Great Hites 68

This week we have stories by:

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Marla J. Mercer
Norval Joe
Arlene Radasky
and
Mick Bordet <--------- This week's Winner



Marla J. Mercer

My story is based on a newspaper item that I found in the Business Section of the Los Angeles Times dated 8/19/09. The headline reads, “Coffee Jar Case Isn’t Closed”. It’s about a former male model who is suing Nestle USA for using an image of his face on the Taster’s Choice freeze-dried coffee label without his permission. The piece gave me the idea for the following story entitled . . .


An Unauthorized Likeness
By: Marla J. Mercer


A woman in the dayroom is using my face without permission. I saw her reflection in the window today as I was taking a brief walk around the ward. She was standing next to the television. When I turned to confront her, she quickly darted into the water-therapy room. I immediately reported the infraction to the new nurse. He is a big man with thickets of black hair on his forearms. I believe his name is Nurse Roland, though I may have him confused with one of the characters in the novel I am writing—I’m not sure.

That’s one of the things I like about my stay here at the hospital. The members of the staff understand the subtleties of my craft and make no demands on me to sort out what is real from what is fictional and vice versa. When I lived at home with my husband, Benjamin, it was an unspoken rule that I keep my writing-mind separate from my wife-mind, a task I found extremely difficult and frustrating. Sometimes it took all my concentration to keep the filters working. In retrospect I’m surprised that the screaming didn’t start much earlier.

But, I digress. Getting back to my complaint, using the image of another’s person face without prior approval is a clear violation of hospital policy, and unfortunately, this is not the first time it has happened. On several occasions, I have noted that same forlorn-looking woman using an unauthorized likeness of my hands and upper torso. If appropriate steps are not taken to stop her, I may be forced to sue. I will ask my husband about it the next time he visits. Benjamin is an attorney and knows all about the law.

Take, for instance, the details of my commitment. Benjamin was able to quickly cut through the legal red tape and have me admitted for immediate long-term care, forgoing the usual 72-hour observation period. Everything is spelled out quite clearly in the meticulously prepared documents that he has since filed. Benjamin prides himself on being efficient and well-organized, which is why he considers me to be such a disappointment.

I suppose I can’t blame him for thinking that I have failed him as a wife. For the record, though, I would like to state that I tried very hard to be the kind of competent woman he wanted me to be. Each morning, before Benjamin left for work, we would carefully review the list of daily household chores and errands that he had prepared for me.

“Just work your way down the list, one task at time, and you’ll see how easy it is to get everything done,” he would say.

I would nod in agreement and kiss him goodbye, fully intending to follow his instructions to the letter.
It’s just that . . . I would find myself walking past the computer. And then I would start thinking about a story I was working on, and without even realizing it, I was Alice down the rabbit hole. Before I knew it, Benjamin would be home from work, and I would still be dressed in my pajamas, clicking away at the keyboard, and not a single item crossed off the list.

I have tried to explain the phenomenon of writing-related time warps, but Benjamin thinks I am crazy. To him, time proceeds in an orderly and methodical fashion. His minutes are well-trained soldiers on parade, each equal distance apart and marching in perfect cadence. He keeps a very close eye on them, too, and is forever checking his watch, especially when he comes to visit me.

Luckily, the fluid nature of clocks and calendars is no longer an issue that concerns me. The staff here keeps track of everything on my behalf. Visiting days, appointments, meal times, medication schedules—I need not give them a second thought. For the first time in my life, I am free to write day and night, without any restrictions.

It took my good friend, Doctor Melvin, to figure out that if I am writing, I am not screaming, which is why he has issued orders for the staff never to interrupt me when I am working. Their cooperation and support do not go unnoticed and will be duly acknowledged when my novel is published. I will also be including a special dedication to Doctor Melvin for supplying me with the most amazing computer imaginable. It has increased my productivity a thousand fold.

My old computer at home required me to manually type the words to my stories, a method so pathetically slow that only the tiniest percentage of my ideas ever found their way to my fingertips. Here at the hospital, however, Doctor Melvin has granted me round-the-clock access to a special brainwave computer that eliminates the need for any keyboard input whatsoever. With my new equipment, I am able to transfer each and every thought directly into the central processing unit at the same lightening-fast speed at which my neural synapses are firing. Though Doctor Melvin has yet to reveal the technical specifications of the hardware, I strongly suspect the circuitry involved is similar to the machine used for my shock treatments, for I often experience a tremendous rush of creativity after a session.

I have asked Doctor Melvin and the staff not to mention anything to my husband. If Benjamin were to find out about the brainwave computer, I fear he would have me transferred to another hospital. After what happened the night I was committed, I am convinced he would stop at nothing to keep me from pursuing my writing career.

“I’ve had it with this little hobby of yours” he had declared that evening.

I had just returned from the grocery store and was putting a sack of groceries on the counter. “What are you talking about?” I had asked.

“You weren’t here when I got home, and now it’s six-thirty, and you haven’t even started supper. I’ve tried to be tolerant and indulge you, Lena, but I’ve reached my limit. Look at this place. It’s a mess. Enough is enough. From here on out, you’re going to stop all this writing nonsense and get your priorities back in order.”

His words had slapped my face as surely as an open palm. “But, I can’t stop writing,” I had protested. “My stories are the only things in my life that—”

“Your stories are gone,” Benjamin had interrupted. “While I was here by myself, wondering where you were, I was forced to take matters into my own hands.”

A shiver of fear had run up my spine. “What do you mean?”

“I’m saying that I’ve solved our problem. I deleted all your document files and shredded your paper copies. I cleared everything off the external hard drive, as well.”

“You what!”

“It’s for the best, Lena. I read a few pages. Believe me—it’s no great loss. You’re a housewife, not a writer.”

And that’s when the high-pitched screaming had started. Until then, I hadn’t realized the full range of my vocal chords. At least, I think I was the one doing the screaming. It’s possible that it might actually have been a character in my novel. It’s so hard to keep these things straight. Or perhaps it was that very sad-looking woman who keeps using my body without proper authorization or consent. I have a hunch she is the one I sometimes hear crying when I wake up at night. Maybe I should write a story about her.

Then again . . . maybe I already have.


An Unauthorized Likeness by Marla J. Mercer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.


Crowded Living Space
By: Norval Joe

"Come on, it's over this way," Dean said. He motioned for his cousin to follow, and ran forward, not waiting for a response. When he reached a bend in the passage, he turned to wait for the slower boy.
"Wait, Dean, let me rest a bit. No one is following us anyway." Bent over, his hands on his knees, he gasped for air.
"We don't know that Vance, my little brothers are sneaky and persistent. If you'd stop breathing so loud, I could listen for them, and know for sure." Dean stepped back down the dark hallway and listened. Vance tried to control his breathing. For the few seconds while there was silence, Dean confirmed that they were, in fact, alone.
They held their lanterns in front of themselves. While the light illuminated the ground at their feet for only a few yards, it was picked up by reflected by small sensors on the walls for almost 100 feet. "Three more sensors on the left and then we turn," Dean said.
"How can you be sure. I'm completely lost, and you think you know where you're going?" Vance was skeptical.
"Look, Vance, you just have to pay attention. How far was it from our apartment, to the lowest inhabited floor?"
"Umm. Six, I think. Was it six," he asked Dean?
"No," Dean said, incredulous. "It was eleven. Then how many floors did we descend until got to the long passage? Think about it, four flights of stairs for every floor, you should have been counting." He could see Vance wrinkle his brow and purse his lips in concentration.
"Ten?" Vance guessed.
"You have no idea, do you? Come on, you look rested enough." Dean walked down the hall, his lamp creating an island of light in the vast darkness. "We descended eighty four flights of stairs. That's twenty one more floors. Thirty two in all. At about twenty feet per story we've dropped 640 feet from our apartment and 420 below the last active air pump."
"Air pump. Now I get it," Vance said, and wiped sweat from his forehead. "Is that why it's so stuffy down here?
There aren't any air pumps working."
"Yeah. Where the people live they have to pump the air in to keep it fresh. Once, I tried to get to an opening on our level. I wanted to see the sky and breath outside, in the open air. I walked for almost a day, maybe in circles, but I never found a way out. Here is the next turn. Come on, in here."
They entered another passage. It ran a short distance, maybe 100 yards, and stopped at a heavy door.
"Be careful here," Dean said to Vance. "Here, take this chair leg and jam it in there when I open the door," Dean said and indicated the hinged side of the door. "It worked to hold the door open the last time I came through here, but it was tough doing it by myself."
Dean pulled back a large spring loaded bolt, held it with one hand, and pushed on the manual door release with the other. Years ago the door may have been operated electronically; prismatic sensors on the door and wall were evidence of past technology.
Dean pushed the door open and Vance wedged it like he was told. Wind from outside rushed past them blowing their hair and clothes, and trying to force the door shut again. There was just enough space through the open door for each boy to squeeze through and onto a narrow ledge.
Dean was smiling as he watched the other boy make his way out onto the ledge and look down. The shock and fear on his face was clear and Dean laughed out loud, and shouted at his cousin, "slide sideways over this way. There's a wider place to stand."
They moved along the narrow shelf to a broader landing where they could sit, comfortably, and catch their breath.
The outer wall of the building dropped away into darkness impenetrable to the light of the small lanterns. Only a few feet away, across the infinite drop, was another building. It had a similar landing to the one where they sat, and an open doorway.
"So is this what you wanted to show me? A ledge above a bottomless pit," Vance asked. "I mean, what can you see? All I can see is ways up to the side of the building and that other one over there."
"No, this isn't it. We're almost there, though. It's just through that door and way down at the end of the passage." Dean replied pointing at the rectangular shadow on the building opposite where they rested. He got to his feet, took a few running steps and jumped across the chasm.
"Are you crazy? What are you doing?" Vance cried at Dean.
"Come on, you wimp. You could step across that big a space if you didn't think about it. Let's go. We need to get back home sometime." Dean laid on the pressure.
They walked along the passage without talking for some time, then Vance said, "how many apartments do you think we've passed? And not a person in one of them."
Dean started calculating, "well, there are supposed to be around 8000 apartments on the floor we live on, and that's without crossing to other buildings on our same level. We've dropped 21 floors that are uninhabited, to where we crossed over to this one. If this building is anything like ours, that would be 42 floors total, so about 320,000 apartments. If you put 20 people in each of them, like we have at home, then you could house 6,400,000 people in the space we have walked."
"Huh," was all Vance could say.
"Hey, look ahead of you," Dean said.
"Why? All I can see is five feet in any direction with this cheep lantern," Vance said, then stopped, suddenly. "No, wait your right. What' that?"
Dean didn't answer. Instead he burst into a run, and shouted, "let's go."
They ran the rest of the distance to the open doorway at the far end of the passage where they burst through and fell gasping for breath on a landing similar to that at the opposite end.
Again, Dean watched the other's face as realization dawned on his cousin.
The sun was only slightly smaller in appearance to the great orange planet above them. The sun stood side by side with Jupiter as if pausing for a moment before passing behind the gas giant.
"Perfect," Dean said. "Last time I was here the sun was on the back side of the moon and all I could see was the planet. Let's wait for the full eclipse before we head back."
They ate crackers and protein slices they had brought with them and watched as the sun slipped slowly behind Jupiter. When the sun was completely hidden, Ganymede was cast into an eerie semi darkness, illuminated by the glow from the planet.
Narrow stairs climbed precariously up and down the cliff like exterior of the city building. Other buildings, like mountain peaks, rose from below, built upon the foundations, or even the backs, of other, more ancient structures.
"Come on, let's head back. Our mothers are probably worrying by now," Dean said. He got up and brushed cracker crumbs from his clothes. Vance followed and got to his feet as well.
"Dean, why don't we stay here? It's so crowded back home, with four families crammed into one apartment. Here we have plenty of space to move around, and the air is fresh. It doesn't need to be pumped; we can just leave the door open."
"There are only two problems," Dean said, heading back up the tunnel. "Food and water. We need both to live, and right now the only source of those is Uncle Rob. He's feeding all of our families."
There was a slope to the hallway they hadn't notice coming down. They were soon huffing as they hiked back up.
Between breaths, Dean suddenly said, matter of factly, "I saw one of the slaves."
"You did not, liar." Vance said, out of childish habit.
"I did. That time I was trying to find a way out on our level. It was carrying some packages for an old woman." Dean slowed to allow his companion to catch up.
"Was it ugly? I heard they're blue, I would kill it if I found one. For taking all our jobs. Well, for taking our parents jobs."
Dean shook his head. "It was kind of blue, but kind of grey too. Something to do with how they lived underground on Callista." He paused, then started again, "You're right. It's not fair that they come in here, get all the advantages of modern civilization, live with some rich old woman, and take all our jobs."
"But then we wouldn't get to have all the fun we do, if we weren't squeezed into the one small room together, would we?" Dean asked sarcastically.
They both laughed as they stepped through the door way onto the inner landing, between the two buildings. The laughter ended suddenly and they stood, stunned.
"Well, ok. I guess my brothers will have a little more space in the bedroom from now on," Dean said. "The door to our building is closed, and there's no way to open it from outside."


No karaoke for you! Bad wiring spells tone-deaf
By: Arlene Radasky


"Gracie? Where are we going tonight?" Josh's voice carried over the stunted walls of the warehouse like office.

"Oh no, you didn't invite him, did you Gracie?" Mary's stage whisper didn't carry as far but embarrassed me just a much.

"I couldn't help it, he overheard us talking at lunch. You know how much fun he said he had the last time he came with us," I responded in a muted grimace. "He invited himself."

I stood up, looked toward Josh's voice and saw him standing, no towering, over the half wall that separated us all like mice in a maze. He was at least six foot two and had a body of a tennis player. I always compared a lanky man's body to a tennis player's. I loved watching tennis and dreamed of meeting Andre Agassi and Roger Federer climbing the stairs of my apartment building. But Josh was a not a tennis player, his rangy dishwater blond hair hanging to his ears in disarray; he looked like the geek he was. His shirt pocket sported at least two pens and the black-rimmed glasses were not over his brown eyes, but slipped half way down his nose. And he wasn't coordinated. As a matter of fact, we all had learned to step out of his way when he was up walking. He invariably would catch his feet under a chair or even his own foot as he made his way to or from his cubicle.

"Tony's Bar and Grill," I said.

He disappeared. I shook my head as I again imagined him climbing into one of those little clown cars. How comfortable can he be all day long in the tiny cubicle of our office spaces? It was hard for me to stay put all day in our individual cell-like squares.

I heard Mary getting ready for our departure and reached into the bottom drawer for my sweater and purse.

Mary stood waiting in the entrance to my cubicle while I turned off my computer and straightened up tomorrow's work on my otherwise bare desk. Mary had pictures of all her nieces and nephews spread around the walls of her cubicle, a vase with a plastic rose, an tiny hour glass filled with sand from the Grand Canyon, a six inch Eiffel Tower and more that she arranged and rearranged everyday. She had been to the Grand Canyon last year and said when she held the Tower that she could imagine herself climbing its steps "all the way to the top to look over Paris someday".

"Why don't you at least bring in some pictures of your family?" she asked.

"I see them often enough, I don't need pictures," I said. I didn't want to explain that there was no family to have pictures of. My twin brother and I had been orphaned, farmed out to foster families, after our parents were killed by a drunk driver when we were ten. Then he got sick three years ago, just before I started work here, and died. I remembered him just fine. Anyway, there were no pictures of him that I knew of. The foster families we were with never took pictures.

"Come on, if we don't hurry, all the good seats will be taken," I said. We caught up with Josh at the elevator. "We can take a taxi and share the fare or the train, take an hour and still have to walk a mile," I said.

"Taxi," they both said at the same time.

The three of us squeezed into the backseat, me in the middle because my legs were shorter, and I told the driver where we were going.

Just after we got started, Josh's cell rang. We all had to squirm into yoga-like positions while he dug into his pocket. Finally retrieved, he opened his phone.

"Hello. No, Tamisha, don't do that. I'm sure she'll be fine. Just be sure there is water and food out for her and I'm sure she'll come out when I get home later. Okay. Thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

What…did he have a wife hiding under the covers at home?

I looked at Mary and she shrugged.

"Do you need to go home?" I asked.

"No."

Brave Mary leaned forward and asked, "Well, who is Tamisha and who the heck is the water and food for?"

We didn't know what his situation was at home, but I knew I remembered him saying he wasn't married the last time he came out with our group. There was no way I would want to be out with him right now if he were.

"Tamisha is a neighbor. She lives in the apartment next to me."

The silence was deafening, even with all the traffic on the streets and the songs on the taxi radio with words I didn't understand.

Mary had not settled back into the seat yet and even found enough room to turn toward Josh. I squirmed as the little room I had between them seemed to grow smaller.

"Okay. Tamisha goes in and feeds Twinkie when I'm late. She loves my dogs, well, now my dog, and I'm hardly ever late so she told me to call her when I needed. I called her before we left."

Now it was my turn to ask. "Twinkie?"

"Yes, Twinkie. She's my miniature Dachshund. I had two but Burger died two weeks ago and Twinkie still misses him. She hides under my bed most of the day."

Oh my God. A rush of memories flooded my brain. My brother had a Dachshund. He said he wanted a pet and a small dog was perfect. His dog's name was Brandy. He said it was because she was the color of his favorite drink. She was five years old when she got cancer and died. He spent a small fortune, money he didn't have to spend on a dog, on her. But she died anyway. It was just months later that he was diagnosed. At that moment, I realized just how much I missed seeing that little dog. All the times I saw them together, before her illness, I remember him smiling.

On my left Mary said, "Oh, I hate those little wiener dogs. They look so weird. I mean, why are they so long? And so low to the ground? I don't like any dogs. I'm allergic."

Now I realized just how little I knew about Mary.

"I love them," I said. "Are you going to get another to keep Twinkie company?"

"I have my bid in with a family who has a litter of pups. They live near my sister. I have the pup picked out and he will be ready to pick up in two weeks, when he is two months old."

"Yuck. Puppy pee all over your carpet and chewed slippers is all you have to look forward to," said Mary.

Josh's arm lying on mine, in this crowded cab, did not seem so much an inconvenience any more. Actually, I kind of liked its pressure on mine.

The taxi pulled up to the curb in front of Tony's and we fell out of the back, one at a time, all reaching for our money. Paid, the driver took off, singing along with the song on his radio.

We found our table in the back, but with a fairly good view of the karaoke stage. Four others from our office were already there so we pulled up some empty chairs and joined them, Josh sitting next to me.

I loved karaoke. I don't know why, but even with my fear of standing in front of any one and talking, to the point of throwing up before any meeting I have to give a presentation at, karaoke did not scare me. I loved to sing. And here was a stage, shared with others like me, who knew we would not get the chance any other time to sing in front of a crowd. Perfect. So I came as often as I could.

The noise was loud enough that I had to lean toward Josh and asked, "Last time you came, you didn't sing. Are you going to tonight?"

He shook his head hair bouncing around his face, "No. I'm tone deaf. I can't sing. I actually can barely tell one song from another." His finger pushed his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. "I can tell by the words, but if it is instrumental, I can't tell classical from jazz."

I stared at him. "Really?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I am a part of a study. I've been to Harvard Medical School three times now. There is a doctor there, who wanted to find out how different our brains were. I get all wired up and then she records what happens when she plays music. And she asks me to sing. Afterwards, we have a good laugh. My singing is really bad."

"But then, why did you come here tonight?"

I think he blushed but it was hard to tell in that light.

"I want to get to know you better. And I thought it would be easier this way. I don't do well asking women out on dates."

"Oh… Me?"

"Yes. You. I like the way you smile and you are so nice to everyone in the office. Even Mary." He smiled and I could see his eyes crinkle. I loved it when men's eyes crinkle.

Suddenly I wanted to tell him everything. Everything that I had never told anyone in the office before. About my parents dying, about being raised by foster parents, about my brother's dog, Brandy dying and then my brother, Terry leaving me. I wanted to get him into a corner of a quiet place and open my heart. Why? Why? Because he loved Dachshunds and his eyes crinkled.

"My brother had a Dachshund, named Brandy, who died of cancer. Was that what Burger died from?"

"No, his kidneys shut down."

We were almost yelling when the crowd got quiet as the first karaoke singer started. It was Country Western night and a lot of teasing and cat-calls were expected at some of the songs that were going to be picked. All in fun. I smiled in anticipation.

It was my turn. I got up to the stage and made my request.

Two measures of music led into Ghost Riders in the Sky and I started singing.

An old cowboy went riding out one dark and windy day

Upon a ridge he rested as he went along his way

When all at once a mighty pack of brown-eyed dogs he saw

A-plowing through the ragged sky and up the cloudy draw



Their tongues hung in greetings and their tails wagged hello

He knew the respect they carried and their hot breath he could feel

A longing of love went through him as they thundered through the sky

And he saw the pups coming hard and he heard their yipping cry



Yippie yi Ohhhhh

Yippie yi yaaaaay

Ghost Dachshunds in the sky

Yippie yi Ohhhhh

Yippie yi Yaaaaay

Ghost Dachshunds in the sky

Yippie yi Ohhhhh

Yippie yi Yaaaaay


I heard laughter I had heard before. Looking over at our table, I saw Josh laughing and wiping his eyes. It was my brother Terry's laughter. The same from the belly laughter that I didn't hear often enough from him. Yes, I told myself. I don't care if he is tone deaf. I love his laughter. I want to get to know Josh much better and meet Twinkie.


The Pit
by: Mick Bordet


It had been a long day for Jim Sykes. Not only had he spent the last five hours with his mother, listening to her planning out the strategy for her entry into the World Cloutie Dumpling Championships, "they're to be held in Lochaber, this year, you know, James," she had told him at least a dozen times, but he had been volunteered to give his crotchety sister a lift back to her home in Auchterarder. If he didn't know her well enough, he might have thought she was so crabbit* because she had spent the last week with their mother, a kind, well-meaning old widow who threw herself into each new venture with a passion rarely seen in the over-eighties. Up until the recent announcement that the dumpling competition was to be held in Lochaber, practically on her doorstep, she had been knitting scarves for "the old folks", as she called everyone in her own generation. Now she had something with a challenge, a deadline and, most importantly, the opportunity to prove, once and for all, that she could out-bake Sadie MacIver and receive a trophy to prove it. Jim and his sister, Brenda, had sat patiently, listening to her admit that some arty-farty chef from one of the posh restaurants would probably win, but as long as she made it into a round higher than Sadie, she'd be happy.
Brenda always spent at least one week every year at her mother's house and had been doing so since their father died. It had started with her feeling she should be there for her mother on the anniversary of his funeral, but as the years went on, she found she enjoyed the company more and more. She was quite happy living alone with her two dogs and a goldfish for company most of the year, avoiding most human contact, but had to admit that she always looked forward to her annual trips North, even if she always came home with a new set of neuroses about her mother's latest infatuations.
"I may love them to bits," said Sykes as he waited at the junction to join the traffic speeding by on the A9 towards Perth, "but thank God I live on my own. If Janice had been that intense, I'd probably have strangled her long before she got the opportunity to leave me."
He was glad to be back on dual-carriageway after the last two and a half hours travelling under fifty around the highland roads. The scenery on the road to Lochaber was certainly more stunning and rugged than that on the East coast, but he was happy to exchange beauty for the chance to put his foot down and get moving again.
"Aw, damn it!" he cursed as he rounded a corner not much more than a mile further on to be confronted by a long tail-back of traffic. He tapped the screen of his satnav to work a way around the jam, which directed him to turn off onto a B road that would return him to the motorway on the other side of Perth. The new route took him back onto twisty country roads, through the village of Forteviot, where a line of cars had parked along his already narrow route. There was a group of people milling around in the middle of what had once been a field, but now looked like a cross between a construction site and a crime scene. His natural curiosity got the better of him and he parked his own car at the end of the line, locked it up and walked up to the gathering to see what was happening.
He was almost disappointed to see a sign announcing an open day for an archaeological dig that was taking place. That was not something he would expect to see drawing crowds like this, nor would it, in the past, have been of any interest to him. However, given his recent brushes with obscure ancient symbolism, he did now have a newly discovered interest in Scotland's distant past, so headed towards the middle of the group of people.
There he found a young man with rosy cheeks and wind-blown hair explaining the latest find to those gathered round him with an infectious enthusiasm.
"... and it is clear from the items found in the tomb here, that this was a man of some standing within the community, most likely a king. The effort required to move a slab as large as this," he said, pointing to a huge rectangular stone sitting to one side of the hole in the ground, "would not be undertaken lightly."
Sykes glanced at the huge rock, impressed with the feat of engineering required to move such a massive object, but more interested in the artefacts the man had mentioned lay within the tomb. Only after a few moments did it occur to him what he had just seen. He moved closer to the rock and adjusted his glasses to look at the detail. There, carved into the stone, were a set of familiar symbols. Now he wished he had known about this earlier and had seen the man's whole presentation.
"Excuse me," he said to the man, interrupting his talk,"but could you tell us about these symbols?"
"Well, they are a bit of a puzzle, I'll admit," the youth answered, "you see, those were carved on the inside of the tomb, but their location is such that they would have been scraped away when the rock was dragged into position. It seems that they were etched there only after the stone had been laid in place, so either these people had some way of raising and then lowering four tonnes of solid stone, or..."
Sykes finished the sentence for him, "... or someone was buried alive."


# # #

Alfrad thought back to the day it had all started, the day the stranger came to the village. His people had shown the man the same courtesy and hospitality that they had shown Alfrad eighty years earlier when it was he who was the stranger, looking for shelter from the biting rain. It was in their nature to welcome any such traveller or visitor on a quest and they saw nothing untoward in the new arrival. Within a day or two of his appearance, though, Alfrad started to notice that the man was constantly questioning people and most of the questions seemed to point back to him. Why was this person, whom he had never even seen before that day, so interested in his life?
Seeds of doubt had been sown amongst the people he considered to be his friends, his adopted family, even. Now they were asking him questions, clearly prompted by the stranger, about where he came from, why he had stayed here, so far from his own kin and, most telling, why it was that everybody knew him to be a visitor from an island far away, yet nobody had any memory of his arrival. He stalled the questions as best he could, but there was no good answer. How could he explain that he had been living amongst them for a dozen years before even the oldest of the elders had been born?
Over all the years he had lived in here, nobody had asked such things, indeed he didn't believe the thoughts had even occurred to them. He had felt like this was his home, had never been more at ease, comfortable and loved, but for the first time ever he had become an outsider.
A group of eight men, guided from the rear by the stranger, had grabbed him from his sleep that morning, binding his wrists and legs and preventing him from reaching any of the tools he owned that he could have used to protect himself.
The shallow pit was of his own devising; he had taught the villagers the stone-working skills necessary to dig and line it, ready for use as a multi-purpose store for the harvest over the winter months and as a water store over the dry summer. He had struggled for his life when they dragged him over and threw him in, then all had gone dark as his head hit the stone floor.
He regained consciousness as the huge slab was being pulled over him, waking in time to see the last inches of daylight being blocked out.
"Help me! Why are you doing this?" he shouted in desperation.
"You have tricked us for too long, daemon. Connor has shown us the truth of it. You never age, your skills in stone craft are unnatural and you talk of strange things, the like of which we have never heard.
Alfrad was stronger than most men, despite his narrow frame, but with his hands tied and the sheer weight of the massive stone slab, he was unable to stop them closing out the daylight forever. He had never cried before, his people rarely did, but now he wept. Not for himself, but for the experiences he would miss, for his friends, misled by some unknown evil or insatiable greed to betray him and for their future, for without his guidance and teaching, they would be subject to the same diseases, famines and hardships as every other un-developed clan in the area. Then at some point, when it was too late, they would realise their mistake and rue the day they had listened to the twisted words of a stranger over their friend and ally.
All that remained was for him to wait for the end, his mind drifting off as the oxygen in his tomb was used up. Productive to the last, he worked with a piece of quartz from beneath him to scratch out a message to his people. He left the symbol for his own clan and alongside that, the symbols that said simply, "Forgive them".



Notes:
*Crabbit - Scots word for grumpy

Great Hites # 61

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This week have stories by:
Mick Bordet
Norval Joe
Danny Machal <--------- This week's Winner
Jeff Hite


Price of Friendship, Part 4
By: Norval Joe

Chad walked from the school in the direction of the Snider's house, not quit dragging his feet. His mind was torn. He badly wanted to know, and desperately hoped, that Amy had just gone home. How would he face her parents? How would they react. What would they ask him, and expect him to know? He wished again, that this was all a dream. He knew that it wasn't.
The sun was below the horizon, and it was darkening to full night. Amy's parents would have to know that something was wrong when she didn't come home from school. "She is as regular as clockwork and predictable as a calendar." Her mother had once told Chad when he had stopped by, unexpectedly, to visit. She was smart, too, though. Her parents would have to know that she wouldn't get herself into trouble. "It would take someone like me, to get her this messed up." Chad said as he rounded the corner onto Amy's street.
He expected to see police cars parked in front of the Snider's house. There was only one car that he could see, at the end of the dark street. It was a black Lincoln Continental, big and boxy, a style popular before Chad was even born. He recognized the car as a daily feature in the school parking lot. As he walked past it, he glanced sidelong through the windows, but it was empty of occupants.
Amy's house was set back in a large front yard that was crowded with old trees. Ancient maples, oaks and sycamores almost completely hid the house from passers by on the street. Most of the residents of the are believed that the land around the house was one of the original homesteads in the area. Most of the trees were estimated at more than 100 years old. They must have been planted in the late 1800's around the farm house that was removed years ago. The trees formed an opaque ceiling over the walkway that lead between the massive trunks to the front door. Any light from the stars or moon was effectively shielded and Chad made his way through the darkness, guided by a single light on the Snider's front porch.
He stood for a moment in front of the door, with his hand raised to knock, steeling his nerves for the inevitable confrontation and interrogation. However, before he could wrap his knuckles against the small leaded glass window, it swung open before him. Mr. Snider stood, silhouetted in the doorway.
"Come in, Chad." He said matter of factly. "We're in the living room."
Chads hope bloomed, "Amy is here?" He asked, feeling a sudden wash of relief. As they passed through the kitchen, on the way to the living room, Mr. Snider stopped at the refrigerator and poured Chad a glass of ice water. "No, Chad. She is not." Amy's father said grimly, and continued on to the sitting room. Chad saw his reflection in an antique mirror on the kitchen wall. He was a filthy sweaty mess, and understood why Mr. Snider assumed he would want a glass of water. His stomach felt as cold and liquid as the water in his hand.
He followed the man into the living room. As he had guessed, sitting with Mrs. Snider, was the owner of the Continental out front, Mrs. Walker. But what she was doing here, he had no idea. Not once in the two years that he had been walking Amy home, had his English teacher come to the Snider's house. Amy had never mentioned that her parents knew the teacher in any significant way.
"Thank you for coming, Chad. Please, have a seat." Mr. Snider said, concern evident on his face. Chad sat on the edge of the couch and sipped from his glass. He looked at Mrs. Snider. Her eyes were red rimmed and puffy, as if she had been crying very recently. Mrs. Walker sat next to her, patting the younger woman's hand, her face the epitome of compassion and understanding. Mrs. Walker looked so sincere that Chad wondered if this was, perhaps, a twin sister of his English teacher. He was confident that his teacher didn't have a compassionate cell in her body.
"Uhh, hmmm." Chad cleared his throat, when none of the adults initiated conversation. "Ummm. Did you know that I was coming here?" He asked, feeling the depths of his confusion.
"I'm sorry, Chad. You must know that Amy didn't return home from school today. Typically, you would have been with her, and hours ago. When we saw you approaching the door," he said, indicating about the mantel of the fire place, "we assumed that you knew something about her absence."
Chad looked above the fireplace. He had sat in this living room countless times and had appreciated and discussed the large print by the Japanese artist, Hiroshige, that hung on the wall, above the mantel. The picture was gone, and in its place was, instead, a large monitor divided into several camera view around the house and yard. The bottom left view was from the front porch and showed the entire yard from the porch to the street. They must have know he was on his way to the door from the time he reached Mrs. Walkers car.
"She went with Derrick," Chad launched into his story without preamble, "She didn't have to go. It was my problem, but she acted like she had to go with him and when I tried to stop him he hit me." He stopped, thinking about the oak trees crowding over the small, slow, creek. He was looking at the floor rubbing his bruised jaw. He wanted to look Amy's parents in the face, to see the looks in their eyes. So that he could see if they understood, but he felt so terribly ashamed. "When I woke up, they were gone. The game was there, but when I went back for it later, I couldn't find it. I looked for Amy and Derrick. They went onto the nature trail, but I couldn't find them, either. They were just, gone."
He was on his feet with his hands held out, like he was pleading with the three adults. Finally, he turned to Amy's mother. "I'm sorry. It's all my fault. Derrick took her somewhere."
"Chad," Mr. Snider said. He was standing beside him, his hand on the boys shoulder. "It' really not your fault. You don't know everything that is going on. You're Amy's friend, and that is important. But, we are missing parts of your story. Could you go to the beginning and slowly tell us all that happened, so that we can figure out how to get her back?"
Chad looked up at the man. His own father had disappeared shortly after his birth. With no grand fathers or uncles in his life, Chad's closest adult male role model was his brother, who was currently away in the military. He wasn't sure how he should feel about this man asking for his confidence. Amy's father spoke with such understanding and tenderness that he felt safe in his friends home, and that he could trust her parents. But then he thought of Mrs. Walker. He looked at her closely for the first time, since entering the room. There, cradled on her lap was Derricks game device. He looked from the black cube to the English teachers eyes. She returned his gaze and nodded. "Yes, Chad. Please, sit back down and tell us everything that you know. Anything that you remember."
Chad was amazed how the sarcasm and condescension were absent from her voice and demeanor.
Chad looked from person to person, then sat back down and launched into the story again.
He spoke about Derrick and how he seemed to arrive from nowhere. As he described the game player Mrs Walker examined it, turning it over in her hands several times. He spoke of the events, and even the emotions that he felt, in great depth and detail. At times details came to him as he spoke. And to his chagrin, he spoke of his feelings for and about Amy, to a degree he hadn't intended. "I saw her walking away, behind Derrick, like she was trapped, or defeated," Chad said, "and I knew that I had done something terrible, and something terrible was going to happen to Amy. My heart was breaking. I couldn't stand it, I couldn't let her go. But then he hit me and I was out like a light. What a wimp." He stood again, and paced around in circles. "I don't know what I'm saying. Does any of this make any sense?" He looked around hopelessly, and sat back down with his head in his hands.
Mrs. Walker spoke. "This boy, Derrick. Do you know his last name?"
"No, I'm sorry, I just never..." he trailed off.
"Don't worry, Chad." She said, "You're not on trial here. You have done nothing wrong. We just need to gather all the information that we can, so that we can get Amy back. Now, can you think of a time in the last week when you were talking with Derrick, in the hallways, the library or the cafeteria?"
Chad thought. "Yeah. The day after he gave me the game player, before school started we talked to me in the library."
The teachers eyes lit up. "Good. Good." She said and looked back and forth between Amy's parents, as if for confirmation. "I should be able to find him on video from the library. Chad, will you please meet me at the school around noon, tomorrow, after I have had a chance to review the video?"
"Sure, I guess so. I don't usually do much on Saturdays." He said.
Music suddenly began to play from his backpack. "Oh, shoot. My Mom." He rummaged through the back pack to get the phone before it went to voice mail. It was his brothers phone. His mother couldn't afford one for him. When his brothers national guard unit was deployed to Iraq he figured he wouldn't get much use out of it over there, so he left if for Chad to use. Chad didn't use it much, only to communicate with his mother; which he had completely forgotten to do this day.
He answered the phone, "Mom, I'm sorry, I'm at Amy's house, we got busy and I forgot to call." There was a pause. "Yes, Her parents are here, do you want to talk to them?" Another pause. "OK. I'll be home in a few minutes."
Mr. Snider stood as Chad did. "Chad, before you leave." He stopped the boy on the way to the door. "Two things that you need to work out with your mother; What you will tell her about Amy's absence; and what you will tell her about yours." He saw the shock on Chads face and continued, "Let me give you a ride home. We can talk a bit more in the car."
After the series of weird events that he had experienced this day, nothing should have surprised him, but he thought his involvement going forward should have been very limited.
As soon as they were driving away from the house, Mr. Snyder started right in.
"The short version is this. Amy is not an ordinary girl. She is not even from here, from this world. We have been hiding her here. You might say we have been trying to hide her in plain sight. Things were going too smoothly, we should have known better.
"From your own words, it is clear that you have developed an emotional bond with Amy. A stronger bond than we could have expected. Had we known of the connection, we would have brought you in to the confidence, to help protect the both of you." Chad was getting lost in Mr. Snider's dialogue.
"Emotional connection? It's not like we're in love or anything." Chad said defensively.
"Well, actually Chad. Boys your age get infatuated easily. It's called puppy love, and that is usually the extent of it and it passes. You must have passed that and moved on to a more real or permanent attachment or you wouldn't have been able to give her away to Derrick and transfer that connection to him. Amy could only be betrayed by someone who loved her."
"Betrayed," Chad said aghast. "I'm so sorry."
They reached Chads house, and Mr. Snider stopped the car and turned out the lights.
"No Chad. There is no time for sorry, and it wouldn't do any good anyway. It was your love for Amy that made it possible for Derrick to take her away. But since it was you that released her to Derrick, it is only you that can go and bring her back."

The Cave (pt1)
By: Mick Bordet


"Have you tried contacting them lately," Edric asked.

"Yes, I've been signalling both of them every four hours for the last three days. Not a whisper from either of them, neither hide nor hair," Elina answered, the concern clear on her face.

"They'll turn up, don't worry. It will be something minor, a magnetic disturbance or unusual atmospherics interfering with their equipment, most likely. Erik is not one to disappear without good reason."

"I know that," she said, "but I worry about these trips. I don't trust them; they're so... so scary!"

"They are not to be feared, lass. Pity their weak minds and the constant battling with each other, but don't fear them. It is up to us to work with the outsiders and educate them in our ways without forcing them. It will take time, but it will be worth it. Erik knows this and will take care in his meetings with them."

"Edric, I don't mean the outsiders. They are brutal and not to be fully trusted, but we all know that, we expect it. I meant the bears."

"Now that's just silly! They've never shown signs of aggression towards us. We both mutually benefit; they are guaranteed food and somewhere to live and bring up their cubs in safety, protected from the hunters. We enjoy their services as scouts, guides and bodyguards. I grant you, they can be quite imposing, but there has never been violence. The genetic re-sequencing we carried out years ago has removed the urge to attack humans for food, whilst the translators we embed in their collars allow them to communicate with us and discuss problems, not rely on claws, teeth and brute strength."

Elina nodded and carried on her duties, logging reports from the World outside, "Yes, I'm sure you're right. They just make me uncomfortable."

He knew that was as much as she would admit, as her feelings for Erik went deeper than for anyone else and it was quite natural that she would worry for his safety. The man did keep returning home with an ever-growing collection of dangerous tales and risky endeavours, so Edric sympathised with her, but couldn't help thinking that she was being over-sensitive about the bears.

The scientists who were the next people to see Erik, some four thousand years later, knew no more about what happened in that cave than Elina and Edric did at the time.



Children of the Garden Wars
by: Danny Machal


Dusk

“Hoppers of the Outlands, come forth.” Lord Cottontail and his
guards stood in the middle of the Thicket.

The bushes rustled with movement. Camouflage piles of wood and
sticks stirred with golden eyes agape. The Outland Hoppers, around
thirty in number, covered ground sheepishly and slowly. They kept
their black and brown faces pointed down as they neared the flawless
white fur of Lord Cottontail.

“Who is in charge here? Why have you not rallied your fighters to
take part in tonight's raid?”

Lord Cottontail beckoned for none other than the old greying Hopper
chief, Long Ear. A path formed among the bowed noses and lowered
ears, out emerged the large Long Ear towering over Cottontail.

“I am my Lord, my name is Long Ear. We coexist in peace with the
Crawlers here. This is your conflict, not ours.” The most massive of
Cottontail's guards stepped forward; Cottontail ordered the guard
back into line with a flick of his ear.

“Not yours? My brother we are all in this fight together. Why a
crawler last night just took one of our young from Hoppiton. How can
you sit there and say such things? A poor mother's child lays
digesting in the belly of one of those slithering vermin,” Cottontail
said.

“The child's loss is regrettable, but you and I both know a Crawler
would not attack unless provoked. They much prefer the taste of more
challenging sport.”

“If you refuse to help the cause Long Ear, than consider yourself a
permanent Outland Hopper. The same goes for all of you Heads of
House.”

Cottontail threatened the community as a whole but he knew what Long
Ear said was law. It was the Hopper way. Long Ear and other
community leaders spoke for their communes, and Heads of House spoke
for their own families. It was Long Ear's choice to make, a choice he
had earned the right to make long ago. Long Ear turned his back to
Cottontail and stood upon his massive hind legs to address the Outland
Hoppers.

“You are all free to make your own choices here. I would never stop
any of you from doing what you felt was right for your families. We
have prospered many ages here in the Thicket and have done so all by
ourselves. Join Lord Cottontail now if you wish to pursue the assault
on the Crawlers. You will be welcomed back should you return.”

Not one head raised, not one foot moved from where it stood, silently
they all pledged their allegiance to Long Ear. Lord Cottontail stood
stewing in his fast raising temperament. Long ear turned to the young
hopper ruler and bowed his head.

Lord Cottontail narrowed his eyes and wriggled his nose in disgust.
“Come fellow white fur Hoppers, these brown Outlanders wish to be
isolated, so be it. No Hopper is to come to their aid, no matter what
circumstance has befallen them. Let them be fed to the Crawlers and
torn apart by the Longsnouts for their treachery.”

Cottontail's small executive force bounded quickly north disappearing
in the dense underbrush around the Thicket. Long Ear sighed and
raised his head. The women and the young ones joined their Heads of
House in the open. They all sat in silence with their eyes fixed upon
Long Ear. He turned and hopped to his den to rest without saying a
word.

That night the Thicket echoed with the faint screams of dying Hoppers
and the hisses of fallen Crawlers. Long Ear laid in the dark saddened
at how quickly the peace he had created was being dismantled by
Cottontail.

Night

From the inside of a sheltered above ground burrow, two young Hoppers
contemplated defiance of their Heads of House, loyal to Long Ear.

“Why shouldn't we go? I refuse to sit and let Hoppers fight and die
for the Thicket, we should be out there helping.”

“How do you plan on us doing that? You're not a fighter, I'm not a
fighter, we have no fighters. Long Ear has worked hard for peace with
the Crawlers and Cottontail is destroying that this night. The
Thicket won't be safe ever again after this. How could the Crawlers
ever trust us now? Cottontail is lucky Long Ear didn't challenge
him.”

“Old Long Ear? What could he possibly do to Lord Cottontail?”

“My father says Long Ear was a Captain in the Garden Wars. Says he
went on some secret assassination missions and defeated a platoon of
Longsnouts, by himself. He also said that Long Ear lost an entire
squad once, said he was the only Hopper to come back out of twenty.
Guess he went crazy after that, didn't care if he lived or died.”

The young Hopper stared blankly at the sleeping Long Ear on the far
end of the Thicket. The old grey mound heaved up and down with every
deep breath, creating a faint grumble of a snore.

“Nah, I can't see it. Long Ear is no warrior. If what you say is
true, how could he possibly have turned out like this? I mean he
speaks out against the War all the time. Something must have happen
to him to turn him into the Long Ear we know. What does your Dad say
about that?”

Before the answer could come the two were interrupted by another
young male Hopper.

“Hey, we got a group of three going out to help Cottontail you guys coming?”

The Story Teller's eyes become wide with excitement. He looked to
his comrade for confirmation. Friendship ran deep as a family blood
bond among Hoppers. He waited for the decision hoping the stories of
Long Ear had inspired his comrade.

“We'll help.” The two smiled at each other and joined the other three.

The five young Hoppers stealthily left the sleeping Thicket and
trotted toward the faint sounds of battle in the distance. Full of
young excitement and vitality they looked back at the moonlit Thicket,
not thinking for one moment they might never see it again.

Later that Night

The Five covered a great distance away from the Thicket into the
forest before they found any new signs of life. Small mounds of
upturned earth became concentrated among the underbrush the further
they penetrated into the thick woodland.

“Crawler dens those are,” the largest of the Five said.

“Split up and start checking them, we won't catch up to Cottontail's
front line tonight anyway. At least we can be sure their path home is
clear. Stay within earshot, we'll need at least two Hoppers to a
Crawler to take them down.”

Hole after hole was inspected. They expanded their coverage area
checking the mounds that were further out and farther apart.

“Found a nest,” the Story Teller called out.

The Five converged on the discovery.

“Look in there, two eggs, maybe three. Let us wait for the female.”

They waited silently in the shadows ten bounds away, a distance
easily covered by a young Hopper in three seconds. After a short
while the small female Crawler emerged, her dark green scales
glimmered in the moonlight. The Five sprinted toward her the moment
the slender tube-like body was fully visible. Her head snapped up as
she sensed the advancing movement. The tail end of her body whipped
the leading Hopper mid bound causing him to tumble. She was frantic
in her defense to protect the unborn. A Mother's guard is a force
never to be meddled with, no matter the creature.

The other four began nipping with their teeth at any piece of flesh
they could get at. With her calculating targeting system the Crawler
struck the Story Teller, capturing his head between her jaws. She
began to squeeze with skull crushing force. The young Hopper let out
a scream.

“Get her head off,” the large Hopper shouted.

The four began to take large bits of flesh from the same area in
rapid succession until the spine was served and she relaxed her grip.
The limp Crawler body collapsed on top of the Story Teller. The
comrade pulled as the Story Teller wriggled to free himself from under
the smothering girth of the body.

Filled with the fury of battle the others dashed into the den one
after the other. Smashing the eggs with their powerful hind legs, the
embryonic Crawler-slime splashed their brown noses and quickly crusted
on their fur. Shortly after, they made their way outside, to the
field of victory.

None of them could speak. Thousands of new emotions rippled through
every fiber of muscle in their small young bodies. Their daze was
short lived.

A large Crawler quickly emerged from the nearby underbrush. It was
a male twice as large as the female. He paused for a split second
surveying the devastation the Five had created. The fight was on and
the Largest Hopper would be the first to die.



Morning

Worry and desperation ran an infectious course amongst the
inhabitants of the Thicket. Long Ear went from burrow to burrow
informing the Outland Hoppers of the runaways, and consoling the
families of the Five. A rustling from the south brought two exhausted
blood stained Hoppers out of the underbrush. The Thicket converged
upon them with inquiry. Two relieved Heads of House and three now
more sullen than before huddled close around the two survivors.

“There are only two of you. You were five in number, where are the
others?” the group demanded.

“We got attacked by two Crawlers, a male and a female. Our number
enabled us to kill the female but the male out skilled us. The other
three were crushed, we ran while he was distracted with the last of
the others,” the Story Teller said this as he stood next to his
gullible red streaked comrade.

Long Ear forced himself into the small circle.

“Where is the Crawler now? Were you followed? Stupid young ones, you
killed his mate. His blood lust will blind him to fight to the death
until she is avenged.”

As Long Ear uttered the words a thundering crash came through the
canopy above the Thicket. A Crawler now lay coiled up in a fighting
stance eyeing the bloodied pair of young Hoppers. Long Ear placed
himself between the cluster of Hoppers and the Crawler.

“Get to the shelter of your burrows my Outland Hoppers. Protect the
young ones.”

At his order the Thicket was cleared as Hoppers dashed in all
directions seeking the protection of their fortified burrows. They
all looked on as Long Ear spoke to the Crawler who sat jittering in
rage.

“Crawler you have taken three of our young. Surely this is adequate
for your loss. Leave the Thicket in peace, brother of the Garden.”

The Crawler uncoiled like a welled up spring and with jaws wide
lunged at Long Ear. The large greying rabbit's torso turned to earth
as the Crawler's nose slammed into the ground. His target moved, and
moved quickly.

“Please, let you and I talk this out. There need not be any more
bloodshed,” Long Ear pleaded with the Crawler from his new position
behind.

Long Ear was visibly out of breath, the onlooking Hoppers were not
sure if he would be able to dodge another attack. The great muscular
ribs of the Crawler dug into the moist dirt as he drew upon newly
created momentum. Long Ear was already in the air by the time the
Crawler had made the second strike. The great girth of the large
Hopper on his neck made the Crawler summon all his strength just to
stay balanced. Long Ear sank his long dagger teeth into the flesh
behind the Crawler's head.

Blood sprayed in all directions as the Crawler erratically tossed his
head back and forth. Hissing in pain and writhing in desperate agony
to shake Long Ear off, the Crawler turned over to slam his back
against the ground. It proved to be ineffective and the old Long Ear
stayed firmly affixed until the Crawler moved no more and lay dead in
the middle of the once peaceful Thicket. Long Ear spoke to the
Thicket in a commanding rasping breath.

“Heads of house prepare your families, we must leave the Thicket.”

Long Ear placed his fangs in the familiar holes on the Crawler and
dragged it out of sight.

To act like a man.
By: Norval Joe

The arroyo spread out before him. He shaded his eyes against the mid day sun and scanned the draw below him. Nothing moved in the sage brush.
He was ten years old now, and was acting like a baby. "I'm old enough to ride a horse. I'm old enough to herd the sheep." He told himself. Since his father died, he was old enough to be the man of the homestead, but still he had cried his eyes out from fear and frustration. He wiped away the salt of the dried tears from his face. There would be no more tears.
He had cried when his father died from the consumption. He had wasted away for a year, getting weaker by the day. They put him in the back of the wagon and took him to the doctor in the county seat but he could do nothing for the emaciated man. The doctor suggested sending Calvin's father to Denver by train. His dad would have none of it, and insisted that they take him home, and let him die in peace.
He did. Three weeks later, Calvin's father died in the house that he had built with his own hands.
Calvin was angry now. Someone had taken his sheep, and he was going to get them back. He had to. With out the sheep, they probably wouldn't last the winter.
He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his kerchief. He returned his hat and walked back to his horse. He stroked the horses neck and patted her shoulder, but didn't climb into the saddle.
He walked a few paces down the trail to where the tracks of the sheep crossed it, then followed the tracks to the edge of the arroyo, where they ended abruptly.
The prints of their hooves had dug deeply into the sandy soil, indicating that the small flock was running at high speed. "Well, high speed for sheep," he thought. The hoof prints didn't indicate that the sheep had slowed in the least as they reached the edge of the narrow valley, as if their intention was to leap clear across, to the other side.
Calvin pondered that perhaps, they had done just that. He expected that a heard of sheep, even a small one, as it dropped fifty feet to the dry riverbed below, would leave some evidence of their sudden stop at the bottom.
Though it was a good distance to the bottom, Calvin's eye sight was good enough to see that the sand below him was clearly undisturbed. How could bandits or rustlers, or the Apache, have spirited away his sheep, from the edge of the arroyo? Maybe it was the Apache. They had begun stirring up trouble for the settlers again. Cunning as they were, the Apache still weren't magic, and couldn't make the sheep disappear into thin air.
He walked back to his horse and mounted. They followed the trail that he sheep had made, back to where they had begun their flight. They had indeed fled. Normally the sheep would travel from place to place in a single slow moving line. The mass of tracks indicated that they had run head long, side by side, in a mass.
He found the place where the sheep had spent the night. There was a grassy area around a spring near a small grove of cottonwood trees. Here there was evidence of the normal relaxed behaviour of the sheep. Patches of the coarse desert grass were cropped close to the soil, areas of sand were smoothed out where the sheep had slept, and hoof prints remained where the sheep had drunk from the small stream.
Water from the spring overflowed its banks and formed a small stream that ran through the grassy area. The stream ended where the water formed a small pool near a large, flat, slab of sandstone.
Calvin sat on his horse and watched the water as a leaf traveled the short distance from the spring to the pool.
His horses ears shot up. She nickered and stomped nervously. "What's the matter, girl?" Calvin said out loud as he rubbed her neck to calm her.
The horse screamed, went up on her hind legs and spun, all at once. Calvin clung to her neck to keep from being thrown to the ground. She leapt away from the pond as the sandstone slab suddenly lifted from the ground. Calvin looked over his shoulder as the horse bolted away in the same direction that the sheep had run. Horror filled him and he spurred the horse forward.
A creature sprang from an opening under the sandstone slab. Its snakelike head, the size of a buffalo, shot like an arrow across the sagebrush, after Calvin and his mount.
Hot putrid breath blew past the boy and horse aiding them in their flight toward the cliff.
Calvin suddenly understood the sheep's mysterious disappearance, as a second creature rose up from the arroyo. Its slavering maw gaped open like a tent at a rival meeting torn from top to bottom and blown apart by a giant wind. The creature was beyond the boy imagination and ability to comprehend. Hundreds of rows of hooked teeth undulated toward the center of the mouth, large enough to consume a small herd of buffalo at once.
Calvin knew that, in seconds, he and his horse would be plunging over the edge of the arroyo and into the creatures mouth.
He threw himself from the horse to roll in the sand at the valleys edge. He scrambled to his feet in time to see the creatures jaws snap shut around his horse, and drop below the edge of the cliff. The first creature, that had chased them from the spring was no where to be seen.
Not taking the time to dust himself off, he began the long walk back to the homestead. He gave the meadow of grass, the spring and small pool, a wide birth.

The Traveler
By Jeff HIte

My name is Churchill Westlake III. I have spend my entire life looking for one thing, and one thing only, and now I have heard that there is a man who has found that thing. Now for the first time in my life, I am not looking for it any more, instead I am looking for him. I have been careful over my life to spend the fortune that I inherited when my parents were killed, carefully. But, since I heard of his existence, and I know that my search is coming to an end, I have spend nearly three quarters of what I have left in this final pursuit. I have jumped across the inner solar system, three times in the last month following a path nearly a decade gone cold, only to find that the people had died, or were no longer there. Now in a despreate attempt I am on my way to the inner moons of Jupiter, where I have been told that he was seen a number of years ago. If this fails I may not have the money to get home, and my search may be a complete and total loss.
With that as a backdrop, this trip to the outer planets that would otherwise be very exciting, has had the gauze of worry and weariness wrapped around it. I have spend the last three days with nothing more than a data pad and my small bunk as a companion going over every detail of the last months. The leads that were nothing more than dead ends, the people who had not seen hide nor hair of my quarry since before I was born. The utter disappointment as his trail went completely cold on Earth station four.
I spent three months there waiting on the arrival of someone who had died to years before. When his sister arrived on the station with his ashes, she must have thought I was was a complete loon.
"Ma'am I have come to speak with your brother." I said standing in the door way of her cabin on the station.
"Who are you?"
"I need to talk to him."
"My brother is,"
"Ma'am I will not take much of your time, but I really need to talk to him."
"You mean you don't know?"
"I know he does not grant interviews, I am not a reporter, biographer, or anyone else that wants to pester your brother about his life, I have a question about someone he may have meet a few years ago. I just want to know if he knows where he might have gone."
"You don't understand he can't talk to anyone."
"Please ma'am I have to talk to him, I have spent my whole life looking."
"I don't care who you are or what you want you can't talk to him any more."
"Please."
"I wish I could, but."
"You wish I could, then please grant this to me."
"He is dead," she said as she burst into tears right there in the hallway. "He is dead, now please, please just leave me alone." she stepped back toward the door and I could see the anguish in her face so I did the only thing that I could think of. I reached for her and held her while she cried. It was the first time in years that I had done something for someone else that was not self serving.
When she was done crying we when to the dinning hall and had lunch. I told her what I was looking for, and she let me read from her brother's journal. He had met the traveler, as I had come to call him, ten years before. At that point the traveler had been planning to go to the Jovian system. And so I was on my way. It is a long shot, details nearly a decade old, but it was the best lead I had found in years.
Marie said that she wanted to come with me, saying that her brother had always wanted to travel the solar system, but had never been able to make it past the moon in life. She has been my companion for the last two months, as we burn our way, scratching and clawing out way out of the Sun's gravity well toward it's only rival in the system. I don't know if she knows or if she does if she understands what it is that I am looking for but I am glad to have her with me. My life has been a lonely one since my parents died, and I have never had any close friends.

Great Hites 60

This week We have Stories By:

Lawrence Simon
Norval Joe <--------- This week's winner
Mick Bordet

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Arriving At the Airport
By:Lawrence Simon

Flight 93 is arriving at the airport.

Todd Beamer walks down the jetway, following the signs to the baggage claim with the rest of the passengers.

He checks a monitor to figure out which carousel his bags will be on.

The monitor does not show Flight 93 at all.

"What the hell?" he mutters, and he looks for the Information Desk.

A crowd is building there. The woman at the desk puts down a phone, slowly.

"Holy mother of God," she whispers, looking down at the television monitor embedded in her desk.

The news crews are only just arriving at the scene of the crash, police harely ahead of them to keep them back from the wreckage.

Todd waves a hand in front of her. "Where are our bags?" he asks.

She cannot speak. Her eyes, wide open, just stare.

Todd looks over the edge of the desk, sees FLIGHT 93 and thinks it has something to do with the bags.

"Where does that say our bags are?" he asks. "What's going on?"

She blinks her eyes.

The crowd is gone.

She looks at the monitor, then the empty space in front of the Information Desk.

"What just happened?" she asks, but nobody is there to answer her. The police have cleared everyone out of this area since the last flight landed and the passengers took their bags away.

She hears sirens. A dog barking, one of the K9 patrols, sniffing for bombs.

She goes back to staring at the monitor.


Heroes
By: Norval Joe

A young man, dressed in blue jeans and a long sleeve shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, slumped down in his seat at the airport terminal waiting area. The summer vacation season was in full swing, but he wasn’t on his way to some exotic and exciting destination. He’d had more than his share of exotic and exciting in the last year.
He watched the ebb and flow of humanity as it passed through the airport and felt uncomfortable and edgy in the crowd. All the seats in the waiting are were taken. Families with excited children grouped together in seats or on the floor leaning against the wall. Business people paced around or spoke on cell phones while other seasoned commuters dozed or read magazines.
An automated message played over the speaker system, “All military personnel and their families are invited to relax between flights in the USO, located on the second floor of terminal C”
A girls voice rang out in a clear soprano above persistent murmur, “Look, Mom, there’s Whitney Steers. I wanna be just like her.” She jumped to her feet and pointed at a tall slender woman who was flanked by two large men in dark suits.
“Don’t be stupid, Julie.” A boy, who by his looks and attitude, could only be the girls older brother. “That’s not Whitney Steers. She probably has a private jet. Besides, who would want to be like her, she’s such a loser.”
“Jeremy, don’t be mean.” Julies mother told the older boy.”And don’t call your sister stupid.”
Julie watched the woman disappear into the crowd and started to sing one of the pop stars hits. Dressed in white shorts and pink tank top, she shifted her hips seductively and sang the suggestive lyrics with an accuracy and inflection that could come only through the obsessive familiarity of a true devotee.
Her mother seemed uncomfortable with the amount of attention her daughter was getting, and tried to hush the girl. “Julie, sit down, you’re making too much noise. You’re bothering people. This isn’t the place for that.”
“Yeah, you’re embarrassing me.” Jeremy said and hid his face for emphasis. “Besides, you look more like Rhoda Dakota.”
Julie sat, stuck her tongue at her brother and got out her hand held game.
A large group of men in military uniform ambled past the solemn young man. He noticed that their uniforms lacked decorations other than their names and rifle marksmanship badges. A few had the rank of private. The rest showed no rank at all. He recognized them as recent graduate from basic training. No doubt on they were on their way to their advanced training. He slouched further down into his chair, covered his eyes with his hand and feigned sleep. He was careful to cross his right leg behind his left.
The voice of one of the men in the group broke above the general chatter of the crowd, “It’s an hour before our flight. Lets go get a drink.”
“Chill Wittacker,” another said. “When we get to Fort Sam we can hit the “O” club every night, and the drinks cheaper on post, than you’ll pay in an airport.”
“Chill? You chill, Banks. I can show you chill.” Wittacker was getting agitated and leaned his chest into Banks who only came up to the first mans chin. “You wanna make me chill?”
“Come on,” A third man said, “let’s go wait at our gate. Maybe there will be a bar on the way, and Witt can blow his spending money, if he wants.”
There were murmurs of agreement from within the group and they moved off.
The man in the chair lowered his hand and watched the cluster of servicemen migrate through the airport. His hair was trimmed short at the ears and back of the neck, and tapered to the short cropped hair at the top of his head. If he had fallen in with the crowd that had just left, he could easily have appeared to be one of them.
"What's the problem soldier?’ A deep, gruff, voice said from the seat next to him. The young man looked to see who addressed him. He was a large man, not fat, but he had obviously been very muscular in his earlier life. He was African American and old enough that the white stubble of what was left of his hair was a sharp contrast to his dark skin.
The highest, or top, ranking non commissioned officer in an army unit, usually a first sergeant or sergeant major was often referred to as Top. The appellation conveys a familiarity, yet the deepest respect. The young man sized the older up, and replied, "I don't know, Top. I'm retired. It's not what I expected."
The older man nodded, and spoke to air in front of himself. "You're right, there. I spent my last ten years as Sergeant Major in a training battalion. I've seen thousands of young men come and go. I can recognize a soldier, and I can also tell when something is getting him down." He paused and looked at the younger man.
"I'm retired now, too, so I know what you mean," he said, leaning on his knees. "What's you name, son?"
"Parker. Matthew Parker. My friends just called me Doc." He sat up straighter, but kept his knees crossed.
"Medic? Hmmm." He glanced at Parker. "You said they called you Doc. Your friends don't call you that anymore?"
"I don't have that many friends anymore," Parker said looking away. He coughed and took a deep breath to cover the sudden flare of emotion that threatened to close off his throat. He composed himself and looked back to the Sargent Major. "Did you plan to stay in for so long, you know, and retire, when you first joined?"
"I didn't join, Parker, I was drafted. Straight from the back woods of Alabama. Eighteen years old, and had never been more than 50 miles from home. I was ready to spend my entire life on that little farm where I was raised. I didn't know anything else.
"You could imagine how I felt, six months later, finding myself on patrol in the back woods of Viet Nam. Fighting for my life. I had my share of friends that I called Doc, too. I wouldn't be here right now if it wasn't for one of them."
Parkers felt his face go hot, and his chest tight, "Well, it sounds like he did his job like he was supposed to." He felt sudden guilt at the vehemence he heard in his own words. "I mean, with all due respect, Top, he must have had to keep a cool head to help someone while under fire."
The older man laughed a rueful laugh and shook his head, "We walked into a booby trap rigged up with Claymore mines, probably stolen from our own supply bunker. There were no cool heads then. We were all scrambling, and screaming and crying like a bunch of school girls. Everyone, but me, that was. I was in a daze, my head ringing from the blast. I didn't have any idea that shrapnel had torn through my arm. I was bleeding to death and didn't know it. Doc held me down and kept pressure over the wound until we could get evacuated.
"I was back in action in just a few weeks, and not a month later, I was holding Doc in my arms, as his life bled away. That first unit showed me what it meant to be a soldier. Those men were my brothers. I would have gladly given my life to save any one of them. I was one of the few, from that group, that actually came home." He looked at Parker, until he returned the Sargent Major’s gaze. "I guess that's why I stayed in. To help train other young men, so that they would be prepared for what they would find over there, and be able to come back home, too."
Though Parker stared blankly at the old man, he did not see him. He saw himself, back in Iraq, riding in a Humvee, joking with the members of his patrol.
"Nice and boring," Cooper said, "Just the way I like a patrol."
"Yeah," Watson said, "but right now I would like to be patrolling the mess hall. What's the hold up out there?"
"It's a check point." Levine snapped. "You know, those places where we stand and hold up other vehicles, and make them wait, when they’re in a hurry? It's karma. It's just our turn to wait."
Our turn, Parker thought.
There was a flash of light and Parker was laying on the dirt road. Everything was silent and his right leg was numb. It wasn't silent, he realized, his ears were ringing. He began to feel pain in his leg that increased as he thrashed around. As his hearing slowly returned, he began to hear the moans and cries of people thrown down in the blast. He rolled onto his side to find the Humvee. He could only see pieces of twisted metal, scattered bodies and fire. Among the wails and screams of the locals he could hear the members of his patrol, his friends. They were calling for him. "Doc, help me." "Doc, I can't see." "Doc, I don't wanna die."
He tried to get up but the nerve endings where his right leg was torn away erupted into new levels of agony. He tried to crawl in the direction of the burning Humvee. "I'm coming," he shouted, "Hold on, I'm coming." The overwhelming pain and the loss of blood conspired against him and he passed out.

"I lost them all. Every one of them." Tears were streaming down Parkers face. "They called me Doc, and I let them down. I let them all die."
"All I ever wanted to do was serve my country. And when I got to train as a field medic, I thought, shoot, here's my chance. I could help my buddies at the same time. Top, I failed. I failed my country and my friends." He wiped his face with his sleeve.
The Sergeant Major looked at the young man for a few minutes, pondering something. Then he said, "Parker, I know it won't help much right now. But down the road, in a few months, or maybe a few years, remember what this old soldier said. You're a hero. You were there to do your job, and you wanted to do it. I saw plenty of men in my days, just turn tail and run when their buddies were on the ground crying for help. Just left them there to die. You would have helped them, if you could have. We don't always get our chance when and how we expect to. You'll get your chance to help, someday, if you keep looking for it."
"Final call for boarding of flight 1442 to Birmingham at gate 19. Please have your boarding pass ready and board at this time." A pleasant voice said over the speaker system.
“That’s me. I’ve got to go.” The Sergeant Major said and stood. Parker got to his feet as well, the right leg of his pants camouflaging the prosthetic leg completely. The older man handed Parker a business card that read, 'Wilson Garfield, SGM (Ret)'. "If you ever need to talk to someone, give me a call. And I mean anytime. If your ever near Tuscaloosa, look me up. My wife makes veal parmesan, just like they do in the mess hall." He started to turn, but stopped and looked Parker in the eyes. "You're a hero son. A hero. Never forget that."
He watched the Sergeant Major leave through the gate, and said as the door closed behind him, "Thanks Top. If anyone would know a hero, I think you would.”
Standing taller than he had in months, Parker walked to his own gate, with a limp, perceptible only to himself.



Dandelions of Memory
By:Mick Bordet

Erica placed the newspaper down on the empty seat beside her. She had already read the same story three times over and, if pressed, could not have provided any details about it. It was a lost cause in these surroundings; she simply could not concentrate. The mix of hundreds of voices all talking at once, of coffee machines hissing and spluttering, of mobile phones ringing and trolleys squeaking, amplified and reverberating around this cavernous white arena, all demanded a little segment of her attention,

The sounds of "Waterloo Sunset" from someone's mobile ring-tone sent her mind back to her student days and mousey Melina with her exhaustive collection of singles from the 60's, the room-mate who never wanted to go out, but turned out to be the most outrageous party animal once she eventually ventured through the doors of the union bar.

A smell of bacon triggered another memory, this time of Alex walking out on her, in the middle of breakfast, just last week, the third doomed relationship in as many months. She had been in the middle of cooking bacon rolls and an argument flared up within minutes, over fat content or free-range farms or who knew what. From waking up in a supposedly happy relationship that morning, by lunchtime she was, once again, single and miserable. On the positive side, it had provided her with another reason to say "yes" when she was asked to travel up to Orkney, one more chain of attachment to shed for a month or two,

Since arriving at the airport, Erica had been skipping through her memories like a child in a field of dandelions, plucking them out at random and blowing them gently to release the details before they drifted away in the hazy summer sun. It wasn't exactly productive, but she was happy to give her brain some time to wind down and sort itself out. Her skills and knowledge would be in great demand over the coming weeks, so a short rest now was probably just what she needed.

The call came for her flight and she joined the queue, which was much shorter than the serpentine lines of holidaymakers bound for the continent or across the Atlantic. As she waited to have her boarding pass checked, her mind threw up an image of this place in five thousand years time, leaving her to wonder what people in the far future would make of whatever was left of the massive building. With the aircraft and their passengers long since reclaimed by nature, what clues would remain to its purpose? Would they have progressed so far beyond mass air transit that they just couldn't comprehend the idea of people squeezing into tin tubes to travel any distance?

Most likely, she thought, they'll be left with jewellery that will be tagged with some religious or ritual purpose, CDs and DVDs they'll have no way of playing and dozens of plastic toys that will gain significance merely by virtue of their inability to decompose. The idea amused her that our civilisation could, in the distant future, be defined in terms of four brightly-coloured deities with different shapes protruding from their heads: the Teletubbian Dynasty.

She smiled at the thought of this as she handed over her boarding card and murmured to herself, "Eh-oh."