumbled up the step in front of her and banged her knee on the ground. Dirk Slander struggled in his bonds to move toward her, but his captor tightened the grip on Dirk's neck, and punched Dirk in the back to quite him down.

"None of that." A scratchy voice whispered in his ear. The man's hot breath floated over Dirk's shoulder and assaulted his nose; it smelled of old wine and rotten eggs. "You be a good boy Mr. Slander, or I tell Randolph there to give your Princess the once over." The man punched Dirk in the back again to make his point.

Dirk gritted his teeth and grunted, but didn't cry out. Relaxing a bit, he allowed himself to be pulled back from the princess. She staggered to her feet, tentatively tested the bruised knee, and continued up the stone steps, now walking with a small limp. Dirk had no doubts she was in pain. Sweat beaded around her temples, causing her fine black bangs to stick to her forehead. Dirt was smeared on her cheeks, and blood from her bottom lip trailed off the corner of her mouth down her small but determined chin. She looked nothing like the Princess of Casmir, in fact Dirk would have thought her a different girl entirely if her eyes still didn't hold that radiating icy glare. Dirk had to admire her spirit; most women would be a bubbling mass of emotion by now. The princess had moxy, no doubt about it.

"How much of the treasure did Gorgonzola promise you?" Dirk asked the man behind him, keeping one eye on the princess.

"He promised me enough, don't you worry about that." Bree answered, and jabbed Dirk with the end of his pistol. Dirk grunted again, but managed to keep his footing. "Watching you die is all the payment I need."

"You really think Gorgonzola is going to split with you? What's to stop him from double crossing you the way he double crossed us?" Dirk asked. While he talked, he tested his bonds. He hoped Bree couldn't see him struggling in the darkening twilight.

"Mr. Slander I never trust anyone." Bree said, his voice sounded bored and tired. "Which is why I'm the one with the gun and you're the one marching to your death. The difference between you and me, Mr. Slander, is I expect Gorgonzola to betray me, sooner or later. And when he does, I'll be ready."

"You think so?" Dirk asked with scorn. His fingers gently prodded at the knots behind his back, "Gorgonzola knows where the treasure is buried. What's to stop him from bumping you and taking the whole kit and caboodle himself?" up ahead a cold blast of wind came rushing down the mountain. Dirk saw the princess start to shiver.

The stars were beginning to shine and as the party made its way up the mountainside, a full moon slowly peeked over the summit. Large, threatening clouds could be seen hugging the horizon. The air smelled of rain and no crickets or animals could be heard. The wind picked up speed, and as the group progressed upward, they hugged the mountain's chiseled staircase closer. Behind him, Dirk heard Bree laugh maniacally. The laughter was caught by the wind and tumbled down the mountain like a boulder.

"You surprise me Mr. Slander." Bree said, "You think knowing the location is the only thing needed to claim the lost Treasure of Guadeloupe?"

"It isn't" Dick asked, testing his bonds some more, feeling out the pattern of the knot. Dirk almost had it figured out. A few more minutes and he'd be free. He just had to keep Bree talking. Off to their far left a bolt of lightning spilt the night sky. The rolling sound of thunder reached them a few seconds later. Clouds started to block out the star light.

"The location is only half the puzzle." Bree continued. Dirk could imagine the smug look on the rat's face. "Once you find the cave of Guadeloupe you still have to make your way to the treasure chamber. I'm the only one who knows about King Tutakimhia's traps. All I lacked was the starting location. Now, thanks to your princess, I have that also. Gorgonzola might have paid for this little venture, but he still needs me to make the pay off. Without my knowledge he'd never recover the treasure. He'd die trying."

The clouds were rushing up rapidly now, and the wind doubled its assault on the group. Above their heads another bolt of lightning forked its way across the sky, illuminating the party for an instant. A crashing boom of thunder followed the lightning almost immediately. Dirk could just barely see the Princess up in front of him, her silhouette highlighted by the spectral light of a cloud-covered moon. Behind his back he slowly began teasing the knot apart.

"You're certainly sure of yourself, aren't you professor?" Dirk shouted back to Bree. On the base of his neck he felt a raindrop. It rolled down his shoulders and was soon followed by another and another. Rain fell from the clouds in even rhythmic intervals. The drops made plinking sounds against the mountain's stone staircase.

"I can afford to be Mr. Slander." Bree answered, his voice raised in order to be heard over the rain and the wind. Off to Dirk's right the eerie howl of a wolf cut through the storm.

"You hear that Mr. Slander?" Bree shouted, "That's your doom calling."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dirk asked. He started to unravel the rope a little faster. Another howl sounded, but this one was somewhere off to the left. A bolt of lightning lit up the night and Dirk saw the princess looking around frantically.

"The mad dogs of Juno point, my friend." Bree answered, "Gorgonzola's personal disposal system. Trained them himself. From day one he's fed them nothing but human flesh, and, surprise, that's all they eat. They're in for a treat tonight, a two-course meal: Princess ala' king and Slander ala' mode." Bree laughed again, but his evil chortling was cut short by a loud roar of thunder.

Dirk finished untying the knot, and shook his arms slightly to loosen the rope. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, and thought on how to make the next move. The princess was about five feet in front of him, and she had a guard right behind her. In front of the princess there was another henchman. Dirk figured he was maybe ten, or twelve feet up the staircase. Bree was right behind Dirk, and below Bree there was another guard. All the guards had rifles, and Bree held that little pistol, most likely aimed for the small of Dirk's back. It was dark, which was a good thing, and the rain helped with the visibility, but four guys with guns against one man seemed like a lot to handle. Dirk also had to think of the princess and how to keep her skin in one piece, not to mention the mad dogs of Juno Point once they escaped from Gorgonzola's hoods. It was a tight situation.

It was another long week, and I was looking forward to the usual summer rituals of mowing lawns and hammering a few nails into any place they seemed to fit. I usually closed the auto parts store at 5:30 and stayed doing paperwork for another hour or so, but not on Fridays. Fridays were the finish line of a usually marathon week of complaining customers and dissatisfied employees. At 5:31, the place would be empty, dark, and eager for an echo.

The old man knew this ritual, and when he came on Fridays, he usually blew in the door around 5:15. He had been coming in every week for about a year. We didn't know Joe's last name, we only knew him as "Old Man Joe." We call him "O'Mango," and he didn't seem to know the difference. His hearing was the least of his problems.

He peppered his weekly visits over different weekdays, but it was always Fridays that he waited until 5:15. He makes the usual remarks every time he sits his old, marshmallow behind down at the counter.

"Well, boy?" He'd ask. "What the hell are you looking at?"

"I'm looking at the ugliest, most disgusting, onriest son-of-a-bitch I've ever seen!" Was my usual reply.

"That's right, and don't forget it!" He would hold his dry, cracked hands in fists and shake them at me.

"Keep it up, boy, and I'll whoop your scrawny little but right here and now."

At some time in O'Mango's life, he was a prizefighter. His nose looked like it had taken more than its share of beatings, so I tended to believe the story. All the talk was, of course, our way of greeting each other. If he did intend to come after me, I'd most likely have him pushed out the door before he could get his oxygen tank over his shoulder.

O'Manjo didn't really need much when he came in. Usually just an oil filter or set of wiper blades for his old station wagon. Every time he needed something, I pulled the "secret file" from underneath the cash register and wrote down the part number of whatever he needed. There was always a list of parts on his ticket, and I didn't really keep track of everything right down to the penny.

His payment came from his social security check, which found its way to his mailbox the first week of every month. He would pay me ten dollars every month. I knew he would never pay the bill off before his time ran out, but I never let him know that. Taking his ten dollars every month and adjusting the inventory was easier than arguing with him. I would offend him if I were to infer that he was incapable of meeting his responsibilities.

His usually monthly ritual was carefully to pull the tattered index card from his shirt pocket and ask to borrow a pencil. He'd whisper to himself as he licked the end of the pencil and struggled through the subtraction of everything that was eating away his social security check.

O'Mango was every dirty old man wrapped into one. The traffic of the delivery drivers coming in and out started his heart racing. He loved it. When they'd pass the counter and head for the stockroom, O'Manjo would lean his head over to catch a glimpse. He'd give me a wink and lick his lips with his tongue, which looked like the first place his body started dying.

Every time a customer would come in, I would be worried that O'Mango would get to them before I could. His brash greeting was not usually received well be those who didn't know him. It surprised me that someone hasn't acted on some primal human instinct and put him out of his misery.

On that particular Friday, the old man looked older than usual. I knew he wouldn't leave for at least another half-hour, because it would take him that long to muster up the energy to walk back to his station wagon. Knowing this was my fate; I risked getting to know him a little.

No kids, no wife, no job, no money, nothing. That is the short version of the old man, and the kinds of things that people use to size up another person. Deriving a conversation from one of those things seemed to all lead to the same depressing end. Instead, we talked about the good old days. These were his good times; chasing women, drinking booze, and raising all kinds of hell. He smiled the whole time he was talking, and I just listened.

While I listened, I saw the gleam in his eye. He was coming alive again. When he was telling me of his military days, I thought he was going to get up and dance when he started humming a Glen Miller melody.

I was happy for him. What little life he had left, he at least had the chance to smile for a few moments here and there. I got the feeling that time had a way of stripping him of all that he enjoyed, right down to his cigarettes.

Finally, around 6:00, he convinced himself that he was ready to go home. I had to order his oil filter, so he had a reason to come back, and enough life left in him to make it back to the station wagon. I headed home to start my weekend, as the rain started littering the sidewalk.

The rain kept me inside all weekend. My wife drafted me to rescue all the furniture from dust. This kind of labor usually requires some sort of accompaniment, so I headed for the CD rack before the commander had me too buried in my duties.

As I was browsing through the rack of CD's, I stopped on one labeled The Greatest of the Big Bands, and I thought of O'Manjo. A little rhythm was just what I needed, so I fed the CD to the machine. Still thinking of the old man, I also put a blank tape in the machine to make a copy.

Monday came, and I was glad for it. I figured that at least I could get paid for doing some work at the store. The delivery truck showed up about noon and O'Manjo about an hour later. We dispensed with the usual greeting, as he could see I was busy sorting through parts, and somehow respected that. Maybe it was because repeating it was not allowed after only two days and a morning. Regardless, he entertained himself by gawking at the drivers who were careful to keep their distance.

"I've got your filter here, old man," I said.

"You going put it on for me?" he asked jokingly.

"Yeah, every part I sell in here comes with free installation. That's the way I run things around here, Joe," I replied.

"Worthless Kid!" He grinned his toothless smile.

"I do have something for you, though," I said, remembering the tape.

"You ought to, as much money as I spend here."

I rolled my eyes at him and headed to retrieve the tape from my office.

"Here." I handed it to him. "You do have a tape player in that tank drive, don't you?"

"No, he responded, "But I've got one in the house. What's on it?"

"Big band stuff."

"What?"

"You know, Talk of the Town, Someday, Anytime. All those 'oldies but goodies' from the days you were raising hell and chasing women."

I saw an expression on his face that I had never before seen. It was blank. The king of the insults and crude remarks could say nothing. He just held the tape in his hands and turned it over repeatedly for a minute or so. Then he looked up at me.

"Do you have something to play it on here?" he asked.

"Sure," I said, and headed back to my office to get the player.

When I returned to the counter, the old man looked was staring at me like I was a doctor returning with test results telling him if he were to live or die. The tape lay silently on the counter. A little confused with his silence, I put the tape in and pushed play.

The music started slowly with a muted trumpet breaking ground followed by a somber trombone. It wasn't long before a saxophone broke in and headed the way with a happy melody. O'Manjo sat there slowly coming to life. It was like watching a balloon fill with air. His head started moving back and forth and his long, untrimmed fingernails tapped the rhythm of the song perfectly on the counter. Somehow, in a mysterious sort of way, things just didn't seem right with the old man. Then it came to me. He was happy. He was truly happy. This man who had been excommunicated from life by time was being baptized by the melody of a saxophone. I just stood there staring at him, waiting for him to grab the closest thing to him and waltz across the floor with it. I felt if I said anything, the reverence of the moment would be lost. I would let him decide when the coach turned back into the pumpkin.

After the song was over, he lowered his head and looked into his lap. I shut off the tape before the next song started.

"You okay, Joe?" I asked. He said nothing. "Joe?" I repeated.

He looked up from his lap and stared directly at me. His eyes were wet and a tear started to form in each of them. This scared me. Pigs don't fly, bears crap in the woods, the sun comes up and the sun goes down, and O'Manjo don't cry. I just stared at the old man afraid of what was next.

"Geez, kid." He said in a low voice. He wiped the tears from his eyes.

"You just don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?"

"Let me tell you what. The last time anybody ever gave me anything was long before you were born. I kept telling myself that it didn't matter. It's easier not to care, because when you do care, it hurts like hell sometimes."

This wasn't O'Manjo talking; this was a real human being. I felt bad and good all at once.

"I had no idea, Joe!" I had the feeling he wasn't finished. "Know why I come in here every week? It's because you are the only person in this godforsaken world that will joke with me, talk trash with me, and put up with whatever I dish out. Hell, kid, you dish it right back. It's the high point of my week!"

I felt good about things at that point. I had no idea that the tape would do so much for him. When he was finished thanking me, I felt like I had just given a gallon of water to a man crawling across the desert. It was the best feeling I ever had.

Joe had me rewind the tape for him before he put in the case and into his shirt pocket right next to his index card. He smiled all the way out the door and into his car. I could swear there was a little bounce in his step. He left the oil filter on the counter, so I put it down below for the next time he came in.

There wasn't a next time. Two weeks passed without seeing Joe. The third week, two neighbors of Joe's showed up at the store, each carrying a box. The boxes contained assorted auto parts that Joe had purchased from me over the past year. None of the parts had been installed or even opened. The neighbors didn't want money for them; they were just trying to sort things through, and knew Joe well enough to guess at our credit arrangement.

They said Joe died peacefully in his sleep, without pain. I wondered if he just laid in bed listening to that tape over and over like it was some kind of drug and he was a junky. This didn't seem wrong to me. At least I'd know that he died happy. I imagined him waking up in heaven wearing his best dance shoes, and bouncing across the ballroom floor.

There will always be another customer to fill Joe's stool and fire remarks at us, but none will replace Joe. When I think about it, I kind of feel guilty that he paid me ten dollars a month to be his friend. It was not a difficult job, but was merely human interaction that somehow becomes precious when it's lost.

I just pray O'Manjo got his money's worth.

It was a warm spring day. I turned down the radio as I drove across the bridge at Hoover dam, water and cement connected the state line separating Arizona from Nevada. Crossing the dam then past the tourist information center reached two huge stone angel monuments with arms and wings stretched toward the sky. The sight of them invoked religious desperation from me as if a I was lacking from divine intervention. Parked on either side of the two towering angels sat two highway patrol cars. One on each side of the statues like vultures ordered by the sherif of Nottingham to victimize taxpayers. I felt desperate and uneasy as I stared into the troopers eyes as I passed by and they stared back. I am not paranoid but that doesn't mean they are not after me. Everyone is a suspect and victim for harassment and possible revenue. My sense of privacy dissolved with the irreverent mix. Psychically connected and hoping to break the troopers attention, I turned up Black Sabbath on the radio and sang along.

"They tell you black is really white, the moon is just the sun at night and when you walk through golden halls, you get to keep the gold that falls, it's heaven and hell."

The patrol cars stay put as I wind up the mountain road out of sight. I keep the heavy metal tunes blaring to give me that extra boost of primal fire that leads one to believe that enough vrihl energy omnisciently moves away adversaries. My attention shot through their hollow headslike a laser out of the screaming skulls of hell. Aggressive aesthetic attention, makes things move quicker with a lottery of victims.

I drop my vigil as I drive through Henderson Nevada. From the clouds, mountains and small skyscrapers, the twilight cast a weird silhouette around the city. I felt safe, as if the ratio of civilians had the police outnumbered. I turn off the radio to sense the silence that Lake Mead evoked in the sunset. Winding up the highway, the sky pulled like a magnet, my hair stood on end, the roof of the car like static electricity. I head north-west towards Vegas into the orange twilight. I light a joint and savor the powerful ringing in my ears as I focus my attention on the electric silence, invisibly driving me into Las Vegas. Concentrating on the endless road, the lights, the casinos, liquor and the women failed their attempt to lure me into blowing all my money.

"Been there done that," I thought out-loud, besides there were much more intrepid things on my mind to confirm being alive and well.

Pulling onto Highway 93 heading northbound towards Nellis Air force base. I recalled hearing on the news earlier that the governor of Arizona, Fife Symington was sentenced to spend eighteen months there for thirteen counts of fraud. I spit out the window at the fences positioned to strategically keep civilians out, not necessarily criminals in. My conspiracy paradigm began working overtime as I observed that the place looked more like a resort than a penitentiary. My stomach twisted as I realized that words like federal, criminal, white collar, system, banks and trust were all synonymous to one word, traitors.

Twenty-five miles later I find myself in Fire Valley. The full moon illuminates the desert landscape. I am alone. No one around. No campers. No cars. Too damned quiet for comfort. I walk around the car with my video camera ready to shoot film of anything unusual. The T.V. show Strange Universe pays good money for " Scooby Doo" type mystery coverage. Especially if you film the evidence, so they can air it on T.V. I watch and wait. No UFOs no Stealths. It is to damned quiet. No movement, no wind. An occasional rabbit, nothing else. I am not a hunter and animals are not a threat to me. I keep a gun in the car for a different predator.

Something about a hundred yards away catches my attention. I see a light the size of a baseball. I suspect it is a human on surveillance. It is suspended above the ground about ten feet but casts no beam like an ordinary flashlight. Still it is a hundred yards away. I anticipate it coming closer towards me. It bobs in the air as if being held by a person advancing in fast footsteps towards me. I wait and watch for ten minutes. It is still advancing towards me but I can't see a silhouette holding it, nor does it's advancement get any nearer to me. Sitting the camera on the car seat next to my gun, I get brave and walk towards it. Advancing fifty yards to meet it's progress towards me halfway, and close enough to get back to the car in case I get spooked. I expect my advancement to bring me closer to this bobbing light and bridge the gap of the apparent hundred yards distance. This thing does not get any closer as regular time space is concerned, yet it continues to advance towards me. My gun and camera are in the car. Now I am scared. The thought of being pulled into a vortex plays with my worst imagination.

I have filmed UFOs in Arizona, Nevada and Idaho before. But this was not a flying saucer. The front yard of area 51 is just as real and weird without flying saucers but still this small ball of light was scaring me and no visible person nor monster was holding it above the ground. The cursed thing was in my space time but not tangible, like a dimensional warp. Running back to the car, my instincts flew into survival mode. Shooting it full of holes seemed like an ignorant and hopeless solution. Looking at that weird light, I figured anything was possible. It defied my rational into an exciting madness.

I ran back to the car, got in and pressed the gas pedal to the floor, forget about filming it. I headed back towards highway 93 doing my best to keep the car on the empty back road. Before I get to the interstate I take a dirt road off the side to rest for awhile. I lay in back of my station wagon staring at the roof of the car. My eyes are drying out because I haven't blinked and dare shut them for only a second. Hours pass. The sun rises. I drive to the interstate and head north on highway 93. I drive for an hour, sixty miles distance. To the west of the highway and over the mountain lies the rumored Area 51. I would like to go out there and shoot some film at the high weirdness but today I don't dare go without someone to watch my back.

Driving along the empty highway I need to pee, but there are no rest areas. I find a dirt road and pull off and get out of sight of traffic. After I pee I get back in my car to head back to highway 93. I turn the ignition key but nothing happens, dead. Utilizing the downhill slope I coast in neutral to the pavement of the highway. A highway patrolman passes by before me on the highway. With spinning tires he does a U-turn and comes back. I don't get the feeling he is coming back to help because I am stranded. He blocks my path from the highway. Jumping out of the car, he draws his pistol. I put my hands out of my car window so he can see my actions. Aiming at mt head, he asks for my license and registration.

"Keep your hands where I can see them."

No shit, I think to myself, surprised this gung ho cop hoped I didn't think of that first.

Walking up to the window with rabid havalina authority, trooper asks, "been drinkin'?"

"No sir ." I reply, spitting out the S's and growling in my R's. " I don't believe in legal drugs."

Trooper gawked at me like a fish. "What were you doing by that car?" The mudshark pointed to an abandoned car parked down the highway.

"If you were paying attention you would know I never went near it." I replied frankly. Fear was setting in as I realized that this cop was ready to harass me with blatant lies to try to violate my rights with false allegation.

The patrolman takes my license and registration and walks backwards to his car to run a check. He puts his gun back in the holster and walks back up to the car window, "Get out of the car." he bellows. I comply. He tells me to stand in front of the car. I stand in front of the car. Like a dog digging for a bone he begins tossing things out of my car and I panic and swallow the last of my holy smoke before he calls out the canines. He tears my car apart searching for something. He finds my stars and throwing knives. "What are these for." he asks

"I practice throwing them at targets," I reply.

The trooper then finds my gun and looks it over like some kind of relic. He says nothing about the gun. The police check comes back over the radio clean. The trooper has his fists clenched and a violent look in his eye. I get the feeling he wants to beat me up. I don't know what to do. Defending myself could be a big mistake. The idea of pain being inflicted on me without reason makes me want to kill this man, cop or not. I will shoot him with my pistol or his own pistol if he so much as touches me. I would rather do life in prison knowing he is dead and that I didn't submit to brutality. A car passes by us on the highway, it slows down and pulls to the side and watches. The trooper looks at me with fury and looks at the stopped car like an unwelcome vigil.

"I am going to let you go." he says.

"Fine," I reply. I get back in my car and it starts right up, driving off I didn't look back. When driving through Lincoln County, Nevada, I hope you never discover the uncanny surveillance.

Sera walked into Circle K on fifth st. without noticing it had not been remodeled since 1986, and that someone from another, more financially kept city might actually find the convenience store to be disgusting, the dirt being so thick on the windows that you could only see blurry faces on the inside. Inside she saw five people in the store and believed that all of them were staring at her, looking through her like they knew more about herself than she did. The clerk, she thought, had even looked up from her monotonous duties at the cash register to glance her wrinkled leathery face in Sera's direction.

An ugly bum in the beer section reached into the cooler with a calloused black hand as Sera walked through the candy aisle to pick up a case of Budweiser.

"Ah yes, forty ounces to freedom." The black skinned bum grabbed a forty of old English malt liquor while he turned a decrepit smile toward Sera. She smiled back sheepishly without knowing why and took the Budweiser out of the fridge that Liza had sent for her to get. She thought of Liza as she stood in line behind the old bum. Her face, an illusion in her mind, made out of the back of the bums scraggily black afro.

When she walked out the door the bum stood outside with his paper bagged forty in his hand. "Need any help with that tonight?" He grinned with a yellow and half tooth full mouth. "I tend to get pretty thirsty." He held up his forty as if to clarify his thought to Sera.

Sera looked at the black man and saw how gross he looked, and then thought why not bring someone back to the apartment for Liza to fuck with.

"Sure. I'm walking. It's just a couple of blocks down in the Kohler building." Her voice was firm but also curious.

"Lets doer little woman." Sera rolled her eyes, turned around, and started walking.

When they passed the third floor on the way up to the Landlady's apartment Sera had glanced down the hall and seen that Luther's door lay wide open, and that some of his books had spilled out into the hallway toppled on top of each other.

On the fourth floor, Liza's door lay open and Sera could hear her washing clothes while talking to Luther. Their voices being drowned out by the sound of Liza washing a piece of clothing. Ringing it out over the wash bucket and then beating it against her wall before hanging it on her clothes line that stretched out of her window and across the street. The bum stumbled behind her, babbling nonsense and guzzling his malt liquor.

Luther stood in the doorway looking very old and ragged. His beard unshaven and his hair uncut, sticking out from his head like half was windblown and half wasn't. His eyes droopy and his cheeks sagging.

"Hello Luther." Sera put a hand on his shoulder as she passed by him into the apartment.

"I will have the rent. My check from the Government will have come by then," Luther said.

Liza stopped beating a pair of Levis against her wall and walked heavily back to her wash bucket by the window. Sera glanced nonchalantly at the silent children sleeping on the floor next to the wall, their bones poking through their skin and their cheeks sunken into their skulls. They were cuddled together against the wall as if it might provide them warmth.

Sera set the beer on a small round table that sat near the wall with the window. She noticed the dirty bum had followed her inside and was looking at the children and the drooping water stains that fell down every wall in the apartment, giving a stench of mildew to the air.

"I need to borrow the white truck that sits below my apartment." Said Luther.

"White Truck?" Liza stopped her incessant washing. "That truck? It doesn't run. You can't borrow it." She stared at the old man with her beady black eyes and then went back to washing a small T-shirt.

Luther mumbled something about getting rid of all of his books and needing the white truck to do this and then turned around so quickly to walk out the door that one of his books fell out of his coat pocket and hit the floor. Sera watched it drop to the bare floor. Luther did not come back to get it.

"Who's your friend hon?" Liza said to Sera while still washing clothes and looking up at the black bum with a wide grin that showed her crooked teeth.

"Oh, that's old Johnny. Don't you remember him?" Sera looked at the old bum, who stared back at her. His forty empty and clutched in his large black hand.

"Oh, you be Johnny Walker?"

"He, he." The bum replied.

Sera cracked open a beer and pounded the whole thing in a couple of gulps. "You want some meth Johnny?" Sera said as she walked toward him. She put her fat pale hand on his chest. "We got some you know."

"Well, I don't think I've ever been able to pass anything up, much less drugs."

"Good. That's real good Johnny." Said Sera.

"Hey you know Johnny, I bet you'd like to fuck one of those kids over there huh?" Said Liza.

Sera smiled as she opened another beer.

"Well, uh, I don't know." The bum looked at the sleeping kids, toppled on top of one another as if they had been fed some codeine to put them to sleep.

"Ah come on now Johnny. Why not have a little tight poke before moving on to the big stuff." Sera slammed her half-guzzled beer on the table and began to feel herself up, pushing her fat breasts together. She could see the black bum get an erection. She then grabbed her ass with one hand while the other played with her tits. Liza looked up and smiled with her big crooked teeth. The old black bum looked back at the children and then walked toward them, crouching down beside them.

"Hey there little fellas. He, he." He petted them like a dog while Sera pounded the rest of her beer and saw Luther standing in the doorway again, another one of his books coming out of his left pant leg and onto the floor.

"I have too many books Mrs. Liza. I need that truck to get rid of all of them." He stared at the old woman looking frantic and angry. His eyes wild and his whole body trembling.

"You can't have the damn truck Luther." Liza looked back at him in disgust. Sera noticed another book fall to the floor when Luther's hand shot out of his pocket revealing a ten-inch long knife with an old ivory handle.

"I can't handle so many books Mrs. Liza. I don't have time to read all of them, and now that I've gotten so many I want to burn all of them." He held the knife out in front of him. He no longer shook, but his eyes shone cold and placid. "I need your truck Mrs. Liza, to pack all of them books in."

"Now put that knife down Luther." Yelled Liza. She, Sera, and the old bum had now backed into the corner of the room by the window. "We can work out a deal with the truck, now put the damn knife down." She yelled again.

Luther advanced toward the window, packing the three of them tightly together. Five feet away he began slashing with the blade, cutting it through the air. Sera panicked and screamed. Liza kept yelling at him and scolding him. The old bum smiled for the first time that day.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-TONG! ..............

"Yeah, I finally got that damn clock to stop," the man mumbled happily. "Now I can sit here and read in peace." He picked up his copy of Canterbury Tales, aching to find the insight that his professor swore was kept hidden within. He started once again. The Miller's Tale. "Hmm, I wonder how long it is." He started to flip through the pages one by one, counting them off. "One, two, three, four, five, . . . seventeen. Well, that's not so bad. If I could just get started on it." He looked down and started to read. "Whan that the Knight hadde thus his tale ytold." Tick-tock, tick-tock. "Dammit!" He jumped up out of the easy chair, and in doing so sent his literature book cascading across the room. "Damned clock. I'll show you what's up."

The poor clock really didn't know what to make of this. After all, it was just sitting there, doing its job of counting the seconds, minute after minute, hour after hour. It was a good little clock. It was about the size of a baseball, and it's brass plating was polished to a gleaming shine. It fancied itself as attractive. People loved it. No one had ever told it to shut up before. This was all brand new to it. It wanted the man to be happy. It really did. But the man was far from that at the moment. His fair skinned face was mottled and flushed with rage. His blond hair was tousled and unkept, and looked as though he had just woken up. His shirt was untucked from his jeans in various spots, almost making him look like a bum. The clock ticked to itself again as the man stepped closer. It was still vaguely upset at the shoe that had been thrown at it a few minutes before. Violence just wasn't the answer, the clock believed. If you just waited, time would solve everything. It was inevitable. The man was just a few steps away now, and the clock was frightened. What would this man do to him? Would he tear out his gears, pull out his plugs, or would he merely smash him into the fireplace he was resting on, ending it all with single forceful blow. The clock's ticking sped up ever so slightly, half a second instead of a whole. It was nervous about what it was going to do. As far as it knew, no clock had ever done it before, and the rest would probably not know what was going on. It was a timepiece, in sync with all such like it the world over. If one of them was suddenly unplugged, or went dead, all would know of it. That is just the way it is.

The man put his hand on the clock, ready to hurl it against the wall like a pitcher delivering a fastball. He brought his arm back, cocked his wrist, and started to swing his arm forward. As he did so, however, he felt something strange.

First his hand began to tingle, a warm, prickly sensation not at all unlike that of a limb that had fallen asleep. He tried to finish the motion of throwing the clock, but he found to his astonishment that he had not control at all over his body. The tingling spread down to his wrist, his forearm, up to his shoulder, and then spread completely through him until his whole body was alight with the uncomfortable sensation. He lost control of his bladder, his bowels. "What is this?" he screamed, his panic turning to shock. He tried to speak, to force out a scream of denial against what was happening to him, and he found that his voice had fled, that even the muscles that controlled his mouth, his tongue, had left his control. His eyes started to droop shut, and he had the terrible feeling that they would be forever closed, and he would be left to sit eternally in the dark alone, bereft of all companionship. For a moment, just a moment, he thought he would succeed in curbing the force, that he would have his sight to himself once again. But that thought fled only seconds later when the pressure was brought to bear tenfold, and his eyes dropped shut with the slam of a garage door. Now only one part of his body was left under his control, and, though this part was far from weak, he was too frightened to bring its full power to bear. He now started to fight it fully though. If his mind, his spirit, wasn't his, then he wasn't himself anymore, and he didn't want to contemplate what he would become, not now. He started to push at the force with his minding, blindly hoping that in some way, he could make it exit, that it would at least leave him as himself, as he. Sweat started trickling down his forehead, collecting under his arms. He could still feel the sticky tingling sensation as it did so, which was a good sign, showed that he hadn't lost his ability to feel. He pushed even harder, felt his head begin to pound as if a blacksmith was attempting to smelter his brain. He felt the force give just a fraction. His eyelid fluttered, and he nervously moistened his lips. "Yes!" he shrieked to himself. Even his voice in his mind sounded high pitched.

However, this one moment of celebration, this one brief relaxation of his will, let the presence clamp down harder that ever before. He bit into his tongue as it clamped down, and he roared in pain and anger as he felt the blood well up inside his mouth. It pushed even harder at his brain, now using the rigid, quick blows of a jackhammer instead of a smithy. Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang, clang. Twenty blows a second it seemed, each one sapping more of his strength than the last. Each one pushing him one step closer to the edge of losing control completely. "No," he moaned to himself, hearing his voice fade in his own mind. "Nnnoooooo!"

Clank! Woogety, woogety, woogety. The clock hit the floor and rolled about for a moment, before running into the thickly padded leg of a white sofa. For a moment, it vaguely wondered where the man was, wondered what would become of him. But even an item such as it was couldn't really guess where it had sent the man, couldn't ever really know, for it could never be outside time, but could only stop it for a moment. Tick-tock.

Long shadows meandered through the darkened house, lightning strobing their actions on the walls. Jeremy stood in the dark kitchen, holding a small emergency candle and a box of matches. Barefoot in jeans, and an unbuttoned flannel, his relaxed look belied his state of mind. The sights and sounds of the night made him pause.

Holding stalk still, he listened intently, hoping for the sounds to be the dog or maybe some farm animals. The noises that greeted him were nothing of the sort. The wind and rain made the trees creek and the windows rattle.

Moving through the old house, Jeremy tripped over assorted furniture, trying to navigate in the random illumination. The electricity had gone out a couple of minutes before, leaving only the lightning to help Jeremy find the kitchen.

Outside, the wind was hammering at the windows. Soft grass crumpled under foreign, unliving feet. Around the house, the creators of those shadows moved slowly past the windows.

Jeremy finally got the candle lit and headed toward the silverware drawer. The wandering flame of the candle painted more eerie shadows on the kitchen walls. Grabbing a hand full of knives, he selected the largest, and armed himself.

Slow feet trudged along the cracked sidewalk, outside. A torn pantleg dragged behind, snagging the bushes. The smell of wet concrete mixed with noxious odors.

Another strange shadow passed the kitchen window. Jeremy caught only the tail end of it in a random flash of lightning. Tightening his grip on the knife, he stood listening. The sounds that came were not encouraging.

As the pale, torn hand snatched at the screen door handle, a ragged foot slapped flatly on the first step, outside. Pieces of insect-eaten flesh hung lifelessly. A bony finger slowly groped for the screen door button. The dull white bone scratched along the black metal.

Inside, the sound echoed in the heavy silence. Jeremy froze, then turned toward the door. A low groan rose up in his throat as terror wrapped its icy fingers around his heart. Another strobe of lightning silhouetted a dark figure in the doorway.

Jeremy stared at the door for a second, then ran to the master bedroom, down the hall. Knife in hand, he rounded the corner and into the room. Throwing open the closet door, he dove in. Nervously, yet trying to be extremely quiet, he rifled through the closet. Finally lighting upon his treasure, he grabbed the large .45 caliber pistol, used for target practice at the town dump.

"Bullets, bullets, bullets, " Jeremy stammered. His hands shook with fear.

In the hallway, noises of crashing objects and slow shuffling, became louder. A low growl was emanating, just beyond the bedroom door.

Fumbling fingers found the box of bullets. Searching for light to read the bullet type, he looked into the hall, as another strobe of lightning hit. In the foreground, the bullet read ".45 cal. BLACK TALONS," in the foreground. In the background, a grotesque face grinned at him.

The clipped snapped easily into the pistol.

"Back off!" Jeremy shouted. The figure kept grinning as it came through the door and shuffled closer.

"I'm warning you, " Jeremy shouted, his voice shaking.

The figure smiled openly, green and red drool cascading down its chin. Terror gave way to clarity, as Jeremy fingered the trigger.

"Too late, " he whispered.

The gun recoiled, as the bullet ripped forward and carved a hole in the intruder's chest. The loud retort of the silver pistol rang in Jeremy's ears.

The bullet exited easily out of the back of the intruder. To Jeremy's horror, the figure kept coming. The grin wouldn't die. He fired again, a bit higher.

The shot splattered everything from rotting grey matter to cranial bits on the opposite wall. With that the intruder stopped. The thing fell to its knees, then out upon what remained of its chest. Gore covered the bedroom floor.

Falling back against the closet, Jeremy breathed out hard. He stood, staring at the thing for a moment. Being seventeen and a senior in high school was bad enough, but that thing on the floor really took the cake. Looking over into the closet, he spotted another weapon of mass destruction. A large double-barreled shotgun sat propped up in a corner. He snatched it up and dug his way through the mess of the closet to find shells.

"Thank god for paranoid parents," Jeremy thought to himself.

New noises sprung up in the living room, signaling the arrival of more intruders. Jeremy loaded the shotgun quickly and stooped in front of the headless figure before him. Its extremities looked as if some animal had already had their way with them. Tiny insects moved about in its clothing.

Jeremy looked away in disgust, stood and exited the dark bedroom. In the black living room, shapes moved and intertwined with the huge shadows. A string of lightning strobes flashed in an awkward tandem with the explosions from the shotgun. It kicked hard in Jeremy's trembling hands, but felt good. As his guest fell to pieces, the fear turned to an adrenaline rush. Groans and animalistic grunts came from everywhere, as the ghouls searched for Jeremy.

Making his way to the phone, he kept firing. Snatching up the receiver, he pressed it to his ear with his left hand. Dead silence echoed back at him. With another blast, the living room also echoed silence. The smell of sulfur hung in the air. Another stench that mimicked age-old sweat socks, rose up from the gore that covered the floor.

Jeremy stood still, holding his breath, waiting and listening. His ears rung from the blasts. All the excitement had his heart racing at the speed of light. With no other responses, a wide smile spread across his thin face.

"Ha, " he laughed, as he went back to the closet for more bullets.

Holding the gun tight, he felt better. Though he still couldn't wrap his mind around the events that just happened, the gun reassured him.

Within a few minutes, Jeremy found three more boxes of shells and more clips for the pistol. No more visitors had showed, but he was sure that others were out there.

Standing up in the dark living room, his black boots crushed the shag carpet. Behind his back, in his waistband, he packed the .45 pistol. He wore a blue T-shirt, over which hung a faded, oversized flannel. Slung over his shoulder was the shotgun. He carried a black back pack, full of matches, first-aid, and other provisions.

He threw the pack over the other shoulder and headed out the front door. As he walked to the gate, he took a coin from his pocket, and flipped it into the air. Heads, he went north, into town. Tails, he went south.

As he followed the spinning coin with his gaze, a flash of light reflected in his neighbor's house, just up the road to the north. Jeremy rushed through the gate and ran in that direction.

Behind him, the coin bounced on the ground and spun. It finally stopped on tails. South.

"Maddie, are you sure you don't want anything more? You didn't eat much," Mrs. Whitman turned from her dishes to ask her daughter.

"I'm fine. I'll eat a big lunch," Stacie said, gulping down her last bit of water.

"Maybe you do. But I never see you eat much. For breakfast it's a pancake with jam. Even if you did eat all your lunch like you say you do, when it comes to dinner time, you eat like a bird. Stacie, I think you need to eat more," Mrs. Whitman told her daughter, relieved that she had finally confronted her about her meals.

"I eat enough. You don't see me all day long. I eat at other times during the day, too. Just because I don't eat chips when I come home from school or snack on cookies. Just because I'm trying to be healthy, you criticize me for making an effort," Stacie defended, raising her voice.

"It's not about choosing healthy foods to eat. I admire your self control. I really do. You know I have difficulty saying no to deserts and different things. But Stacie, I can see you're not eating enough. Those jeans you're wearing, they fit you perfectly when you picked them out this summer but now you need a smaller size. I understood that you wanted to lose a few pounds; all of us can stand to shed a few pounds. But you've kept losing. You look good, I admit. You look very good but I'm worried. You need to eat more. You're so active, running every morning, school, volleyball. You need food to keep you going," Mrs. Whitman explained.

Her heart was beating quickly now and her body became warm. Tears welled up in her eyes but she continued gazing at her daughter, hoping she had made a connection, a break through.

"I said I eat enough!" Stacie shot back angrily. "I am fine. I've lost weight and thank you for noticing. Something you've never been able to do. You and your stupid Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers and diet pills and every other dumb T.V. trash diet you send away for. You're really going to lose weight when you eat out and catch fast food all the time! I heard Big Macs do wonders! 'Just eat these pills and they'll give you all the nutrients you need and reduce your appetite too, '" Stacie mocked.

"What a crock! Just because you can't lose weight doesn't mean you have to get angry at others for succeeding! Try walking. Try cutting back on the fat. Maybe eat half as much as you do now and you might see some progress. But don't take it out on me! That's your problem. You should be happy for me!" Stacie yelled, grabbing her lunch from the counter her mother had already prepared and stomping out of the kitchen.

Maddie Colonol, Stacie's best friend since grade school, happily greeted her at the bike racks that morning, "Hey Stacie! What's going on?"

"I'm all right. How was your ride over?" Stacie asked.

"It was great. Such a nice morning," she smiled. "Stacie, you look good. Have you been losing weight?" Maddie asked as she looked at her friend's figure, noticing how good she looked in her old, faded Levi's.

"Oh, I guess, maybe a little," Stacie responded, bashfully.

"You look really good," her friend complimented her again.

"Thanks," Stacie beamed. She knew she had been working out hard, and watching what she ate. She noticed her pants and shorts were loose against her hips and that made her happy. My mom worries too much, she thought, I'm fine. If I could just keep losing weight, I'll be happy.

Fall flew by quickly for both girls. Stacie lettered in volleyball that season, and Maddie played sweeper for the soccer team. Before they knew it, the snow was falling and Christmas break had arrived. "Have a great vacation, Maddie. Send me postcards and call!" Stacie yelled as she waved to her friend.

"I will! Merry Christmas. Have a great break!" Maddie yelled out the window, her voice trailing off as her family drove away in their new, red '98 Suburban.

Since Maddie had taken off, and her cousins weren't coming until Christmas day, Stacie eagerly devoted her days to exercising, running twelve to fifteen miles each day, followed by a rigorous weight routine, and sparse feedings. Sharp hunger pains plagued her during the days, but she dismissed them with glasses of water and occasionally a piece of fruit or some carrots. Wanting to reward herself for all her hard work, and knowing she needed to spend some time with her family, Stacie slept in Christmas morning. She awoke to open gifts and later helped her mother get the house ready for the family feast.

"Stacie, just finish setting the table. Light the candles. Oh! I almost forgot about the music. Put in my new Christmas CD and then go ahead and get yourself ready," Mrs. Whitman ordered frantically, wanting to have everything perfect for her sister's family when they arrived.

Stacie obediently slipped in her mother's new CD into the stereo system. Joyous sounds of bells and carols rang forth. Stacie couldn't wait to slip into her Liz Claiborne jeans. They fit perfectly, she thought, as she examined herself in the mirror, noting how slim her legs looked, and how narrow her waist. Flipping through her closet, she chose her red turtle neck and carefully pulled it over her head and tucked it in, trying not to damage her hairdo. She admired herself again in the mirror and decided to wear her tan leather belt. She loved wearing belts now that she had lost weight. Gone were the days of large, untucked shirts that covered and hid her butt. Finally she had something to be proud of!

"Stacie. It's time to eat," her mother called, interrupting her thoughts and forcing herself to pull away from the mirror.

"Okay. I'm coming!" She yelled back, posing again in the mirror for one last look at her trim figure.

She left her room grinning, filled with the music of Christmas, delighted with her appearance, and excited to greet her relatives.

"Hi Emily! Hi Hanna! Hi Aunt Suzy, Uncle Dan! So glad you guys could make it!" Stacie beamed, as she approached the dining table, her arms stretched out to embrace them.

"Good to see you," her Aunt answered, as if forced to respond.

Stacie kept waiting for her cousins to smile but they continued to stare at her as though they had never seen her before.

"Hello? Hello Emily and Hanna," Stacie spoke again, not understanding why they were being so rude.

"Hi Stacie," the eldest Emily, finally spoke, still unable to pry her eyes off the frail thin, bony structure of her cousin.

"I haven't seen you guys for forever, since Easter at Grandma's house. I was so happy when mom said you were spending Christmas with us." Stacie smiled, her cheek bones protruding from her bony face as she walked around the table to find the empty chair to sit down.

"Well. Let's get this dinner rolling. I've been smelling this turkey and stuffing all day and I'm ready to eat. Help yourselves," Mr. Whitman announced, helping himself to a large portion of mashed potatoes.

The dishes were passed around and one by one the plates piled high with turkey, rolls, potatoes and gravy, corn, and salad, all except for Stacie's. Stacie loved a good Christmas dinner as much as anyone but took only small portions of the leanest white meat and avoided the middle of the mashed potato bowl, where the spoonful of butter sat.

"Oh Stacie," Emily explained, observing the plate of skimpy servings, "Come on. Don't tell me that's all your eating. That's pathetic. Here, take a little salad," she continued as she dumped a pile of fruit salad on Stacie's plate.

"Looks like you need some more potatoes too," Emily reached across the table for the bowl of mashed potatoes and served her a heaping spoonful of buttery potatoes.

"And you need some gravy. Hanna, serve Stacie some gravy," she ordered satisfactorily.

"Emily. I think I can serve myself. I don't like gravy and I don't like the butter on the mashed potatoes and I didn't take very much salad because I've eaten fruit all day today," Stacie confronted her cousin defensively.

"Well, you need to eat more. When you came out to greet us, I didn't say anything for so long because I couldn't believe how skinny you looked. Not just skinny, but bony! Your bones are sticking out in your face and you have no butt. Come on. Eat!" Emily spoke back, her voice escalating with emotion.

Feeling the eyes burrowing into her skin from all directions of the table and shocked at the cruel words her cousin was shouting out at her, Stacie ran from the table, fled to her bedroom, locked the door, flopped onto her bed and clutched her pillow. They just don't understand me, she wept, as she cried herself to sleep.

Stacie found herself spending the rest of Christmas break in her bedroom. She avoided Emily every chance she could and ignored everyone. Her mother knocked on the door to talk but Stacie locked the door and kept quiet, spending her hours doing push-ups and sit-ups and aerobic activities. They're just jealous that I'm skinnier than them. Maddie will understand.

Pamela Anderton loves to daydream. She'd say it's the best way for everyone to get what they deserve. She has recently changed her major to English in order to learn to express her ideas better. After graduation she plans on getting a job writing whatever needs to be written. When asked what the best invention in the world is she would reply without hesitation a word processor with spell check.

A senior with a biology background, Daniel G. Brown spent fourteen years in the US Navy before realizing that there was life on land. He flew out of Bahrain, Saudi Arabia in November of 1993 and didn't stop until he reached his home town of Pocatello. He will graduate in just one more semester and will then concentrate on finding a job with a paycheck, riding his 1948 Harley Davidson, and teaching his two sons how to stay out of trouble.

Judy Cameron has always enjoyed making stories. It hasn't been until recently that she actually started putting her stories on paper. She prefers to write fantasy and science fiction. She was born in California, but except for a three year stint in New Mexico, has lived in Idaho.

Nathan Dirkmaat, an aspiring young adult suspense author, has taken creative writing classes at ISU and Ricks College. His favorite authors include Christopher Pike and Madeleine L'Engle. Nathan will graduate from ISU in December 1998 with a B.A. in English.

International student Sachiko Fukuoka came to ISU to learn English. She loves stories, but struggling in English is hard work, although she is gradually improving. She is interested in comparing American culture with Japanese culture. Recently she found how to choose topics to write about. In the future she wants to publish short stories dealing with the two cultures.

Currently trying to recover from the retail Christmas season which starts annually in October, Lyle K. Hall tries hard to push his creative talents into other directions while staying sane in the retail industry. He hopes to explore the larger aspects of Life.

Summer Hansen is a disenchanted student majoring in English at ISU. She enjoys highly caffeinated coffee in the morning and red wine at night. Some day she hopes to move to nirvana and become a successful Zen master.

Dashingly handsome Ben Kennedy is best known for his European comedy hit "Ich Bin Hitler, Ich Bin Jung". Just recently he has returned from New York where he lived on the streets for four years gathering information for his next project "I Was a Teenage Sexpot!" Look for the novel in May, published by Double Day.

David Kirkham is an engineering major, who has always had a passion for writing. His interests include lack of sleep, Tootsie Rolls, black coffee, and the hum of a computer at three a.m.

Casey Larsen believes that lewd madness is sublime enlightenment, truth is still stranger than fiction, and truth disguised as fiction makes the unbelievable believable. Casey wants the reader to decide what paradigm merits belief.

A middle distance runner on the ISU track team and a member of the track house, Colby Matter enjoys writing and hopes that his friends enjoy his stories. Colby is a major fan of the Beastie Boys and believes in taking vitamins regularly and keeping your body healthy.

Shaun McFerrin, a 5'7" 170lb. weighlifter who's really getting sick of the sport, lost my truck a month ago when it threw a rod, and I've been mad at the world ever since.

According to Jeremy Royal, writing is an activity best enjoyed at 2 a.m. with a frozen pizza and loud, alternative music in the background. Years of writing slightly corrupted stories have warped his young mind.

Sara Wilson plans to graduate in the spring of 1999 and has no classes left after this semester! She's going to be a teacher. Maybe she'll have your kid in class some day.