Thu - February 19, 2004

The New Yorker Magazine and the Waiting Room


A serendipitous encounter

Yesterday I accompanied a dear friend to the University of Iowa Medical Center. Her disabled adult son needed oral surgery. What happened next is an example of why I love living the Speculative Life.

Saying yes to my friend required faith - faith that I would have the strength, patience and competence to help her manage her son. Faith that my husband would pick up the slack at home. Faith that the 16-wheelers on Interstate 80 wouldn't squash us like a bug. And, even faith that I would have the grace not to count the hours that I would rather have spent writing.

I've been researching a character for the project whose working title is "Apocalypse Garden." This character finally has a name, Prince Faisal bin Rahman Aziz Al Sa'ud. He insists that he is Crown Prince of the Pan Arab Emirates in the year 2225. The Emirates comprise about a third of the nation-states of the world, their capital is Riyadh, and their law is Shari'ah. But that's about all I know, so far. Prince Faisal tells me that he wants to do good and not harm when he succeeds his father.

Writing speculative fiction means that the author gets to make up a lot of stuff. I prefer, however, to make up stuff that has some basis in a reality that my readers can understand, even if that reality takes some unexpected twists. So, I decided to do my homework on Arab culture in order to speculate on where it will be in the year 2225. I checked the internet, and found a lot of disorganized information. I went to the library and found books that were full of poppy-cock and propaganda, and, again, no organized information. I thought about interviewing Arab students attending University here, but, I'm kind of shy, so I kept that option as a last resort.

Yesterday, in the waiting room of the Day Surgery Center at the University of Iowa Medical Center, I picked up a copy of The New Yorker magazine. Honestly, this was not really even a waiting room; it was more like a hallway with a few chairs. And this was the only magazine in the whole area. It was over six weeks old: the January 5, 2004 issue.

In this magazine I found a riveting article written by Lawrence Wright for his regular feature, A Reporter at Large, "The Kingdom of Silence." This article was twenty-five pages of sights and smells and textures and nuances of life in Saudi Arabia, character sketches that I will shamelessly draw from, and subtle details that skip the propaganda and go straight to the truth.

What are the odds of that?

Here's what gets me really jazzed: If I had told my friend, no I can't go to Iowa City with you, I have to stay home and do research for my new novel, I would not have found that article. I am laughing out loud here.

A little bit of faith goes a long way ...

Posted at 06:26 PM     Read More  


Tue - February 17, 2004

Why can't we just get along?


Some thoughts about the outcry over Mel Gibson's movie

I haven't seen the movie because it hasn't been released here, yet. But I'm following the controversy, even though such ranting rhetoric upsets my delicate constitution. Here's my position: It's easy to get caught up in mindless, hateful generalizations about a group of people you don't know or understand or with whom you have no relationship. But even if you knew personally just one or two individuals from that group, you would be much less likely to get caught up in the mob mentality. If Christians were building relationships with Jews and Muslims and Hindus, it would be a lot harder for us to distrust each other. And our lives would be so much richer.

Whatever you believe about sharing the gospel, you don't have a witness unless you have a relationship.

Here's a great article written by a Rabbi:

http://www.towardtradition.org/article_Passion_Feb_2004.htm. Feel free to pass this along.









Posted at 08:12 PM     Read More  

Come to the Fabulation!


A new word, whose definition I don't want to look up because I'm having too much making up my own!

I'm part of a writer's group. We meet monthly and "workshop" each other's stuff. We are serious writers, SERIOUSLY committed to getting published! I didn't know being a serious writer could be so much fun. Last night, we were evaluating a textbook about "Crafting Fiction." One chapter was entitled "Romance and Fabulation."

Who knew that fabulation is a real word? We went home with an assignment: to come up with as many definitions of the word as possible, or, to use it in a story.

Here 's my first three stabs at defining fabulation:



The point in a woman's menstrual cycle when a bunch of follicles have a convention and select a candidate to run for ovum.

The gathering of believers just after the Rapture

The title of the keynote speaker's motivational address at the annual Textile Worker's Union meeting



I know you can do better than that.

Come on, make my day. I'll pick a favorite and the writer can come to my fabulation!

hansonkathy@mac.com










Posted at 07:46 PM     Read More  


Sun - February 15, 2004

More Relentless Pursuit of "What If"


A Meme Cry for Help


Writers often live with characters and ideas that go far beyond their experience, level of education and even their value system. There is no rational explanation for this. That's why the idea of memes intrigues me. WHAT IF ideas are really alive, looking for a place to dwell? Here's what Joshua S. Lateiner said in a paper called: "Meme-Based Models of Mind and the Possibility for Consciousness in Alternate Media," Originally presented to Dr. Daniel C. Dennett, December 10, 1992. Copyright (c) 1992 by Joshua S. Lateiner, All rights reserved. (View full article at: http://www.eff.org/Net_culture/Consciousness/memes_and_consciousness.paper)
" Memes are living information, capable of being
transmitted and reproduced. Their desire is simply to live and to grow;
that is, to reproduce and generate new memes. This requires a good
information processing environment; a human brain will suffice for the
moment.
"Memes seek the best possible habitats for themselves in much the same
manner that humans do. We moved out of caves a long time ago, it turned out
that well-appointed houses in the suburbs were much more conducive to the
successful reproduction of both people and memes (it is hard to read in
dimly lit caves).
"The ideal habitat for memes would be extremely dynamic -- a combination of
large storage capacity and enormous information processing power; and well
connected, as memes love to communicate (that is how they reproduce and
grow). I postulate that although the memes have made do for the moment with
the human brain, that cyberspace or something like it will ultimately be a
more hospitable medium for memes."


I'm trying to accommodate the meme that's living in my mind by putting out a call into cyberspace. A few weeks ago, Phil The Speculist (www.speculist.com) asked the M104 (Formerly Known as The Posse) if anyone would be willing to help me figure out why and how my characters are telepathic. I'm expanding this request because these characters won't leave me alone and they live in a story way beyond my capability to write. It's no coincidence that Phil recently made me a member of the aforementioned M104 - it was my meme crying for help.


You can help by commenting on these future scenarios that my characters have insisted upon:

The United States is no longer a superpower. People have abandoned capitalism and they have been told that the world's resources are severely limited. How did this happen?

The world has suffered from a series of catastrophes from which (ostensibly) the global economy hasn't recovered and human population has diminished by about one third. Speculate about at least five possible events.

The Western world no longer imports oil. How does this shape Middle Eastern politics?

Some aspects of technology have continued to advance. Who controls the funds and sets the priorities for research and development?

And, let me remind you, two characters are telepathic. They are driven to find out why and how and when this adaptation occurred in the gene pool. Do you have any ideas?

And, one last thing. The major religions, including Christianity, are no longer practiced in the United States. What happened to the people of faith?

I apologize to my meme if I didn't express things clearly enough. Email me at hansonkathy@mac.com with your comments and questions ...







Posted at 04:40 PM     Read More  


Wed - February 11, 2004

For Extra Credit!


This JUST IN from the Middle School Language Department: New Literary Device! The Tom Swiftie!

Attention writers! Stretch the limits of your cliche repertoire and turn in Tom Swifties to this site for extra credit.

Examples:

Tom virtually admitted to being addicted to video games.

"Go walk the dog," my dad barked.

"I want to see the volcanoes," Timmy erupted when his mom said it was time to leave the Science Fair.

"Don't think I didn't see you slithering in the back door late last night," Edgar's wife hissed.

Get the picture?



Make my day and send me some Tom Swifties of your own! Send comments to hansonkathy@mac.com

Posted at 04:37 PM     Read More  

Why Do I Have No Style?



A stylistic disclaimer here: I'm still learning how to use this software. Someday I will learn how to add links like all you superbloggers do, and I'll figure out why my font styles button doesn't permit me to politely italicize names of magazines and newspapers.

Thank you for your patience.

Posted at 01:34 PM     Read More  

Amazing Science News from Iowa!


"Zoologists at Iowa State University Announce Aging Surprise" and "Former ISU Professor Says Coverage of Mad Cow Disease Is Overblown"

The Iowa Caucuses are over, and would have been forgotten had not Dean's (aka Beelzebub) human likeness generator malfunctioned. The reporters who staged bucolic shots of fields and barns but were really in downtown Des Moines have left us to chew our cuds in simplistic contentment. But the unsuspecting public should take note of recent science news from the region that bi-coastal travelers call "the fly over zone."

Listed as #62 in the 100 Top Science Stories of 2003 in Discover Magazine: Zoologists at Iowa State University have discovered that the telomeres (repetitive pieces of DNA at the ends of chromosomes) of storm petrels actually lengthen with age instead of shrinking each time the cell divides. The shortening of telomeres is believed to be one cause of aging. The researchers hope to study the relationship between the birds' immune systems and the enzyme telomerase, which maintains telomere length. "Although telomerase could somehow slow aging" states the article by Michael W. Robbins, "it is also found in most tumor cells, where it aids the uncontrolled growth that characterizes cancer." Ironically, there are no storm petrels in Iowa, so the researchers are recruiting from a colony on Kent Island, New Brunswick.

I think it is safe to say that there aren't any mad cows in Iowa, either. And if retired ISU professor Dr. Bill Switzer has anything to say about it, there's good news for the cows living elsewhere who are mad about the negative press they've been getting recently. This past weekend, an Ames Tribune article by Mark Krapfl (who, in my opinion, should change his name or get out of the public eye), cites Dr. Switzer's critical analysis of the possibility that humans could develop a variant of Cruetzfeldt-Jakob disease by eating infected beef. "Chicken Little would look brave compared to this," Switzer is quoted. Since the National Animal Disease Center, where all the mad cows are tested, is right here in Ames, there's a lot at stake. Harley Moon, the Center's director from 1988 to 1995, says, "It's a market issue, not a science issue." Yes, and that's why all the cows are hiring PR managers ...

Posted at 01:23 PM     Read More  


Mon - February 9, 2004

A Commitment to the Relentless Pursuit of "What If"


About this blog ... this is not a blog. A blog sounds like it might cause a stroke if lodged in an artery. A blog would require boots when visited. I prefer b'muse. If web log, contracted, is "blog," then web muse, contracted, is "b'muse." In this case, very apt.

It is with fear and trembling that I launch this site. Words are powerful, and once they're out there in cyberspace, you can't take them back.

The blogging medium requires a modicum of self-esteem ("selfish steam," as one of my daughters once misapprehended the term). Or, is it vanity to assume that I have something to say that might interest you? I will do my best to fill this site with " ... things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious - the best, not the worst, the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse." (Philippians 4:8, The Message paraphrase)

Disclaimer: I'm pretty sure that the Amplified Version says, "This scripture does not apply to making fun of a) oneself, b) left wing fanatics, c) right wing fanatics, d) celebrities (especially boy bands, bare-naveled female pop singers and movie stars who venture into politics - excluding Ronald Reagan) and, e) the French.

That being said, this b'muse will cover many aspects of living the Speculative Life. A principle that guides me is this: A life surrendered to Christ changes each small step of obedience into a leap of faith. I take this freedom very seriously. The relentless pursuit of "What if" is a high calling.

The Speculative Life reaches every domain. Sometimes it spans the limits of the cosmos. Sometimes it dwells in the landscape of the mind. This weekend, we found it in the kitchen. Speculative Cooking! We were expecting visiting kinfolk, and what with the mounds of snow accumulating in Iowa, trips to the store are an adventure. I realized that I had neglected to procure ingredients for dessert, and not wanting to snub the kinfolks, who are step-inlaws or something not listed in conventional genealogies, I made something "from scratch," as they say in those old-fashioned cook-books, with things "on hand." The things on hand were: week-old sugar cookie dough and pecans left over from Thanksgiving. I spread the cookie dough in the bottom of a pan, and whipped up a pecan pie filling to pour on top. Then I said a quick prayer for Martha Stewart's trial, and gave thanks that she hadn't asked me to fill in for her during this time of hardship. I put the confection in the oven. Then (music from the movie "Jaws" here), my husband CAME INTO THE KITCHEN.
"What are you making?" he asked. "Does it involve chocolate chips?"
I took a deep breath and muttered, " I cannot tell a lie. It does NOT involve chocolate chips."
"Well, take it out of the oven, then," he said. Then he came right at me carrying a giant Bag O' Chocolate Chips and poured a layer an inch thick on top of the dessert. The chips melted, forming a lovely frosting. And it was the best dessert I've ever made.

That, my friends, is just one of the rewards of The Speculative Life.

Posted at 11:15 AM     Read More  


Fri - February 6, 2004

How Much Energy Does It Take to Split a Hair?



It's something in the genes. My sister has it, her daughter has it. I have it, and all of my children have it. We haven't figured out which ancestor bequeathed this trait, but here's how it manifests: 1.) Topic comes up. 2.) People in immediate vicinity talk amongst themselves and move on 3.) I and/or person(s) closely related to me am/are not satisfied with shallow, popular opinion and proceed with great alacrity to take the topic to a transcendent level. 4.) Eyes of people in immediate vicinity glaze over and/or roll back in head. This morning's topic, brought to you by 13-year old Mary, was "Energy." Here's how it went:
"I just don't understand energy, Mom. What is it?"
"What does your textbook say?"
"It isn't matter. It's energy. So what is it, if it isn't matter?"
"Energy is the ability to do work," I say, feeling pretty clever to remember that one.
"But, what is it?"
"Well, it's either heat or a chemical reaction, or kinetic or electrical..."
"Aha! Then, if heat is how fast particles move, and chemicals are compounds made out of various substances, and kinetic means movement and things can't move unless they are, well, things!!, then energy can't be energy without matter!"
Mary took a breath right about here.
"Okay, Mary, you're gonna miss the school bus," I say, vacillating between being impressed and rolling my eyes.

Which brings me to my question. I was reading about theories of the origins of the Universe, and now They're saying that two Universes in different dimensions collided, like rippling membranes ('branes, is the lingo), and, as Dave Barry is fond of saying, "I am not making this up," these 'branes are like bed sheets hanging on the line, moving in the wind ... So, my questions is, what is a Universe? How can there be more than one? Don't try to placate me that mathematical dimension stuff. If these Universes are real, at least in the minds of the mathematicians who write the equations, then, the characters in my stories are real, too! In some Universe.

Posted at 07:25 PM     Read More  


Wed - January 28, 2004

From "The Maresh Points"


The sky over the planet Enhuis, near Epsilon Eridani, is changing. The Maresh Points appear, challenging long-held tenets about the structure of the universe and promising a pathway to wealth and power to those who control these portals to the stars. As global tension mounts, the people of Enhuis discover that they are not alone. A world much like theirs exists a mere ten light-years away - Earth!

Chapter 21
Crystal drift on the whistling wind/ constant change is the space we’re in/ you may use a slide rule or a golden crown/ but nothing is worth it that you can pin down/ see how the starwheel turns.
Bruce Cockburn, “Starwheel,” 
from Joy will Find a Way, 1975, True North Productions
Date Stamp
June 30, 1971
Server Point of Origin
Los Angeles, California
United States of America
Earth
Adiim, you have tried to teach me to find the wonder and joy of any new situation. My first week at JPL was interesting at first, if only because of the novelty of being here on Earth, and the sheer terror that my identity might be discovered. I have endured an excruciatingly boring orientation without, much to my credit, falling asleep, even during the motion pictures documenting JPL’s illustrious history. The idiom “paperwork” has taken on new meaning as I complete form after form, and read interminable manuals describing personnel procedures, treatment of classified information, and operating procedures for my department. Not until my second week here did I actually come into contact with the primitive computing devices and software I will be using. My job will be to work with the physicists to cross check the software codes for the Mariner spacecraft navigational programs. I will have to sit on my hands and bite my tongue. Remind me to make notes to revise the training manual if we send any more crews to this planet.
A young woman interning in the engineering department, named Lisa Fisher, has sought my companionship during breaks and lunch hours. She seems to feel out of place. Perhaps being a woman in a man’s domain is not so different than being from another planet. I’m still uneasy about my social skills, and would prefer to take my breaks alone, but I know that would be unkind. I will do my best to tolerate Lisa and hope that I don’t arouse any suspicion about myself.
End Program
At the end of the day on Friday of her second week at JPL, SulaMhir hurried across the parking lot toward her car, a used Datsun. Feeling the bottom of her purse for keys, she looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was following. The purse was cumbersome and she was clumsy with the keys, probably another consequence of Earth’s slightly higher gravity. Under her feet, the asphalt was soft, its heat radiating through the soles of her shoes. Squinting, she looked up at the brassy sun and remembered that she should be wearing sunglasses. So many behaviors to coordinate. She was glad that it was Fifthday, or Friday as it was called here, and she looked forward to two days of solitude.
“Mona!”
SulaMhir kept walking, pretending she didn’t hear Lisa Fisher calling to her. Lisa’s platform shoes made a flapping noise against her heels as she clomped across the asphalt. She caught up with SulaMhir, who had no choice but to compose herself and put on an expression of polite interest, when she really felt on the verge of panic or frustration, she wasn’t sure which.
“Mona, I’m so glad I caught you. I was wondering if you had any plans for the weekend?”
SulaMhir opened her mouth to say that, yes, she had plans, though of course that was a fib, but Lisa interjected before SulaMhir could commit the small transgression.
“There’s a music festival in San Francisco, and I want to go. Only, I don’t have anyone to go with. I don’t want to go alone. Do you want to check it out? We could stay with my cousin, so it wouldn’t cost too much.”
When SulaMhir didn’t answer right away, Lisa’s brow furrowed and she rocked nervously on her heels in the ridiculously high platform shoes, looking childish and vulnerable. She pushed her glasses up on her nose for the fortieth time that day, and chewed her bottom lip. “I know it’s a six hour drive to San Fran. But I don’t mind driving at night. Please say yes! I have tickets! They weren’t easy to get.” Lisa’s large front teeth began to worry the lower tip again. “Monday is the holiday, you know. Since the 4th is on Sunday, we get Monday off.”
Gut instinct, fear of the unknown, common sense, protocol and the sheer volume of information she needed to process from her first week of real work at JPL should have forced an immediate and emphatic refusal from SulaMhir’s lips, so she was even more surprised than Lisa to hear a clear “Yes,” issue forth. In fact, it wasn’t until she registered the look of startled relief on Lisa’s face, the look that melted into one of pure joy, that she fully realized what she had done. SulaMhir shifted her weight from one foot to the other, wishing the asphalt would swallow her up, but it didn’t, and she forced a resolute smile to her lips.
Lisa spread her arms in a gesture of gratitude, and her white lab coat slid from her grasp. SulaMhir caught it before it hit the oily surface of the parking lot, and Lisa clasped it to her chest as though it were something precious. “I’ll pick you up at seven,” she said. “Here, write down your address.” She rifled through her macramé bag for a scrap of paper. “I’ll bring some extra pillows and snacks. And plenty of caffeine so we can stay awake. Pack light, okay? It gets cool and damp at night, so bring a jacket.”
SulaMhir forced herself to make the alien marks comprising the address of her boarding house and handed the paper back to Lisa, while, in the back of her mind, she imagined that she heard Trealhim’s voice, tinged with amusement, encouraging her to trust that she could never find herself in a situation or predicament so absurd that was outside the will of the One.
Trealhim, however, had never spent a week on an alien planet pretending to an intern in a laboratory populated mainly by pale, nearsighted men carrying slide rules in their pockets. Slide rules! SulaMhir could figure equations in her head faster than they could solve them. She’d spent most of the week gnawing her tongue to keep from revealing anachronistic information. They didn’t know how to behave around a female astrophysicist, anyway. And poor Lisa was the lone female among “the wolves,” as she called them, in the engineering area. SulaMhir couldn’t fault Lisa for clinging to her, but assuming the role of elder sister was more than SulaMhir was prepared to do. Spending the weekend with Lisa was probably not a good idea. Why had she said yes?
Driving in traffic from Pasadena to her apartment in a less fashionable section of Los Angeles consumed SulaMhir’s attention for the next hour. She’d begun to feel competent at driving, appreciating the physical coordination required and response of the vehicle. Driving a car was not so different from navigating a space ship. SulaMhir fought the urge to swerve as another car cut in front of her with inches to spare. She smiled, recalling navigating the asteroid belt. If the consequences of a miscalculation here on the freeway were, by comparison, not as staggering in their scale, they made up for this by being more immediate.
SulaMhir parked her car in her designated slot in the driveway of an ugly, square house constructed of concrete blocks painted a wan yellow hue. Crooked blue and white striped aluminum awnings and a trio of scraggly palm trees shaded the two story building from the California sun, which, at sunset, cast a comforting reddish light that reminded her of home. She slipped inside, closed the door to her room and tried to gather her wits.
SulaMhir turned the deadbolt on her door and closed the Venetian blinds before she dutifully checked for messages on the server built into her suitcase. Having agreed not to carry pocket servers unless absolutely necessary, especially, not in security-sensitive areas such as JPL and NASA, the crew had to learn patience in doing without the luxury of instant communication. To make matters even more complicated they had agreed upon an annoying but necessary topical drug regimen to block their implanted biotech location transmitters during the hours they were in public. SulaMhir was always relieved when she re-calibrated hers with her server after the drug wore off.
Finding encrypted messages from Captain Simyulim and Arthini, she downloaded them to her pocket server and erased the originals from her main server. “No one’s heard from MeRihim in more than twenty-four hours,” Simyulim reported. “We’re not picking up her signal. Contact me immediately if you hear from her.”
SulaMhir paced, considering this. The only way to interrupt the signal from the implant for more than twelve hours would be to keep applying the drug patch or remove the transmitter. She fingered the faint edge of her own patch, barely discernable beneath her left clavicle. MeRihim must be in trouble if she was trying to suppress her signal. There was no way SulaMhir could go to San Francisco with Lisa now. Her duty was to wait by her server for word from MeRihim. She felt an immediate sense of relief to be released from that obligation, but it was short-lived, replaced by a knot of unease in the pit of her stomach. Arthini’s message echoed Simyulim’s concern about MeRihim, although she listed the plays, movies, and religious meetings she planned to attend during the weekend, inviting SulaMhir to join her as she wished.
SulaMhir initialized the microphone signal on the tiny control panel of her server. “Encrypt message. Begin. Requesting advice on standby status for next forty-eight hours.”
She didn’t expect an immediate response. What to do now?” She checked her wristwatch. Lisa was probably on her way and there was no way to communicate with her. SulaMhir would just have to make some excuse when Lisa arrived.
The indicator flashed a new text message from Simyulim. “Switch from voice to two-way text mode.” SulaMhir extracted a stylus from the pocket server, wondering what had prompted the captain to switch protocols. She began to write. “Received. Order to wait for word from MeRihim?”
Simyulim replied. “Considering options. Request you send text message to MeRihim.” A pause and the text began to scroll again. “Send it as a personal message. As a friend.”
“Understood.” She wanted to ask him about his immediate circumstances. “And you?” Send you a message as friend?”
“Thanks for sentiment. Everything A-OK as they say here. Carry on with prior plans, if any. Keep pocket server on hand. Check in every ten hours. Captain out.”
SulaMhir took a moment to let reason overrule the irrational desire to hide in her room all weekend. Her captain had ordered her to continue her prior plans. If MeRihim chose to respond to her message, SulaMhir would be just as accessible by pocket server in San Francisco as she would be here in Los Angles. It was time to take courage and face the weekend. She could learn a lot about these Earth people by accompanying Lisa. There had to be more to the mission than gathering data at JPL.
**
MeRihim sipped ginger ale and looked out the window of the airplane. As intelligence officer, she’d been the last crewmember to leave the shuttle site, her responsibility to make sure the others safely reached their assigned locations before she battened down the area and embarked on her own adventure. It hadn’t been easy burrowing the shuttles into the side of the sandy ridge, but when she’d finished, she was satisfied that the area looked clean and undisturbed. She’d discarded her scooter at a bus station in a nearby town, bought a ticket to Ontario, California, and spent the night in a cheap hotel close to the airport. Carrying only a backpack with a change of clothes and basic toiletries, she’d boarded her flight that morning. Now she was on her way to Chicago, where she would change planes and fly to New York.
Below her, the arid high plains were giving way to the verdant farmlands of the Midwest. MeRihim turned away from the window and closed her eyes. She felt terrible. Nauseated and tired. And she knew that the immunity boosters did not cause her condition. It was a condition only time could cure.
MeRihim had to make a decision. As the flight attendant announced their final descent into the Chicago area, MeRihim obediently raised her seat to its upright position and put away her tray table. Reluctantly, she handed her cup to the smiling flight attendant, wishing she could keep the ice cubes to suck on. Her ears popped uncomfortably, and she swallowed to equalize the air pressure in her Eustachian tubes. Turning to the window again, she was amazed to see the skyline of Chicago, Lake Michigan shining in the noontime sun, the tall buildings pointing arrogantly toward the airspace. The urban maze stretched as far as her eye could see. A person could get swallowed up in such a city. Lost and forgotten.
MeRihim fingered the drug patch beneath her clavicle, wondering how hard it would be to remove her transmitter. No one would be looking for her in Chicago, as they would be in New York.
She waited until most of the passengers were off the plan before she ventured onto the concourse and checked the monitor for her connecting flight’s departure time and gate. She had one and one-half Earth hours to make a decision. Jostled by the harried travelers, she felt a wave of nausea overtake her. She ducked into the first women’s restroom she could find and opened a stall just in time to avoid the embarrassment of throwing up in public. She washed her face and returned to the concourse, this time hugging the wall to stay out of the crush of pedestrian traffic. A sign above her announced an intersection. If she turned left, she would go to Concourse B. If she turned right, she would go to Baggage Claim and Ground Transportation.
MeRihim turned right.
Chapter 22
A gentle dome of blue metal curving toward extinction/the Volkswagen casts no glare in the full scrutiny of midsummer’s sun/ becoming one with the backyard grass/ it once carried prophets of peace who/smoked dreams in its back seat/while they searched for the road to heaven/ or at least the route to change the world.
Kathy Hanson, excerpted from “Hippie Dreams,” 1995
By the time Lisa’s blue Volkswagen beetle reached the open freeway, SulaMhir was nibbling potato chips, sipping an unpleasant beverage called Tab Cola, and trying to push aside her anxiety about MeRihim. She began to relax and allow a sense of adventure to insinuate itself into her stubborn, practical defenses.
Lisa seemed more confident behind the wheel of the car than she did in the laboratory. The only residual nervous mannerism SulaMhir noted was her habit of adjusting the wire-rim glasses that constantly slid down her freckled nose. Beneath the yellow bandana tied around her head, her hair billowed in an orange cloud of curls, and her long, angular arms, also freckled, were in constant motion, whether crossing as she gripped the steering wheel to whip the car from lane to lane, or merely gesticulating in time to the music on the eight-track tape player.
“Our house is a very, very, very, very fine house!” she sang. “Don’t you just love those harmonies?” Lisa’s head bobbed to the beat and she reached for her own beverage, something in a yellow and green aluminum can, called Fresca.
SulaMhir nodded. She did, indeed, find the harmonies pleasant, and the guitar chords anchored by the rich bass laced by intricate percussion, very interesting.
“With two cats in the yard!” Lisa switched to a harmony ostensibly a third above the melody, but her pitch wasn’t quite there. “Life used to be so hard. Now everything is easy coz of you. And our house!” She was lost in a series of da da da’s or na na na’s SulaMhir couldn’t quite distinguish the syllables. “Don’t you ever wonder what it will really be like when you’re married?” Lisa sighed.
SulaMhir paused to interpret what Lisa was saying. She was fairly certain that Lisa was speaking in hypothetical second person. ‘What will it really be like when one is actually married,’ perhaps. She smiled through the sudden pang of homesickness, of missing her husband. The husband that she must pretend doesn’t exist.
Oblivious, Lisa continued to chatter. “I’m sure it won’t be as blissful as Crosby, Stills and Nash’s song. But I want to get married. Don’t you?”
SulaMhir just kept smiling. Lisa took her eyes off the road long enough to study SulaMhir’s face. “I’m sorry, Mona. That’s a pretty personal question.”
“That’s all right. I look forward to marriage, too.”
Lisa looked relieved. “I wish I could fix up my cousin with a nice girl.”
“Your cousin?”
“Yes, the cousin who’s putting up with us for the weekend. Rob’s his name. Rob Wallace. He’s a preacher.”
“Oh.” Knowing very little about preachers, SulaMhir had no idea how to respond.
“He used to be even more of a geek than me. But he got a call from God to go into the ministry and he went off to Seminary in Denver. The next time I saw him, he’d gotten rid of his glasses, grown out his hair, gained about forty pounds of muscle, and I got to tell you, he looks like Van Morrison, Tarzan and Jesus Christ rolled into one.”
“This transformation happened to him while he was in Seminary?”
“Yup.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I. You’d think being all studious and religious, he’d come back skinnier and geekier than when he left. But I think he just sort of, well, blossomed.”
“I suppose that makes sense. When one find’s one calling...”
“But it’s such a waste.”
“What is a waste?”
“He doesn’t seem interested in women at all.”
“What are his interests?”
“Reaching this rebellious generation for Christ.” She said this in such a way that SulaMhir couldn’t tell if Lisa approved of this incomprehensible cause or not. “He doesn’t even have a real church. He’s a street preacher. Some rich guy supports him with a grant of some sort. He lives in a big old house and takes in street kids, hippies and runaways, finds work for them, sends them to drug rehab . . .”
SulaMhir nodded as if she understood, as had become her habit since she landed on this planet. “So, we’re staying in the apartment with street kids, hippies and runaways?” Her voice sounded dubious to her own ears.
“Oh. I guess I didn’t stop to think about that. You aren’t scared are you?” Rob runs a tight ship. Any misbehavior and it’s out on your butt.” Hypothetical second person, again? A sweeping gesture, followed by a big adjustment of the glasses, another lane change and an anticlimactic sip of the Fresca seemed to settle it for Lisa.
SulaMhir wrapped her arms around herself and resigned to make the best of it. After all, she’d traveled ten light years, two solar systems, and one ambiguous celestial anomaly to spend the night in Rob Wallace’s religious sanctuary. If the One God of the Universe wanted something untoward to befall her, He would have to demonstrate an inordinate sense of irony to put her in danger now.
Lisa seemed to have the good sense not to intrude on SulaMhir’s thoughts as they neared the city of San Francisco with its lights, peeking in and out of thin veils of fog, sparkling on a hundred hills.
“Your cousin is expecting us?” SulaMhir asked when Lisa finally parked the car on a steep, narrow street and set the emergency brake.
“Yeah. He’s already at the fest. Probably won’t come home tonight.” She selected a key and squinted as she held it up to the feeble light shining into the car from the street lamp. “I’ve had a key since the last time I stayed here.”
SulaMhir had many questions about the festival, perhaps the biggest of which was what questions she should be asking. But she was becoming accustomed to the state of perpetual ignorance in which she now existed. She followed Lisa up the sidewalk to a gray-sided house with a preponderance of windows, turrets and borders of weathered filigree trim.
Lisa put the key in the lock but took a step back as the door opened.
“Missy Fisher!” A tiny woman with tilted black eyes and olive skin whisked Lisa’s bags from her grasp and reached for SulaMhir’s before she could object. “Mister Lob say to expect you soon!”
“But he didn’t tell me to expect you!” Lisa said.
“Oh, forgive please. You may call me Grandmother Chen. I come to help Mister Lob. He ask me stay because my husband dead and my son in prison and I have no where live.” Hands full of the girls' bags, she bowed, bobbing her head, her face beaming. “I am in Christ now. I am happy be here!”
SulaMhir let out her breath. The woman was so like SulaRiyah.
“No one here, now!" Grandmother Chen turned to give them room to enter. "Mister Lob took all them to fest. Making them work with him. God’s work. They work if they want eat!”
Lisa laughed. “That sounds like Rob.”
“I show you room.”
Lisa shrugged and looked at SulaMhir. “I give up. I never know what to expect.”
SulaMhir smiled at the irony of that.
Sleep was long in coming as SulaMhir stared out the window of the second floor bedroom. The stars flickering there were not so different from those of her home world, but the sky was stark and empty without the Cloak of Gennosh and the Maresh Points. And her arms were empty. Somewhere across that black expanse her husband and son waited.
Lisa began to snore softly. SulaMhir lay down and closed her eyes, absently rubbing the Mark of the Keep implanted in her wrist.
**
Scraping and shuffling noises woke her to a gray light. “Time to get up! Mrs. Chen wants to send us off with a good breakfast!” Lisa was up, running at full-tilt, throwing on clothes and rummaging through her bags. “I forgot sunscreen. Did you bring any? You have to wear sunscreen even if it’s cloudy. Trust me. I’ve been burned before.”
“Sunscreen?” SulaMhir was still too sleepy to translate. “I’ll look in my bag,” she hedged. “What is the weather?”
“It’s either cloudy or foggy. I can’t tell which. But it will probably clear off by noon and it could get hot. Heat and sunshine and crowds and loud music. That’s my forecast. Sound like fun to you?”
Later, slathered in the sun block that SulaMhir had brought from her home world, dressed in bellbottom jeans, halter tops and sandals, the girls boarded a bus headed to Golden Gate Park. Mrs. Chen’s rice and fish breakfast had been one of the healthier meals she’d eaten since leaving the shuttle, if not one of the more palatable. But SulaMhir had tolerated it much better than Lisa, who had practically gagged on the fish.
Lisa sipped a diet cola and leaned against the vinyl seat back as the bus lurched forward spewing a cloud of diesel fumes through the open windows. “I could have done with about four hours more sleep,” she moaned. “And plain toast for breakfast.”
SulaMhir managed to laugh. “I must be crazy. What was I thinking? To leave the lovely smog of Los Angeles and the solitude of a boarding house for this?”
The bus was nearly empty of passengers. Four teen-aged boys were bunched into the long bench at the rear, gawking at Lisa and SulaMhir whenever they thought the young women weren’t looking. Judging by their overstated hippie costumes, they intended to go to the festival, too. Sitting as far away from the boys as possible, a wary, middle-aged Oriental couple sat with their eyes averted. The bus driver, a heavy African-American female whose natural hairstyle took up two thirds of the cab, stared at SulaMhir from the rear-view mirror.
SulaMhir fidgeted in her seat. She gazed out the window at the passing shops, gas stations, apartments and parks. “What’s that man doing?” She pointed to yet another Oriental man in a park, extending his arms and legs in slow, deliberate movements.
Lisa followed her gaze. “That’s Tai Chi. Some Eastern thing. Exercise and meditation all rolled into one, I think.”
SulaMhir nodded. Again, the pang of homesickness. Her father and her husband had encouraged her to try the disciplines, but she’d never done so.
Are you okay?” Lisa asked.
“I’m fine. Just tired.”
“Here. Have a Tab. You need some caffeine!”
SulaMhir shook her head. “I don’t think it goes well with fish!” She would die for a kima right now, the way Gurphur made it, with fresh cream and a hint of honey.
Long before they reached Golden Gate Park, SulaMhir heard, or rather, felt, the pulsing beat of rock music. The bass throbbed in her sternum. As they disembarked, only to be swallowed by the crowd, her ears rang with shrill trebles and swelling mid-range tones. SulaMhir looked up at the sky. The clouds were parting and the sun began a bold assault. Lisa’s forecast was one hundred percent accurate. “How are we going to find your cousin?” She asked.
“I’m not even going to try to find him. ¡Que será!” Lisa adjusted her glasses, put her head down, and shouldered her way into the throng. “The Main Stage is somewhere near the Presidio, I think.”she said.
SulaMhir hoisted her backpack and followed. She didn’t bother to ask how far it was to the Main Stage. They kept to Lincoln Boulevard as it angled northeast, parallel with Baker’s Beach. The music grew louder, and the crowd more congested. SulaMhir wished they would turn in the other direction, toward the beach. Surely they could hear the music from there and the view would be nicer.
“I’d like to get close enough to see the bands on stage,” Lisa told her, as if reading her thoughts.
SulaMhir sniffed. Something in the air smelled like churl, only stronger. Marijuana, she guessed. For the remainder of the day, she tagged along with Lisa in a mild state of shock. Nothing on her home world remotely resembled this event. She almost wished she had taken up smoking churl, as her father did occasionally. She would be grateful for something to dull her senses. The excess of loud music, hot sun, wild colors, and close bodies with all their odors made her woozy by the end of the day.
“Could we head toward the beach to see the sunset?” SulaMhir asked, but Lisa didn’t seem to hear. Her head was down, swinging in time to the music, her long red hair whipping in the air around her.
“I’ll take you, pretty mamma,” said a shirtless young man standing next to her. His short curly hair was tied with a red handkerchief and his blue jeans hung loosely from his hips, revealing his naval and a hard, concave abdomen.
“Jimmy, you’re out of line,” someone said,
SulaMhir turned to find the source of the authoritative voice. A tall, bearded man with shoulder-length brown hair put a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder.
Lisa stopped her swinging her head, looked up and cried, “Robert Bruce Wallace!”
The man grinned at Lisa and scooped her into his arms.
“It’s a miracle. How did you find us in this crowd?” Lisa mumbled into Robert Wallace’s chest.
“It’s your radiant beauty, little cousin. You stand out.”
“It’s your red hair.” Jimmy said. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”
Lisa extricated herself from Rob’s embrace and pulled SulaMhir closer. “This is Mona Bjornsdottir. She’s an intern at JPL.”
Rob extended his hand. “Happy to meet you, Mona. Where are you from?”
“Reykjavik. I just finished my doctorate in physics at the University and was invited to intern at as part of an exchange program.” SulaMhir wondered if the natural lilt in her voice and her fair, exotic features were enough to stand up to Rob Wallace’s intense scrutiny.
He smiled. “Is there some Inuit in your bloodline?” His finger traced her high cheekbones and canted eyes.
SulaMhir blushed.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense.”
“None taken.”
“Jimmy and I were about to round up our posse and head home for the night,” Rob said.
“You’re kidding!” Lisa grabbed his arms.
“I am not. I’ve been up for 48 hours. Even I have my limits. Besides,” he shrugged, “the good bands have already played.”
“That’s a matter of taste,” Lisa retorted. “I’d like to stay. What do you say, Mona?”
SulaMhir was hot and tired and hungry. Afraid that exhaustion would slow her cognitive responses and cause her say or do something alien, she was tempted to suggest that they should leave with Rob. Then struck by the extreme unlikelihood that anyone here would notice odd behavior, she laughed out loud.
“What’s so funny?” Lisa asked.
“Oh, I’m just getting ...” She searched for a word.
“Punchy?” Rob offered.
“If you say so,” she said. “But I will stay a while longer if you want to, Lisa.”
Rob gave her a nod and ushered Jimmy through a gap in the throng. “I wish I could promise to wait up for you, Lisa,” he called back over his shoulder. “But I’m about to pass out as it is. Tomorrow’s Sunday. I kind of have to get some sleep. Are you taking the BART?”
“Of course. There’s probably not another parking place between here and your house anyway, so what would be the point of driving?”
Rob’s eyes narrowed. “Be careful. Don’t stay too late.” Then he and Jimmy were lost in the crowd.
“Let’s get something to eat, Mona.” Lisa said. “I want one of those giant smoked turkey legs.”
Reaching for Lisa’s elbow so she wouldn’t lose her, SulaMhir craned her neck to get one last look at Rob but he had been assimilated by the writhing mass of bodies. She leaned into the crowd and let Lisa pull her along, sucking in her breath to make herself as small as possible, acutely aware that, as the day wore on, she was exceeding her capacity to tolerate so much anonymous touching. The physical intrusion was wearing on her nerves.
“Are you hungry?” Lisa asked.
“I don’t know. I’m feeling a little out of my element.”
“What do you mean?”
“The first eight hours were fun, but after awhile I became aware that his is not a good place for an introverted scientist.” A man toppled into SulaMhir just then, drenching her with beer. SulaMhir gasped at the cold shock, and Lisa shrieked on her behalf.
“Hey, watch it, Dude!”
The man glared drunkenly at them and stumbled away. Lisa swiped at SulaMhir’s shirt with her hands. “Mona, maybe you should have gone home with Rob.”
“I came with you. Where I come from, one doesn’t abandon such a commitment.”
“That’s noble, but weird. Let’s eat and then try to get up front at the Main Stage. I can’t believe Rob left before the Dead concert. He loves Jerry Garcia. We’ll head home after that, okay?”
They stood in line at a food booth and Lisa purchased a turkey drumstick as big as her arm. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
SulaMhir looked away from the greasy, soot-covered meat. “I’m just very thirsty.”
“We should have brought our own water. There’s a lemonade stand over there if we can get to it.” Lisa devoured the turkey meat as they walked.
As they approached a ramshackle row of portable toilets, Lisa declared, “This is what I really need!” Handing the drumstick to SulaMhir, she disappeared into one of the toilets. SulaMhir heard her wail, “God, it’s awful in here!”
SulaMhir looked around. Oh, for a drink of water. A few feet away, a young man held up a pitcher and called out, “Kool-Aid! Ice-cold, strawberry Kool-Aid! And it’s not my mother’s recipe!”
She hurried up to him. “I’ll buy some. How much?”
“Just a buck, pretty woman.”
SulaMhir drained the tall plastic cup in two gulps, ignoring the sticky sweetness. It was cold and wet and refreshing. “I’ll have another, please.”
The man grinned. “Good choice.” He refilled the cup and said, “Happy trippin’!”
SulaMhir shrugged and answered, “Happy trippin’ to you, too!” She thought it a strange salutation.
Lisa came out of the toilet, wiping her hands on a disposable towelette. “At least I thought of bringing the wet wipes.” She grabbed her turkey leg. “Whatcha drinkin?”
“Strawberry Kool-Aid.”
Lisa frowned. “Where’d you get it?”
“From that man over ... well, he was over there.”
“You didn’t buy it at one of the booths?”
“No, why?”
“How much did you drink?”
“This is my second glass. I was so thirsty.”
“Oh, shit. Pardon my French. I should have told you not to eat or drink anything unless you buy it at a food stand. You’re going to be trippin’ your ass off in about half an hour. We’d better head for the BART while you can still function.”
“Trippin’?” What is trippin’?”
“Some people think they’re offering a public service by lacing the Kool-Aid with mescaline or LSD. Psychedelic drugs. Now we have to go home. Rob will know what to do!”
“I’m sorry, Lisa! I’m so stupid!”
“You didn’t know, Mona. It’s my fault.”
“Now I’ve spoiled your concert.”
“Don’t worry about it. I can come back to the festival tomorrow while you sleep it off.”
“Are these drugs dangerous?”
“If you trip regularly you could go nuts. Or lose too many brain cells. You’ll be all right. You just need someone to hold your hand.”
SulaMhir couldn't tell if Lisa was being sarcastic or just brutally honest. “How will I know when it starts? Will I hallucinate?”
“It’s different for everyone. Just try to relax and remember that it isn’t real. I’ll make sure we get home. Then I’ll have Rob take care of you. He’s been through this before. Not that he takes drugs. But he's helped babysit every kind of bad trip you can imagine.”
“But he needs to rest.”
Lisa took a long look at SulaMhir. “Somehow, I don’t think he’ll mind sitting up with you tonight.”
SulaMhir slid into the seat on the bus, feeling peaceful and relaxed in the blue and lavender twilight. For a moment she imagined that she was at home. Through the bus window, she watched a parade of pink clouds skimming the rooftops. The clouds dissipated with a small audible explosion, and their fragments sprouted wings and flew away. SulaMhir looked at Lisa whose round eyes and adorable overbite made her smile. Lisa’s red hair turned into ribbons and her brown eyes reflected SulaMhir’s image like a kaleidoscope.
“Has it started?” Lisa asked.
SulaMhir nodded. “It’s like I’m dreaming, only I’m awake.”
After a time, they got off the bus and walked up the steep hill to Rob’s house. The sidewalk undulated unpredictably. SulaMhir held on to Lisa’s arm. Lisa didn’t bother with the key when she reached the door; she just pounded it and called for Rob.
The door opened and the sound of voices swirled out like the smoke from a pipe. Each voice was a different color. SulaMhir tried to follow them with her gaze until they faded in the sky. A few stars were out. “I want to find Epsilon Eridani,” she said wistfully.
The girl who opened the door said, “There’s no one here named Epsilon Eridani. Are you looking for Rob Wallace?”
“I hope he hasn’t already gone to bed,” Lisa said.
“We were just getting ready to eat. Come on in.”
Lisa shot a dubious glance at SulaMhir. “Maybe I’ll take Mona to her room. She’s not feeling well.”
It seemed like it took hours to climb the stairs, and SulaMhir was dizzy when they reached the landing. “I really need the bathroom, Lisa. But I’m afraid.” SulaMhir wasn’t sure she could face the toilet. The thought of the swirling water going to the sewer made her skin crawl.
“I’ll stay with you.”
A few minutes later, SulaMhir washed her hands and took the cool cloth Lisa gave her to wash her face. She saw a face in the mirror, a woman whose beauty brought tears to SulaMhir’s eyes. The woman’s big turquoise eyes slanted upward under elegant brows, and her high cheekbones anchored amber skin glowing from a day in the sun. Around her face spiraled a mass of red-gold curls. “Who is that, Lisa?”
Lisa looked confused. “That’s you Mona. Don’t be afraid. Come on now; let’s go to our room. You need to change your shirt. You reek of beer. Are you hungry? I’ll have someone bring you some supper.”
“I’m famished. I could eat a ... ” SulaMhir shrank from the doorway of the tiny room. The stars were shining through the window, and space was so big and home was so far away.
“It’s all right, Mona. You stayed here last night, remember? Here’s the bed. Just sit down.”
SulaMhir obeyed, grateful that the bed felt solid and permanent. A sudden rush of euphoria swept over her. She felt her breath leave her for a moment and her cheeks flamed with color.
“Here, Lisa, put on one of my t-shirts. I sent Grandmother Chen to find Rob, and he’ll be here any minute.”
The tiny knit shirt left SulaMhir’s midriff bare, but it was clean and smelled of perfume rather than old beer. She hugged her waist.
“Mona?” A man’s voice covered her like a caress. SulaMhir looked sideways under her lashes toward the sound until she found Rob Wallace’s face. He sat beside her on the bed, and his weight made her fall into a small gravity well that ended at his hip. Another sweeping, golden sensation of pleasure gripped her and an involuntary moan escaped her lips.
“Mona, can you look at me?”
SulaMhir searched for his eyes. They were dark brown, like kima roots roasted just the way she liked them. They were not as dark as the eyes of a Scolan, but they were darker than those of any man of Mamrhe and they seemed to be alight with some secret joy or mystery. Rob’s brown hair, waving down around his face and to his shoulders, reflected the same gold highlights as his eyes. When his hand covered hers, she realized that she was touching his coarse beard.
“Trealhim’s beard is soft,” she said.
Rob lowered her hand and held it in his own. “Who is Trealhim?”
“My Trealhim. My elami.” She pulled the delicate chain of her Applepledge necklace from inside her shirt and laid the ruby in Rob’s palm.
“Do you want me to call Trealhim?”
SulaMhir gasped. “He’s, he’s.” She pointed at the stars outside the window. “He’s too far away.”
“Then I will take care of you for him. Will you trust me?”
She couldn’t answer, another wave of intense pleasure washed through her.
“You’re having body rushes. It’s the mescaline. It’s okay. Tell me about Trealhim.” Rob propped some pillows against the wall and helped SulaMhir lean against their support.
“I’ll cry. I miss him so.”
“You can cry.”
“I hate to cry.” But her face was wet and Rob was drawing off the tears with his fingers.
“How long has it been since you were with him?”
She closed her eyes. “Two months to the Maresh Point, two and one half months through your solar system and one and one half months here.”
“It would help if you would speak English.”
SulaMhir’s eyes flew open. Had she spoken in Mamm? She began to rub her wrist. She’d forgotten to wear the prosthetic sleeve to hide her Mark of the Keep. Rob picked up her arm and together they gazed at the glowing Cross and Star emblem. She whispered, “Two months to the Maresh Point, two and one half months through your solar system and one and one half months here on Earth. Six months.” A ghost of the Cross and Star sprang from her wrist and floated over Rob’s head, but the emblem remained on her wrist somehow and Rob was still staring at it. When he looked up at her, his eyes were wide, and she saw her face in them.
“Tell me about this.”
“My Mark of the Keep.”
“English, please.”
“It identifies me as a citizen of Mamrhe, and as Lieutenant Commander Minnosh ‘bhis SulaMhir of the Allied Space Ministry, Navigator of the ship Messenger, wife of Minnosh ‘prim Trealhim, who is Mamhre's Governor and Keeper. And I am Sacrament Bearer for my people.” By the time she had finished these words, her voice was a tiny stream fed by tears trickling out into the air. The stream flowed in front of her eyes toward Rob Wallace’s face, which was wet, too.
“Are you crying, Rob Wallace?”
“Yes, I am.”
SulaMhir grasped his wrists and held on until the surge of a new rush passed. “Why are you crying?”
“Because I believe you.”
“But, I am hallucinating and your tears are stars on your face. And my Mark of the Keep is floating around your head like a crown. How can you believe me?”
“Because you know you are hallucinating, and you know what is real.”
“And I have said things that should not be spoken. My words are worlds unto themselves now. I cannot take them back.” A body rush took her breath away. “It feels like ...” But she could not finish the sentence.
“Like you’re with Trealhim?”
“Like afterwards. When we’re holding each other and I’m still ... like this ... like this drug.”
Rob Wallace laughed softly. “Trealhim is a lucky man. Tell me again, where he is.”
“There,” she said, pointing to the stars. “Epsilon Eridani.”
He held her wrist. “Epsilon Eridani is ... light-years away.”
The stars flew into the room. SulaMhir took Rob’s hand and traced the orbits of the planets that she saw in the space between them. “Look! I see Enhuis. And the Maresh Points. That’s how we came. Through the Maresh Point.” When the next body rush took her, she gripped his hand.
“They’re getting stronger?”
SulaMhir nodded. “It’s like this in the Maresh Point.”
“Tell me,” he said.
And she pulled the equations from the air, sent them dancing around Rob Wallace’s dark head and told him all there was to tell.

Posted at 09:49 AM     Read More  


Mon - January 26, 2004

Make my Day



Share an fresh idea, a stunning use of language, or a compelling observation.
Read some excerpts from my stories and make comment.

Posted at 01:10 PM     Read More  


Sun - January 25, 2004

From "Apocalypse Garden"


It is the year 2225, but the future is not the one the Speculists envisioned. The world has suffered from a series of calamities that led, not to a collapse of civilization, but to its insidious decline. Technology has not been lost, it is just inaccessible to all but those who have wealth, privilege and power. When young Rippa Iowa L'Guin is selected as the best genetic match for history professor Jad Stange Nobel, the couple learns that they are linked by more than compatible genes. The first time they touch establishes a telepathic connection. As they learn the truth about who really controls with world's resources, they suspect that their "adaptation" is part of a larger plot involving genetic manipulation generations ago. They must discover who or what wants to control them now. The whole world could be depending on them. Besides, there are children involved.

Chapter 1
Rippa awakened with a shock, as if someone had thrown cold water on her face. She didn’t remember falling asleep; she'd wrestled all night with dread of the morning. And now it was here. The day of her Consummation hearing.
She pulled her Journal from under the sleeping mat. She'd first presented to the Council on the occasion of her Menarche, and she would present it again today.
It contained the faithful record of her fertility cycle.
Some girls made Journals of great beauty and complexity, but Rippa’s was rough and plain. Handwork distracted her from what she loved best: inventing, telling and writing stories.
Some girls looked forward to the day that the Journal revealed that their cycles had been regular for twelve months. But when she considered what would be required of her now that her eggs were popping out with such alarming regularity, Rippa’s heart threatened to pounce out of her chest. Just because a fifteen-year-old girl was the prime age to bear a baby free of congenital defects didn't make her ready for the prospect.
Rippa didn’t open the journal. She lay down again, clasping it to her chest, trying not to imagine the look on Mam Jetta’s face when she read the marks: a rose bud for her menses, a daisy for normal days, and a clover blossom with a hovering bee for the days when her cervix was soft and open and the mucous was clear and stretchy. Rippa shuddered. She hated the procedure for checking the signs of ovulation. If it was possible to be too intimate with one’s own body, then putting a finger inside one’s cervix would surely qualify.
Around her, the other girls began to stir, reluctant to leave the comfort of their mats for the drudgery of chores. Normally, Rippa would be happy to be excused from milking the goats and helping with breakfast; instead, she wished heartily for this day to be like all others.
Beside her, a girl named Apocrypha stretched languorously. Aprocrypha was new to Iowa. Her former warren gave its children names that seemed extravagant and nonsensical, though lovely and mysterious. That warren had been decimated by pirates.
Apocrypha had returned from her Consummation three weeks ago and she was sleeping where Rippa’s best friend Jenna had once lain.
Jenna had died in childbirth.
Rippa looked away from her.
“Rippa!” The voice came from the other side of the curtained doorway.
She recognized Chas's dark head peering through a slit in the curtain and she whispered, "How many times do I have to tell you not to peek in the girls’ room!”
“I’m not peeking. I was coming to get you.”
“I’m excused from chores today. Did you forget?”
Chas blushed. “How could I?”
Rippa swept the curtain aside and stepped through.
Chas was tall for a twelve-year-old boy, but Rippa was head and shoulders taller. He looked up at her. “I did my chores early,” he said. “Do you want to have breakfast with me?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Chas frowned. “Why are you so scared?”
“Scared? What makes you think I’m scared?”
“Because your pupils are dilated. And your breathing is shallow,” he said matter-of-factly. He was always saying things like that. Chas wanted with all of his heart to be selected to go to the U to learn to be a healer. “The only other time you look like that is when Jad comes into the same room.”
“Jad? I don’t even know Jad. He's only been here for a couple of months.”
“It’s all right, Rippa. It’s a normal biological function to be sexually attracted to a healthy male specimen. Especially one who’s a Recessive, like you.”
“Chas, you’re giving me a headache. Don’t you ever think about anything but biological functions?” The moment she spoke, Rippa wished she could take back the comment. She knew all too well that she was, in fact, the only thing besides biology that Chas ever thought about. He’d been sick in love with her since he was ten years old. And, Rippa was fond of him. Only today, she had no patience for him, and Chas didn’t even notice.
“Is it because of Jenna?” he asked. “Because you don’t need to worry, your situation is nothing like –”
“Chas!”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wish you wouldn’t be nervous. You’ll be a great mam. And they’ll pick a good sire for you, I know it. They always do for Recessives.”
The word ‘sire’ pounded in Rippa’s head and the room began to spin.
Chas caught her so she wouldn’t fall. “You’d better have some breakfast,” he said. “Your blood sugar is low.”
It was so early that the only members of the warren in the dining hall were those assigned to work offsite on that October day. Rape-seed oil lanterns swung lazily from the rafters, propelled by a breeze peppery with leaf scent, their glow competing with the dawn sunlight creeping in from the open windows. Chas nodded to Mam Britta, who was in charge. “Rippa needs some extra protein this morning,” he said.
Britta made a mock-solemn face at Chas. “Yes, doctor,” she said, and walked to the front of the worktable to take Rippa’s chin in her hands. “You are pale this morning.”
“I’m fine, Mam,” Rippa said. Britta was Rippa’s biological mam, and Rippa was grateful for her brief touch.
“Have some eggs and sausage. And fried apples. The apples are tart, just the way you like them.” As if reluctant to tear herself away from Rippa, Britta added, “And we have walnuts and honey.”
“Thanks, Mam,” Rippa managed a smile. She tossed a thick copper braid over her shoulder and followed Chas to the serving troughs. As two young men, Jad and Gris, bounded into the room, braking from a full trot to avoid colliding with the serving troughs, Rippa tried to appear preoccupied with spooning eggs and apples onto her tray.
“Whoa, we almost overshot breakfast,” Gris laughed. Both men were tall and strapping. Gris's brown face brown face had the faintly weathered look of a hard-working man in his late twenties - a nice, but unremarkable face. Jad’s fair good looks, however, provoked stares. “Your pace is brutal, Jad,” Gris complained.
“I told you I don’t need a holiday,” Jad said. “I can think of nothing better than getting lost in the woods on a day like this and earning extra credits for it.”
“Then you have no imagination,” Gris retorted, missing Jad’s sarcasim. “I can think of at least one thing better.” He looked straight across the trough at Rippa and bowed to her. “Would you like me to sample the food, my Queen, to make sure nobody’s poisoned it?”
Gris was being sarcastic, too, but Rippa was unable to fathom the root of it.
Gris leaned over the trough to deposit another spoonful of eggs onto Rippa’s tray. “That’s a serving for a healthy girl.”
“Leave her alone, Gris,” Jad said. “She’s old enough to judge her own appetite.”
Too shy to meet his eyes, Rippa flashed him a look of thanks and whirled away quickly, forcing cool air across her burning cheeks.
Gris said a bit too loudly, “Jad, about that holiday. If you don’t take it, let me know. I could apply to take your place.”
Rippa wondered what he meant. Probably nothing. She was just being paranoid. Even if Jad had been given his Consummation notice, Gris wouldn’t know who was chosen for him. She sat down at the table across from Chas and closed her eyes.
Chas patted her hand. “Eat, Rippa. It’s nearly time for your ...”
“I know, Chas,” she sighed, but with the first bite, she knew that it was useless to try.
***
Rippa paused in the doorway of Mam Jetta’s office. The curtains were open, framing the view of peak fall colors and dazzling leaves littering the ground. Mam Jetta sat behind a rattan desk, gilded in sunlight. On the wall behind her, a faded, antique Hindian spread softened the austerity of the room. Perched on a stool near the window, a little girl named Henna played a wooden flute.
Rippa tried to appreciate all of the subtle touches designed to diminish her discomfort, but her heart fluttered like the hapless leaves tossed in the breeze. She clutched her Journal. “Rippa Iowa L’Guin,” she said reciting the name that marked her as a member of Iowa warren and hinted at her chosen vocation. Rippa knew that no one, least of all Mam Jetta, who was earthy and practical and subsumed by the responsibilities of governing the warren, appreciated the source of Rippa’s Chosen name, “L’Guin.”
Her aptitude tests had marked Rippa as a writer. Not a practical vocation, and not one at which she could work for credits, it was, ironically, an acceptable outlet for which she could spend her credits. And one for which she could select her Chosen name. As an aspiring historical fiction writer, she had no illusions that her given name had great significance, so she was especially proud of her Chosen name, the surname of twentieth century writer Ursula L’Guin. Rippa did not intend to write science fiction like Ms. L’Guin, but she admired the author’s groundbreaking style.
Rippa forced her mind from its trail of distractions. “I’m here for my Consummation hearing.” Her voice cracked.
Mam Jetta nodded. Inscrutable and silent, she rose from her chair and took Rippa’s journal from her hands. As Jetta read it, Rippa stared with unfocused eyes at a point just over the woman’s left shoulder where the patterns of the wall hanging blurred.
Rippa forced her tongue from the roof of her moth and licked dry lips. The seconds passed, measured by her heartbeat, so loud that she was sure Mam Jetta could hear it.
The corners of Jetta’s mouth turned up. She took a vellum envelope from the desk and pressed it into Rippa’s hands. “I will give you a moment, and then we’ll go into the Council,” she said.
Henna stopped playing and scampered away, holding Jetta’s hand, leaving Rippa alone with the envelope. The room began to rush away and Rippa stumbled to the stool, remembering ...
... men shouting and running, coming closer. Rippa dropped the wood and metal scraps she’d been gathering from the dig and scanned the vicinity for a place to hide.
Mam Britta had warned her that this dig was dangerous, but Rippa wanted so badly to earn more credits to go to the U and use the interface. Mam Britta had warned her not to go alone, but Rippa knew no fear.
Her courage failed her when she realized she was being followed.
“Maybe they aren’t pirates,” she told herself, diving into the crumbling concrete foundation that was all that remained of an ancient domicile. She pressed her back against the dank wall, wishing she’d covered her head. Her red hair was like a signal flag.
“If they find me, I’ll give them my loot,” she said with the naïve confidence of a nine-year-girl, “and hope that it’s enough.”
And that’s when they found her.
All she remembered was their foul breath and the indescribable pain between her legs and in her belly and the words they spat at her as they left her bleeding in the dirt.
“That will fix you, Recessive. You won’t be good for anything, now.”
Rippa had lain there until their hideous footsteps and vile laughter receded. She got up, smoothed her clothes, tied her jacket around her waist to hide the bloodstains, and limped home. A nameless shame sank into her stomach, bent her shoulders, and turned to ashes in her mouth.
Rippa told no one. After a time, the pain went away, but she developed a compulsion to wash herself until she was raw. Two and a half years later, her Menarche came in a cleansing rush. She was giddy with relief until she learned what was required of women to give babies to the world.
The paper inside the envelope read simply, Jad Stange Nobel. Rippa read it again, surprised to find it wet with tears. She rocked back and forth on the stool until Mam Jetta came and touched her shoulder.
“The Council is waiting,” Mam Jetta said.
***
Rippa sat outside the healer’s quarters, hugging her knees and watching her breath curl up in little wreaths toward the moon-bright sky. She hoped that Chas would come out soon. After a day of hearing the council debate the date of ovulation that would be best for her Consummation and lecture her on her duties to society and the importance of her contribution to genetic diversity, she longed for Chas’ innocent, undemanding companionship.
The door opened, letting a wedge of yellow light escape into the silver-limned shadows, silhouetting a tall, broad-shouldered figure that was not Chas. How could the Fates be so cruel? The moonlight caught Jad's pale hair. Rippa huddled deeper into her cloak, hoping that he wouldn’t see her, but it was too late.
Jad halted in front of her. “Are you waiting to see the healer?” he asked.
Rippa shook her head, avoiding his eyes. “I’m waiting for Chas, the apprentice.”
“Ah, the boy who was with you at breakfast. I’m afraid I’ve made him late.” Jad sat down on the log bench beside her, maintaining a chaste distance.
Rippa let her gaze flicker over his face. A bandage covered his left eyebrow. “What happened?” She reached up to touch it. Jad winced. As Rippa withdrew her hand, wondering what had possessed her to do such a thing, a spark of light flashed behind her eyes. She blinked hard. The light remained, not in her field of vision, but in her mind, like a memory of the light, only more vivid.
Jad stared at her. Rippa tried to turn away, but his eyes drew hers.
Did he know, yet, that she carried an envelope inscribed with his name in the pocket of her smock, right over her heart, which was beating so hard that she feared that the vellum would rustle?
A cloud passed over the moon, and, to Rippa’s relief, Jad looked away from her, tilting his face to the sky. He still hadn’t answered her question. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes. It’s the Hunter’s Moon.” The words spilled from her tongue as unexpectedly as the urge that had come over her to touch Jad’s bandaged forehead. Rippa covered her mouth to prevent it from overriding her judgment again.
Jad’s eyes widened. “How did you know that?”
Rippa shrugged, and her pulse raced even faster.
“It hasn’t been called that for centuries,” Jad said.
Rippa hesitated, embarrassed to tell him. “I write historical fiction.”
“Ah, that’s why you chose a writer's name.” Jad placed two fingers lightly under her chin and turned her face toward his. “Do you know the significance of my name?”
The light flashed behind her eyes again, but Rippa tried to concentrate on Jad's question. She shook her head and his fingers fell away from her chin. Now she was certain that he knew about the Consummation. Otherwise, he would not have assumed that she knew his chosen name.
“I’ll give you a research assignment, if you choose to accept it. To find out why I chose the name ‘Nobel’.” Jad drew the edges of Rippa’s cloak together. “You’re shivering.” He stood and the moon, suddenly free from the cloud, cast him in a silver aura. He tipped his head to her and walked away.
***
“What happened to Jad?” Rippa asked Chas when the lad finally appeared.
“You know better than to ask,” he snapped. “Patient confidentiality.”
“A thousand pardons,” Rippa sighed.
“At least I know better than to ask who was chosen for you!” Chas kicked a rock with his shoe. “Although I have a pretty good idea.”
Rippa slept until a few hours before dawn when the moon, sliding toward its resting place in the west, beamed its light into her window. She closed her eyes to recapture sleep, but the light was still there – not the light of the moon, but that other light; the light that had flown into her mind when she touched Jad’s forehead.
The light flickered and expanded.
Pain roared through her head. Rippa gasped...
... there were trees and sunshine all around her, seen from a lopsided angle. The ground flew up, strewn with wet leaves, their musky scent making her sneeze as she caught the breath that had been knocked out of her. She pushed herself up with her hands, and saw long, muscular forearms covered with thick, blond hair.
Rippa screamed.
Her legs were long, clad in rough trousers. Her feet were huge. Something wedged behind her knee, trying to bring her down again, but she threw her adversary off balance. A shock of blond hair fell across her face, and Rippa knew that she was seeing through Jad’s eyes.
The world spun full circle as Jad picked up his field ax and whirled it around his head. There were at least three other men in the streaming view, closing in on him. He wielded the ax with both hands, blocking their blows, sending them sprawling. The pirates ran into the woods. One called back, “We aren’t finished with you, Recessive.”
When Rippa awoke, Mam Britta was stroking her forehead with a wet cloth. Sunlight draped the courtyard outside her window and Rippa’s first thought was that she was late for chores and would lose credits. Her second thought caused her to look down at her hands to see if they were her own. A little whimper escaped from her throat.
“You must have had quite a nightmare,” Britta said. “I’ve never seen anyone pass out cold from screaming.” Britta cocked her head to one side as if waiting for Rippa to comment. When she didn’t, Britta sighed. “It must be the full moon.” She wiped her damp hands on her apron. “I’ve called for the healer.”
“No, don’t, Mam.” Rippa fought to keep her voice calm. “I’m fine, now. I don’t need a doctor.”
“We can’t have anything upsetting your system with only two months until your Consummation,” Britta said. “My word, I’ve never seen you so high-strung. I don’t know what to think.” Britta looked like she wanted to say more, and Rippa knew what was on her mind, but it was forbidden to talk about the choice of sires until after the Consummation.
“Mam, I got a good sire,” Rippa said. “I’m just not ready to be a Mam.” She touched Britta’s hand. “But I will try. I really will.”
“Why don’t you talk to the healer? He can recommend a lighter schedule for you and some therapies. Will you do it?”
Rippa sat up. “Mam, think about what you just said. I’m a Recessive.”
“What does that have to do with it?” Britta’s tone had a defensive edge. After all, she had bequeathed one set of the genes giving her daughter red hair and green eyes.
“I have to live with the other girls. They’ll make my life even more miserable than it already is if I make a fuss and get special favors.”
“It’s your imagination. No one picks at you.”
Rippa didn’t argue with her. “I’d better get up and see if there’s anything I can do to repair the damage I’ve done to this day.”
Rippa volunteered for evening chores to make up for sleeping late. The noises in the kitchen buzzed around her head like bees, and Cook had to snap at her to get her attention. Rippa’s mind flashed with images - Jad’s limbs, extensions of her own, as if she was still in his body, seeing through his eyes and her body was all wrong. It wasn’t unusual for Rippa to be distracted by characters and scenes from the stories she wrote, but this disorientation affected all of her senses. When she dropped a pan of scones, Cook sent her away, deducting a day’s worth of credits.
She ran from the kitchen, through the dining hall, and ducked out the door to the side yard. The rectangle of light cast from the door ended abruptly. Rippa hit the darkness and the solid mass of a warm body that grunted with her impact and involuntarily folded arms around her.
Rippa flailed in a wild sea of images and impressions. Jad held her, slowly loosening his grip on her shoulders when it seemed she wouldn’t bolt like a deer.
“Rippa,” he said in a commanding tone. “Look at me.”
“I can’t. Just take your hands off me.” The blurred boundaries between her and Jad made her woozy until he dropped his hands. Rippa took a deep breath before she looked at him.
Jad’s eyes were dark, his face hard. “What have you done to me?”
Rippa turned to run, but Jad caught her sleeve.
“I’m waiting for an answer.”
“What have you done to me?” Without her cloak Rippa began to shiver in the night air.
Jad’s eyes darted around the side yard. “Meet me behind the ale house in ten minutes,” he hissed. “And bring a cloak!” He trotted away.
Rippa wanted to shout that, if caught together, they would be disqualified from the Consummation. Such dramatic irony. If only she had thought of that for one of her stories. She ran to her ward to get her cloak, blanking her mind instead of conjecturing what Jad would say or do to her.
***
The moon, already missing a sliver of its face since last night’s perfect fullness, danced with gathering clouds as Rippa slipped across the commons, making her way to the utility buildings marking the perimeter of Iowa Warren. None one the girls preparing for bed had asked her where she was going with her cloak, but Willa, a busybody who enjoyed nothing better than getting Rippa into trouble, had cast a look in her direction verging on smug delight. Glad for the distraction from wondering what she faced with Jad, Rippa began fabricating a story to foil Willa’s predictable, petty tattletale.
Jad paced beneath a tall cottonwood that had already shed its leaves. At the sight of her, he stiffened and pointed a finger at her face. “You are not what you seem,” he said.
The tone in his voice frightened her.
“I was recruited to this warren because of something unique about my genes. I gave up a secure position at the U to come to this slum,” he waved his arms as if to cast his disdain over the whole the warren, “so that I could make an honorable contribution to posterity.” Jad spat on the ground. “Until now, I thought it an acceptable sacrifice to spend my days chopping wood and calculating biomass credits instead of continuing with my life’s work, my research.” He clenched his right hand into a fist and took a step toward her.
Rippa shrank away from him and bumped into rough side of the alehouse.
Jad moved closer until his sharp features nearly touched her face. “I am almost thirty years old,” he whispered. “I waited for Consummation until Winfrey Nightingale found the best genetic match for me.” His voice rose and he shook his fist. “What a shame that no one has mapped the genes for truth and integrity!”
Rippa’s spine turned to ice. What did he mean? How could he know? No one knew her secret. Not even her own mam. Rippa lashed her fear to her next words. “What have you done to me, Jad Nobel? Whom have you told that you have the power to plant images in another person’s mind?”
Jad took a step back and stumbled. “What did you say?”
“You heard me!”
He seemed to shrink and his shoulders slumped. “What images?”
“The pirates. In the woods.” Rippa swallowed to steady her voice. “The blow to your head.”
Jad turned away and paced only to turn and face her again, puffed up like an adder, his mouth twisted in disgust. “Don’t try to trick me. You planted the images in my head.”
Bile rose in Rippa’s throat. Jad's expression was one of utter revulsion and rejection. Rippa doubled over, trying to silence her writhing gut. She vomited in the grass at his feet. Sweat dripping from her forehead, she heaved until there was nothing left but dry froth.
Only silence remained after Rippa’s shuddering hiccups died away, and then the bare branches of the cottonwood tree began to creak as the night breeze whipped through them on its way to the sky.
She raised her head. The wind had herded the clouds into a flock, trampling the moon.
Jad was gone.

Posted at 09:34 PM     Read More  


Thu - January 22, 2004

The Lexus From Texas



The red sunlight bounced off the hood of Colleen Starbuck’s brand new Lexus and struck her right in the eyes. She pondered the odds of hitting, precisely at dawn, the short stretch of I- 35/80 running due east through Des Moines. As usual, she was in the right place at the wrong time. Just like when she’d met H.W. Starbuck.
The 2006 Lexus was, as the brochure had promised, fully loaded. And not just with upscale options like leather seats, an automatic sunroof and on-line GPS; it was stuffed with everything Colleen could fit into it.
Colleen was leaving H. W. Starbuck.
After driving all night, Colleen was grateful for the Lexus’s deluxe features. A mere flick of a button on her steering wheel adjusted the visor to get the sun out of her eyes. If only she could press a button to get H.W. out of her life. “Press here to delete twenty-three years of marriage.”
It would not be that easy.
H.W. probably didn’t even realize she was gone. He was passed out on the couch when Colleen left Dallas. He had been drinking all afternoon before the big party she’d organized for his newest corporate client and was already down for the count before the first guests were due to arrive.
Colleen remembered standing over him, staring at his moist, slack mouth as his eyes rolled back behind half-closed lids. Then she thought how easy it would be to turn off the central air and open up the valves on the gas stove ... Her momma had once said that if you start wondering what you would do with the body, then, it’s time to leave.
So she did. She didn’t bother changing her party clothes; she just calmly marched upstairs and packed, selecting only the things she absolutely couldn’t live without.
H.W. was not on the list.
Specks of gravel began hitting her windshield as she approached a construction truck laboring in her lane ahead. Its rear was marked with large, black letters: Caution: Do Not Follow Into Work Area. Wondering where the vehicle was going on Sunday morning, she tried to make sense of the warning. She could think of no reason on god’s green earth that anyone would follow a truck into a work area.
If only there had been such a sign on H.W. Starbuck’s rear end when she met him.
A yellow ‘Exit Only’ sign alerted her that I-80 and I-35 were about to diverge. As the truck rumbled and clattered east, toward Davenport, Colleen veered left and turned north, toward the Twin Cities.
The sun’s pink rays warmed Colleen’s right cheek. She stole a glance at the fields skimming past, where the breath of the tall, August corn hung between the green blades and the opal sky.
God help her, it was going to be a beautiful day.
And she still had a long drive to Saint Paul.
Not that she was in any hurry to get there. Her cousin David hadn’t seemed too excited to hear from her. Who could blame him? Even though she hadn’t told him the real reason she was coming, she suspected that his bachelor radar had detected her desperate woman vibe.
Colleen looked at the glowing digits of the trip meter. “I’ll swan,” she said aloud in her silky drawl, “have I gone seven hundred miles since suppertime?” She contracted the muscles of her numb fanny and raised it off the seat a few times. “I reckon if you drive seventy miles an hour for ten hours and only stop three times to pee, that’ll do it.” Colleen giggled. She’d said ‘pee.’ Out loud. H.W. would have a conniption. Oh, how she’d loved to have seen the guests’ faces when they arrived to find H.W. drunk and drooling and unaccompanied by his lovelywifeColleen, which – as she’d explained in her recently-published first novel – is a compound word in Texas.
Remembering the look in H.W.’s eyes before he passed out made her skin crawl. It was his “kiss my boots, honey, and never forget that you married above your assigned station in life” look. The look that said she should be tickled pink that he thought she was good enough for his shallow, greedy, mean, alcoholic do not follow into work area ass... Never mind that she was smarter and more talented than H.W. and she had scored 34 on her ACT and gone to the University of Texas at Austin on a full ride scholarship. And dang it, Colleen had let it go to her head when someone told her that she should try modeling, even though she was just weeks away from finishing her MFA. Wouldn’t you know it, that’s when she met H.W., a hotshot photographer, in a case of what amounted to being in the wrong place at the worst possible time. She’d followed him into the work area, and the rest was, as they way, history.
Colleen had been good enough for him then, an attractive accessory hanging off his arm at parties and corporate events. And she’d been good enough to manage his business, woo his clients and do just about everything but point and shoot the camera. He’d become the most sought-after commercial photographer in Forth Worth-Dallas, but he never gave Colleen any credit. And he never let her forget that her daddy was only a trucker and her momma was just a hairdresser, while H.W.’s daddy was an advertising executive who’d set him up in the photography business.
Colleen fingered a tender bruise on her upper arm. Even when he was drunk, H.W. managed to place his hands carefully so her sleeves would hide the marks. He’d always treated her like dirt, but he didn’t start hurting her until she went back to school and finished her Masters degree.
She didn’t even tell him she was writing a book until an agent agreed to represent her. Instead of celebrating when her agent called with a publisher’s offer, she had spent the night in a Best Western hotel to escape H.W.’s drunken tirade.
The memory made Colleen’s empty stomach lurch. Why had she gone back to him? What kind of sick person was she to put up with his abuse? And what had given her the gumption to pack up and leave him this time?
Maybe it was the hot flashes and mood swings reminding her that she wasn’t a spring chicken anymore.
Maybe it was that look in H.W.’s eye. Like he was going to haul off and smack her in the face.
Maybe it was the cool, detached thoughts she had about doing away with him.
Or, maybe it was simply the advance from her novel, with which she’d bought the new Lexus.
“I’m drivin’ a Lexus from Texas!” she crooned, inventing a melody. “There’s got to be a country song somewhere in this situation.”
The smooth pavement beneath her wheels threatened to lull her to sleep. “Lawd, I need coffee!” Colleen rotated her shoulders and stretched her neck. Another flick of a switch on the control panel activated the on-line information system. “Find the best espresso shop within thirty miles,” she instructed. “Excluding Starbucks.” H.W. wasn’t connected to the Starbucks coffee empire, but Colleen didn’t want to do commerce with the name, anyway. She should take back her maiden name, Tierney, as quick as a hiccup, as her momma would say.
Would that require a divorce?
Panic rose in her chest at that thought, but Colleen swallowed it and took a deep breath. “Just shut up and drive your Lexus from Texas, darlin’,” she sang to herself as she waited for the on-line information system to respond to her request.
Beans and corn, alternating with corn and beans, whizzed by the car window. “I’m in Iowa,” she reminded herself. “What am I thinking? The nearest espresso shop is probably in the Twin Cities.”
As if on cue, a green highway sign rolled past, announcing: Minneapolis, 225 miles. Colleen was about to resign herself to a cup of sludge from the nearest BP station when the dulcet computerized voice from the on-line information system said, “Taraccino Coffee, rated the Best in Ames, Iowa. Twenty miles north, take Exit 111A west ...” A map flashed on the screen.
In Ames, the route to the coffee shop followed a business strip bristling with colorful franchise billboards. Traffic was sparse, but the shop’s parking lot was packed. Colleen eased the white Lexus between two hulking SUVs, turned off the engine and lowered the vanity mirror. Light brown, gold-flecked eyes looked back at her. Her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed by dark circles, but otherwise, she didn’t look so bad for a 48-year-old who’d been up all night. She opened her bag, dabbed concealer under her eyes, slicked her mouth with lipstick, and stepped out of the car.
The smartly appointed coffee shop was crowded. Every sofa, chair and table seemed to be occupied and a line of customers stretched beyond the case displaying pastries and muffins.
Heads turned and the buzz of conversation fell when Colleen stepped to the rear of the customer queue. Was everyone staring? No wonder. She was still dressed in the black, raw silk sheath and satin pumps she’d put on for H.W. Starbuck’s party. Fidgeting, she smoothed her champagne-blond bob and adjusted the little velvet wrap she’d thrown over her shoulders. She might as well have climbed up on the counter and announced, “I’m not from around here!”
Stepping up to the cashier when her turn came, Colleen met a frazzled, young brunette’s eyes. Though neatly dressed, the girl was pale and looked as if she’d crawled out of bed without combing her hair. College girls in Dallas wore the same style. If Colleen’s mama had been there, she would have lectured the girl on the woeful shortcomings of trendy haircuts. “Honey, let me do your hair so you won’t look like you lost a fight with a pair of dull pinking shears.” And Colleen’s daddy would have agreed. “Girl, you look like your head just blew up!” And if H.W. had been there, he would have rolled his eyes at Colleen’s parents and said, “See what I rescued you from, Colleen? Now, what are you thinking, running off and leaving me?”
In her head, their voices bickered among themselves, taunting her with the possibility that, no matter how you dressed her up, Colleen would always be just one slip of the tongue removed from the trailer park. It didn’t really matter, H.W.’s voice sneered, how educated or pretty or classy Colleen appeared to be. She would pale to insignificance if she ventured beyond his aura.
Colleen glanced outside at her Lexus, all pearly white with gold trim. “Understated elegance,” is what the slick brochure had said. And that’s what Colleen wanted to embody. But H.W. had made fun of her choice of vehicles. “Any wannabe can own a Lexus,” he’d said, swinging the keys to his Mercedes in her face.
Colleen tightened her wrap and hugged her arms where the bruises had begun to throb. “I’ll have a double shot of espresso in a regular cup,” she said. The girl looked at her blankly, fingers poised above the cash register. “I like to put cream in it,” Colleen sighed. “So please don’t put it in an espresso cup.” Colleen pulled a five-dollar bill from her bag. “Keep the change,” she said.

Posted at 02:14 PM     Read More  

I just work here


C.S. Lewis said, "The more we let God take us over, the more truly ourselves we become ..."


Kathy Hanson has been writing since she was a child, when her parents sometimes forced her to leave her room to watch television so that she would develop normally. She was able to tear herself away from her desk to attend the University of Evansville, Indiana School of Nursing, marry, have children, and work in the health care field. After mastering the art of patient care documentation, she went on to write award-winning recruitment materials for Mercy Medical Center, Denver, Colorado. As Marketing Director for a subsidiary of United HealthCare Corporation of Minneapolis, Minnesota, she designed and wrote marketing collateral and technical materials. Kathy currently works with Signature Resources, Inc., a Denver-based consortium providing consulting services to businesses, health care providers and government agencies.
Kathy resides in Ames, Iowa with her husband, several interesting children (four of them are young adults, so the number living at home may vary), numerous well-behaved pets, and many of the characters in her stories. Born on the day that Josef Stalin died, she appreciates the irony of this and hopes that in some small way, her life makes up for his.

Posted at 10:29 AM     Read More  

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