Robert's Fantasy Collection

Flash Fiction The Bus Stop Encounter

2006-10-01T17:58:00.000-07:00

The story below is an example of Flash Fiction i.e. a very short story. In this case the challenge was to stay at 250 words or below. This story is 249 words. Enjoy!

The Bus Stop Encounter

The bus shelter, urine smell and all, offers Joe respite from the November tempest. Wind blown clouds play tag with the full moon causing an eerie slow motion strobe-like effect on the adjacent urban park.

“Hey mister can you spare a dollar?”

Startled, Joe whirls around toward the shelter’s darker end.

“Whose there?” He challenges, hands reflexively clenching into gloved fists.

“Just a war vet down on his luck. I don’t mean nobody no harm or nothin’.”

“And just what war might that be buddy?”

“The Nam” replied the bum limping slowly forward.

Emerging from the darkness, the old veteran stops, revealing a collection of tattered rags clinging to a battered pale body. An oblique checkerboard of moonlight and shadows crisscross his crippled frame.

“You too have the signs young man. A soul-damaged look straight from hell itself!”

“Yeah, Iraq, another godforsaken war”, sighs Joe.

Reaching under his coat, Joe pulls out some bills. Extracting a five he hands it to the old man, then turns to look for the bus.

“Not God, but the self-righteousness of man brings about such wars, and thanks. Oh, your wish is granted.”

“Wish. What wish?” Says Joe turning back, but the bum had vanished!

Hearing a rush of steps, Joe turns again and collides with a petite figure in an oversized hooded coat. Slender fingers push back the hood revealing a brown-skinned angel in a nurse’s uniform! Mutual apologies flow while they stare into each other’s eyes … followed by shared smiles.

Tri Studio Books site info

2006-09-19T16:52:00.000-07:00

See Tri Studio Books LLC site for interesting fiction and tools for writers. Subscription to a newsletter is also available.

Flash Tales Ezine

2006-09-19T16:32:00.000-07:00

As yet another flash fiction site. See Flash Tales Ezine for current issue. Guidelines for submitting your own creations are also given. Enjoy!

Second Chance at First Love – Part 6 (Ending)

2006-09-17T09:05:00.000-07:00

Welcome back to our continuing story. If you are just joining, see Part 1. Here we rejoin Bill and Camille as they leave Bill’s Mom. This is the ending part of their Second Chance at First Love.

The Second Chance

Heading the car in the general direction back toward downtown, I turn slightly to Camille while managing to keep my eyes on the road and ask: “Are you getting hungry?”

I can barely hear her as she responds seductively: “Yes, I’m starting to feel very hungry for … um … for food that is.”

Her words sort of oozes from her lips and I feel a lump in my throat. She then changes her expression back to a sweet innocent look and continues: “Let me treat you to dinner, I can put it on the company’s bill since I’m in travel status”.

As I ponder her offer, a thought just pops into my brain! “That sounds very tempting, but let me tempt you back.” I say in a playful tone. “When is the last time you had some Vickie’s Barbeque?”

I could tell that her expression had changed again to one of wonder and surprise.

“You mean that place is still open? I haven’t had some of those bones in at least fifteen years!”

As I stop for a traffic light, I turn to Camille and say: “You know it’s a carryout only joint. We’ll have to take it back to my place to eat. Is that okay with you?”

Camille looks at me and replies: “It’s okay with me so long as you are not afraid that I might eat you up along with the ribs!”

Not flinching I respond: “Hey, that’s my line!”

We both laugh and continue on our way, angling toward Warren Road and a stop at Vickie’s.

While standing in line waiting to order, Camille’s body sags against mine, her eyes are closed and I can hear her deep breaths as she inhales the smells of barbeque ribs, sauce, and grease cooking up a container of thick fries. My left arm has found its way around her waist. It seems like such a normal stance, such a normal feeling. Glancing over to the side, I see an older couple sitting on a bench awaiting their order. The woman is looking at us smiling – probably reflecting upon her bygone youth.

Suddenly a revelation smacks me in the face! A shudder ripples through my body as I try and delve into the old woman’s thoughts. “Our time is here and now! In order to have fond memories of love in the distant future, we must start making them now.”

Camille also feels the trembling of my body and turns her face toward mine. Not saying a word I just kiss her lips. Her mouth responds, pressing back against mine. Our first kiss in … in fifteen years!

We are interrupted by the waitress clearing her throat and saying: “May I take your order folks?”

Stepping to the side after placing the order, I again catch the eye of the old woman who is now leaving with her husband. She smiles again and gives me a wink, then heads out the door holding hands with her husband.

Back at my place we settle in for some serious barbeque eating. I fumble through my DVD collection and pull out My Fair Lady the 1964 version starring Audrey Hepburn and Rex Harrison. It was the last movie we saw together before Camille and her parents moved away.

We finish the “Que” about halfway through the movie and I stow the leftovers, rinse the dishes, and throw away the bags and containers along with numerous napkins still reeking of Vickie’s famous sauce.

After washing my hands, I return to what passes for my living room to see that Camille has slipped off her shoes and her bare feet are stretched out on the sofa, toes wiggling invitingly in my direction. She looks up at me while turning off the TV with the remote control. We stare at each other for a few moments, and then I smile and say:

“I never really had a chance, did I?”

“Not after the stop at your Mom’s, no you didn’t”. Replies Camille as a smile also appears on her face.

The Endgame

“Hello, Bill, where the hell are you? It’s almost time to go and pick up the visitors!” Says Carl as he nervously jiggles the phone.

“We’ll meet you over there. You can drive the van by yourself can’t you?” Chides Bill.

Carl starts to make a smart aleck reply, but then does a mental double take and says: “We? Whose we?”

“Ms. Sanders and I of course.” I reply and hang up the phone before Carl can recover.

We got to the hotel at 8:20AM just after Carl had arrived. Walking over to the Café, I could see the other visitors finishing up breakfast with Carl standing next to Mr. Clawson.

Getting nearer to the group, I could make out their mixture of facial expressions:

Carl has a deer caught in the headlights stare across his face;
Maria has a big grin – Camille had already confided in her before meeting me last evening;
Mike has a sly smile;
Mr. Clawson, Sr. V.P. Clawson that is, was the only one that counts. He has an expressive mix of angst, and relief; standing up as we draw near to the table.

Maria had covered for Camille so the group hadn’t issued a missing persons alarm or such; however, Mr. Clawson had seemed out of sorts. But, as Clawson studies the approaching pair, he can see that it had not been just some spur of the moment one-night-stand. It is obvious that these two have history; a great deal of history and that love has certainly blossomed between them. His thoughts turn to his own son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren. His expression starts to change, his facial muscles relax, then reform into a smile conveying: that all will be worked out, all will end in happiness.

Bill and Camille could sense the change in Clawson’s demeanor and both breathe a collected sigh of relief. The last unknown has come up ok.

Love has finally triumphed after all!

The End

Flash Me Magazine Contest

2006-09-15T08:54:00.000-07:00

See flash for contest rules regarding flash fiction entries. The Flash Me Magazine eZine publishes on a quarterly basis. Note, flash fiction stories have to be no longer than 250 words.

Character therapy trip

2006-09-11T08:15:00.000-07:00

See item therapy on Jayes Blahg for an interesting idea for flushing out details and nuances of your main characters in a story or novel. Personally I found the idea intriguing and plan to give it a try in a story I’m currently working on.

Note, you don't have to actually use the therapy session in your story, but just to get a more intemate feel for the characters inner thoughts and motivations.

Second Chance at First Love – Part 5

2006-09-10T13:28:00.000-07:00

Welcome back to our ongoing story. If you are just joining, see Part 1. Here we rejoin Bill as he takes the visitors to their hotel and hopes to meet Camille later by the pool.

The Hotel

Arriving at the hotel, Bill and Clawson exchange a few pleasantries as the bellboy and Mike unload the baggage. Bill confirms an 8:30AM pickup for tomorrow morning, and gives everybody a collective: “Enjoy your evening, and see you bright and early in the morning”. Clawson indicates with a smile that he plans to go souvenir hunting for grandkid gifts. Mike seems to be angling to be alone with Maria; Camille plays along by saying that she plans to spend a quiet night.

Bill pulls the van into the hotel overflow lot and parks. He decides to just sit and wait a while to collect his thoughts. It will take at least ten minutes for the visitors to get checked in and to their rooms. He mentally clicks off his quandaries:

· “I’m scared to face my true feelings for Camille”
· “I feel like a total ass”
· “How could I even consider a relationship with Camille while working for the same company?”
· “Why didn’t I keep in touch or at least check on her over these past fifteen years?”
· “How does she feel about all of this? It would appear that she maybe battling the same inner demons that I am?”

I look up and see my reflection in the van’s rearview mirror. The sweating, twisted visage staring back is a stark reality check. I wipe my face off with some paper towels from the back of the van. I take off my tie, carefully folding it and place it in my inside jacket pocket, then loosen my collar, straighten up my shirt and adjust my pants. There are no options; I must go through with this meeting. I’ll just have to convince her that we don’t have a future together! Hopefully she will have already come to the same conclusion.

I make my way back into the hotel to a secluded table in the rear of the Snack Hut. Contemplating a drink with some kick, I reconsider and select lemonade instead. My eyes slowly adjust to the dim lighting and I settle back comfortably into my cushioned chair. Five minutes later the cell phone that I had placed on the table started to ring. After the second chime I pick it up and speak: “Hello Camille. Yes, I’m here, on the pool side.” Looking up, I see her coming around the far corner. The shadows and streams of sunlight play tag on her slowly moving body. She’s changed from office black to casual tan slacks, a light blue blouse and open toed flats.

Her feet are still delicate and pleasing to the eyes. I can remember massaging them for what seemed hours on end during lazy summer afternoons, years ago.

I get up and fumble with the chair next to me pulling it out for her to sit in. She glides fluidly into the seat and I sit back down. As I attempt to get the waitress’s attention, I turn to Camille: “Would you like a drink? I recommend the lemonade.”

“Ok.” She says with a smile that remains on her face as she continues to look at me.

“The years have treated you well!” I say, returning her smile with my own.

“You’re too kind Bill, too kind.” Responds Camille with a slight blush. “You still look pretty trim yourself.”

“Well, I try to keep in shape. I make use of the exercise equipment at the office at least twice a week. I’ll bet that headquarters has a great layout of machines?” Bill responds.

“Yes, we do, though I’ve only seen them from afar. I’m still working up the courage to try them out. I’m afraid that I’ll make a fool out of myself since I’ve never belonged to a gym or such.”

Just as the conversation is starting to get to the issues at hand, my cell phone rings again. Glancing at the caller-id, I could see that it was my Mom! “Wow, what timing”: I say to myself, but thought that I had better answer. I excuse myself, turn to the side and speak in a subdued voice: “Hello Mom.” I could see that Camille had heard my response and her eyes seemed to brighten and she started signaling that she wanted to say hello! “What did you say Mom?” I mumble as my mind has gotten sidetracked. “Oh okay, I can do that on Thursday. Mom, Mom, hold up. You’ll never guess whom I’m with? Here, let me give them the phone!”

I hand the cell phone over to Camille and watch as she speaks with an even bigger smile on her face: “Hello, Mrs. Baker? This is Camille, …, Camille Sanders. Yes, it’s really me! I know, it’s been a very long time.” Camille’s eyes dart back and forth from me to looking out over the pool area as if she’s attempting to conjure up some image of the past. “I’m in town on business. In fact I work for the same company that Bill does, only at a different location.” Camille continues to converse for a couple of minutes, then suddenly looks puzzled. “Well, I don’t know, … Just a minute”.

With that, she hands the phone back to me and says: “Your Mom wants to see me. She wants both of us to come over this evening!”

It is my turn to look puzzled. I pause, compose myself then respond: “Mom, I don’t know. Camille is here on a business trip. No, she’s not doing any business right now, but, … but, … No, we have no plans to … But. But.”

Seeing my helpless state of affairs, Camille takes the phone out of my hand and says: “Mom, we’ll be glad to come over. See you in a little while. Okay. I love you too. Bye.”

Bill remembered how they both used to call each other’s mothers Mom!

Camille then presses the END Key, folds the phone and hands it back and says: “Well Bill, shall we go?”

We hadn’t really started talking about “us” and now my Mom has been thrown into the mix! I turn to Camille as we both proceed to finish our lemonades and say: “We can take the van back to the office, pick up my car and head over to Mom’s place. She lives in a retirement complex out in Royal Oak. Dad passed away a couple of years ago.”

“Yeah”: says Camille, “Mom mentioned that, sorry”.

“How are your Mom and Dad?” I venture as we get up from the table.

“They are both fine, living in Florida near Orlando in a retirement community.”

Endeavoring to refocus the conversation, I venture: “You know, we’ve just been beating around the bush, and now we are going even further field visiting my Mom. But we still have not really talked about Us”.

We stop near the big fountain in the hotel’s lobby and just stare at each other for a moment. Looking down, I realize that somewhere along the way from the Snack Hut we had started holding hands, and are still doing so, here, by the bubbling water! We both simultaneously withdraw our hands to our sides and look kind of embarrassed.

Riding in silence toward the office, we both just look out of the van’s side windows reluctant to press each other’s buttons regarding our own plight. Once we get back to the office and exchange vehicles, I feel more at ease and say: “I often thought about seeing you again, and of … of us living happily ever after so to speak. But it was all just wishful thinking. I never had the will or the nerve or the … the guts to attempt to get into contact with you. In this day and age, it just wouldn’t be that hard. I just couldn’t get up the courage to do it.”

Camille sat there in silence for a few minutes, continuing to look out of the window at the passing landscape. Then she says: “Well, I thought about you too. I missed the good times we had. The way we could be honest with each other, trust each other. Not like the other boys and men that I later came into contact with. They all wanted to play mind games or to just try and get it on so to speak. There was no interest in innocent pleasures and joy of companionship. Of course, the past is the past. You can never really go back.”

As she continues to look at the changing landscape, Camille turns toward me and says: “This neighborhood looks familiar, but has obliviously seen better times.”

“Much better times”: I respond. “Much better times indeed” as I turn the car onto our old block.

I stop the car right in front of our old houses. They are both much worst for wear, but still appear to be occupied. However, there is no one about. There are only a few loose papers and plastic bags dancing in the slight breeze. After a couple of minutes, I take my foot off of the brake and we continue on our way.

“Your are right. We can’t physically go back, we can only truly visit the past in our dreams.”

Stopping for a traffic light I continue: “In fact, I dreamed about the first time we met early this morning.” I pause, and think: “this morning? This is a day that just seems to go on forever”.

Camille responds: “Bill, I found out last week that you worked for Robbins & Clark when we got a list of contacts for the Detroit office. I was able to confirm the fact by checking the personnel files. It was a shock, and I agonized about how I would handle our meeting after such a long time. I started to call you, but couldn’t think of what to say that wouldn’t just sound lame and deranged!”

I’m a little taken aback by her revelation, but it does explain why she hadn’t seemed overly surprised to see me at the airport. It’s funny that I didn’t even think about that fact until now. I guess that I was so caught up in my own thoughts and feelings at the time.

The Mom Gambit

I turn the car up into the driveway leading to Mom’s apartment complex and think: “There is still the question of what about us”?

Mom’s telepathic powers seem to be in fine working order as she is already standing in the doorway even before we had arrived. As I open up the passenger side door and Camille steps out, a broad smile forms on my Mom’s face and her arms stretch out wide. Camille rushes up the steps and the two hug for what seems to be several minutes. When they finally move back from each other, both are shedding a steady stream of tears.

“Females.” I thought to myself attempting to maintain a faux macho attitude, but it is all that I could do to hold back my own tears. The weight of this long, long day is taking its toll on my psyche.

Finally I manage to usher them thru the entrance way and into my Mom’s apartment. Glancing around her living room, the familiar objects take on a surreal presence as I’m filled with thoughts from the past. Furniture, figurines, even haunting aromas of long ago seem to come alive! It has the aurora of a dream, and yet it is real.

My mom grabs Camille’s right hand and leads her into the kitchen. They both soon return: Mom has a pitcher filled with iced tea and Camille is carefully balancing a tray with three glasses each filled with ice and lemon slices. Mom leads the way to the sunroom and we all sit down in well-cushioned wicker chairs around a glass-topped table.

Still beaming, Mom looked at both of us and says: “You two simply look great together. It’s been so many years.” Glancing down at Camille’s shoes she ads: “Oh, I see that you’ve kept your feet cute and sexy. I can remember Bill’s keen interest in them! We started to worry about that boy for a while …” Looking up, she saw that both Bill and Camille had starting to turn a reddish-brown! Smiling, she continues, I remember those good ole days when …”

We all went on reminiscing for the better part of an hour. Finally, as the sun was fading from the sky Mom said: “Well children, it’s getting late for an old lady like myself to still be up and about. Anyway, I’m sure that you young folks have other plans in mind.” The smile on her face seemed to beg the question: “Well don’t you?”

At some point during our reliving old times, Camille and I had started holding hands again. As we get up to leave, we both suddenly become self-conscious of this fact and immediately let go, awkwardly putting our dangling appendages behind our own backs. My Mom’s smile turns into a frown as she observes our actions. Coming over immediately in front of us, she stretches out her arms and embraces us both.

Mom whispers in my ear: “Son, here is a second chance to get things right – don’t blow it!”

Then she whispers into Camille’s ear: “Dear, I hope that you remember how dense the boy can be, give him a swift kick or something if you have to, but don’t let him just slip away!”

She then gently but firmly grabs my right hand and Camille’s left hand and pulls them out in front of us. Looking first down at our hands, then up into our eyes she says: “I now pronounce you … stuck together forever!” Then she presses our hands back together.

As we Walk away hand-in-hand again, Mom looks at Camille and says in a matter-a-fact tone: “I’ll tell your mother that you came by and were with my son, she’ll be so pleased to here that!”

Wow! This bombshell stopped both of us in our tracks. Camille and I just stared back at my Mom, speechless. However, she just kept on smiling at us and continued: “Just because you two didn’t bother to keep up with each other over the years doesn’t mean that others are just as dense! Sarah and I developed our own friendship independent of your puppy-love antics. We never stopped exchanging Christmas cards, and talk to each other once a month or so on the phone.”

After seeing the puzzled looks on Camille’s and me, she ads: “I never told you that son frankly because I had given up on any prospects of you two every getting back together again.” Then she turns toward Camille and continues: “I guess that your mother felt the same way.”

“Amazing, simply amazing. How could we have been so brain dead about each other for so long? Was the trauma of separation that dramatic as to rob us of the simple ability to just pick up the phone or something? Maybe it was because we hardly ever talked to each other over the phone, and never wrote letters while we lived across the street from each other. Our almost exclusive method of communication had been face to face. It was a rare day during those seven years that we didn’t see each other at least once. We basically viewed each other’s homes as extensions of our own. Once that bond was broken when Camille moved away, we seemed to be helpless in our ability to communicate. Until we came into face to face contact again today.” I thought.

We leave Mom’s place still holding hands all the way to the car. After we both got into the vehicle, we wave a goodbye and drive away into the darkening sky.

That's all for now. Join us next time for the last part in Bill's Second Chance.

Second Chance at First Love – Part 4

2006-09-04T09:42:00.000-07:00

Welcome back to our ongoing story. If you are just joining, see Part 1. Here we rejoin Bill as he sees the visitors approaching the baggage claim area.

Airport Confirmation

The escalator carrying the group of four descends at a snails pace. Carl has started to approach the bottom of the escalator attempting to make eye contact with Clawson. Bill is hanging back, still trying to identify the fourth visitor. Finally the group reaches the floor and quickly walks out toward Carl. The fourth person steps to one side and is suddenly in full view of Bill. She is in fact ignoring the introductions being made between Carl and her associates and is starring directly at Williams!

Fifteen-years older, a tad bit taller, a few pounds heavier, different hair style, the strains of adult life starting to show around the edges; but the probabilistic speculation is over – she is most definitely Camille, his Camille, his first love!

They stare at each other for what seems an eternity but could only have been a few seconds. Bill vaguely hears Carl’s voice: “…and this is William Baker …”

Snapping back to reality Bill responds: “Hello, Mr. Clawson, welcome to the Motor City”. He sees Clawson tentatively reach out to shake his hand and realizes that he must have an odd expression plastered on his face and quickly tries to compose his countenance into a more business-like pose which just makes him look even more ridiculous. Bill awkwardly turns toward Maria followed by Michael and continues the round of introductions.

Then his eyes re-focus on Camille. He hears Carl rattling off: “… and this is Ms Sanders.”

Bill responds: “… ah … Hello Ms … Sanders” as he shakes her hand. Their fingers stay intertwined for an extended period of time, eyes mutually boring into each other’s souls. The touch is instantly familiar and evokes memories jumbled upon each other like a pile of toys in the corner of a child’s room. The days of walking hand-in-hand in the park, or just going to the store or school; the slow dances holding each other tight; of playing doctor all intermixed with one another. From their mutual expressions, each could tell they were experiencing shared memories.

However, Bill and Camille smile in a business-like manner and exchange pleasantries. Taking Camille’s lead, Bill doesn’t let on that they have a shared past to the group. His mind, on the other hand, is calculating on when and how they can get some time alone!

Finally, Carl interrupts their reminiscence giving Bill an odd look and espouses: “Shall we go over and see if the bags have showed up on the conveyor belt?”

As they all start walking over to where luggage is being disgorged from a gap in the wall onto the waiting moving belt, Carl pulls Bill aside and says: “Hey buddy, pull yourself together!”

Bill turns to look at Carl, his mind still calculating and attempts a weak smile and shrug of the shoulders.

In the van, Clawson commandeers the shotgun seat relegating Bill to join the other visitors in the second row. He manages to sit next to Camille and keeps fidgeting about until his right thigh is pressed up against Camille’s left one. He keeps his eyes focused on the passing sites and Camille keeps staring forward. However he feels her leg pressing back up against his! Carl is babbling on about the record of the Detroit Tigers verses the Yankees engrossing in friendly banter with Mike. Clawson is dawdling with some notes and Maria looks like she is taking a catnap.

The pressing of thigh against thigh reminds Bill of a time long ago in a roller coaster line at Edge Water Park on Detroit’s northwest side. Camille’s backside had been pressed snuggly up against him and his arms were wrapped around her waist. It seemed that there was some kind of mechanical problem with the ride and the waiting line had really backed up. It felt so good standing there with Camille in such an intimate embrace that he had hoped that the coaster would never get fixed! Now the slight touching of our calves yields the same innocent pleasure – “let the van ride go on forever” Bill thought!

However, in times past, whenever we got into a too intimate situation, we would both back off from the point of no return. As underage kids that had been a good and proper reaction and served us well. But now it still seemed to prevail, to override any raw, untamed emotions trying to evolve between us. An uneasy feeling falls like a dark curtain on Bill’s lusty thoughts: suppose this is just a huge build-up to a big letdown? Can some type to passionate encounter ever live up to the hype? Can their past intertwined innocence successfully morph into lust?

“In a word: No”. Bill thinks.

As nonchalantly as possible he adjusts his position to put some air between his thigh and Camille’s. Camille may also be experiencing similar feelings as she also makes a slight seating shift increasing the space a few additional inches. They venture a sideward glance at each other and seem to connect with similar doubts.

“What to do, what to do”? Bill sighed to himself as he turned back to stare out of the side window just in time to see a sign proclaiming: “Welcome to Detroit”.

Back to the office

The van group heads back to the same conference room used for the morning staff meeting. The boss and a few others join for another round of introductions and “blah, blah, blah”. At least that’s all that Bill hears. He is still brooding about his relationship potential, or more to the point, lack thereof with Camille. The mere act of immersing himself into self-pity and wallowing in his own misery brings its own healing affect upon his soul. Bill seems to be coming to terms with letting this fairytale opportunity just slip through his fingers. However: “we must at least have some quiet time to talk to each other face-to-face”: Bill muses.

“… and what about the project to develop a statistical analysis of the last customer survey Bill?” The words of the boss are gnawing at the outer boundary of Bill’s consciousness as he feels his ribs being prodded by Carl’s left elbow under the table.

All eyes had turned upon Bill as he attempts to gather his thoughts and focus on the projection screen where a set of charts is currently being displayed.

“Uh. Yes.” Bill stammers. A few beads of sweat pop up out of nowhere making his forehead glisten.

“I’m still awaiting some additional data from the western region, but, …, ah the view so far points out several areas of concern.” Bill’s voice became more even and confident has he continues to talk, like an old-fashion locomotive starting to slowly chug, chug, chug before building up a head of steam. After a couple of more sentences, Bill has gotten into his rhythm and presents an acceptable status update on his major project. The boss’s initial frown has turned into a smile, and he then moves the discussion onto the next topic. Bill allows himself a silent sigh of relief and absentmindedly wipes his brow with a nearby napkin.

“Way to go buddy”. Says Carl in a low voice as the meeting breaks up. “I thought you were in the deep stuff without any boots for a while”.

“Well that’s it for today. We don’t want to wear you folks out before we really get started.” Said the boss to Clawson. “Carl and Bill will drop you all off at your hotel and we can get back together first thing in the morning. Oh, keep tomorrow night open, I’ve got tickets for all of us to attend the ballgame!”

Carl muttered: “damn, the time is late and I have a hot date tonight!”

Bill frowns slightly, attempting to hide the joy he feels at the potential chance to be alone with Camille and responds: “oh, don’t worry Carl, I can take care of getting our guest to the hotel. My schedule is clear and quiet.”

“You’re a real trooper or whatever” responds Carl as he gives Bill a pat on the back and with a slight wink tosses the van’s keys.

Bill wonders: “Hmmm, was that wink for his own anticipated conquest or for mine”?

Bill remembers a small snack lounge located near the pool in the hotel where the visitors were staying. He confirms this fact by querying his computer back in his cubical. He logs-off the system, and proceeds to wrap-up his business day. Then he pens a small note:

“Camille,
Obviously we need to talk. I can park the van, and meet you in “The Hut” a small snack shop off the back of the hotel’s lobby by the pool.

Love, Bill “

After also including his cell phone number on the note, he folds it twice then places it in his right pants pocket.

As he meets back up with the visitors to arrange to take them to the hotel, Bill feels like a little kid in class as he palms the message and discretely passes it to Camille. After a quick smile and acknowledgement by her, the plan is set!

Be sure to join in next week for Part 5: The Hotel Rendezvous!

Second Chance at First Love - Part 3

2006-08-27T07:54:00.000-07:00

Welcome back to our ongoing story. If you missed any so far see Part 2 and Part 1. Here we rejoin Bill at the Staff Meeting.

The Staff Meeting

The morning passes by quickly as I focused on the tasks that needed to be done. Now it’s staff meeting time. I gather up my project reports, get one more refill in my coffee cup and head down to the gathering room. I survey the group consisting of the usual suspects: “The Boss; the boss wannabes “David”, and Karen; other co-workers “Carl, Bailey, James, and the lovely Barbara”. All are in their politically assigned seats. I too honor the pecking order and pull out the chair pre-designated for my use and ease up to the table. The large clock on the wall indicates ten fifty-nine as the last two attendees show up. The quorum is set – let the agenda begin!

“Anybody see that Tiger’s game last night, what a cliffhanger!” The boss offers attempting to get the meeting off to a comfortable informal start. This usually loosens everybody up and promotes the free exchange of ideas, if there is any bouncing around within someone’s noggin at the time. After a few folks offer some lame comments and small talk about the game and the weather, the business at hand starts, prompted by everyone directing their attention to the printed agenda. This is another vehicle that tends to keep things moving along in a structured manner. That and the fast approaching lunch hour usually keep these meetings short and on point.

After completing a couple of continuing project report items, my eye brows raise slightly upon reading entry number 3: “Arrival of new corporate staff for a briefing”. It looks like several newly hired employees would be flying in today from Headquarters in New York to get a field orientation at our site. “They must be a few notches up on the food chain to warrant the expenditure of travel funds”: I conjecture to myself.

Carl offered himself up as the sacrificial lamb by asking: “Who gets the honor to go out an pick their holinesses up?” In his usual sarcastic manner.

The boss looks Carl squarely in the eye with a “sacrifice accepted” expression on his face and responds: “Well, you do Carl, …, and also take Bill along with you. Their plane comes into Metro at Twelve-Thirty so you guys better get started.”

I glance up with a “just getting hit with the dodge ball look on my face”; however everyone was already dispersing and hooking up for lunch adventures. I had no one to vent my objections to except Carl who was just staring at me with a big smile on his face.

“Well, its not like you have a lunch date, do you Bill?” Carl offers in his sarcastic way.

“No, I don’t, but I can easily think of many other activities to do like maybe a root canal or two rather than tagging along with you to woo the out-of-towners”. I offer in a dejected reply.

“No pain, no gain”: responds Carl with that big grind still plastered across his visage. “We better get started like the boss man said”: as he slaps me on the shoulder and starts off down the hall to get the keys to the company’s 12-passenger van.

“Do you have the list of visitors?” I turn to Carl and say. “Not I that I really care who they are, it is just a way to try and get into the task at hand since it isn’t going away”.

“Of course! Otherwise we would look like a couple of bozos!” responds Carl with a still broader smile and another slap on my shoulder.

“Well give it up buddy.” I don’t want to fall asleep from boredom on the way to the airport.” I respond. It is my turn to give a slap on the shoulder. Holding the email containing the list of visitors up to my eyes, I absentmindedly click off the names in my head:

“Leon Clawson”, a HQ Senior Vice President acting as the good Shepard along with the rookies:
“Michael Lewis”.
“Maria Desoto”.
“Camille … Sanders!”

The Van Trip

The next thing I knew, I was sitting in the van with the air-conditioning blowing in my face through the center and side vents on the dashboard. Carl was babbling on about how we would be stuck babysitting this crew all during their visit.

I was still recovering from seeing the last name on the list. From time to time in the past I would contemplate on my reaction to encountering Camille in the present after so many years of separation. Would the moment be filled with passionate kisses and more, or just be drowned in emptiness and sorrow? How would she react to me? Our time together was so long ago, but not so far away. I would sometimes find myself driving through the old neighborhood attempting to invoke fond memories.

As cycle after cycle of white flight to the increasingly distant exurbs had continued, blacks filled in behind them. With the spread of the auto factories to distant states and even overseas, the heavy migrations from the South had subsided and even reversed. The results were additional cycles of blighted neighborhoods joining the legacy of Hastings Street as Detroit’s population shrank and shrank.

Alas the neighborhood had changed … for the worst: most of the trees were gone; half of the houses were torn down or derelict with only weed overgrown lots remaining. My house and Camille’s still stood but just barely. Both showed crippling wear and tear and seemed to yearn for someone to pull the plug. It had been quite awhile since I had last made that side trip into the “old hood”.

My work specialty is statistics and I start wondering how many Camille Sanders are there in the world? How many live in New York right now? How many could be available and eligible to hire on at Robbins & Clark? Probabilities within probabilities within even more probabilities: perhaps one in ten million, one in a hundred million … it seems like a fool’s errand. I didn’t even know what Camille’s major was in college or even if she finished or even started for that matter? I only remember that she had plans to go, but we were both only sophomores in high school when she and her parents moved away. We kept in touch for a few months, but gradually faded out of contact.

“Oh well, speculation would confront reality in less than an hour.” I thought.

Carl’s banter finally seeps into my consciousness: “Earth to Bill, Earth to Bill. Hello!”

I fold up the email message, turn it over in my hand a couple of times then look over at Carl, but still absentmindedly fiddling with the note. “You loss or something?” I utter attempting to throw him off balance so that he wouldn’t start interrogating me about tripping out after reading the names of the visitors.

“Hey, my man, it’s you that seems to be loss”, he says, adding: “You look like you’ve seen a ghost! Recognize a name on the list?”

“I’m fine”: I say trying not to sound defensive. “Maybe, I didn’t get enough sleep last night, and your wonderful driving and boring conversation just put me out.” I continue using my best deadpan expression.

“It’s time for us to look sharp my boy. We’ve got visitors to pick up and asses to kiss!” Admonishes Carl with a wink, and sly smile.

As they approach the exit ramp for Metro, Bill re-checks flight arrival information via his cell phone and discovers that out of the blue, incoming planes are starting to stack up and their visitor’s will be delayed at least half-an-hour!

As Bill relates this tidbit Carl groans: “Well that’s just great. I say we stash this buggy and wait in the comfort of the airline lounge near baggage claim eh? We’ll get the newbies to foot the parking bill. I’m sure their expense account can cover it.”

Carl pulls the van into short-term parking and the duo proceeds to the airport lounge. A check of the arrival big screen confirms that it will be another twenty to forty minutes before touchdown.

Bill orders an iced-tea and thinks about the list of names, of one name in particular: “Camille Sanders”. In fact she had been occupying the recesses of his mind since he first saw the list. Actually, had she ever really left his consciousness since this morning’s dream? He hears Carl whispering wisecracks about the physical attributes of various flight attendants as they transverse the walkway outside of the lounge, but Bill is not really paying attention.

After about thirty minutes, the screen post: ”ARR Gate 15B” next to the flight number of their visitor’s plane. The email indicates that Mr. Clawson will call Carl’s cell phone when he gets off of the plane, and sure enough, about a minute later, Carl’s pants pocket starts buzzing with one of those irritating ring tones. After checking the caller-id, Carl pauses to compose himself, then says” “Hello Mr. Clawson, welcome to Detroit. Mr. Williams and I are near baggage claim. I have a gray suit on and Williams has a brown sports jacket.” After a brief pause and a couple of nods: ”Okay, see you in a few minutes”. Carl pockets his phone and turns to Bill. “Well, it’s Showtime, let’s look professional or something”!

They settle up their tab and saunter over to the baggage claim area and wait. Bill finds himself starring at the people on the escalator coming down from the arrivals area. His eyes dart from face to face; trying to pick out one from his past, his first love.

Suddenly a group of four seeming connected folks appear on the escalator, two males and two females all dressed in typical business attire. The first male is white, middle-aged, around six feet, wearing a tailored three piece suit – obviously Clawson. The second male is a tad bit shorter, a lot younger, also white, wearing a well-worn, off-the-rack dark blue suit – that would be Michael Lewis. Trailing slightly behind the males are two thirty-something women. The first one is around five and a-half feet tall, Hispanic looking, light brown skin tones in a dark green business dress – must be Maria Desoto. Bringing up the rear would have to be Ms. Sanders. She is standing slightly behind Desoto making it difficult to get a decent look at her features. She is slightly shorter than Desoto, wearing a dark black business pants suit with a red silky scarf. Her hair is close-cropped and straight. Skin is dark brown. I can’t make out any detailed facial features as yet.

Well, that's the end of Part 3. Stay tuned for Part 4 when we see the identity of that fourth traveler!

New Short Fiction Contest at Clarity of Night

2006-08-21T17:17:00.000-07:00

Clarity of Night has a new Short Fiction Contest. This is flash fiction folks with a word limit of 250! You'll need to get on it ASAP since the contest closes on midnight August 29th. Good Luck.

Second Chance at First Love - Part 2

2006-08-20T09:04:00.000-07:00

We continue our story with William awakening from his dream. If you are just joining the story, go back to Part 1.

The Wake Up

The boundary between dreamland and reality is hard to discern. The chill of the November air is replaced by the warmth of my bed covers. The diminutive child has transformed into two hundred and ten pounds of … lets just say a mid-thirties pajama-clothed man. The old neighborhood setting has morphed into the smallish bedroom of a smallish apartment in a concrete and paved over jungle with trees relegated to oversized pots used as landscape highlights.

The dawn of a new day feels like a mini-resurrection, the death of sleep yields to the rebirth of awakening. I stretch my muscles extending my arms and legs sideways encountering only bed linens and air; there is no sign of another warm, soft body anywhere under the sheets. A sigh of relief instead of resignation washes over me! I had recently broken up with my current girl friend and, as yet, had not ventured forth testing the waters for new conquests. Perhaps that’s why thoughts of my first love permeated my dreams?

The end of my current relationship led to a sense of liberation instead of sorrow or wounded pride! It felt good not having to leave someone else’s apartment in the early morning hours, making my way back home in the dreary darkness; or worst, having the awkwardness of wondering when she would get up, get dressed and leave my place. I was always uneasy just lying there cuddling too. The only person that I recalled enjoying just snuggling with was my first love. Those were the days before sex, where nearness and touching were pleasures enough.

Today, there are no excuses to make, no need to comfort some else’s ego, no strained “I love you”. I have only to get up, take care of my bathroom routine and get to work.

Yet, as I thought about my dream, a smile reflexively came to my face. I guessed that’s because the past could always be perfect, since you didn’t have to deal with the players in the here and now. Their virtues could be elevated and their shortcomings minimized. The “you” of your past and the “she” of her past could be manipulated like puppets on a string.

“I wonder what Camille’s doing now?” I conjecture, finally getting out of bed.

The Drive to Work

Every time I get ensnarled in a traffic jam on the Chrysler “expressway”, I think about relocating to downtown Detroit. The new town homes near the river look great, but come at a steep price. The stagnant traffic flow liberates my eyes to glance around at the mix of old and new buildings and vacant lots that line the freeway in its due south trek toward downtown.

I remember Hastings street that used to be here. Long ago, it was a street lined with bustling shops and busy traffic, intersected by tree lined residential roads. A vibrant community populated mostly by Black people. A variety of folks from those whose ancestors came up from the South via the Underground Railroad a hundred or more years ago, to the people who had themselves only recently made the trek up north. All jammed together in this part of town from Grand Boulevard to almost the Detroit river. My grandparents on both sides of my family had roots there and businesses too. As a young lad they would often intrigue me with stories of both struggles and good times relating to Hastings street.

Although Michigan was never a so-called Slave State, and never had any segregation types of laws on the books, there was indeed prejudice. We had our share of problems and a couple of nasty riots mixed in. However, things begun to ease up as the 1970s turned into the 1980s. The “White flight” phenomena had just about run its course and the city of Detroit had become mostly Black. Now even the close-in suburbs were gaining in Black population triggering another surge of white people on the move. Alas, the expanding opportunities for Blacks to move up and out to all parts of the city and beyond also meant the dilution of places like Hastings street. Long before its fate was sealed by the construction of the Chrysler highway, Hastings laid mostly abandoned, its once vibrant shops wasting away, its once crowded residential side streets lined with burnt out hulks and dead trees. It fell without a fight, without even a whimper to benign neglect.

A honk of a car horn shakes me out of my reverie, as traffic seems to finally be getting back to an acceptable flow. “I may yet make it to work on time”: I thought.

The Start of the Work Day

As I walk into the offices of my employer, I hear: “Good Morning Mr. Baker. There will be an eleven o’clock staff meeting in conference room B”.

I turn and smile at the receptionist and respond: “And a good morning to you Miss Jones”. My gaze lingers on the receptionist’s face focusing in on the pair of bright red ribbons in her hair. Continuing to walk, I almost bump into Carl, one of my co-workers.

“Hey, watch where you’re going there Bill” said Carl as he quickly sidesteps me while balancing a cup of coffee. Seeing where I am looking, he adds in a lower tone: “Hmmm, starting to get the hots for Gail huh?”

I abruptly stop and turn toward Carl: “Uh, … No! I’m just thinking about … about the up coming staff meeting.” The words seem to spurt out in short burst. I turn back to Gail, managing a weak wave, then give Carl a glare, and go on my way toward the sanctuary of my cubical.

Sitting down at my desk and switching the computer on, my mind wandered back to those red ribbons in Gail’s hair. “Its not Gail that I was starting to have the hots for”. I pondered, as my thoughts drifted back to my dream.

I was shaken out of my reverie by a beeping sound emanating from my workstation. My eyes focus on the accompanying proclamation indicating that I have twenty-five new email messages. “Oh well, time to tote that barge and lift that bale” I think as my fingers stretch toward the keyboard.

END OF PART 2

Next we will join Willam at the Staff Meeting

Writing Contest at Storyglossia

2006-08-18T12:50:00.000-07:00

Check out Storyglossia for a short story contest. There are no theme restrictions, word count should not be greater than 7500, there is a ten dollar submission fee and entries are due by October 1st. Check out the site for all of the rules and guidelines. Also check out the various stories already published in their ezine.

Second Chance at First Love - Part 1

2006-08-13T08:44:00.000-07:00

I'm going to post my latest short story as a series of parts. "Second Chance at First Love" is a story about of young love – young boy meets young girl, share memorable childhood, but drift apart during high school when they are separated as one family moves away. They both sort of drift through life and love until a fateful meeting brings them back together fifteen years later. This is their one second chance to get it right.

And now for Part 1

A Second Chance at First Love

Robert H. Ball, Jr.

The Dreamscape

All things are possible in the dreamscape: one can experience the full spectrum of emotions from endless joy to endless agony or worst endless nothingness. The void is the most terrifying prospect of all. Of not being able to conjure up any images: neither of ecstasy nor of pain. As I toss and turn in this nether world a small flicker of light appears in the distance. I mentally stretch out toward it with all of my inner strength. Grasping the glowing splinter, I plunge into the light.

I suddenly found myself standing on my front lawn of long ago. It’s my parent’s house, circa mid-1950s on a typical Detroit, Michigan neighborhood block. There were big trees of elm, oak and maple, in every front lawn, with a mix of single-family houses and two-family flats. A diverse mix of young families with children, senior citizens, widows, spinsters populated the area. Both whites and blacks trying to get along in the prosperity of post World-War Two city life. In this the Motor City, a plethora of automobile factories were booming on a twenty-four hour schedule straining to place at least two cars in every driveway across America.

However, all was not love and happiness. The whites were being urged toward the developing suburbs with a whisper that “the neighborhood was changing”. The blacks were being encouraged to move up and out of Black Bottom, and the near east and west sides to the bigger houses north of Grand Boulevard being vacated by the whites. Just like the bookies and numbers-runners, the real estate hacks and developers were making money on all sides so long as the people kept moving.

Just such a move was taking place before my very eyes across the street. The older white couple (I don’t remember their names though my parents talked to them from time to time) had moved out last week to a suburb called Oak Park. Today, a brown-skinned family was moving in. What I took for the man of the house had arrived with the moving truck and had been directing the unloading of furniture from the huge trailer. Just then, a station wagon pulled into the driveway. The woman of the house, a slightly plump motherly looking figure, got out, moved around the car and opened the passenger-side door. Out jumped a little girl! As an observant nine-year old boy I had seen many girls, though we had only a few on our block. I usually took a dim view of them since they didn’t like to play ball of any kind, wrestle, or even enjoy monopoly. The bigger ones at school however, liked to chase the younger boys like myself and try to beat us up. Although they couldn’t hit very hard or even run very fast, it was embarrassing to get caught and worked over by them.

At first I waited, to see how many other children would join her, tumbling out the big car. None! It appeared that she was an only-child like me! In these early days of the so-called Baby Boom, only-children were a rare breed, almost like a deformity of some kind and were often treated as such.

I felt compelled to introduce myself! Drawn by her twin long pigtails that were trailing behind with bright red ribbons dancing in the crisp November air and the strange sway of her hips, I found myself getting up, looking both ways, then crossing the street in a brisk fashion.

I glanced back over my shoulder to see if my mother was watching … hmm I thought, “she was always watching – as with all good moms she had eyes in the back of her head as well as telepathic powers”. Undeterred, I continued onward. In point of fact, she had been watching, but instead of calling out and admonishing me, she just smiled to herself as she saw me catch up to the little brown skinned girl.

As I got closer, my pace slowed down and second thoughts started to creep into my mind. My propensity toward shyness was taking hold. Then suddenly the little girl stopped, and turned to face me! She had a big smile on her face that got even bigger as she looked me over like I was a tasty treat or something. My shyness really kicked-in and as a result stopped me in my tracks. Undeterred she exclaimed: “ Hi there! My name is Camille, Camille Sanders, what’s yours?”

I kind of just stood there in silence for what seemed forever, then finally uttered: “William, … William Baker”. Sounding more like an apology than a proclamation.

As we stood there gazing at one another, her mom also stopped and turned around to face us. She also had a smile on her face and said: “Hello, my name is Mrs. Sanders, and we are new neighbors”. I could see her eyes suddenly look up and pass me. Following her gaze, I turned around to see my mother standing on our front porch. The two women looked at each other for a few seconds then exchanged friendly waves. I excused myself and went back across the street to join my mom.

That awkward beginning was the start of a seven yearlong friendship between only-child and only-child. It turned out that Camille didn’t like to play ball games, but she did love to wrestle and play long sessions of monopoly!

Camille, my first love …

First Love: between a young boy and a young girl.

First Love:
That came and went do to events beyond their control as families moved away.
Therefore love still strong at the end.

First Love:
Sharing puberty together.
Where holding hands,
Light soft kisses,
And the occasional squeezing of small firm breasts
Would suffice for ecstasy.

First Love:
Unclouded by game playing and manipulation,
Unclouded by real sex,
Unclouded by marriage, in-laws and other conflicts of adulthood,
Unclouded by children of our own.

First Love: remaining innocent and perfect in reflection.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In Part 2, Bill awakes from his dream and faces the day.

Love: The extremes of Human emotion and relationships

2006-07-30T14:01:00.000-07:00

“This thing called love” is a central theme in some of my stories, because in runs the length and breadth of the human experience. As a writer, I often find it interesting to explore the ways in which we humans can interact on a romantic level. In the words of singer Al Green from the song Love and Happiness: “Love and happiness... something that can make you do wrong, make you do right...”

Love will make you sacrifice your own life or to kill a bunch of innocents; to be self-less or selfish; ad infinitum… In other words you can weave any human emotion or even several into a love story. It can be happy or tragic or both. No boundaries, I like that.

Also, love stories allow the writer to throw together the most unlikely characters to form relationships. Love transcends race, religion, ethnicity, economics, language, age, politics, etc. When that special something clicks between a male and a female, the various jumble of laws and traditions scribbled by mankind over the millennia give way to the superior laws of God and Mother Nature allowing pure attraction to occur at the basic level. Writing stories developing such characters and their interactions and trials and tribulations with the world around them and with each other is both engrossing and challenging.

So I implore you: conjure two characters and add a spark; then let love lead the way!

August Adventure - revised

2006-07-20T08:39:00.000-07:00

This is the updated revision to a story that I earlier presented on this blog. The story was inspired by a picture posted on The Clarity of Night. See August Promise for the picture.

Thanks Flood for your constructive comments about verb tense and character background issues. I hope that the updated text is an improvement.

August Adventure
By
Robert H. Ball, Jr.

(all rights reserved)

My name is Gary Baker, an office-man comfortably at home in a concrete jungle. My thirty-something six-foot athletic build betrays my preference for the couch rather than the playing field. I’m more at ease exploring the innards of computer code rather than adventures in the woods, ball courts, or even just hanging around the water cooler for that matter – a loner type. At ease with my fingers firmly grasping my remote control with over two hundred channels at my command. A TiVo® is nearby to keep those favorite shows ready for reliving at a moments notice. Occasionally I perform the inevitably painful ritual of courtship with the opposite sex always with the same predictable tragic end. My only ongoing social interaction is with my faithful dog Max. Only rarely do I venture from the routine of apartment to office and back routine. This is the story of one such brief foray into the world beyond that gray flat realm of southeastern Michigan.

My mid-sized sedan sails down the two-lane highway chasing the sun in its westward journey. The early afternoon shadows are stilted; the air is heavy with super-heated humidity, though the sky is clear. The car’s windows are down – my dog Max, a large male black Lab-Shepard mix is leaning out of the passenger-side window, nose taking in the unfamiliar wild smells of nature, basic smells igniting baser instincts. The wind whispers though my ears and hair with seductive musings of wild mysteries, nostrils flaring. A city-man, and a city-dog, in a city-car: bound for adventure up north. I brake the car as we approach the beckoning Paul Bunyan sign at the entrance to a local nature trail and gift shop.

Here in Michigan’s upper peninsula the wilderness is often just around the corner. In August, nature’s growth is at its zenith with each living thing straining to suck up every possible measure of growth and strength in defense against the inevitability of winter. A winter where snowfalls are measured in feet; where wind-chill factors rarely creep above zero; relentless take-no-prisoners weather extending from late fall well into springtime.

Take just a few steps off the pavement and suddenly all signs of civilization disappear like here in this dense forest only a few feet into the trail off of the parking lot. The old growths of Northern White Cedar and Eastern White Pine meld together to block out the light even when the sun is at its zenith only yielding a hint of its presence as a fuzzy glowing orb barely discernable through the green canopy. It’s only slightly cooler within the trees where the warmth of summer is barely restrained by the dense growth on the upper tree limbs.

The heavy air seems to fill my pockets as well as my lungs. It clings to my clothes like a jumble of small weights collectively surrounding my body with insistent tugs making it hard to walk as I attempt to move deeper into the trees. Making it hard to breathe, hard to see, hard to think clear thoughts. Like traversing an ancient sea floor in an old-style diving helmet with accompanying bulky suit, air tubes and weighed boots.

As I make my way tentatively into the woods along the well-worn path, the shadows deepen and the light becomes even dimmer. My thoughts also darken slowly descending down an obscure, dank mental corridor as my mind fills with primitive smells; with strange sounds muffled by the sticky ambiance of nature’s past. The atmosphere and visualization act as a hallucinogen causing the devolution of the mind to quicken. Thick fog gathers in my brain and shrouds any spikes of rationality that attempt to rise up out of the murky mindscape weighing them back down into a primordial abyss. My city-nature is slowly transforming into a prehistoric stream of consciousness, older than the first cities, or the first cluster of straw huts, back to the times of caves. A time where grunts instead of language serve as communication and where fire is still worshipped and feared.

Man and beast, trudge along the path ever deeper into the wild. Suddenly Max lunges toward the base of an old pine tree, barking and jumping up, tail extends in an upward turning arc, hairs sticking straight out. His teeth are bared and growls now emanate from his taunt jaws. I follow his gaze and see a small brown furry creature with a long thick tail and big peaked fox-like ears staring down intently, eyes darting back and forth between the dog and me. A rational thought briefly flashes into my brain: “it is some type of weasel creature, an American sable”, I conjecture while visualizing the animal pictures posted on a kiosk at the start of the trail.

Then my mind regresses back into primitive thoughts, and archaic needs. A layer of sweat coats my skin. My nostrils inhale deeply of the forest air attempting to pick up the animal’s scent. My ears strain to catch the sound of the small beating heart. Digestive juices ooze into my stomach creating an aching hunger sensation. I gage the distance between the small creature and myself attempting to discern my chances of grasping it with an out-stretched hand. However, after a few seconds of attempting to stare us down, the diminutive creature scurries up several branches, then jumps to the adjoining tree and disappears into the dense foliage. After staring up intently for a couple moments, Max is finally satisfied that the creature has shown sufficient respect, lets out a couple of triumphant barks, then continues on down the trail. With a chance at capturing and devouring the small mammal gone, my senses edge back a few notches toward normal, yet acidic fluids still gnaw at my stomach.

Just as we were both settling back into the humdrum rhythm of the woods, the bushes over to the left of the trail abruptly erupt with an explosion of bursting branches, flying dirt, leaves and a variety of winged bugs.

The suddenness of the activity causes Max and I to stop dead in our tracks, but not to retreat. My already heighten sense of awareness expands to yet another level causing the action to take on a surreal slow-motion aura. I observe Max slowly rearing back as a 250-pound whitetail buck emerges from the center of the flying debris. The momentum of the deer’s lunge carries it up and over the dog. The buck’s head gazes downward displaying its three point antlers, wide eyes and pulsating nostrils. Max and I both turn our heads following the creature’s trajectory. The deer lands about eight-feet beyond us sending a cloud of pine needles and dirt airborne in all directions. We catch a glimpse of the buck’s erect white tail as it pushes off from the ground with its sweat-soaked muscled hind legs zigging right, then zagging left, finally disappearing into the trees beyond, leaving behind a trail of dust and the din of shrieking frightened songbirds.

As the sound of the retreating deer is absorbed into the denseness of the forest, silence gradually returns. The dog’s panting can now be heard, and the reverberation of sweat dropping to the ground from my forehead can almost be discerned.

The brief respite is broken however, by the sound of muted grunting coming from somewhere beyond the ruined bush. The dog is first to bound to the other side of the shrubs and immediately lets out a couple of loud barks. I follow the sounds, rushing around the broken greenery.

Minding its own business as it ripped apart an old rotten log jammed full of tasty grubs, the large male black bear had inadvertently spooked the buck whitetail that had wandered into the small glade. The deer reacted by frantically darting off back into the bushes. In a reflexive but belated gesture, the five hundred pound bear had reared up on its hind legs and turned toward where the deer had disappeared only to be confronted by yet another annoyance in the form of a solitary male human accompanied by his yapping hound. This was simply too much for the thickly furred beast and it bellowed out a roar to announce its frustration.

Tripping on some broken tree saplings, I stumble into the glade, right knee scrapping along the pine needle littered ground. Looking up, I’m suddenly confronting a large black menacing creature looming directly in front of me.

The sight of the towering bellowing beast silhouetted against the glare of the naked sun beaming down unobstructed into the clearing has the effect of an ice-cold bucket of water flung upon my now fragile psyche, washing away all thoughts of primitive essence, of unbridled devolution, of base instincts. Although the bear is actually about five to six feet tall on its hind legs it looks like sixty feet to me. The modest roar sounding like a deep exhale followed by three clacks has the effect of the wail and clatter of a runaway freight train engine on my disintegrating alto ego.

The smell of wild berries and larval grubs emanating from the bear’s breath is taken for carrion and blood by my swelling nostrils.

The city-man re-emerges along with an engrossing chilling fear. The fight or flight psychological reaction such an encounter typically elicits easily decomposes into the pure need to escape at all possible speed, at all possible cost. I quickly yield ground in such a haste as to simply disappear like a magician’s assistant on some bizarre stage setting. Fear envelopes me like a second skin, pressing against my whole being squeezing out any lingering thoughts of the hunter instincts of long ago.

Max half-heartedly attempted to strike a defensive posture to protect his master. However, his owner has been stuck with total fear and had broken into a full run, arms flaying about back in the general direction of the parking lot.

The dog was eager to turn and follow, not staying long enough to see the bear lumbering off in the opposite direction apparently just as frightened by the confrontation has the human.

Reaching the edge of the tree line just before the lot, I stop, attempting to re-gain a semblance of composure – mind gradually returning to its normal city-oriented nature. I am still sweating profusely and have a bad case of the jitters. I look back to gratefully see my dog coming up to my side. I rub my aching arms and cheeks that have been scratched and bruised by the branches of bushes and trees that I careened through during my hectic retreat. I notice that Max is limping, with a large thorn caught in is front left paw. Thankfully there is no sign of the bear.

Stepping out into the parking lot bathed in sunlight and warmth has a calming effect. Reaching my car, I pop open the trunk and pull out a first aid kit and attend to Max. The dog offers up his injured paw and holds still as I gently pull out the thorn, swab the wound with antiseptic lotion and awkwardly wrap it with gauze. Max then limps over to a shady spot of grass and lies down. I proceed to attend to my own wounds, using first-aid wipes to cleanse the scratches on my arms and face, then dabbing some antiseptic cream into the deeper cuts. The stinging sensation caused by the wipes and cream help to further clear my head of primeval notions.

About a half hour passes as I recline on the grass next to Max resting my aching and weary body and mind. As I look up a kid wanders over to stare at me. The little boy starts to pet Max on his forehead, and asks: “Are you the guys who scarred the bear?”

“I beg your pardon?” I respond in a strained dry raspy voice.

With that, I slowly stand up, put my paraphernalia back into the trunk, open the passenger side door and call out: “Max, come here.” The dog slowly gets up, limps over to the car and after a few moments of hesitation, weakly jumps up into the car just barely clearing the sideboard, struggles up on the seat and curls up against the seatback. I gently close the door, slowly walk over to the driver’s side in measured steps and ease in behind the wheel. Giving the boy, who is still staring at me, a brief nod, I start up the vehicle, slip the gear into Drive and slowly pull out of the lot heading east toward the Mackinaw Bridge our connection back to the good ole lower peninsula and home.

After putting the wilds of the U.P. in our rear-view mirror, we make a pit stop at a rest area along the highway after sunset. Max stays in the lighted grassy area and takes care of his business without delay. Back in the car, he keeps his head propped up on the window ledge awaiting the reappearance of his master from the men’s room. Upon my return he accepts a pat on the head then curls back up on the seat with his head between his forepaws. I sag into the driver’s seat, both hands on the steering wheel, eyes focused on the road ahead. Windows are rolled up with the air conditioning blowing out a cool comforting man-made breeze, and the cruise control is set. A city-man and a city-dog in a city-car are deep in thought about their respective positions on the big over-stuffed comfortable couch in front of the television back in civilization, still a few hours south on Interstate 75.

The End

Nuisance story now availalbe on Amazon contest

2006-07-12T07:43:00.000-07:00

My short story, "Nuisance" has been accepted and will be availalbe on Gather.Com for a period of fourteen days. Please take the time to read the story and rate it, comments would also be appreciated. To view the story use the following link:
http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474976766520

Thank You.

Nuisance short story preview

2006-07-11T15:58:00.000-07:00

I just submitted my short story “Nuisance” to the Amazon Gather.Com short story contest
Click on the link below for contest rules:

http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474976762945

Included below is a couple of paragraphs from the story “Nuisance”.
Total story word count is 4566

Yesterday Joe had taken a scarf, but left it on the seat in the car. Today, the long red and black knitted garment was wrapped around his neck with tails flapping against the back of his jacket. His head was bent slightly down, and he half wondered what the wind-chill factor was, but really didn’t want to know. This was one of those days that you just wanted to get the walk over and done with. Even the squirrels had sense enough to keep under cover. Also, no sign of his fellow traveler, again probably the mark of more sense on her part!

As he finally got back to his car, he saw that nuisance dog off to the side curled up on a mat of leaves sheltered from the unrelenting wind. It raised its head and looked at him, but didn’t try and get up. Joe looked back at the animal and saw that it no longer looked well groomed or energetic but had a run down bedraggled appearance. This time he didn’t feel any anger or annoyance, just a tiny bit of pity. “It looks like it found a respite from the biting wind anyway,” he thought to himself as he unlocked the door and slipped in behind the wheel. The interior of the car felt instantly warm in comparison to the chilling wind. As he drove out of the parking lot, Joe again glanced over toward the animal, which had put its head back down into the cushion of leaves.

Haiku attempt

2006-07-06T12:24:00.000-07:00

After visiting Flash Flood's blog today, I just had to take up his challenge to publish a Haiku poem. See my links list for a link to the Flash Flood site. As I understand it, Haiku is a Japanese form of poetry constructed around the following rules:
1. The poem should be three lines long.
2. Line One should have five syllables.
3. Line Two should have seven syllables.
4. Line Three should have five syllables.

Ok, so here is my attempt:

Oh by the way, the theme was supposed to be "Writing".

Words ooze from the pen
Splash then freeze a thought expressed
Then edit, revise

Of Love and Lions

2006-06-25T19:12:00.000-07:00

Here is part of a story that I'm working on - working title: "Of Love and Lions". I will attempt to add to it from time to time on this blog until it is complete.

Edward quickly drops to a crouch and rushes his adversary passing below the leveled AK47’s barrel and knocks the VC soldier to the ground. Simultaneously, his right hand grasped the knife in his right boot bringing it up in one fluid motion while struggling to pin down his opponent’s rifle with his left hand. The up thrusting momentum of the blade rips through the enemy’s loose fitting black shirt. As the torn cloth flaps out, two small, but well-rounded breasts are revealed along with an odd-looking golden pendant dangling on a thin gold chain. The knife stops just shy of the soft nape of the opponent’s neck. The revealing site liberated by his blade has arrested Edward’s eyes. He briefly lingers at the area of the twin small mounds that identify the enemy as a female, but he has killed female enemy soldiers in the past. What causes him to freeze is the golden pendant. Time seems to almost standstill as his eyes, finally released from the grip of the pendant, more closely examine the opponent herself. Her skin is very dark brown, almost black; her face is also unusual, the curve of the jaw, the deep green rounded eyes, the pug nose, and thickness to the lips – an odd looking Vietnamese indeed!

Seeing a chance for life, the Viet Cong soldier doubles up her feet under Edward’s chest and then kicks out as hard as she can causing Edward to tumble up and out. He ends up flat on his back, and his knife knocked out of his hand. Jumping to her feet, she quickly levels her rifle again at Edward, who was now sitting up staring back at her pendant still dangling free. She hesitates to pull the trigger wondering what is causing him to just stare back at her, not in anger or fright but in wonder! He slowly reaches into his own shirt and pulls out an identical golden chain and accompanying pendant!

It is her turn to stare in wonder! She is already suffering from two gun shot wounds encountered during this battle with the Americans and her adrenaline is fading fast. Her head slowly droops down and she collapses. Snapping out of his trance, Edward lunges forward and catches her in his arms. He now sees her two wounds, one in the left shoulder and one that grazed her right side. Acting quickly, he works to stem the flow of blood from both wounds. Neither one appeared to be life threatening.

He has several wounds from the battle himself, which he now attends to after gently laying the girl on a small stretch of grass. He then turns his attention back to her, while taking out his canteen. He wets his fingers with the lukewarm water and gently rubbed her full lips. Opening her eyes, she looks up at him and parts her lips. He brings the canteen up and allows her several small swallows; too much water would be harmful in her condition. They silently looked at each for several minutes. Then she closes her eyes and turned her head up against is chest.

Edward was also exhausted. His mind spinning from the turn of events he was just know apart of. The battle had been waged most of the afternoon. Then he had been separated from the main body of his unit and was unable to fall back. The Cong, had mostly retreated themselves, fearing that the Americans would be calling in another air strike. He had already taken out two of the enemy stragglers, and she was the last one. It seemed like they were currently the only ones left alive in this desolated village.

Life, if you can call it that, had been simple here in the jungle, just kill or be killed. As he looked down at the sleeping female, he pondered. “Life had become a lot more complicated!”

The sun is rapidly setting and the temperature is also waning in this time just before the rainy season begins. The village had been reduced to nothing but smoldering rubble, no shelter here. Edward removes his poncho from his pack and wraps it around them both as best he could.

Edward reflected on pictures his great-grandfather had shown him as a kid of an Ethiopian warrior. As a youngster, he had marveled at the old man’s war stories about how he and the Ethiopian in the pictures had been part of the war against the Italians back in the 1890s and how the Ethiopian emperor’s forces has defeated the Italians and sent them packing! His grandfather was an adventurer in his younger days, rare for a Black American back then. He and the Ethiopian had become blood brothers. For their valor during battle, they had both received identical gold lion head pendants. Edward had gotten his great-grandfather’s after he died. Fingering the back of the girl’s pendant, the same inscription, and date with the name of the Ethiopian Warrior staring him in the face!

Taking time again to examine her facial features as she lay sleeping on his chest, he mumbled, yes, she could be part Ethiopian, certainly part something! Maybe she was the Warrior’s great-granddaughter!

It was now Edward’s turn to see the adrenaline fade as he nodded off into a deep sleep.
==============================================
Stay tuned for more "Of Love and Lions" ...........

Exit Plan

2006-06-24T21:50:00.000-07:00

This my fiction blog. I plan to post attempts at writing all types of short fiction. This first offering a super short 249 words as a response to a contest. I'm including several drafts - main problem is getting the story down to the 250 word limit. Here it is the final entry is followed by Drafts One, Two and Three.

The writing contest in question is at www.clarityofnight.blogspot.com if you are interested. Entries must be sent in by midnight, June 28, 2006 I believe.

Exit Plan by Robert H. Ball, Jr.

The finger-like shape jutted out of the crusted earth toward the nighttime Nevada sky – the ubiquitous utility pole. A blacktop road receded into the darkness. “So this is NV-375, the so-called Extraterrestrial Highway”. Ilsa thought. Her escape attempt had turned ugly when she unleashed a telekinetic firestorm upon her pursuers leaving a trail of bodies and debris scattered into the distant Papoose mountains toward Area 51. The black-skinned petite green-eyed female was the second-generation result of DNA experiments conducted by ex-nazi German scientists secreted away at the end of WW-II. The “grays” found at Roswell in 1947 mixed with radiation burned female workers from Yucca Flats provided the ingredients. Omnipotence with attitude was why she had been confined since birth, and why she was being desperately hunted now.

Ilsa could always sense the presence of alien spacecraft and she felt one nearby. It emerged from the glowing clouds above the utility pole. A yellow beam emerged seeking out the human-like figure. She was bathed with the pulsing light, but then the beam hesitated sensing a non-human presence. It was too late, the girl’s eyes glowed green as she uttered “gotcha” and popped out of sight as the alien ship gave an inaudible shudder. Ilsa sat before the controls studying them intently, then looked over at the crew strewn about the far side of the cabin like discarded dolls. She thought: “I simply must work on my inter-personal skills.” The craft slipped Earth’s gravity heading toward the Alien mother ship.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

DRAFT ONE:

The monolith jutted out of the crusted earth toward the moonless sky. Its shape barely discernable in slight contrast to the clouds oozing the glow of a billion distant suns. A utility pole with tell tale high voltage top lines, a transformer and low voltage feeders. So-called civilization must be near by betrayed by the affixed sign heralding “Rachel 15 miles”. A black ribbon of tar stretched out into the darkness along either side of the beam. Another sign identified the road as Nevada Highway 375, the so-called “Extraterrestrial Highway”. The dirt road leading into this scene from the east had no identifying signs, just a straight way of graded sand heading off into the distant Papoose mountains toward Area 51.

Ilsa, named after the nazi German scientist whose immoral DNA experiments upon her mother then her from a radiation burned worker. The “grays” found at the Roswell Alien crash site back in 1947 had proved to be irresistible. The black-skinned five-foot tall, slender-built green-eyed female human-alien highbred with close-cropped white hair assessed her surroundings and chances. Her jogging suit showed signs of extreme trauma: numerous bullet holes, taser caused burns, and other rips and tears caused by nearby exploding grenades and other small weapons fire. Bare feet pressed upon razor sharp rocks and prickly spines. Her body however, was not affected in any way! Ilsa’s telekinetic, firestarting, telepathic aptitudes protected here from the evils of human nature. Indeed, omnipotence with attitude was why she had been confined since birth to an underground highly controlled facility. This is why she was being desperately hunted right now. Her escape had been anything but stealthy with a trail of twisted bodies, and vehicular remains trailing off back toward the distant hills. This is why a B-2 armed with a 1-megaton nuclear tipped missile was cruising the distant Jumbled Hills. Not in the mood to test her durability against E=MC2, she was looking for an exit.

Her innate ability to sense the presence of alien spacecraft had captivated her handlers for a long time. She had decided that her only chance of true escape would be to hitch a ride to the stars. While her kinship to the space beings would be no better than to the humans, her options and chances for freedom would be much better. Her abilities were far beyond that of any human and she innately felt that for some reason, she as well beyond her Alien roots as well. The craft in question emerged from the glowing clouds above the utility pole causing some sparking in the high-voltage wires. It floated noisily twenty feet over the highway. A pencil like yellow beam jutted out of its side toward the human-like figure. This was indeed a human abduction ship. The beam suddenly showered her with pulsing light, but then hesitated sensing something not quite right, not quite human. However, it was too late, the girl’s eyes glowed green and her mouthed “gottcha” as she popped out of sight! The beam of light also disappeared and the alien ship gave an inaudible shudder, and then shot straight up.

Ilsa sat at the ships controls studying them intently, then looked over at the crew strewn about the far side of the cabin like discarded dolls. She thought: “I simply must work on my inter-personal skills.” The ship slipped the bounds of Earth’s gravity and toward the planet Uranus’s innermost moon, Cordelia, where the Alien mother ship lay hidden.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

DRAFT TWO:
A petite figure stood before a finger-like shape jutting out of the crusted earth toward the nighttime Nevada sky. The utility pole announced that civilization must be near by betrayed by. A black top road stretched out into the darkness toward the north and south. Another sign identified the road as 375, the so-called “Extraterrestrial Highway”. The dirt road leading into this scene from the east had no identifying signs, just a strand of graded sand heading off into the distant Papoose mountains toward Area 51.

Ilsa is a second-generation abomination spawned from ex-nazi German scientist secreted away to the American southwest at the end of WW-II. The “grays” found at the Roswell Alien crash site back in 1947 had proved to be irresistible candidates for DNA experimentation. Add to this nightmare some terminally ill radiation burned female workers from Yucca Flats and the stage was set. The black-skinned five-foot tall, slender-built green-eyed female human-alien highbred assessed the situation. Her jogging suit showed signs of extreme trauma: numerous bullet holes, taser caused burns, and other rips and tears caused by nearby exploding grenades. Bare feet pressed upon razor sharp rocks and prickly spines. Her body however, was not affected in any way! Ilsa’s telekinetic, firestarting, telepathic aptitudes protected here from the evils of human nature. Indeed, omnipotence with attitude was why she had been confined since birth to an underground highly controlled facility. This is why she was being desperately hunted right now. Her escape had been anything but stealthy with a trail of twisted bodies, and vehicular remains trailing off back toward the distant hills. This is why a B-2 armed with a 1-megaton nuclear tipped missile was cruising the distant Jumbled Hills. Not in the mood to test her durability against E=MC2, she was looking for an exit.

Her innate ability to sense the presence of alien spacecraft had captivated her handlers for a long time. She had decided that her only chance of true escape would be to hitch a ride to the stars. While her kinship to the space beings would be no better than to the humans, her options and chances for freedom would be much better. Her abilities were far beyond that of any human and she innately felt that for some reason, she as well beyond her Alien roots as well. The craft in question emerged from the glowing clouds above the utility pole causing some sparking in the high-voltage wires. It floated noisily twenty feet over the highway. A pencil like yellow beam jutted out of its side toward the human-like figure. This was indeed a human abduction ship. The beam suddenly showered her with pulsing light, but then hesitated sensing something not quite right, not quite human. However, it was too late, the girl’s eyes glowed green and her mouthed “gottcha” as she popped out of sight! The beam of light also disappeared and the alien ship gave an inaudible shudder, and then shot straight up.

Ilsa sat at the ships controls studying them intently, then looked over at the crew strewn about the far side of the cabin like discarded dolls. She thought: “I simply must work on my inter-personal skills.” The ship slipped the bounds of Earth’s gravity and toward the planet Uranus’s innermost moon, Cordelia, where the Alien mother ship lay hidden.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

DRAFT THREE:
A petite figure stood before a finger-like shape jutting out of the crusted earth toward the nighttime Nevada sky. The utility pole meant that civilization must be near by. A black top road stretched out into the darkness toward the north and south. A weathered sign identified the road as 375, the so-called “Extraterrestrial Highway”. Her escape had been anything but stealthy when she vented a telekinetic fire-starting deluge upon her handlers leaving a trail of twisted bodies, and vehicular remains trailing into the distant Papoose mountains toward Area 51. A B-2 bomber armed with a 1-megaton nuclear tipped missile was cruising the distant Jumbled Hills.

Ilsa is a second-generation abomination spawned from ex-nazi German scientists secreted away to the American southwest at the end of WW-II. The “grays” found at the Roswell Alien crash site in 1947 mixed with terminally ill radiation burned female workers from Yucca Flats provided the nightmarish soup for DNA experimentation. The black-skinned five-foot tall, slender-built green-eyed female human-alien highbred assessed the situation. Omnipotence with attitude was why she had been confined and secreted since birth, and why she was being desperately hunted now. Her ability to sense the presence of alien spacecraft had always fascinated her handlers – she felt one nearby.

The craft in question emerged from the glowing clouds above the utility pole and floated noisily twenty feet over the highway. A yellow beam emerged from its side seeking out the human-like figure. This was indeed a human abduction ship. Ilsa was encapsulated with the pulsing light, but then the beam hesitated sensing something not quite right, not quite human. However, it was too late, the girl’s eyes glowed green as she mouthed “gottcha” and popped out of sight! The beam of light also disappeared and the alien ship gave an inaudible shudder, and then shot straight up.

Ilsa sat at the ships controls studying them intently, then looked over at the crew strewn about the far side of the cabin like discarded dolls. She thought: “I simply must work on my inter-personal skills.” The craft slipped Earth’s gravity heading toward the planet Uranus’s innermost moon, Cordelia, where the Alien mother ship lay hidden.