Dreams are paradoxical. Are they are are they not reality? They're not the same reality we experience during conscious self-awareness, of course; however, they do occupy real intervals in our lived existence, and what transpires in our dreams may fundamentally change our views of both ourselves and of our real situations. I write here of a dream which I had at the age of fourteen. Up until then I had been a practicing Christian without any moral scruples about such a profession. True, the existence of God was not an immutable fact burned into my brain, but I could easily worship a hypothetical God. If He did exist, I had no doubt that He must be infinitely good, wise, powerful, beautiful and just, and I worshipped gladly. If, on the other hand, He didn't exist, it was anything but a social disadvantage in the Deep South to publicly pretend and conduct myself as if He did. Many more Christians take this point of view, I would wager, than would freely admit it. However, after my dream, I could no longer do this. My dream could not be literally true, but the truth within it could not be denied. The meaning of my dream awakened me from a sound and secure slumber, and once I had opened my eyes and seen, I could not close them again. In my dream it was Judgment Day in Heaven. The Lord God was dispensing Holy Justice, and each person appearing before Him was, according to their faith and good conduct, either labeled a sheep or a goat. The sheep, assembled on His right hand, would be rewarded with unending Rapture and would attend Him always. The goats, gathered on His left hand, would be consigned to eternal Damnation, and would be separated from His august Presence forever. I was next in line. "Joe Ervie Dees," He read from His Book of Accounting, "Thy Judgment is next. Come before Me." I winced. My middle name has always embarrassed me, and here He was reading it aloud for all the Hosts to hear. "I am here, Father," I answered, walking forward and bowing before Him. He appeared as all children imagine Him to appear, an old man with flowing white robes and hair, the latter surmounted by a glowing halo, and seated upon a golden throne. He peered at me for a few celestial moments, then Smiled. "Grace is with you, Mr. Dees. Both your private conscience and your public example have been exceedingly righteous. You may join the sheep." I did not move. I hesitated, then, almost inaudibly, I spoke. "Father?" He seemed perturbed by my unwarranted intrusion, and not just a little displeased at the delay. However, with a superhuman effort of patience, He asked, "What is it, My son?" in clipped tones. "Father," I blurted out, "I want to go with the goats." There; I'd said it! One majestic eyebrow lowered menacingly, but the other arched in surprise. I had aroused both His ire and His interest. He inclined His head towards me, ceding me the floor, and clasped His hands beneath it. "Why, My son?" He inquired. I was emboldened. If He became angry and sent me away, it would be what I had requested and desired. If, on the other hand, He refused to grant my request, I would be no worse off than I was already. So I told Him. "Before I was born I had lived a perfect eternity by Your side, Lord. Then You sent me to Earth. Pain, sadness and the presence of evil were my lot, and You took away my one possible consolation, my memory of You. I spent a lifetime in Hell, Lord. We all did, and none of us had done the slightest thing to deserve it. I could forgive You for that injustice, but not for the blasphemy of this Judgment Day." His face was reddening, His teeth were bared, and the cords stood out on His neck. One blood vessel throbbed in His left temple. He raised a mighty hand to silence me, but I demanded, "Let me finish!" His hand gestured as He nodded His Holy acquiescence and once again extended me the floor. "Now I find that some of us shall have that Hell extended forever. You put us in a no-win situation, Lord. We all lost by being born into the world and separated from You; some of us simply lose more than others. This is not justice, but cruel hypocrisy!" "Sweat beaded His mighty brow. He trembled with rage, and began, "Why you little --" "And the last straw, Lord, is the existence of that damned Book," I overrode Him. "The souls to be blessed and those to be damned were already decided before we were abandoned, there was nothing we could do to change this, and we didn't even know who would be saved and who would be condemned! That, Lord, is nothing short of sick, twisted and demented sadism and pure and ultimate evil!" He gritted His teeth, but stared at the cloudbank beneath me, and made no further attempt to interrupt. "To relieve Your own boredom, You sent us who loved You to suffer through a Russian roulette game in boiling oil, with You knowing which chambers the bullets were in! For this I loathe You, You disgust and repel me, the very sight of You sickens me. Hell is Your Presence, Lord. That is why I wish to leave it." He was not angry any more. He looked drained. Humbly, He raised His eyes to my face. His was still red, from embarrassment, I supposed. "Very well, Mr. Dees, "He mumbled quietly, ""your request is granted. You may go to Heaven -- with the goats." It was only then that I noticed His horns. I awoke in the middle of the night in a pool of cold sweat with tears in my eyes, and could not go to sleep again. I squirmed and wrestled, but I could not find a logical fault with which to reconcile myself. I might be able to worship a hypothethetical God, if He were good. However, I could not for the life of me bring myself to adore a deity whose very goodness was dubious at best. I still condict myself ethically, as a gesture of care and affection for those with whom I share this vale of tears. I cannot, however, prostrate myself before One who could be so evil and cruel. After all, why should I play His game if trying can't win?
...and he found himself in blind meaningless ritual, attention so strongly focused upon the task that, until the recent self-realization, he had been egoless, performing mechanically according to the subconscious nonlogic of rote. That was behind him now; he had himself firmly in hand. He did not question the sudden remission of nonselfawareness, but bent his energies upon tightening that tentative hold, consciously striving for mental recuperation, searching for the cogitas interruption, to untangle the snag. That had been a pun; he still had his wit about him. But if the problem, and one still existed, was not within his self-consciousness, where was it? It must lie deeper; he must analyze, investigate. That's right, he realized, he was a psychologist. Identity, responding to his careful coaxing, returned to Dr. Rustland. Having established the intersubjective appelation for his point of view, the prognosis brightened, and from a more self-confident perspective, he re-examined his referential frame. But, although his thoughts were lucid, the conclusions crystal clear, they still did not reflect reality as perceived. Our concepts are grounded in our percepts, some insightful philosopher had said. But the methodology, not self-consciousness, but consciousness itself, must be perused. However...but what was the perceived reality against which it must be checked? He couldn't see the referent, thus he couldn't delineate the parameters of the problem at hand...he couldn't see at allKant! Wait a minute! He was getting sidetracked, the philosopher's name was not the condition without which, and neither was all this reflection upon it. Self-discipline, self-discipline, one must do what one must do, the tautology held, tautologies always hold, he was neither invalid nor unsound but if it's not self-consciousness and if it's not consciousness could it be understanding? No, he understood well enough that he was sick or was that just another self-deception? Another? Why had he said that; what was the first? Was there one? Of course there was - his slip had meaning, it simply must. Oh, yes! Eidetic memory came into play, he thought (Kant) he couldn't physically SEE. But he was always myopic where were hos glasses? In his hand you dummy! What do you think he is insane? Could he...yes, he could put them on. It didn't help could it have been his mother, his father, himself? What was the obvious, yes, what...well what do you know? Right in front of his nose (all the time (not all the time)) the lenses must be unclean, unclean...No, dirty. He must he knew he must polish them sparkling, correct and complete, a schema must be begun, a rhythm must be set, "The novocaine was a mistake" why had he DON'T GET SIDETRACKED! Think of a ditty so (un?)familiar no yes, I dropped a sheet of windowpain/ Through my I to my brain/ And the grinding glass has driven me insane/ I dropped a sheet of windowpain/ In my brain through my I/ And the shattered shards are slicing me awry/ da-DA, da- DA, da-DA, da-da, da-DA, da-DA, da-DA/ da-DA, da-Da, da-DA, da-DA, da-da!/ da-DA, da-Da, da-Da, ...
The same damn pattern, thought Dr. Capacot, ruminating in the bar, why always the same damn pattern? Catatonia interspersed by a steady, monotonous polishing of those sunglasses. They had taken them away once...he didn't like to think about that. If they hadn't been already gone...Rustland had been brilliant, scintillating, and then...at least there was one deviation this time: "the novocaine was a mistake," he said to himself out loud (bad habit - gotta watch that) the bell went off, the synapese was triggered NOVOCAINE! telegraphed from his tertiary brainfiles into the central scrutinizer was what had been discovered a bottle, in his room and his eyes (blind anyway small loss) collapsed sacs of skin secreting blood and gelatinous ooze and the needle and the emory paper still in his hand! It was a mistake because he couldn't feel his lenses to polish properly so now the glasses. Another drink and thought through the terminal loop, charted the complex Moebius daisy chain of gearstripped brain rere...cycling redoubled entendre's He UnderSTOOD! He, a psychologist, understood another psychologist's insanity and as soon as the implications began flooding in his hand, reaching for the glass, redirected in midstride. For the bottle. Because he could see no way off. Absentmindedly, rubbing his tired eyes his hand froze a heartbeat before the realization ans subsequent scream the bottle was broken.
(2) Transcendence
He sat ruminating, the soothing rhythmic violence of the beat assaulting the portals of his eagerly awaiting ears. In contrast, the blank screen facing him proferred the disquieting evidence of his own nothingness. Sound was presented, melody abstracted, the counterpoint harmonies fleshing out in paradoxical unison the sterile form, but the screen offered nothing but. Unnerved, he moved to the bed and discovered that the shock had returned. Objects deformed by a point (nonexistent) of view dances crazily as it changed position relative to them to him. One becomes accustomed to this with age, but the clown behind the fringes lurks, grins and absurdly lingers. His head (sub)voluntarily turned gaze drawn to its own reflectingdenial on the fluid sheen. The secret was THERE. He, the object of purposefully modified air vibrations, only perceived in passing possibility, contra tublankness, freedom of nothing necessarily. The break. through. But not through, he was in the way of himself, his image obscured by obscuring, torturing th(r)ough tantalizing preiphery of not I. Turn away - it's a trap! Who was warning, whom was being warned - too late! caught within his own reflections, the kaleidoscope he purposefully turned, but which was first? The Void? The Plenitude? Could either or the other have a subsuming structure, hopefully a pattern? The lotus position was small comfort. The flicker disappeared under his gaze - was it ever there? If his nothing was all of it was none of it was all of him, where was anything that could be said to be something not something else, the either-or, imposition or perception, I or not-I, reality or crazy-quilt imaginings or lack of same correlatively was the central nut. He couldn't crack. He has already cracked - like a chrysalis. Despairing of immanent paradox, he catatonically transcended for a timeless moment and resided there still, mediating upon his own characterless role as mediator, and with careful logic ineffably mediating in turn his mediation of self. But there/here/doesitmatter? - the heart of the onion unpeeled before him layer after layer lay finally exposed and HE presenced primordial isness more basic than self, than world, than afirmation or negation. HE knew - and buoyed by this knowledge, regained, deliberately and purposefully, both self and world.
He, with regrown eyes, sat up and smiled at the bars of the ward. The bars smiled back at HIM, and at the horrified nurses.
Hello, I am a Being-in-the-World (Oh, Hell!), tied to it revocably. The hyphenated monstrosity is a term coined by the German existential philosopher Martin Heidegger (Hi, Heidegger! Heil!) to express the essenceless essence of the human condition. We are all, I suppose, tied to the world in much the same manner as we were tied to our progenitors: umbilically. That's what Heidegger meant by the hyphens, I guess. They're there for a reason (all symbols stand for something, you know). WE'RE not symbols, though; we stand (or fall) for no particular generality. We have reason, but not A reason, you see. And faith - O We Of Little Faith! Faith is by definition unjustified, or we would call it knowledge. Is it even justifiable? But I digress. I apologize. You see, I am suffering from a depression. It's called my navel. Only Adam and Eve, Judaic mythology tells us, lacked this little hole within our centers. Surprise! Navel veterans all! So why am I so alone? Do we all join hands only to find we're just links in a chain of alonenesses? It makes me mad - bilious, if you please. But at what? Question: how can nothing be mad at anything? Perhaps this is why Sartre became a Stoic. Stoicism is okay, I guess, but it's hard to get excited about it, especially since I'm worried about my liver. I only have one, and my bile rises when I contemplate it (I guess I should stick to navel contemplation, but the thought fills me with a sense of forbodhing). I get nauseated - is it a sickness unto death? And are Soren and Fyodor even compatible? Is my bile rising a symptom of a diseased liver condition? When it goes, you go. In that mortal sense, we are direly tied to our livers; first a liver, then a dier - living is fatal, you know. But this is not what I wanted to say. I'll try again. Eliot's Sacred Three (them's the facts when it comes to brass tacks) - the significant events in human existence, are Birth, Copulation and Death, the creation, conjunction and destruction of Beings-in-the-World. Is Freud right? Do our lives hinge upon the anal, the oral, the genital? Are these much-maligned orifices and protuberances the foci around which our consciousnesses blindly gyrate? Or is Heidegger closer? Is it our annihilation rather than our copulation which comprises the fulcrum upon which we leverage the unnoticed attention of our days? There is a third choice, a side alley leading away from these either-or dilemming horns, a choice of which I only recently became aware. I'll dare to share, if you care. It's not my idea; a man named Edgar F. borgatta worked it out in 1954. His thesis is that the source of our dreads, anxieties and assorted insecurities is - deumbilification. When we are cut off, we feel abandoned, vilified (a deumbilifi-vilifi-cation nation?). The primordial Nurturer is gone. We are lost - not through preoccupation with sex or anticipation of death, but from birth. The contingent survivors die a-borning (where do we go from here? where is here?). Our nave - the hub of our spidery twirlings - parts, dropping us into the abyss of life. Freud would fit well into this theory. Men would wish to reconnect themselves with the warmth of the womb in mindless security, and women wiuld wish the same. Ta-da! The handy-dandy genitalia, at your service! Heidegger would fit in, too; it's not the fall that hurts, but that sudden stop at the end - or do we just think it hurts? Two things seem to lessen the pain of beginning, of becoming life from not-life, they are LeBoyer water birth and breast feeding. In LeBoyer, the baby is born into water to ameliorate the shock. Born and Born-Again at the same time, an infant baptism, hmm. And the nip-p-p-les? With gut unwed, we feed the head. Merleau- Ponty stated that all our concepts are grounded in percepts, so maybe since we feel before we think, our guts are fed first - then our brains. In fact, Aristotle's Three Laws of Thought are themselves reduceable to perception. They are: 1) A Or Not-A (either it's there or it ain't), 2) Not Both A And Not-A (it can't be both there and not there in the same spatiotemporal perspective - a good Albertian viewpoint), and 3) If A Then A (if it's there, it's there). He missed one, I think: If Not-A, Then Not-A (if it ain't there, it ain't there). But being there, how would we know? Being-there. Kosinski stole the term; it is the literal translation of Dasein, the Heideggerian term otherwise translated as Being- in- the-World. Kant stated that all concepts without percepts are empty, and all percepts without concepts are blind. If Merleau-Ponty is right and it all starts with percepts, then I guess that we are born blind, and only later on do we perceive our emptiness. Que sera, sera - from fetal to defeatal. What a world. Poor Giordano Bruno. He was burned at the stake by the enforcement arm of the soul-protective Catholic church. The Inquisitors ordered this - because Bruno dared to inquire. He inquired about our universe, and he came to the conclusion that it lacked an absolute center. Relativity theory - four hundred years before Einstein - and they killed him for it. Microcosm- macrocosm: a centerless mind adrift in centerless matter. Being-in-the-World. Thanks, Bruno, you're in good company. Say hi to Socrates for me (another soul slain for attempting to perpetrate self- knowledge). While you're at it, invite jesus over to your table, too; he was most probably as misinterpreted as the rest of you. The name of the Grand Inquisitor was Torquemada. The appelation was most probably derived from the latin torquere, to twist, and torques, collar. Tightening the screws to keep 'em collared, ay, Torquey? A torque is also a piece of twisted wire worn on one's person (but around the neck, not from the navel). However, torquing also causes torsion, a spinning around a center (turning in the widening gyre). Was Bruno burned on the heretic's pyre for disagreeing with you about the existence of such a center, Torquemada? I'm almost sure he didn't mean it personally. Anyway, we all lack a center. It was taken from us when we became us, and we'll never get it back, so long as we all shall live. That's the reason for this sharpened knife in my hand. Primal scream therapists say that one's scream is not authentic until the knotting of the glottis is loosened. Coincidentally (or is it?), this knot is located in the center of the stomach, directly behind the navel. The Indian shot me, mama! The Japanese don't call it hari-kiri; that's an americanization, like chop suey. They call it tsubutu. I like the phonetics of that word: tsu-bu-tu. As if you're talking to yourself to yourself listening in maddening creschEND-O! That damned knot has been there as long as I can remember and I'm fucking tired of it; I'm committed to the idea of autocaesarean section. I'll do it with all the dignity I can muster - no chop suey-side; nope, straight through the chow mein. But I'll allow myself the pleasure of screaming. You'll find me here beside this letter. A last theory of will beside its consummation in final action - and Guess What? I'll finally have a Center- a gleaming, silver center. Well, cheerio! Time to plug the hole! I hope I miss my liver.
We-ell, me an Barney an Frank an Scudder was alla sittin' there drinkin' Falstaff anna smokin' good Mex anna watchin' the tube. Nuthin' elseta do uva Satidee night, ya know, an besides, somea them programs er pretty good. We-ell, anyhow, we just plumb ran outta beer. Now when thar ain't nuthin' ta do uva Satidee night, that is, when YOU ain't got nuthin' ta do uva Satidee night, but drink beer, smoke dope, an watch tha tube, that's a pretty major disaster, lemme tellya, Anyhow, ya know, our place is pretty closeta tha docks, an Barney an Frank an Scudder decided ta go on down ta tha brewery warehouse an lifta coupla cases. I stayed home an watched TV, 'cause in our neighborhood if everbody leaves the place at once, there might not BE no TV ta watch whenya get back. Besides, like I said before, somea them programs wuz pretty good, an onea tha good ones wuz on. I kinda hadda funny feelin' about the whole idea, too. Don't go gettin' tha wrong idea yaSELF, now; I wudn aFRAID er nuthin'. But when that little voice inna backa yer head says, "Hey, fella, this just don't FEEL right", ya learn ta back off, 'cause whenya don't, -cha can get inta some pretty strange situations, lemme tellya. Anyhow, I promised 'em I wudn smoke morena coupla joints while they wuz gone, us runnin' kinda low, doncha know, and they took off ta tha docks fer tha beer. We-ell, I'd been thinkin' on sumthin' fera pretty long time, in fact, fera WHILE. An what I'd been thinkin on, an what I started thinkin' on then, wuz what we all DO. Yaknow, the guvment's been gettin' pretty strong lately, an not many people er havin' much ta say about it, leastwise not that I'D heard. It didn useta be that way, years back. When people didn like sumthin' tha guvment did, they'd up an bitch an moan an get sumthin' DONE about it. We-ell, tha way I sees it, there'sa helluva damn lot ta bitch about these days, but nuthin's gettin' said. So why, huh? We-ell, maybe tha guvment's stoppin' 'em somehow. But howwud they go about doin' that, huh? Then I remembered that I useta speak out now an then maself. What do I do now, instead? Why, I saysta maself, I drink beer an smoke dope an watch TV. Then it hit me. To control tha people, ya gotta control what they do in their leisure time, when they ain't workin' er sleepin' er eatin'. Didja ever notice that just about everbody smokes dope these days? An there always seems ta be enuf around. It's ilLEGAL, leastwise they CALL it illegal, but so's a lotta other things ya can't always get, but dope's always around. Goes real good with beer, too, an that's legal. An they both seem ta go real well with watchin' TV. The programs change, butcha always git high ta watch 'em. Now, we all git this little satisfaction outta smokin' a joint, like weuz protestin' again, an gettin' over on Unk Sam, like. We-ell, yaknow what hit me? Unk Sam's gettin' over on US, an we don't even realize it. They just program the shows to appeal to a stoned audience, yasee, an look tha other way when smoke gets moved in. Then insteada protestin' an raisin' Cain an' gettin' tha shit strightened OUT, we just all kick back, pop a tab onna cool one, smoke a joint, an watch TV. Andm dammit, that's all anybody ever DOES anymore! Then I wondered, iffit works so well, wht don't tha guvment LEGALize it? Because then we wudn feel like weuz gennin' over on Unk sam, then. Is it a protest whenya drink a brew, get my drift? Also, sum people 'ud protest anyways, so they kin bust them fer dope an leave the quiet folks alone. Hell, they was controllin' our lives, an we didn even realize it, an mosta us didn even CARE anymore! Now this, with me a sittin' there smokin a joint an watchin that damn tube, just scared tha livin' SHIT outta me. That musta caused tha flashback. There's not much else any good besides smoke around because the guvment's serious about tha other stuff, but a week before I'd scored a hitta good windowpane acid. Did me pretty good, too. We- ell, I musta flashed back on it, 'cause alluva sudden, there closeta midnight, tha sun started shinin' inna windows. I jumped up ta go look see, but a Special Bulletin came onna tube, an without thinkin', I sat back down ta watch. Yaknow how THAT is, I'm sure. Yer house could be burnin' down around ya, an still ya'd sit there an watch tha Special Bulletin on tha earthquake. We-ell, a guvment man in a blue bizness suit came on, an guess what? They'd caught my three friends down at tha docks liftin' beer. He wuz smilin' anna lookin' pretty smug about it, too.Then he said it wuz all due to a new Scien -tific Break-through. He couldn give no DEtails, he said, but the guvment had founda wayta turn tha sun off an on, anywhere, anytime. I looked back outta the window then, an it went out while I wuz starin' at it. I don't mean it SET, ya unnerstand, it just plumb WENT OUT! We-ell, I ran outta tha door ta go tell all the people, hey man, now the guvment even controls tha SUN, an like, hey, we gotta do somethin' about it. I couldn find nobody, though. Four houses I went to, an nobody wuzzat home in ANY uv 'em, but they wuz all OPEN, man, an all tha TV's were on, an even turned to different channels, tha same damned program wuz on ALLuvem! I even went inside the last house an turned it off, an it kept right onna runnin'. Then I unplugged tha damn thing, annit STILL kept runnin'! We-ell, I don't mind tellin' ya, I wuz scared SHITless then, so I ran back home, an guess what? My friends were all back, an with two casesa cold brew! We-ell, I didn know WHATthahellta think, ya know, so I said, HEY people, I thought tha feds'd busted ya, the TV said so, so whatch doin' back here so soon? Didja get away, or did they letcha go? We-ell, frank, he smiled at me an said, "Friend, we didn get away. We're here doin' time. When tha whole damn country's a prison, what's it matter which cell they stick ya in? Here, hava brew." An he popped a top an tried ta hand me one. An' that's when I threw tha brick through tha TV an flushed tha dope an kicked tha beer an started screamin' over an over, give me libertty er give me death, an somebody called tha cops, an they called tha hospital, an here I am. How'd YOU go crazy, man?
I was about to tell the man that it was all a mistake, that I was definitely NOT crazy, and that in my professorial opinion the only way that I could demonstrate my absurd freedom was by raping THAT little girl, and no other, that they had unfairly imprisoned the only truly free person in this determined world, and a doctor of philosophy besides, when the siren sounded, and I remembered that today was Thursday, the early day. I immediately turned away from the poor crazy and scurried towards my cubicle, and my waiting tube. When the sun goes out, it is bad - very bad - to be caught outside your own den.
"It's for the good of the People," she kept telling herself, "for the People." Like a litany endlessly repeated in penance for cardinal sins, she drank the narcotic of mindless repetition, of a tranquilizer commercial caught in a terminal loop by a malfunctioning VCR. "I have transgressed, I owe a debt to Society, it is only right that I pay." Pay the People. But wasn't she herself one of the People? The blasphemous thought was beaten down and died the death of realized heresy. Her claim as a Person, one of the People, had been fairly abrogated by her actions. This was the Law, and most agreed with it; for it was, like all other Laws, a Law of General Consensus. The Majority had Spoken, the Majority was Right, and she know that they were always, right, forever just and fair, acting solely for the Greater Good. Never should she have written it. It was illogical folly, and -- as the media proved when the media proved when it was discovered, a danger to our Love of Fellow Citizens, a threat to freedom, a razor slitting the larnyx of Sacred Liberty-and-Justice-for-All. "I threatened General Public Welfare; I am a criminal, and, in the eyes of my Equals, my Peers, my actions have disinherited me from Humanity and relinquished my right to Pursue Happiness." And when she recorded it for the Vox popuVision she had believed it, she believed it now, and she would believe it when... When she lost one of her rights. Her punishment was to lose one of her Ten Rights, those on the Bill. Why had she cast the stone? He was only doing his Duty as a Public Servant, whitewashing the disgusting graffiti with which she had soiuled and defaced the pristine Administration Building -- and she'd thrown the rock, striking him in the temple, breaking the skin and spilling Patriotic Blood. Her sentence was fair, perhaps, given the circumstances, even lenient, certainly not malicious in any way; it was simply the routine dispensation of impersonal Justice. So why was she crying? She shivered, squeezing herself as one would a dead child, and walked on...to the Rehabilitation Center. Ohmigod, it's HIM! Magenta features averted to hide her embarrassment, she raised a guilty hand to block his damning gaze. He seemed not to notice her, and there would have been no reason for her to have noticed him, either, if not for the bandage on his temple. She had Wronged him! Would her shame never leave her alone? But her eyes fixed upon her interposed hand, and her pace slowed as, lost in wonder, she moved her fingers. A hand is a wondrously constructed machine, carpals and metacarpals, joined by knuckles and tendons, swathed in skin, tipped with protective nails, and so SMOOTHLY it worked! How the muscles could synchronize! A tool for grasping a palette knife, or carressing a keyboard, or a lover, or brandishing a weapon of war and destruction, and with a mirror image, for better or for worse, on her other wrist; twin marvels - or twin murderers. But she would have none of that soon! She mentally reviewed what she had done and what would happen, reciting her litany when she weakened, taking no notice of her fingernails digging into her palms, her teeth meeting through her lower lip, her blood flowing through her fingers and trickling snakelike down her chin. (I wrote - for the Good - a bad thing - of the People! I wrote that if there were ten people _gor the Good of the People! - and nine of them were sadists - for the Good - were they justified - of the People! - in torturing the tenth? For the good of the people! I struck a Fellow Human Being - for the Good - doing his Patriotic Duty, in anger - of the People!). She continued her self-castigation as she recalled in detail what would be done. She would be anesthetized, and her arms would be severed at the elbows. Then - as a kindness - her upper arms would be deboned, she wpould be scalpeled open on both sides, down her ribs, and the twin filets would be surgically grafted, symmetrically merged, into her torso. Ther would be no scars, no unsightly stumps, just a smooth graduated expanse tapering from shoulder to waist. As she mounted the steps of the Rehabilitation Center to check herself in, her sentence, mingled with the litany, echoed and reverberated from synapse to synapse, muttering madly and endlessly in the mazes and corridors of her mund. "The sentence of this Court, to Atone for your Heinous crimes, is to revoke your Right to Keep and Bear Arms." For the Good of the People!
I am in my dream world, searching for a feasible (traslation: lucrative) science fiction story plot. Entrance to my world is obtained by eating six Sominexes and a hit of acid, lying comfortably on my bed, and repeating, "Plot...plot...plot..." until I lapse into the creative field of a dosed subconsciousness. Ideas circle and shif about me. Let's try that one... "Life History of a Space Monster: A Biographt." Nope. It'll never sell (the practical side of me is still in control). What about him...? "Astral time traveler gets spirit lost in different era. Body found and committed to catatonic ward." I don't think so. It would reqiore research, and I'm basically a lazy person. "God's vicarious enjoyment of our sex lives." Uh-uh. My Christian friends and relatives would ostracize me. Besides, no publisher in the business would dare to print it. Anything else? No? Well, time to wake up, straighten out, and get breakfast on, try again in a couple of days, maybe I'll have better luck later on, I ceertainly hope so, etc., etc. I gape, stretch, and shake my clouded brain into awareness. Things begin to come into focus. A large, bloated and generally fierce looking seventeen-toothed ogre is wrinkling its pectoral skin at me. I somehow know this to be a sadistic smile. There is a silver mist undulating violently in the far corner of my room. Slowly I realize what has happened. I rejected their life stories, so they have followed me back into reality for their revenge. The slighted Space Monster will mangle my body as the agitated Astral Astronaut rips my soul int tiny shards of disconnected thought. My mind cries out, "God please help me," and He answers by growling, "No dice. If I'm not fit to write about, you're not fit to save. Furthermore", He adds, "I'l consign what's left of your soul into a Hell so horrible even Dante couldn't describe it." I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, clench my teeth, and lie awaiting my imminent destruction, while what I surmise will be my last thought flashes madly though my head: "Whatta helluvascience fiction story plot." A long moment passes. Nothing happens. I open forst one eye, then the other. The Space Monster's smile has changed; it now beams benevolently down upon me. The undulating of the mist has ceased. it floats quiescently now, a placid pool of opaqueness. I unclench my teeth. Then a Still, Small Voice from Above Intones, "Write about what has happened here. At least it mentions us, which is a lot better than annihilating you, and having nothing to show for it." "But Father," I logically, rationally and quite stupidly protest, "Such an outlandish and irreverent story would never see print." "It'll see print," He assures me. And He has kept His word. I have but one small problem. The word got around. To date, twelve more stories are being written by me, under duress, about twelve other beings who, as the saying goes, 'made me an offer that I can't refuse.' Wait a minute; something's entered my room. (No, definitely not. You'll WHAT!? Okay, already!) Make that thirteen. They've got me where they want me. Oh, well, look on the bright side; at least they'll all be published.
Afterword: If you like this story, lemme know; if you don't, then complain to God (if you dare).
Gossamer line slashing the surface of the stream with a hissing sound. Rod-tip arcing and moving insistently after the point of nylon contact, cork handgrip living in your trembling palm. The singing gears, the dancing patter of crashing spray, of yourself laughing amidst the sudden explosion. Ho! What a leap! He's running for the damn snag- keep-that-tip-up-my-GOD what a beauty! There, turned you, yabig brute! Easy now, easy Ha! Another run! Hellifya ain't a spunky bruiser, fella! But you're tiring, I can tell...come to Papa, come to the net...steady, steady...GOTCHA! You're hooked, dear reader, into my description of a caught fish! I know, I know...you're mad at my little game and feel more than a little bit betrayed. But wasn't it fun? Let's go fishing again, for deeper, more intruiging prey. Let yourself be reeled in by the tale I'm spincasting, and we'll investigate what we've hooked together, at the end of the (end) line. After all, even though I'm the fisherman, I'm also the fare your feasting eyes consume. Eat my fantasies, then, in the hope that their consumption will be as much fun as their preparation (I assure you) is now/was then. I just love to run my pen. It's a champion sprinter in the paper chase, and just LOVES to talk about itself. It's a medium point Sanford Expresso felt tip, and the ink is black - it looks like this. . The paper is, more than likely, Champion pine paper pulp. This cheers me; nobler trees do not deserve the particular fate to which I am subjecting these sapling sheets. All the Freudian puns in the preceding, I must admit, are purely intentional. I figured, with all the symbolism found in writing these days, that it was high time someone purposefully put some there. But again, if I *chose* to put it there, then it doesn't (according to the rules) bare the pale underbelly of my subconscious desires. Tricked again! For the Freudians among you, I've just revealed the Easter Egg co- ordinates. Of course this revelation reduces your id to tears, because it doesn't count if it isn't hidden. But it is - within your own psyche. Tag! You're it! It's hard to tag me back. I have good camoflage, and sport excellent cover. I could maroon you in a syntactical swamp of meaningless meanderings, bore you to pedantic tears (which blur your vision for the suckerpunch), even curse you, you ass, and not get pummeled for it (at least not now/then). But instead, I'll reveal myself unto you (flash!). Hi! Here I am! Well, I WAS there, anyway. Trust me. Would I lie to you? Have you ever before beheld such honest expositionary features? (Ignore the smirk; it's merely parenthetical). I'm back now. That's right -- I was gone for five full minutes, and you didn't even notice. The absence of the invisible is difficult to detect. I don't know if you're there either, but I have my suspicions. You,ve followed me this far if you've read "You've followed me this far"; therefore you must still be tracking the ebon spoor of my trail. If you haven't been following me, ignore the previous. Of necessity, however, I must remain always ahead of you, since my writing is a prriori to your reading. Believe it or not, however, you paradoxically run through reading it faster than I can capably write it (unless you're functionally illiterate, in which case I refuse to speak to you until you make me do so by learning the twenty-six digit code). Actually, I love a good conversation with someone who can't talk back. What's wrong? Cat gotcher pen? Write me! Read me! (But respect me). Will you respect me in the morning? Do you respect me now? Do I? How do I know? It's not finished yet (but we're getting there...the irreverent rhythm has been set; the syntraction is rising to culmination in an explosive climax, not unlike a bass breaking waterskin -- suffer, Freudians!). Well, this is it. Denoument. resolution. The properly foreshadowed End of the Lines. I'd like to tarrry and chat further, but the paragraph as come for me to go. Skim in again, sometime...I'll arrange another rendezvous, even though it gets rough finding new places for each meeting. We'd have nothing new to say to each other if we met here again (if you disbelieve me, you need to reread this story). We'll have changed then -- both of us. But we've GOT to keep meeting like this. I've got bills to pay, like any other prostitute. it's just that I furnish mental orgasms. It's not all busoness, though -- we find ourselves here together as a result of mutual desire. Also, although although my personal sexuality is my own business, literarily I'm a universal seducer. No discrimination, and no shame. Well, ta-ta -- until you're in the mood for me again and I'm in the mood for you. I know you'll come back. I'm good. And it's never the same twice.
"It is better to travel hopefully than to arrive." Robert Louis Stevenson
See Jane Run
by Joe E. Dees
"Doctor, the baby near the door seem restless. Could you check her out?" Dr Phiship meandered over to the end crib and scrutinized the tiny form within impotently kicking and flailing at the confining walls, then read the birth record affixed to the crib's end. "Hmmm. Jane Romany Permoti. Born this morning. Hair brown, eyes blue, seven pounds three ounces. Father Raphael Kane Permoti, mother's maiden name Wanda Rachel Gold. Normal birth, no complications. She looks healthy as a horse -- hey! Wait a minute, rascal! Impatient, aren't you? Amazing! Only eleven hours old, and she almost crawled right out of her crib! Stella?" Yes, Doctor?" Put little Rover here in that bassinet and fasten the blanket snaps. She wants to get up and around before her time. Oh, she'll be a beauty, though! Look at those eyes! If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was staring at me. Being a Gypsy Jew, they *should* change to brown before long, but I'll bet they won't. She'll grow up to be a real heartbreaker." As the doctor handed her to the nurse and moved away, Jane's eyes followed him until he was out of sight. Then, as the nurse tucked her into the bassinet and snapped the restraining blanket into place, her eyes once again began roaming the nursery. She lay quiet for a while; when the nurse had gone she resumed her silent strugglings. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (See Jane. See Jane run. Baby Jane, somehow still restless, so soon after the primal passage, newly and but barely aware, still untired after the transition, struggles on and on until fatigue and exhaustion inexorably close the bright blue eyes and the movements of the tiny body slow and cease as Jane, for the very first time, sleeps. And dreams of running...) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Mrs. Permoti, I've asked you here to discuss Jane." Miss Lerner, principal of the Montessori school Jane was attending, was not the grizzled matriarch Wanda was expecting. She was attractive, cultured, with a poise and bearing that was at once reassuring and unsettling. Her smile was genuine, but her eyes betrayed concern as she spoke. "Your daughter isn't leaving school any more. We've come that far, at least. However, she simply cannot sit still for any period of time." "Isn't that normal for a child of seven, Miss Lerner?" "Yes," she agreed, "to some extent, but not to the degree Jane has been demonstrating. We have taken the liberty," she continued, "of administering certain tests to her. The results were extraordinary. Your child possesses exceptional intelligence and exhibits a phenomenal retention factor. She is always at the top of her class. However, she is also a classic case of the hyperkinetic child. I have asked you here to advise you to seek a medical solution to our mutual problem." Wanda's eyebrows arched in consternation. "What do you mean, ah, medical, Miss Lerner?" Miss Lerner paused, pursed her lips, decided to continue directly, did so. "Have her see a pediatrician, Mrs. Permoti. tell him the problem, have him call me. I'll recommend that he prescribe a mild sedative. Then, perhaps, she can be controlled." Perceiving the confusion on the other woman's face, she hastened to add, "She won't be the only one, Mrs. Permoti. Many children have been helped to live normal, happy, healthy childhoods in this way." "Are there any alternatives, Miss Lerner?" Miss Lerner winced. Dammit, this was always the hardest part! "Only one, Mrs. Permoti. Your daughter is requiring so much attention that we have been forced to somewhat neglect the other children in her class. If a distinct improvement is not noted immediately, I'm afraid we'll have to withdraw Jane from our school. I'm truly sorry, Mrs. Permoti. I really have no choice." "But she's already been expelled from public and parochial school as a problem child, Miss Lerner." "And she IS. The only way we can retain your child in our school is to solve her problem. I'm just being honest with you, Mrs. Permoti." "I thank you for that, at least, Miss Lerner, and I'll take your advice. I have no choice either. Good Day." During the next few weeks, Jane was much calmer than she'd ever been. She stayed in her seat, and her fidgeting was less of a distraction. However, there were other differences, too. Jane's grades dropped. She wasn't as popular with the other children. Oh, yes, and one more little thing. Jane didn't smile any more. There came a day when Jane didn't go to class, but went straight to the principal's office and knocked on her door. "Come in," Miss Lerner called. "Oh, it's YOU, Jane. You haven't been in to see me for a while. I thought we had everything going well. What is it this time?" "Everything IS going well, Miss Lerner. Mother says for you to withdraw me from school. Also, I don't have to take those pills any more." Jane was smiling again. "She said for you to call her. I guess she knows I'd read a note." Miss Lerner's eyebrows rose halfway to her hairline, her jaw dropped to her larynx and her hand fluttered to the phone like a dying bird. "What's your telephone number, Jane?" "KE-24153, Ma'am." "Thank you. Please wait outside." (Bzzzt...bzzzt...bz-click!) "Hello; Permoti residence." "Mrs. Permoti, this is Miss Lerner. Your daughter tells me that it is your wish that she be withdrawn from our school. Is this true?" There was a pause, then the reply. "Yes, it's true, Miss Lerner." "But why, now that she's been behaving so well? As far as we're concerned, Jane's welcome to stay." "I'm sorry, Miss Lerner. Jane came to me last night and told me that those tranquilizers made her feel dead inside. She said that she wasn't happy any more, that it was no fun to play, and if she had to be dead, she wanted to be dead all the way. I can't make her take them any more, Miss Lerner, and without them, she can't attend your school." But-but...what will you do for your daughter's education?" "We'll hire a tutor. It's the only choice left now. Besides, with me being an airline stewardess and my husband being a diamond merchant, we do a lot of travelling, and since we have no relatives, Jane's with a sitter half the time. A live-in tutor won't cost more thantuition and sitter fees, and she won't have to take those pills any more." "I see, Mrs. Permoti. I wish it could have worked out, but I think you've made the right decision. Please let me know from time to time how she's doing." "Of course, Miss Lerner. Goodbye." Miss Lerner slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle and rested her chin on her hands. Why was it that she was forced to refuse the very type of child for whom the school was designed? What had happened, over the years, to the young idealistic crusader she used to be? She suddenly felt very old, very tired. For the sake of Jane's mostly average classmates, she had to deny an exceptional child the privilege of attending a school originally conceived for the education of exceptional children. Well, there was nothing that could be done about it. She at one time hated the system; now she was a part of it. "Come in, Jane." Bright blue eyes sparkled and brown hair bobbed and glistened darkly as she bounced into the room. What a beautiful child she was! Miss Lerner stood up from her chair, turned, opened a grey cabinet, removed a brown folder. "Here's your school records, Jane. Go clean out your desk and go home. Goodbye, and good luck." Jane almost asked her, but instead said, "Thank you, Ma'am; goodbye," and left the office. It wasn't proper to ask a grownup, esPECially Miss Lerner, why she was crying. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (See Jane. See Jane run. Growing, changing, moving through life from infancy to maturity, still a child but Baby Jane no longer, hastening towards pubeerty and a second passage, a second transition, the first faint stirrings already visible, a promise whose fulfillment is perpetuation of a motion of the species through its infancy to, perhaps, its maturity. See Jane becoming the perfect perpetual motion machine, boundless and unending, the Forever reaction, the chemical Infinity chain which is Life. Jane sleeps, and changes, and dreams of the running of the race without end, and of revelling in the running of it. Always running...) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "I just can't help it, Wanda; it's split up or go mad! I still love you, but my life is passing me by, day by day. I don't want to die knowing I've never really lived." "Are you just going to pack up and leave us and go roaming off to God knows where? You've been practically everywhere already; you've nowhere new to go! What about Jane? What about me? What's going to happen to US, Ralph? If you leave us, where will you go, and what will we do? "Mother! Father!" They both turned and beheld the daughter who wasn't supposed to be home, who wasn't supposed to hear. "Jane!" Ralph almost shouted. "You and Grimsby are supposed to be at the lecture!" "I forgot my book, the one the lecture is on, and came back to get it." A paperback copy of Steinbeck's EAST OF EDEN was clenched tightly in her left hand. She slammed it to the ground. "I'm damn glad I did, too! How long, huh? How long have you two hidden this from me?" Neither spoke. They looked at Jane, at each other, at the floor. "I understand how you feel, Dad. You feel trapped on a treadmill, shriveling bit by bit, each day bringing you closer to death, and you feel you must jump off, force a change, to survive. But must it be US? Mom loves you. I love you. Give us another chance. There's a business trip to Amsterdam coming up tomorrow. Take her with you. Try to make it work again. You owe her, and me, and yourself that much, at least." Raphael Kane Permoti regarded his flesh and blood standing there before him and couldn't help smiling in admiration. Beautiful, yes, but also wise beyond her sixteen years. How had he done so well? He turned and gazed at his wife. They had done so well, too. Yes, she was right. One more chance. "Okay, Gypsy Mine, we'll try it. You're right." Those eyes, a moment ago raging pools of anger, now danced with joy. "I just KNOW it'll work out! I KNOW it will." Then she turned to her mother. "Don't just STAND there, Mom! Here, I'll help you pack. This trip you don't want to miss." Ralph sat, smiled, sighed, shook his head as the two women prepared for the journey. His still beautiful wife and his lovely daughter; a child no longer, but a vibrant, vital woman. Thinking back on it, he was mildly surprised to realize he was really a very lucky man. The following night the receiver dropped from Jane's nerveless fingers as her brain registered what her ears had heard. Flight 715 to Amsterdam had broken up enroute. No survivors. Yes, her parents had been on board. Yes, both of them. She turned in time to catch the beginning of the special bulletin coming on the TV before she fainted. When she awoke, she spent no time on tears, but quickly packed and left. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (See Jane. See Jane run. Running, yes, but with a difference, running without a goal, running alone, without a friend, running away from the authorities ranging the country like hounds to kennel her in an institution, from her memories, from herself. From town to town, from man to man, from day to day, from year to year, eighteen now, no reason to run any longer, but impetuously, inertiallly, still running. Until she came...) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- To New York. The Big Apple. City of cotton candy dreams, and of cruel reality. City of lemmings, of hopes, of despairs. How many people make it in New York, really? One out of a thousand, maybe. And regardless of the nine hundred and ninety nine who don't, each success fuels a thousand more dreams, a thousand more journeys, a thousand more despairs. But Jane was different. Beauty, yes. brains, yes. But these were common in the city of the beautiful, and of ther predator. What makes a star a star? That quality was Jane's difference, a drive, a hunger, a want, a need, that special certain elusive SOMETHING that separates the winner from those who merely run the race. Jane tasted the Big Apple; tasted and found it sweet. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In the swank Club 21 restaurant, demond S. Markette, executive promoter for Chambray cosmetics, saw Jane waiting on tables and was immediately taken with her beauty. "This lady," he mused, "would make an excellent mistress, and Lilith is getting tiresome. They all do after a while." He motioned to her and she strolled over. "Yes? What would you like, sir?" "You, my dear lady," he answered. "Ten thousand a month, a car, a brownstone apartment, and -- hey, wait a minute! I'm not finished yet!" "Oh, yes, you are, sir; I'm not interested. When you're ready to order from the menu, I'll be back." She flashed a radiant smile, pirouetted, started away. "Don't go. I'm sorry," Demond's mental gears shifted rapidly from lust to amazement to money. This gal was something special. "What's your name?" "Jane Permoti. And yours, sir?" "demond S. Markette, Chambray cosmetics." With a flourish. "Close, but it won't do." Jane's left eye raised slightly, delicately. "What won't do," she added a half-smile, "Mr. Cosmetics?" "Your name, babe. Do you have a middle name, too?" "Romany, and I happen to like the whole thing!" "Ah, yes! Remove the ethnic, use the middle...Romany Permot! Would you like to work for me -- as a cosmetics model?" "I like your cosmetics, but not your fringe benefits, Mr. Markette." "ForGET the fringe benefits! You'll make us both a lot of money." Jane knew he was THE Mr. Markette from the society pages. Smart, successful, a rising young executive ten years ago, he'd made it to the top and stayed there. "Opporrtunity may not knock again," she thought. Hell; this is it; TAKE it!" She extended her half-smile to a full one, and her hand to Mr. Markette. "Romany Permot at your service, sir! When do we start?" "Right now. Let's go." Raoul, the headwaiter, had already started over to admonish her for spending too much time at a table but before he could arive, Jane put down her tray, waved to himgaily, sang out "I quit," in musical tones, locked arms with Demond S. Markette, Chambray Cosmetics, and waltzed out the door with him. Within a month she was known, within a season, famous, within two years, the best. She was seen at the best places, with the best people. She lived in her own private penthouse, with closets full of original fashions, and still her bank account climbed to a healthy seven figures. Chambray succeeded revlon as the #1 cosmetics company, posters of her sold in the millions, she refused movie offers from MGM and Paramount. Jane Romany Permoti, a la Romany Permot, was on top of the world. Then one day she found herself on a plane to the Midwest, hair bleached, with expensively purchased false identification in her purse and brown contacts dusking her sky-blue eyes, running. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (See Jane. See Jane run. Running she knows not where, searching for she knows not what, the wanderlust too strong to fight even if she wanted to, not necessarily wanting something better, but something different, something ELSE. Acid hadn't helped; when her innerspace ramblings were over, she was still who she was, where she was. There must be something MORE, maybe over there, let's run there and find out, if we find nothing, then over there, or THERE! Somewhere over the Rainbow, the Dorothy without a Kansas, in an endless Oz, once again trod the Yellow brick Road, not hopping or skipping, but running. Always running...) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Hi there. What town is this?" The constable turned, saw, smiled at the young woman smiling back. "Why-y-y, thjis is Moteburg, Miss..." "Kinet. Jane Kinet. I'm looking for work. Is there any in town?" "We-e-ell, I think the library assistant quit yesterday. Going to the big city, she said. They'll need a replacement. You could try there." "Where could I find the library and -- oh, yes -- a room for rent?" "We-e-ell, Old Miss Crotchett in that two story house there has one, I believe. And there's only one stoplight, in the center of town, and the library's on one corner." "Thanks muchly, officer, and have a nice day!" "Ah-h-h, you, too, Miss kinet." Constable Orley removed his hat, scratched his bald pate, grinned widely at her departing form. "My, but isn't she a looker!", he thought."Old Amos'll hire her in a heartbeat, if it don't stop in its tracks when he sees her!" Then he went back to reading the paper - some fuss about a model who'd disappeared. Some fella she worked for, Markette, said he figured it'd happen, that all that fame and fortune didn't faze her, and her banker, well! He was in a tizzt, all right! Seven million three hundred thousand dollars all given away, a thousand buck apiece, to anyone who could prove that they were gypsy! Of all the fool notions! "Well, I'll just lay back here on the bench and grab some shuteye," he decided. Hell, he was the only policeman in town and he always slept here afternoons. If he didn't, how'd they ever find him if they happened to need him some time? Constable Orley lay back on the bench, spread the newspaper over his face, and almost immediately began snoring. BZZZZ! BZZZZ! A querolous voice from within quavered, "Hold your horses! I'm coming!" a full thirty seconds before the door opened. "Yes, may I help you, Miss -- er --" "Jane Kinet, ma'am. Are you Miss Crotchett?" The old lady looked her up with one eye and down with the other. "Yes, that's who I be." Nice dress, nice smile, nice manners. Miss Crotchett approved. "I'm inquiring about a room for rent, ma'am. I just got into town." Still suspicious, Miss Crotchett asked, "What you be doin' here, Miss Kinet?" "I'm the new library assistant. I start Monday." "Two-hunnert-an-fifty dollars a month in advance, no drinkin', no male callers after nine-thirty. Upstairs to the left, your own key, clean up and meals thirty a month extra." She'd said it so much that sometimes she said it in her sleep. "Thirty a month extra apiece, or for both, ma'am?" Miss Crotchett drew herself ramrod stiff and snorted in mock indignation, "Why, for both, child! I wouldn't try to overcharge you!" "I'll take it, ma'am -- if you'll have me." "Call me Thelma, child! ever'body does. The place is yours." "Thank you, Thelma, and you can call me Jane if you like." The myopic eyes blinked birdlike and the wrinkled old face creased into a grin. "Bein' the oldest citizen of Moteburg, and since my memory ain't what it used to be, I call ever'body child. Remember that and the rules and we'll get along just fine." "I'm sure we will, Thelma." Jane liked the old gal. In fact, she liked everyone she'd met here. It seemed like a good place to live. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (See Jane. See Jane run. See Jane run to the simple things, to the ordinary, and, perhaps, to contentment. See Jane happy for the first time since her parents died, working, meeting stan restin, marrying him, bearing him two children, completing the circle of life, but still working at the library while living on the farm, still reading, in her spare moments, of faraway places, strange things, exotic peoples, and still dreaming of running. Always running...) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It always started with the little things. The Wandering Jew she bought at the florist's and named Ahasuerus. The dog that the gypsies who'd camped on their land had given little Ralphie. Dog: genus Canis Familiaris. The K-9 Corps, right? How easy to call him Cain! And when he's run away and Wanda cried, she'd had to explain, "Cain was a gypsy dog, Wanda. He had to go see the world. It's not your fault, honey, or his. I'm sure he loved us all very much, and would have stayed forever if he were able. He just couldn't fight the wanderlust; it's in his blood." Her record collection: The Drifters, Ramblin' Man, Better Place To Be, Over The Hills And Far Away. Many artists, many styles, all traveling songs. Jane knew now. She could never stop; she was a junkie with reverse motion sickness, and this had been just another way station, a place to rest, relax, repose, recline, recuperate: another place from which to run. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (See Jane. See Jane run. Leaving behind husband, home, family and friends, totally against her conscious will she placed the suitcase in the trunk. Totally against her conscious will she bought a bus ticket from midville, fifty miles away, to L.A., another Mecca and Medina for those with the Faith. Tomorrow night she would run again, run anew, but tonight, after the loving, spooned together with Stan in their bed, Jane slapt. And dreamed of running...) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tears streamed from her bright blue eyes down her quivering cheeks as the car roared to life. Sobs shook her as she pulled onto the dirt road. Yeah, Jane Perpatual Motion machine, moving again, meaninglessly. Not yet thirty, and the best of life behind her. Where exactly was she going? What was she going to do? What else COULD she do, really? What had she not already done? Jane saw her true nature then, and hated it. She was fated to always jump from treadmill to treadmill, from race to race, to run and run until death dragged her down and forced her to stop running. If she were strong enough...maybe she COULD be strong enough, just once, once would be enough, to turn the steering wheel, floor the accelerator...death, after all, was just another journey, another destination. It was the only new place left to go. Ah, yes; it was so easy now... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- (See Jane. See jane run. See her run into the trees, the stering column neatly crushing her chest, crash but no burn, not necessary really, no lunge left to breath with, no heart to pump the oxygen to the cells, no blood left inside to carry it. See Jane, for the first time, neither running nor dreaming of running; see Jane stop...) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A star in the night sky over the wreckage grows, assumes form, a glowing blue oblong cylinder hovers over the road beside Jane. A section darkens, dilates, delineates an opening through which exist a being who coluld almost, but not quite, pass for a human in the dark. The being places a small disc on Jane's forehead and touches a color in the center. The disc hums for a few seconds, then clicks and is silent. The being removes the disc and reaches inside Jane's mouth with what closely resembles a tiny ice cream scoop, places its concavity against the inside of jane's chek, and touches a color on the handle. A line of light curves across, completing the sphere of the scoop, and when it disappears, a tiny hemisphere of oral tissue remains inside. The being then removes the scoop and re-enters the opening which contracts, lightens, disappears. After a few seconds the glowing blue oblong cylinder rises, shrinks, loses form, becomes just another star in the night sky, disappears. And not until now does the car begin to burn. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Jane Romany Permoti awakens. And sees bending over her a being who, in the light, doesn't even vaguely appear human. Jane starts to scream, for some reason doesn't, lies waiting. Then the being begins to speak to her without sound. ("You have died and been reborn, Jane, reconstructed from the plans in your cells, given all your memories from conception to death. The human race is a sentient one, and should not perish from the Universe by its own hand. Unless we intervene, however, that is the inescapable destiny soon awaiting humankind. You, and many copies of you even now being created, wll populate certain planets found to be compatible with your physiology, thus saving your race from oblivion. We have made some changes, though. You now carry no defective genes, and you are perpetually self-regenerative; you would call it immortal. Here, look at yourself.") Only little things had changed. The smallpox vaccination scar on her left arm, the mole on the edge of her left aureole, her navel, her calluses, her stretch marks were gone, and a tightness at the portals of her loins gave mute testimony that her rebirth, her renewal, was complete. ("A single human mind is a brilliant and efficient device, but the minds of humankind are not plurally coherent. There fore, the more humans exist, the less intelligence is possessed by their group mind, for they interfere with, rather than complement, each other. The human group mind, however, decides the course of its race, as does any race's group mantality. Brilliant individuals have given the group mind of humanity knowledge, technology, skills and power with which it has neither the intelligence nor the maturity to deal. Unable to cope with and wisely utilize these dangerous gifts, humanity will be destroyed by them.") Even as the being "spoke", Jane saw the truth in its words. Humanity was an infant nursing a loaded gun, fascinated by the trigger. Some day soon, that trigger would be pulled. But didn't that mean that they were only prolonging the agony, and that this would inevitably happen again? Why attempt to save a suicidal species only to see it once again destroy itself? "Lemmings," Jane thought, "we're all lemmings..." ("No, Jane, that is not your fate. The minds of the new humanity are attuned to each other, and will mutually complement to form a group mind that can, and will, survive and prosper. Let me demonstrate. Jane, meet your husband.") The being touched a color on the wall which demolecularized to reveal a brown haired, blue eyed man. She looked at him :self at her :self at him :self endlessly bouncing between, like the infinite internal images between two facing mirrors, as their minds touched and revelled in the blessed ecstatic harmony of the touching. They were telepathic, and something more; they were congruent. (He is you, Jane; your genes, your memorise, with one X chromosome changed to a Y. You are both perfect, and therefore identical.") The being touched the space where the color had been, and the wall remolecularized, hiding the man and breaking their contact. How it hurt! Everyone she had ever known had lived with an emptiness inside, and no one had ever been able to fill it, though all had tried; for Jane, for one small ecstatic moment, that emptiness had been filled -- and she knew it would be filled again, forever. Her singular was now an eternal plural, never again alone. See Jane run, running always in perfect step, always together. The being raised what was probably the equivalent of an arm in salutation. ("I leave you to rest now, Jane. There is much that lies ahead for you. All of you.") The being suddenly m-o-v-e-d between, fading in from all directions, and was not there. Jane felt an exaltation far greater than any she had ever known. To populate the Universe! To be perfect! To never die! To be - together! What more could anyone ask? But in the deep dark recesses in the back of her mind was a child's voice, singing madly, over and over and over...
for for for See Jane ehh, ehh, ehh,
run ver, ver, ver...
As the first thousand Janes awakened and the blue glowing oblong cylinder travelled far and farther still, towards the first planet waiting still farther away in the glittering blackness of the eternal galactic night...
In his spacious office, lined with bookshelves filled with psychological treatises and complete with the stereotypical couch, Dr. Ernst Francke sat and sat and stared from his easy chair, stared across the desk at the crib in the center of the room. In the crib was a child barely a week old: his ward, Joshua Priebourne. Dr. Francke's thoughts, however, did not concern the infant directly; he was mourning the death by suicide of his father Mazel Priebourne, and the death during childbirth of his mother Mary three days later. He sat and stared and mused and cried. Mazel Priebourne had been a patient and a friend, and something MORE. He was the Almost Man, almost there; the marathon runner checked in mid-stride, his chest forever frozen an inch from the finish line, teetering on the brink, trying but failing to fall forward; the climber grappling to the top of the barrier and glimpsing the land beyond, but unable to push or pull himself over; the man who knew that it could be, would be done, and yet couldn't do it. Yes, the Almost Man...almost, but not quite. Moses at the river Jordan, seeing the Promised land but inable to cross over, able to touch but never to grasp, the Man at the Edge, forever. Dr. Francke sat, and stared, and brooded over what had happened, as he had many times before, and as he knew he would again and again and again... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The next case was a common one; no referral, no complaint. The man - let's see, ah, Mr. Mazel Priebourne - just wanted to talk with him. Sarah, his nurse-receptionist, ushered the man in; Dr. Francke directed him to a chair by the desk. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Priebourne? The man hesitated, the, without preamble, simply said, "Sometimes, rather than do things with my hands, I've found myself doing them more directly - with my mind. I believe it's called telekinesis." The easiest way to deal with this type of delusion, Ernst had found, was to challenge it directly. "Could you demonstrate, Mr. Priebourne?" "I can't do it at will," he answered. "It always happens when I'm mad or scared - I guess you'd call them stressful situations, Doctor." "Well then," Dr. Francke proposed, "let's make this a stressful situation. Do it or leave." "I could go to another psychiatrist," Mazel answered. "It has to be a situation where there are no alternatives. Do you wish me to leave now?" "No, please stay." The man had aroused his interest. "Tell me something about yourself, Mr. Priebourne." "Mostly," he answered, "I'm quite undistinguished. I'm the senior systems analyst for Drillco Oil. I have a wife, Mary, and we're expecting our first child any time now. She has your phone number," he added, "though she thinks I'm counseling you on investments. I have a car, a dog, and a home in the Northglade district." "Have you seena psychiatrist professionally before, or had any evaluations made?" "No, you're the first psychiatrist I've consulted. I've had a few tests, however. Supposedly, I'm a genius - 170 plus. Where exactly they couldn't figure. My wife's around 160." He handed Dr. francke a brown folder. "Here are photostats of the results." Dr. Francke perused the contents of the folder. They were quite genuine. This was becoming fascinating. "What do you do for Drillco, Mr. Priebourne? I don't want a title; I want a description." "They tell me they want a department created costing X dollars per annum or less, and performing certain tasks with at least Y efficiency factor. I build it on paper, with the education and/or experience necessary to fill each position, and the salaries necessary to make them competitive on the open market." "How much competition do you have, Mr. Priebourne? For your job, I mean?" "I'm the only employee of Drillco Oil who does what I do. I guess you could call me somewhat indispensable." This last rather sheepishly. "Let's be more informal, Mr. Priebourne. What don't you call me Ernie?" This sometimes worked. "Okay, if you'll call me Mazz, Ernie. However, I'm being completely honest with you already, so familiarity won't open any additional doors. What's the use of paying you two hundred bucks an hour to play hide-and-seek games?" Dr Francke liked Mr. Priebourne - no, Ernie liked Mazz. However, Mazz had a problem, and solving peoples' problems was Ernie's business. He decided to try another tack. "How much does your belief in personal telekinetic powers bother you, Mazz?" "Quite a bit, Ernie," Mazz answered. "I feel as if I'm on the verge of a breakthrough, but I just can't get over the hump. If I could do it at will, I wouldn't be here. Lord knows I've tried." Was there anything Ernst had forgotten? Oh yes - and the most obvious. "How's your domestic life, Mazz? Any problems there?" "None at all. In fact, why don't you come over for dinner tonight? Your receptionist has my address." "I usually don't socialize with patients, Mazz," Ernst paused thoughtfully, "but in your case I'll make an exception. About what time?" "Seven-thirty would be fine, ernie. See you then." Mazz shook his hand and left. A short time later Ernst buzzed Sarah on the Intercom. "Cancel that consultation fee on Priebourne, will you, Sarah?", he said, then clicked off and sat back smiling. This patient, after all, was a friend. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Priebourne house was stylishly designed and well kept, landscaping complementing flora and form. A very beautiful and also very pregnant woman answered the door. "Hi, I'm Mary Priebourne, and you must be Dr. Francke." "Ernie, please," he replied, smiling. This is a very nice place you have here." "Why, thank you, Ernie. Please come in. I'll take your coat." Mazel Priebourne stood and offered his hand, which was accepted. "Hiya, Ernie. This is the old domicile." The house was as beautiful inside as out, tastefully and practically furnished, and the aroma wafting from the kitchen made Ernst's mouth water in anticipation. The meal was excellent, the converstion was stimulating, and Ernst could detect nothing but true affection between his host and hostess. They were a rarity - two happy people who were happy together - and they seemed to fit together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Ernst could only think concerning them of the old cliche, 'made for each other'. No, neither had any other family. No, no close friends. They just didn't seem to need anyone else. The problem was not at home, Ernst decided. But then, where was it? Could Mazel be schizophrenic? he wondered. That disorder does have a predisposition towards the higher intellects. It seemed unlikely; none of the other signs were there. After dinner, Ernst thanked them and left, both pleased and puzzled. This one was a tough nut to crack. Halfway home, he stopped for gas and reached inside his coat pocket for his prescription pad to jot down the mileage and fuel. Lookingat it as he wrote, he noticed a small ridge of binder on top which shouldn't have been there. It was a new pad - yet some pages were missing... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ernst entered his home to the sound of a ringing telephone. "Yes, Dr. Francke here." "Ernie, it's Mazz. We're headed towards Centre Hospital. Could you meet us there?" "Is it -" Ernst never got to enunciate "important." "Yes, and she doesn't look too good. It's our first, and I'm worried sick." "I'm on my way; I'll meet you there." "Thanks, Ernie." The phone clicked and hummed before Ernst had a chance to ask Mazz how he got his home phone number. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The expressway was the quickest way to the hospital - that is, unless you got trapped behind a fenderbender on the off-ramp, Ernst mentally snarled. He'd given his word to a patient, and he'd been stuck here for half an - at last! Moving again! Well, at least there's a good reason for it, he thought. Something like this could damage a psychiatrist-patient relationship - and lose a friend. Ernst skidded into an open parking space, slammed his car door shut, and jogged to the emergency room entrance. Immediately upon entering, Ernst heard two voices; one strident, the other measured and calm. "But she's sick - very sick! And I AM Mazel Priebourne - can't her doctor verify that?" Now they were in view, down the hall. The prim, frozen-faced nurse adamantly answered, "The doctor you mentioned can't be reached, sir. And we DO have other patients ahead of you. You should have brought some identification. I'm sorry, but -" At that precise moment, Ernst felt a f-o-r-c-e press against him, slowing his advance. Several spectators staggered back a step, and the nurse, physically untouched, was slammed back against a grey filing cabinet. Ernst turned towards Mazel and, seeing the naked rage streaming from his tearstained eyes, suddenly knew that Mazel had been telling him the truth all along - and had just proved what he'd said, with Ernst himself as a dumbstruck witness. Ernst almost flew to the triage desk, open wallet in hand. "I'm Dr. Ernst Francke, and this man IS Mazel Priebourne. Admit his wife to the ER and get her some help immediately, or God help me, I'll have your job!" The thoroughly scared nurse, her composure shattered irreparably, quickly motioned to two nearby interns. Following them with his eyes, Ernst saw Mary lying in a couch farther down the hall, looking far worse than a woman in labor ever should. He gnashed his teeth and gazed again at the nurse; self-righteous and unfeeling, she was dusting herself off without so much as a passing glance at the critically ill woman being lifted to a stretcher and whisked to Examination. God Damn her! He'd have her job ANYWAY, if it took everything he could do! She didn't deserve to be in such a position in ANY hospital - and damned if she'd be there long! Ernst put his arm around Mazel's suddenly slumped shoulders and pulled him into a chair in the waiting room, everything else for the moment forgotten, buried by his anger and concern. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Long hours later, a harried-looking physician came to the door of the waiting room and called, "Mr Priebourne? Mr. Mazel Priebourne?" "Here, Doctor," Mazel almost shouted as they hurried over. "How is she?" "Both she and the child are alive, Mr. Priebourne, but your wife's a very sick woman. There are major complications to the pregnancy." "What kind of complications, Doctor?", Mazel pressed. "Toxemia, Mr. Priebourne. The saline level in your wife's bloodstream is near terminal percentages. There's a distinct possibility that she'll be unable to survive delivery, when it's time." "Do you mean to tell me," gasped Mazel, "that my wife is near DEATH and my child hasn't even been BORN YET? I thought she was in labor." "False labor, Mr. Priebourne, and a very lucky thing it was, too. Otherwise, we'd have lost her. Go home and rest. You can't do anything for them here." Mazel's jaw dropped and his eyes gazed glassily at the physician's shoes. In that instant, Ernst's inner floodgates of pain and despair cracked and shattered, and he was thrust into an abyss of intense pathos. The doctor recoiled as if he'd been burned, and mumbling, "I'm sorry, Mr. Priebourne," he quickly retreated and left, grimacing. Mazel then turned to Ernst and said, slowly, "If anything should happen to us, Ernst - you see, we have nobody but each other and you - would you accept custody of Joshua for us?" "Joshua?" "Or Joan if it's a girl. Please, Ernis, would you?" "If anything happens, Mazz, I will. Put your mind at ease on that count." "Thank you, Ernie." "You really should go home, Mazz; you're a wreck." "No, I'm going to ait here a little while longer, just in case." "Okay, Mazz; call me if you need me." As Ernst left the hospital, he saw Mazel step up to the pharmacy counter. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- On the freeway it all came together. Why would Mazel go up to the pharmacy counter? To fill a prescription, of course. And those blanks were mssing from his prescription pad after he'd visited him...Ernst pulled off at the next exit, stopped at the nearest payphone, and called the hospital. "Centre Hospital. May I help you?" "Yes, this is Dr. Francke. Could you please connect me with the pharmacy?" ""Yes, sir." Brrrng! "Pharmacy!" This is Dr. Francke. Did a Mazel Priebourne just fill a prescription there?" "Three, sir. Epinephrine, adrenaline and methedrine." All metabolic stimulants. "What strength, nurse?" "Liquid, sir. Three injection bottles. Excuse me, sir, but shouldn't you know all this?" "Huh?" "After all, you wrote them out...didn't you?" Oh, no. "Please call him to the phone, nurse." "He's not here, sir; he left a little while after you did. Excuse me, sir, but what is this all about?" Ernst hung up the phone without answering, climbed back into his car, and sped away towards Northglade, cursing both Mazel and himself. At the priebourne house, Mazel-s car was in the driveway and there were lights on inside. Ernst parked his car on the curb and walked resolutely to the front door. He tried it; it was unlocked. Not deigning to ring the doorbell, ernst opened it and entered. He rounded the entranceway corner to see Mazel sitting at the living room coffee table, clumsily attempting to draw fluid from a small bottle into a syringe. Two other bottles sat on the table. Two wires were tsped to his temples; the other ends fed into a black box which was plugged into a wall socket. On the other end of the table sat a metal cube. "Mazz, just what in the holy hell do you think you're doing?" Ernst demanded. As if he didn't already know; he just wanted it confirmed. "Ernie! What are - never mind. I'm trying to duplicate what happened at the hospital. I've decided on adrenaline; it's the body's own stimulant. The pancreas releases it into the bloodstream," he had drawn the syringe half full, "during stressful situations." her sat the bottle down. "The black box is a step-down transformer. I figure mild electrostimulation - three volts - might help." Mazel looked at him pleadingly. "Ernie, it's something I have to find out - something I have to try. I'm going to try to push that weight off the table - from here." Ernst made an instinctive decision. "Give me that syringe - this is way too much - and roll up your sleeve. If you're hell-bent on trying this, at least let me supervise." It wasn't the kind of thing a psychiatrist would do, thought Ernst. No, a psychiatrist wouldn't do this - but a friend would. Mazel grinned. "Thanks, Ernie." Ernst grinned back. "Don't mention it, Mazz. To anyone. Ever. Please." Then he grasped mazel's extended wrist and injected a massive does of adrenaline into the correct vein. Mazel's pupils constricted to tiny pinpoints. A sheen of sweat broke out on his brow. He began lightly trembling. His breathing became shallower, faster. His hand reached forward, flicked a switch on the black box, and his body jerked and tensed slightly. he then placed his chin in his hands and stared fixedly at the metal cube. The cube just sat there. C'mon, Mazz!, thought Ernst. You can do it! Mazel's eyes were wide open, his lips drawn back, his teeth clenched together, and his face and the bunched cords of his neck were swathed in beads of sweat. His trembling increased. Then, the cube moved. A millimeter, one inch, two. At that moment, something in Mazel Priebourne snapped. He screamed and slumped unconscious over the table, as the metal cube rocketed off the table and embedded itself in the fireplace across the room. Ernst rushed over and checked mzel's pulse. It was weak, and incredibly rapid. He ripped the wires off Mazel's head, ignoring the shock, and with sudden strength he didn't know he possessed, carried Mazel to his bedroom and stretched him out on the bed. He then ran out to his car and came back with his medical bag, removed a bottle of liquid thorazine, and injected a counter-dosage into Mazel's arm. Mazel's pulse slowed, strengthened. Ernst then left for his home, completely forgetting the stimulant bottles and syringe, his mind's eye riveted on a metal cube embedded in a brick hearth. Dawn's first rays were just beginning to breach the horizon as Ernst pulled into his driveway, and soon after he called his office to cancel the day's appointments, he lay down fully clothed on his bed and fell into a troubled, restless sleep. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ernst's fitful slumber was interrupted by the ringing of his telephone. It was Mazel. "Hey, Ernie; it's Mazz. I just injected the rest of the adrenaline." "Mazz!" "Don't interrupt, dammit! There's not much time! I know it's fatal, but Ernie, it's worth it! the power - the incredible power! Ohhh..." "Hang on, Mazz! I'll call - " "Too late - too late! Ernie, remember your promise, please. I - uhhh..." Ernst heard a thump and the receiver went dead. He hung up, then quickly dialed the police. "Sergeant Markham here." "Sergeant, this is Dr. Francke. One of my patients called me to tell me that he's committing suicide. I think he's serious. He lives at the corner of Tenth and Kantrell, in Northglade." "We'll be right there, Doctor." "Get an ambulance dispatched, too Sergeant. Just in case he's still alive." But somehow Ernst knew that Mazel was already dead. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ernst went to the hospital the next afternoon to see Mary. She was in intensive care, with a double heart monitor attached; one for her, one for her child. She saw him, smiled weaky through a grey pallor. "Hi, Ernie." The smile disappeared. "Where's Mazz?" "Mazz was called in today - for a raise." Ernst fidgeted nervously. He hated lying, and didn't do it very well. "He's dead, isn't he, Ernie? He died yesterday, didn't he? You don't have to answer me; I know." Ernst said nothing. There was nothing he could say. "Mazel is gone. I don't feel hi m any more. When he was alive, I always knew it; he was always with me, inside. He's not there any more, and hasn't been since yesterday." She looked away, then back at Ernst, directly into his eyes. "This baby is all of Mazel I have left. I know something's wrong with me; they won't tell me what it is, and you probably won't, either. If I don't make it through, please see that the baby - Joshua or Joan - is well taken care of. Will you do that for me?" "I will; I promise." "One more thing, Ernie. How did my husband die?" Ernie had to answer something, and he just couldn't seem to lie to her. It simply wouldn't work. "He killed himself, Mary. I'm sorry." No sobs. Two wet lines trisecting her face, that was all. "I knew something was wrong, but he wouldn't talk to me about it. He was seeing you professionally, wasn't he, Ernie? What happened? "I only saw him once before our dinner. I wish I'd had more time." Still, he'd left the drugs there; it had been his mistake. He was responsible. "I wish you'd had, too, Ernie. And me, too." "One more thing, Mary. Your problem is salt poisoning. Toxemia." She had a right to know. "Thank you, Ernie." She closed her eyes and sighed. As Ernst left, he saw her doctor. He gazed at Mary, then at Ernst, and shook his head as he walked wordlessly away. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Two days later, Ernst received a phone call from Centre Hospital. "Dr. Ernst Francke?" "Speaking." "This is Dr, charon. I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Mary Priebourne died this morning in the delivery room." Oh my God, Ernst thought. But it had been expected. "The baby, too?" Dr. Charon paused, sighed. "No, but it might have been better for him if he had. Joshua, you said to name him, has no arms or legs. Do you still want to adopt him?" Ernst agonized for a long moment - but a promise was a promise; he couldn't escape that. And he couldn't take promises back that were made to the dead. He had assumed responsibility. "Yes, Doctor, I still do." Silence, then, "I forsee no problems, Dr. francke. You should be able to pick him up in two or three days. You can sign for him then. Except for his defects, he's as healthy as a horse." "Thank you, Dr. Charon. Goodbye." "Dr. Francke?" "Yes?" The physician hesitated, then spoke. "I just wanted you to know that I admire the hell out of you for this. Good luck." Ernst hung up and stared at the telephone for a long time. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Ernst aroused himself from his reverie and rose from the easy chair. Slowly, he walked over to the crib. There inside, armless and legless but happy, lay Joshua Priebourne. How Ernst pitied him! Life without limbs! His eyes moistened and he began to turn away, when a voice that was not his spoke clearly inside his head. ("I don't really mind. See, I don't need them.") Ernst froze in awe and sudden understanding as the infant with old man's eyes floated up out of the crib and planted a wet kiss on his trembling cheek...
Author
Logged
