Below is a short story I recently finished and shared with my Thursday evening Writers Group. Let's just say it met with mixed reviews. But then, I only thought it was finished. From the feedback I received, I did some much needed editing, focusing on tying up the original work's obvious loose ends. I would appreciate any feedback anyone wants to give on this now finished--right, who am I kidding--version.

With that in mind, I present...


Arcs in Transit

Possessing neither beginning nor end, the circle is deemed to be a perfect physical representation of eternity. Paradoxically, any circle can be divided into arcs, and every arc can be measured from its beginning to its end. And so it goes. All those calculations mounting up in the equation, arc after arc after arc…

#

Of average age and appearance, the man and the woman sit side-by-side on the sofa in her living room, their faces bathed in the flickering white light of a TV.
   
With his arm draped along the sofa’s back, his hand cupping her shoulder, the man turns to the woman and says, “Just think, this time next week we’ll be in Turkey, drink in hand, gazing out over the Aegean. Or as Homer wrote all those years ago, Over the wine-dark sea. Not a bad image, huh?”
   
“I can’t wait,” the woman answers without taking her eyes off the TV. She cradles the remote control in her right hand as if it were a baby bird.
   
“I checked. There’s a travel show about Turkey coming on in a few minutes. Let’s watch it.” He grasps the part of the remote that extends from the woman’s hand, and pulls.
   
She grips the device. Tugs in the opposite direction. When he continues to pull, she jerks the remote from his grasp, gaping at him as if he has just appeared beside her out of thin air. “That hurt!”
   
“What?” He leans away from her a little.
   
“You know I have carpal tunnel in that hand.” She rubs her wrist. “It hurt when you did that.”
   
“Sorry,” he says. “But all you had to do was let go.”
   
“You could’ve asked.” She frowns. “Get us another drink, okay?”
   
The man sighs. Picks up the two empty drink tumblers on the coffee table.
   
“Extra ice in mine,” the woman says as he heads for the kitchen. “Not crushed. Three cubes.”
   
He waves in acknowledgement. In a minute he’s back with their bourbons—-three cubes of ice in hers, none in his.
   
Still holding the remote, she eyes the ice cubes in her glass, looks at his glass and says, “I still don’t understand how you can drink it like that?”
   
“Ice waters it down when it melts.” He sits and drapes his arm back around her. Swirls his drink. Sips. “I want it full strength all the way to the bottom. Now, how ‘bout that travel show? Channel 23, I think.”
   
The woman thumbs the remote’s keypad. The scene on the TV changes from the news to Animal Planet. A white dog wearing a thin red collar, like a bloody gash around its neck, is negotiating an obstacle course. The man removes his arm from around the woman’s shoulder. Takes a sip.
   
Eyes on the TV, she pats his leg and says, “We travel together so well, don’t we?”
   
He swirls his glass and sips again.
   
The man and the woman sit side-by-side on the sofa, their faces pale, washed out in the flickering light of the TV.

#
   
Approaching TSA security at JFK, the man and the woman pull along matching pieces of wheeled carry-on luggage, the woman walking in front. Several lines are available for the pass-through metal detectors. She goes to the one on the left and begins removing her shoes. He hesitates, then goes right, to a row of seats by the wall, and sits. The woman rolls her eyes and wheels her luggage over to him, shoes dangling in the other hand.
   
“What are you doing?” she says.
   
He looks up from untying his shoe laces. “Taking off my shoes to go through security.”
   
“I told you to wear slip-ons.” She holds her shoes out for emphasis.
   
“You know I don’t have any slip-ons … except for my boots. And they’re harder to get off and on than these.” He pulls off one shoe. Works at the other.
   
She pats one stockinged foot. “We need to be at the gate when they call for our row to be seated.”
   
“There’s plenty of time,” he says. “Don’t worry, they won’t take off without us.”
   
She sighs. “I suppose. And it’s not like we haven’t done this before. But I still get nervous every time.”
   
“In a way, every time is like a first time,” he says. “Maybe that’s what bothers you.”
   
She frowns. “Well, that’s just silly.”
   
With both shoes off and in hand, he rises, removes his belt, and grips the extended handle of his carryon. “Okay, let’s go.”
   
The man and the woman approach the lefthand airport security station pulling matching wheeled luggage, the man leading the way.

#
   
Hand-in-hand, the man and the woman walk down a wide, bustling pedestrian boulevard in an upscale shopping district off Taksim Square, in the heart of Istanbul. The woman nestles in close. The man smiles. Steers them to the side onto a narrow, plebeian lane.

In the growing press of sights and scents, bodies and odors, the woman presses in even closer. The man squeezes her hand. Leads them into what looks like the Turkish version of a 7-Eleven store. Spots what he’d hoped to find.
   
“You said you were thirsty.” He sweeps his hand toward a glass-doored cooler on the right. “Behold! I give you water.”
   
Behind the counter, the middle-aged mustachioed clerk wearing a red fisherman’s cap grants them a smile.
   
The man returns the clerk’s smile then says to the woman, “The only question is, which size bottle?”
   
“The small one…” the woman says. “No, wait… The middle sized one. It’ll fit in my purse. Shouldn’t be too heavy. What do you think?”
   
“Middle sized it is.” He opens a cooler door. Pulls out a small water bottle and one the next size larger.
   
Nodding toward the clerk, the woman says to the man, “You take care of it, Okay?”
   
He shrugs. Places the bottles on the counter. Pulls a small Turkish/English phrasebook out of his back pocket. Telling the clerk, “Merhaba,” for ‘Hello’, the man plunges into a halting conversation that ends with him peeling off a couple bills of Turkish currency—-equaling about three dollars—-and handing them to the clerk.
   
Before the man can gather up the water bottles, the clerk reaches to a shelf behind him and picks up a small plastic bag of pale pink Turkish delight candy. “Bayan icin,” he says, nodding toward the woman. Smiling. “Hicbir Ucret.”
   
After checking his phrasebook, the man takes the candy and says, “Tesekkur,” for ‘Thank you’.
   
“Tesekkur ederim.” The clerk tips his red fisherman’s cap. “Hoscakal.”
   
With a ‘goodbye’ nod, the man takes the candy and the water bottles. Takes the woman’s hand, and they leave.
   
Outside in the busy lane, the woman says, “What did he say about me?”
   
The man unscrews the cap on the woman’s water bottle. Hands it to her along with the candy. “He said, For the lady. No charge.”
   
She takes a drink. Eats a piece of Turkish delight, then another. Takes another drink. “You’re so good at that … dealing with languages and all. Like you were in Spain. And Paris last year.”
   
“Just have to know your way around this.” He holds up the phrasebook. “It’s all here. You only have to know where to look.”
   
“I suppose everything is simple,” she says, “when you have a book for it.”
   
“Yeah. If only there was a book for everything.” He unscrews the cap of his water bottle and takes a drink.
   
“We should get back to the hotel. I want to take a nap before dinner.” The woman starts off to the right. The man takes her arm. Stops her.
   
“This way.” He nods in the opposite direction.
   
She smiles. “What would I do without you?”
   
Weaving their way through the bustling plebeian crowd, the man and the woman walk down the narrow lane toward the upscale shopping district. From there to Taksim Square and on to their hotel. Hand-in-hand.

#
   
The man and the woman sit at a candlelit table on the broad patio of a hotel in Kusadasi, perched above the shore of the Aegean Sea. The woman lifts a wine glass to her lips. The blood red pinot noir captures the pale flickering moonlight reflecting off the restless water. When she drinks, it’s as if she is swallowing a nebula full of newborn stars. The man watches her. Rapt.
   
“What?” The woman says when she catches him.
   
“Just enjoying the view.” He sips his chilled chardonnay. “Are you warm enough?”
   
“Mmm… Yes. The weather’s perfect. The wine’s perfect. This night is perfect. Everything’s perfect.” She smiles. Tips her wine glass to her lips again. “Perfect.”
   
“Let’s not get carried away,” the man says, grinning. “You might want to leave a little room for improvement.”
   
“Carried away…” she mulls the phrase. “You’d carry me away if I asked you to, wouldn’t you?”
   
He raises his wine glass. Sees her distorted through the translucent golden lens of its contents. “Yes, I would. If you asked.”
   
“Ahem…” a woman clears her throat behind them. Wearing a faded and somewhat frayed fashion plate ensemble that was likely all the rage a decade ago, an elderly lady walks out of the night to stand beside their table. Wrinkles evident despite the heavy application of face powder. Dark red lipstick. Expression, uncertain. “I apologize for interrupting,” she says. “But I’m rather at loose ends tonight. May I join you?”
   
The man reads a silent plea in the elderly lady’s eyes. Gives his companion a glance. An almost imperceptible shrug. He rises and pulls out a chair.
   
With a whispered, “Thank you,” the elderly lady sits. Fidgets with an elegant necklace of small, square-cut rubies strung along the length of a delicate gold chain. Introductions are made.
   
“Is this your first time here?” the elderly lady asks them. “Have you come for the ruins?”
   
“Yes, first time.” the man says. “We visited Ephesus earlier today. Magnificent … and kinda sad at the same time. All that culture, that life, all those possibilities… Gone. I wonder, did the average person living there during those last days even realize what was happening? For how long had it been dying, and they just never saw the signs?”
   
“Really?” the woman says. “So morbid.” She turns to the elderly lady. “I take it you’ve been here be—-”
   
“You should do it,” the elderly lady says, addressing the man.
   
“Pardon me?” he answers.
   
“I couldn’t help but overhear, and I believe you should carry her away. Don’t wait. Do it now.” A wan smile bows the elderly lady’s red lips into a thin arc. “I didn’t wait. The instant he said, Come with me, I went.”
   
“He?” the woman says.
   
“My husband. He carried me away, and we never looked back.” Her back to the moonlit Aegean, the elderly lady peers into the dark to the right of the doorway that leads into the hotel. Gazes longingly, as if someone were hidden there waiting for her. “Carried me here to this very hotel many times. Bought me these,” She strokes her ruby necklace, “in a little jewelry shop near the ruins. He’s dead now, you know?”
   
“I’m so sorry,” the woman says.
   
“Yes, I’m quite alone.” The elderly lady pronounces the last word as if trying it out on the tongue for the first time. “And we traveled so well together. Went everywhere. But now he’s gone on without me. Or is it merely ahead of me?” She Frowns. “Whichever… I travel alone now, back to all the places we visited. This was one of our favorites.”
   
The repeated shush of a steady succession of waves lapping the shore below them is the only sound to break the ensuing silence. After a long moment the man says, “Can I get you something? Water? A glass of wine?”
   
The elderly lady blinks as if awakening from a trance. Glances at the woman’s glass. “Yes, thank you. Perhaps a bit of that lovely red your wife is drinking.”
   
“I’m not hi—-” the woman begins.
   
“Coming right up,” the man says. He excuses himself and steps into the hotel.
   
In two minutes he’s back, seated, sliding a glass of noir across the table. The woman and the elderly lady don’t notice, beyond the lady accepting the proffered wine. They’re too involved in conversation, as if they were old acquaintances well met after a long separation. The man has seen it before, the way the woman can interact with a stranger as she would with a friend after only a few minutes in that person’s company.
   
He holds up his wineglass, and through its chardonnay lens peers aside at the woman and the elderly lady as they negotiate their animated conversational path. The two of them have traveled on together. The woman leading the way. Dominating. Leaving him behind. Something he’s also seen before, many times.

Attentive to what the woman is saying, the elderly lady fiddles with her ruby necklace. Taps at it where it lays against her flesh, just below her pale, wrinkled throat.

Noting the nervous gesture, the man recalls a thin red collar that circled the neck of a white dog he once watched negotiate an obstacle course—-a collar that at first glance seemed so like a bloody gash around the poor creature’s neck. It was an image on the TV at the woman’s home. A scene he was forced to view virtually by himself, it seemed, even though she was seated right next to him. Remote. Untouchable.
   
He speaks a word.
   
Neither the woman nor the elderly lady acknowledge that he has made a sound. He studies the woman, not distorted through a glass this time, but clearly. And only for a moment before turning to gaze out over the wine-dark sea.
   
The man sits at the candlelit table on the hotel’s broad patio, perched at the very marge of the Aegean. Mesmerized by the moonlight flickering like pale fire on the surface of the restless waters, simultaneously terrified and thrilled by the nearly endless possibilities—-some of them ruinous—-inscribed upon the rounded syllables of such a simple word, he whispers the word again, “Alone…” as if trying it out on his tongue for the first time.

Tonight is Pub Quiz finals at Molly Malones, a local Irish pub that caters to the ... seedier, shall we say ... denizens of the city. After all, they accept me as a regular so how high can their standards really be? No matter that, fact is the heat is on for the Last Place Team to come through with another victory. But we're okay with that. It's the cold that often does us in, a bone numbing cold like we had for so long last winter. So bring on the heat tonight. At least we won't have to worry about a...


Brain Freeze

You say it’s only Pub Quiz? Maybe. But sometimes Pub Quiz is so much more. And whether it happened this way or not doesn’t matter, because even if it didn’t, it should have. Some of the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

#

It was a dark night in the city—-a mediocre mini-metropolis no one ever described as a city that never sleeps. In fact, from what I could tell, this Podunk burgh sleeps just fine. Not me, though. Not this night. It was the questions, always the questions, gnawing at my brain like a horde of rabid rats savaging a salt-cured ham wrapped in a fake leather coat. That’s what I donned--my best … hell, my only coat; some might say as cheap and fake as me--when I went out the door and down the street toward the place where I figured I could lose myself on such a miserable night. The mecca of rat-brain questions: Molly Malones Irish Pub.

The night was cold, with a wind-driven chill that bit deep, sliced to the bone, cut clear to the quick as brutally as a dear-John letter to a love-drunk teenager who still had visions of sliding in safe at home when he’d only ever barely gotten past first base. I turned up my collar and walked fast, right up to Molly’s door. It was a Wednesday—-Pub Quiz night. I couldn’t avoid the rat-brain questions; never intended to. They were waiting for me inside. That’s why I was there. I took a deep breath and stepped in to face them.

Inside Molly’s even the shadows had shadows, but that was nothing new. Some said the low-light ambience matched the manager’s IQ level, but I knew better. Yeah, Lenny may act like he’s not the brightest bulb in the socket, but I keep my eyes open, know what I mean? In the dark quiet moments, when people don’t think anyone is watching, when they believe it’s safe to be who they really are, that’s when I see things. I’d seen enough of Lenny. And when I let him know what I’d seen, we came to an understanding. Now we both know what it means when I order the creme brulee. And I know what it means when Lenny tells me, “The creme brulee, it ain’t happenin' tonight.” That means no back room sugar available for daddy’s entertainment. It means I’ll most likely be going home … unsated, shall we say … again.

Lenny wasn’t around. But speaking of sugar, my server this night was Ginger; a tasty little morsel, but in that wholesome girl-next-door sorta way. Definitely look-but-don’t-touch material, ya know? At least that’s the vibe she gives off if you don’t know what to look for. You see, she has these eyes that can sometimes pierce the usual grey cigarette-smoke-haze inside Molly’s in a way that’ll make you feel like a starving man seeing an electric sign in the distance, blazing through the dark, flashing ‘All You Can Eat’ in bright red neon letters. But I had a feeling the starving man Ginger would choose to feed couldn’t be just anyone. He’d have to be THAT guy: a concrete wasteland Prince Charming who could make her magical small town dreams come true. Just my luck, I’m no prince.

“The usual, Baby Cakes?” Ginger said when she sashayed up to the table I’d taken, in front, by a plate glass window so big you could have watched an orca through it if Molly’s were an aquarium. It was the only table available.

“Yeah, the usual.” Glancing around at the other patrons clustered in the shadows, I had to wonder, Is this Pub Quiz night or a support group meeting for Perverts Anonymous? And what did that say about me? I slipped on my best ex-insurance-salesman’s smile and said, “Hey look, Doll, is Nicki around?”

Nicki is another server at Molly’s. But then she’s more than a server. While Lenny runs the back room action, Nicki minds the legitimate side of the business. A sharp little bundle of dynamite. A few days earlier, while I was bellied up to the bar enjoying a liquid afternoon snack, she told me that since winter had settled in it was apparent the furnace in her new apartment wasn’t up to the task. I told her, ‘I got somethin’ that’ll keep you warm.’ Told her about my space heater. She sounded plenty interested. So this evening I stuffed the thing into a plastic shopping bag and packed it all the way to Molly’s, hoping to place it into her hot little hands.

“Sorry, Nicki’s off tonight. What is it?” Ginger winked. “I ain’t enough for ya?”

“Enough? You’re too much, Doll. No, I just got something for her, that’s all. Mind passing it along?” I was melting under those eyes, those eyes I knew weren’t flashing for me. I was just in the line of fire.

“Sure, Babe, I’ll take it off your hands at the end of the night. Now let me get you that drink. You look like you could use it.”

I set the bag on the floor, under the table by my feet, without once taking my eyes off Ginger as she walked away to get my Glenlivet. That's top shelf stuff in my book, both the Glenlivet and Ginger. I could afford the single malt, just barely. It wasn’t a matter of affording Ginger. It's more a case of me not being THAT guy.

But I am the kind of guy who could waste a little time considering how Nicki and Ginger were suds sisters, beer-babe buddies, on-tap tootsies who went way back together. Now, I’m not saying they had ever been anything more than friends. But I am a guy, so you really can’t blame me if there were times I saw them in my mind’s eye as more like special friends, if ya know what I mean. You can’t blame me for that … right?

“Hey, D-Man,” someone said. I looked up. Michelangelo—-a budding painter whose real name is Greg—-was standing there grinning at me. He had caught me red handed, mentally drooling over the idea of Nicki and Ginger together. On the outside, Michelangelo seems like a mild mannered artiste. But under that calm smooth exterior he harbors a soul as twisted as a pubic hair riding a tilt-a-whirl.

“Hey there, Mikey. Take a seat.”

And he did. Including me, that made half our trivia team present and accounted for. We call ourselves the Last Place Team for a reason. Thought it was hilarious when we would be leading after a round, and the Quiz Mistress had to announce ‘And in first place is the Last Place Team’. Says something about our sense of humor, right? Maybe about our maturity? Could have just as easily called the team Peter Pan’s Peters for all I cared. Either way, I never want to grow up. But then we can’t always have what we want.

So we sat there and bs’d while Ginger catered to our every alcoholic whim--another single malt for me, a beer for Michelangelo--until another team member walked through the door.

“High, Steve,” me and Michelangelo said in two-part harmony. Then we busted out laughing ‘cause that’s his nickname.

High Steve is a pill-popping, doctor-feel-good med student whose brain is missing its inhibitor chip. The guy is always telling inappropriate vagina jokes--yeah, I know, are there any appropriate ones--in a voice loud enough to be considered a sonic weapon. At the same time, he’s such a straight arrow, he can’t even lie for his little five-year-old daughter’s sake when he goes home after our team’s latest unsuccessful Pub Quiz skirmish, wakes her up for a goodnight kiss, and she asks him if he won. ‘No, honey, not tonight,’ he says on those occasions, causing her to collapse into his arms, still half asleep and blubbering, ‘Oh, daddy, I’m so sorry!’ Sometimes, honesty can be a tear stained bitch.

“Did ya hear the one about the vagina that--” High Steve began when Ginger showed up to take his drink order, but I cut him off.

“Give the girl a break and let ‘er do her job, okay, man?” I looked aside to see if Ginger was giving any indication she appreciated my gallantry. She wasn’t. I guess she’s heard it all before, from a thousand sloppy drunks, and can handle herself, but still I had to finish what I’d started. So meaning his drink of choice, I added, “Take it easy, and you’ll get what you want.”

“That’s what she said!” High Steve slapped the table. That guy can really crack himself up. “Bring me a hard cider,” he said to Ginger. “In a dirty glass.”

We were catching up on shits and giggles while we waited for Pub Quiz to start, when out of nowhere High Steve said, “Jesus Freakin’ Christ, it’s cold in here!” He held his hands under the table. “Feel that?”

Me and Michelangelo leaned forward and held our hands under the table like High Steve was doing. To someone at another table it probably looked like we were playing some sort’a gay grab-ass game, but asses weren’t what any of us would have been able to grab from that position. The air was colder under there … a LOT colder.

“Yeah… It’s like an icebox,” Michelangelo said. “Must be comin’ in off this big window. We could sure use a little extra heat.” High Steve agreed.

I was on the verge of calling them both pussies when I realized they’d each driven there while I--being a real-life macho man--had walked. Since I was dressed for the weather and they weren’t, I let it go. Besides, Pub Quiz was about to begin. And that meant questions. Seven rounds of ten questions each, including pictures and matching and particular subjects, and we knew we were screwed if any of the rounds were about sports or current events. Don’t ask me from nothin’ about what happened out in the world in the past week. Hell, on a good day I can barely remember where I live.

At 8pm on the dot, the Pub Quiz questions started coming as hot and heavy as the air inside a fogged up jalopy at the drive-in movies on a Saturday night. That’s when the last member of our team finally showed up. Joe, known as Joey ‘T’, is an artist like Michelangelo. Unlike Michelangelo, Joey ‘T’ is a stoner who’s always running late ‘cause he has to meet up with some shadowy character he euphemistically calls his iced tea connection. Joey ‘T’ is a walking encyclopedia when it comes to cartoon trivia. A regular Looney Tunes idiot savant. Too bad none of this night’s topics concerned cartoons.

“Made it! And before the end of Round One,” Joey ‘T’ said, as proud as if he’d just painted an exact replica of one of those Picasso women with three breasts.

Ginger automatically brought him an iced tea. She got away fast enough to avoid his pawing hands.

“Hey, Joey,” High Steve said. “Did ya hear the one about the vagina that--”

“Let it freakin’ go!” I interrupted him. Michelangelo was grinning like he’d heard that vagina joke before and knew the punchline. But Christ, High Steve was talking so loud that people at the nearby tables were starting to throw us the stink eye, and I didn’t want to get banned from Molly’s … again. “C’mon, we gotta concentrate on the questions.”

Yeah, that was it, the questions. It was always the questions. Like “What’s the chemical symbol for ice?” and “In what year did the War of 1812 begin?” and “How many parts per million of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere is considered unhealthy?” When I heard that last one, I thought, ‘Nicki would probably toss out some crazy number off the top of her head--like 350, maybe--and be dead on.’ She was always doing things like that. Like I said, Nicki’s a sharp little bundle of dynamite. With that in mind, I checked. Yep, the bag with the space heater was still on the floor by my feet.

Now our team has a rep at Molly’s when it comes to Pub Quiz--like a cold sufferer’s nose on a sub-zero day, we’re always in the running. And this night we did hit some high points. But basically we were flailing around like a fat Ohio drunk in lead shoes trying to swim the river to get to the cheaper liquor stores in Kentucky. And the questions kept coming. And we kept flailing. And no matter how many times Ginger refilled my shot glass I couldn’t understand why we were flailing. But I could watch her walk away. Yeah, I could do that. Isn’t the unattainable always the most desired?

But what I really desired at the moment was to figure out what the hell was wrong with us. It was crazy, like we were sick or something. The guys were shaking like they were laid out side-by-side on one of those coin operated vibrating beds you find in a cheap motel. You know, the kind that always seem to stop vibrating two pumps too soon. Even though dressed for the weather, I was jiggling like a dashboard-mounted, spring-action hula girl.

“Shit!” Michelangelo said between rounds. “My brain’s freezing. It’s that big damned window. I can feel the Polar Vortex … vortexing off it. Convection can be a frigid bitch, boys. We need to get some more heat from somewhere.”

“Speaking of being frigid,” High Steve began in his bullhorn voice. “Did you guys hear the one about the vagina that--”

“Yeah, we already heard that one.” I cut him off. Joey ‘T’ giggled. Okay, so I chuckled a little too, ‘cause I had heard that vagina joke before. I knew the punchline. But this was Pub Quiz, and it was time to get serious because we were down. That was all right, though, we’d been down before. That didn’t always mean we were out. One time we were six points down going into the last round and came back to score the win. Well, the last round of this night was about to begin. “C’mon, guys,” I said. “We can still do this. We just need to concentrate.”

But I’d forgotten we weren’t alone at Molly’s. There were other teams lurking in the deep dark recesses of the bar, scribbling down guesses like clusters of squeaking bats splattering pseudo-intellectual guano onto their answer sheets. And they were all only too ready to kick us while we were down, while we were too busy fighting the cold to fight the questions.

And the rat-brain questions never let up. But for us, on this night, it was a frozen rat brain. To make a long story short, on the coldest night of the year so far, the Last Place Team crashed and burned. And to make matters worse, we managed to do that not with a bang but with Joey ‘T’ whimpering, “I can’t feel my fingers,” as he tried to write down our last useless answer. Although, I believe that was more a case of him tripping out on something rather than being near to suffering frostbite. Still, it was pitiful.

Pub Quiz was over, and the Last Place Team had lost. There was nothing left but for us to nurse the last bitter dregs of our drinks and pay up. And the only thing that was going to add a bit of light to that gloomy scene was Ginger. As she came by with the checks and walked away to make change, I had a ringside seat for the show and made the most of it.

With our tabs settled, Ginger swung by one last time, nodded at the plastic shopping bag under the table, winked at me and said, “Okay, Baby Cakes, give it to me.”

“You got it, Doll.” I handed the bag over.

As I watched her walk away--hypnotized by the sway of her hips--High Steve said, “What’s in the bag?”

“Space heater,” I said offhand, still distracted by Ginger’s retreating form.

“No, really,” High Steve said. “What’s in the bag?”

Something in his voice caught my attention. But like an alkie watching the last drops from a bottle of Mad Dog 2020 dribble into his soon-to-be-ex-wife’s mouth, making him yearn for just one more taste of that evil bitch’s lips, I kept my eyes on where Ginger had just disappeared from sight and said, “A space heater.”

“WHAT?”

I did look at him then, him and the other guys. They were all staring at me. Joey ‘T’ was blowing on his hands. Michelangelo had this scary-weird psychotic gleam in his eyes. Mouth gaping like a baby python with delusions of grandeur that had just unhinged its jaw to swallow a full-grown wild boar, High Steve said, “You had a space heater here all the time?”

“Yeah… What?” I didn’t get it.

“I can’t feel my hands…” Joey ‘T’ blubbered.

“All. This. Time,” Michelangelo said real slow, too calm.

“We’d have had to … plug it in somewhere…” I mumbled while keeping a close eye on Michelangelo. He was starting to freak me out.

Slowly, they all turned toward the wall beside that big ass polar vortexing window. There, next to the ATM and under the wall-mounted digital jukebox, was a freakin’ beautiful pair of electric outlets.

“We could’a plugged it in there,” High Steve said. “We could’a won.”

“We could’a survived,” Joey ‘T’ whined. He stared at his fingers, which had turned blue, and added, “Intact.”

“You could’a survived,” Michelangelo said. He was well past freakin’ me out.

Like a rat clawing its way up onto the Sunday bonnet of a Titanic passenger already frozen in the water, I looked around for any likely life preserver. And thinking about that Titanic rat made me think about all the frozen rat-brain questions that had punched a hole in the hull of our collective intellect this night, and I found my salvation. “It was the cold, okay? Yeah, that’s it, the cold got to me.” The guys were watching me real suspicious like, but I plunged on anyway, just like the temperature was plunging right outside that big window by our table. “It got to us all, didn’t it? And I’m no better, no stronger than you guys, right? We were all lousy tonight, and it was the cold. Yeah, that’s it, I didn’t think about that damned space heater because of the cold.”

“That doesn’t make any kind of freakin’ sense at all,” High Steve said. “But I’m too cold to argue. I’m going home.”

He got up, and the other guys followed suit. With one last disgusted look from each of them, aimed square at the sweet spot right between my eyes, they turned and headed out the door. They were just walking away. I couldn’t let the night end like that, so I grabbed my coat and charged through the door after them. They were halfway down the block when I yelled, “Hey!”

They turned, waiting. And I made them wait, in the cold, until finally High Steve held out his arms as if to say ‘What?’ That’s when I let ‘em have it.

“YA BUNCH’A PUSSIES!” Yeah, that felt good. I’d let it go earlier inside Molly’s, hadn’t I, when they were bitching about the cold? Or maybe I didn’t really let it go. Maybe instead, I slipped that little number into my hip pocket for just such an occasion. Only I never expected that occasion to come ‘round so soon.

And the guys laughed it off, ‘cause they knew I didn’t mean it … not really … not the way you’d think. They laughed because we’re guys, and that’s how guys roll. Then they went their separate ways--High Steve, home to break his little girl’s heart yet again with news of another loss; Joey ‘T’, for one last stop-n-shop meeting of the day with his iced tea connection; and Michelangelo, well, Mikey was off to do whatever sick twisted shit Mikey does when it’s dark and no one is looking.

And me? I stood there for a while in the circle of light just outside Molly’s door, reflecting on the events of the night. And when I realized the effect the cold had on those events, it hit me. Knocked me flatter than a road-kill fritter whipped up by some big-rig gourmet guru whose cuisine mantra is ‘Ya gotta get it out’a the grill before you can put it on the grill.’

On this knife-edged night I realized, for once, that it wasn’t about me. It was about us, all of us who routinely gathered at Molly’s for a meager measure of simple human warmth. Like the guys of Last Place Team, everyone of them, including me, stripped bare by this city, made emotional orphans of the same bone-cold concrete wasteland from which Ginger’s Prince Charming would one day stumble; a guy who would be saved by her as much as she’d be saved by him.

And it was about Nicki, that sweet little bundle of dynamite, who would no longer have to worry about freezing her blasting caps off ‘cause now she’d have a space heater to keep the frost at bay. And I made that happen, or at least I had set it in motion. Yeah, that made me feel good too; even better than calling the guys a bunch’a pussies. With that in mind, I turned up my collar and stepped out of the light, into the night, into the city. And I smiled. ‘Cause cold as it was, I felt warm inside. Real warm.

My earliest memory is of death. Or more precisely, of the aftermath of death. I don’t know how old I was—perhaps the tender age of four. And I don’t know who it was who had died. But I do remember an old farm house, it was night, and a body was laid out in a back bedroom. Yes, I remember the body well. But what I remember most is, there were so many people on hand to take part in that old fashioned ritual of ‘sittin’ up with the dead’ the night before the funeral, there was not enough room left for all the children to sleep in the house. So I, along with one other child—who could have been my older brother or a cousin, I don’t remember—had to sleep in the family car.

For the longest time I wanted to incorporate that memory in a story. But I could not find the proper vehicle to do so until the night I attended a reading held by a local women's writing group. One of them read a poem in which she mentioned the Biblical character Lazarus, and a switch somewhere in my imagination was flipped. Graced with one of those rare moments of absolute inspiration, I suddenly knew exactly what the story would be, and I wrote it.

Now all these years later, having been visited yet again by death, family and friends gather to lay to rest my brother-in-law Carl Joyner. It hurts. But that’s how it must be. Knowing that does not make saying goodbye any easier. However, it is the way things are. To face this as if any alternative were possible would be…


Unnatural

The hour was late when they finally reached his grandparent’s farm, but that meant nothing to six-year-old Jason. Along with most other things, time ceased to be a concern the moment he learned Grandpa Bill was dead. Slouched in the backseat of the family’s ‘47 Chevy, through eyes drained of tears, Jason stared out the side window into the dark. In the diffused glow from the headlights, the trees lining the dirt road leading to the old farmhouse appeared more like the ghosts of trees--shades of things that once were, marching past as if in a funeral procession as his dad drove the last quarter-mile. Grandpa Bill was Jason’s dad’s dad.

Jason’s mom sat directly in front of him, in the passenger seat close beside his dad. It was she who’d given him the news. ‘He’s gone, Honey. Your grandpa’s gone.’ That’s how she first put it after receiving the phone call around midday, as if his grandfather had disappeared in a blinding flash of light, or had simply walked away from everyone and everything he’d ever known. At six, Jason was already beyond believing people could just disappear. And he was certain Grandpa Bill would not walk away from him.

Besides, growing up on a farm, Jason knew about death. Often while playing in the field behind his house, or down by the creek where he’d been told ‘Never! Ever!’ to go alone, something pale as cream winking in a patch of wind-stirred grass, or glistening within the brown scab of an exposed bit of earth, would catch his eye, and he’d discover the half-buried skull of a muskrat or possum--he could never be sure which--or the easiest to recognize: a cat. At those moments, he was aware of being in the presence of something that had once been alive but was no more.

Though Jason had seen the evidence of death’s passage through the world, he’d never actually seen anything die until that time three months back when he had stayed with his grandparents for a week. And to be honest, he wasn’t watching when that particular life ended. He only witnessed what led up to that most consequential of moments. Jason was glad he hadn’t seen his grandpa die, and he surely didn’t want to see the evidence that it had happened. But view that evidence was exactly what his parents had said he should do.

“Almost there, Honey,” his mom said, turning so she could fix on him the sort of smile she wore when coming at him with a teaspoon full of medicine they both knew he could barely manage to swallow and keep down. “Then you can say goodbye to your Grandpa.”

“He’s not there,” Jason said uncertainly. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the side window, and watched her out of the corner of his eye.

“Of course he is. He’ll be laid out in the bedroom, and the whole family is coming to say goodbye. He’d want you there. Grandpa Bill loved you so much,” she cooed.

“You don’t have to talk to me like I’m a baby,” Jason mumbled. “It’s unnatural.”

“Un—?” His mom stared at him for a moment then said, “We’ll be there soon.” She smiled sadly, turned back toward the front, and rested her head against her husband’s shoulder.

When the porch light showed ahead, Jason sighed. He was worn to exhaustion from the events of the day, and wanted only to curl up in his own bed and make everything go away. In the morning he’d awaken to the smells of bacon frying and coffee percolating, and Grandpa Bill would be alive.

Thinking about coffee reminded him of how much he hated milk--a thing unheard of on a farm where it came fresh from the cow--and how for so long he had fought with his mother over her insistence that he drink it because it would ‘make you big-n-strong’. It made him sick. It was Grandpa Bill who’d thought to mix it half-and-half with coffee. After that, Jason couldn’t wait for his morning glassful. It still bothered his stomach a little. But it was worth it to have a taste of what his grandpa called ‘the dark elixir of the gods’. He was always saying things like that.

The yard in front of his grandparent’s house was a jumble of cars and trucks parked every which way. In concert with the dim yellow bug light by the front door, the curtained windows leaked a muted, pale glow onto the porch. A man sat on the steps smoking a pipe. A child sat at his side leaning into him. Before Jason could see if he knew them, his dad slipped the Chevy into a tight space between an old square-backed, long-hooded sedan and a flatbed farm truck with cattle racks, and parked.

“Home,” his dad said soft as a whisper. He shook his head as if waking from a dream and spoke up. “Guess we better go see how Mom’s doing.”

Approaching the porch, Jason saw that the man sitting on the steps was his dad’s brother, Uncle Howard. The boy asleep against him was his son, Jason’s younger cousin Orville.

“Matt,” Uncle Howard said. “Good to see you. Did ya run into trouble?” When he drew on his pipe, the inside of the bowl glowed like a campfire’s bed of coals, then slowly faded until the next pull. Proof of life.

“Got started late. Flat tire along the way.” Jason’s dad shrugged, his voice flat as roadkill. “Did they figure out what happened?”

“Stroke … while he was walking to the barn.” Uncle Howard’s voice was equally dead. “Doctor said Pop most likely dropped where he stood. Said he didn’t suffer.”

“That’s good to know. How’s Mom?”

“Numb.”

The word rode a plume of pipe smoke, disappearing with it into the night. Jason caught the scent: Borkum Riff-Apple, same as Grandpa Bill smoked. He had often run to fetch the small tin of shredded, aromatic leaves for his grandpa. The musky bouquet of Uncle Howard’s pipe nearly choked him with longing. With his mother standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders, he waited for something to happen.

Something should happen, shouldn’t it? On a day like this? Jason was just coming to understand what his mom meant when she told him his dad loved deep but showed shallow. Uncle Howard was younger than Jason’s dad by two years. If he was waiting for his big brother to take the lead, it might be a long wait.

“Well, I better go on in.” Jason’s dad patted Uncle Howard on the shoulder, and stepped to the front door.

With a nudge from his mom, Jason went up the steps. “See, Honey, Orville’s here,” she said as they passed the sleeping boy inclined against Uncle Howard. “You’ve got someone to play with. Maybe you can wake ‘im up after you see your grandpa … if it’s okay?” she added to Uncle Howard.

“Once he’s out, he’s usually out for good. But sure, you can try.” Uncle Howard’s eyes were red and puffy like Jason’s, but also like Jason’s, they were dry of tears. More evidence of things that once were.

“I’m so sorry, Howard,” Jason’s mom said with a catch in her voice.

“Thanks, Sarah. Y’all go on in. Mom’ll be glad to see this one.” He roughed Jason’s hair. “I’ll be along directly.”

Jason and his mom joined his dad, and they entered the house together.

The living room, with all its familiar furniture, lace doilies, and knickknacks, was packed with relatives. Jason recognized most everyone, if not by name at least by sight. The ones he didn’t know were probably neighbors. The few younger children present were asleep, surprising considering his dad had said the family was going to sit up all night and have a Wake for Grandpa. He figured it was called that because everyone stayed awake.

He ached to join the sleeping kids. If he could be allowed to go to bed, he wouldn’t have to see Grandpa Bill’s body. Receiving and acknowledging words of sympathy, his dad led the way through the crowd of mourners in a manner that said there’d be no putting off the inevitable.

When they started down the hall toward his grandparents bedroom, Jason tried to hang back knowing what awaited him there. But the mourners, who had separated to let them pass the way the Red Sea was said to have parted beneath the power of Moses’ upraised staff, remerged in a tidal flow that propelled him forward in his parent’s footsteps.

In the bedroom, an arc of chairs was arrayed facing the white-enameled iron bed. Jason refused to look at what lay there. The first person he saw, sitting in the center of the arc, was Grandma Rose.

“Matty!” she cried when she turned and spied Jason’s dad. “Thank God, you made it!” She tried to rise, but collapsed back onto the chair in tears. Grandma Rose was a big woman, tall and large-boned, always smiling … until now. It scared Jason to see her brought so low. His dad knelt and wrapped her in his arms.

“Momma,” he whispered like a child as big tears streamed down his cheeks, the first Jason had seen him cry all day. Jason began to cry at the sight of two people he loved consumed by such grief. His mom kissed him on top of the head.

“It should’ve been me,” Grandma moaned with her face against her son’s.

“Don’t say that, Momma.” Jason’s dad rocked her back and forth. “Pop always said you were the strong one.”

“How can anyone be strong enough for this? Matty, what am I gonna do without him?”

“Trust in the Lord,” said a baritone voice from a couple of chairs to Grandma’s left. “God will brace you up. He will provide.”

Tracing the voice to its source, Jason found the minister of his grandparent’s church: Reverend Stonebraker.

Jason knew his dad didn’t care much for Reverend Stonebraker because once, when his parent’s didn’t know he was around, he’d heard his dad call the man Reverend Nutcruncher.

‘Matt!’ His mom’s mouth had flown open wide while her eyes sparkled with silent laughter.

‘Well it fits,” his dad had said. ‘I simply cannot abide that man’s incessant, unfathomable denigration of the joys of sex. Momma listens to him too much. He’s gonna ruin Pop’s home life.’

‘Sshhh.” His mom had giggled. ‘Not so loud. If Jay hears you, that’s all we’d hear outta him for a month. And he wouldn’t even know what it meant.’

‘Okay,’ his dad had said with a grudging smile. ‘But I won’t call him reverend. To me, he’s just the Stonebraker.’

Jason didn’t know what the word ‘sex’ meant, but he did know a little something about the reverend. While visiting his grandparents, he’d had occasion to sit through the man’s sermons. The reverend would start out soft and low, reading from the scriptures and throwing in an ‘amen’ every now and then. But it was as if he was a windup toy, and there was something inside him cranking a spring tighter and tighter as the sermon went on. By the end, his voice would boom out over the congregation like cannon fire.

As Jason’s mom and dad comforted Grandma, Jason caught a “Yes Lord,” and a “Hear me, Jesus,” and a “Hallelujah!” from the reverend in response to some comment by one or another of the mourners seated near him, each word a little louder than the last. The Stonebraker was getting wound up.

Jason’s dad helped Grandma up, and they stepped to the bedside where they leaned against each other, looking down upon the bed, murmuring, Grandma’s shoulders shaking with her sobs. Jason stood back against his mother’s legs, sniffing back his tears, seeking comfort in her warmth. He refused to acknowledge what was on the bed. When his dad walked Grandma back to her chair, she motioned him over.

“Oh child,” she said and drew Jason to herself, nearly smothering him against her ample bosom. “I’m glad you’re here. You and Bill were so close. Sometimes I think he talked to you more than to me.”

Trying not to cry, Jason said the first thing that came to mind. “Grandpa Bill loved you.”

“I know he did. And he loved you too. Go on now, say your farewells.” Watching him through tear-filled eyes, Grandma Rose inclined her head toward the bed. Jason’s mom took him by the hand and led him forward.

And there was Grandpa Bill. Jason’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of the tall, thin old man lying stretched out on the bed in his Sunday suit, hands crossed over his waist, wispy white hair neatly combed, asleep, or so it seemed.

Grandpa? Jason thought as hope blossomed in wild profusion, flooding him with its call to believe his grandfather really was merely sleeping. But only for a second. Grandpa Bill was a farmer: sun browned, leathered, with a prickly white stubble on his chin that felt like the good scratch of a bad itch whenever he rubbed it against Jason’s cheek as they roughhoused. What lay on the bed had a face nearly as smooth as porcelain, was pale as one of Grandma’s china plates, a doll-thing in grandpa’s clothes.

“It’s okay to touch him,” his mom said.

Everything in Jason recoiled at the idea. He glanced about, desperate for some measure of reassurance. Every face he saw held only the sympathetic expectation that he do what was required. He bolted from the room.

His mom caught up to him before he reached the front door, and held him not roughly but securely. Everyone in the living room watched from aside as if trying to bestow privacy where none was possible. “It’s okay if you don’t want to touch him,” she said. “Grandpa would understand. But you do need to say goodbye.”

“That’s not him,” Jason said picturing the smooth, waxy flesh of the figure on the bed. “Saying goodbye to that would be unnatural.”

“Unnatural?” She frowned. “Why do you keep saying that?”

He could neither hold her gaze nor answer. It was a secret. “I’m tired, Mom,” he pleaded instead. “Can I go to bed?”

“Oh Honey, I’m sorry.” She hugged him. “It’s been a hard day, hasn’t it? Yes, of course you can go to bed. You can say goodbye to your grandpa tomorrow at the funeral. Now…” She looked around until she located Uncle Howard’s wife, June. “Where are the kids sleeping?” she called over.

“Most are already in the barn, bedded down under quilts and blankets in the hayloft.” Aunt June nodded at the children passed out in the living room. “Here’s the overflow.”

“Oh my.” Jason’s mom furrowed her brow, then took his hand and said, “Come on,” and headed out the door.

Still sitting on the steps, Uncle Howard turned at the sound of their approach. Orville was curled up asleep with his head in his father’s lap. Jason envied him.

“Howard,” Jason’s mom said. “Where will Orville be sleeping tonight?”

“Haven’t figured that out yet. Maybe in the living room.” He nodded toward the nearby barn. “It seems there’s no room at the inn.”

“There are probably blacksnakes in that barn, anyway.” She stared out into the yard, then turned to Uncle Howard. “I’ve got an idea. Pick Orville up and follow me.” Holding Jason by the hand, she led the way to their car. “They should be all right in here, don’t you think?”

“I expect so,” Uncle Howard said. “And probably a lot happier than in the house. It’d be like an adventure.”

Jason liked the idea. Sleeping out there away from the adults would be an adventure. Orville was stirring. Before he could awaken and make any claims, Jason called, “I got the front seat!”

“You snooze, you lose,” Uncle Howard said, giving Orville a tired, sad grin. He opened the back door, and deposited his son on the seat.

“Go on, get in,” Jason’s mom said to him. “I’ll be right back with some covers.” She walked away with Uncle Howard, and soon returned with blankets and pillows. After tucking in Orville--who murmured but didn’t awaken the whole time she was shifting him about--she told Jason, “If you need anything, we’ll be right inside. Now get some sleep. You’ll want to be rested for the funeral tomorrow. Your grandma’s gonna need you to be strong for her. Goodnight, Honey. Grandpa Bill would be so proud of you.”

“Night, Mom.”

As his mom’s footsteps receded, the summer night came alive with crisp, dry insect songs set against the rhythm of his sleeping cousin’s steady, deep breaths. Jason stretched out on the front seat, and stared up through the windshield opening at a sky filled to bursting with twinkling pinpoints of light. Smeared across the windshield at an angle, the Milky Way seemed so close it was as if by reaching out and touching the glass, he could touch the stars. Tired as he was, Jason’s troubled mind warded off sleep with a pathological determination.

‘He’s gone,’ his mom had said, as if there was not a trace of Grandpa Bill left in the world. But what lay in his grandparent’s bedroom was a trace, wasn’t it? Something to prove his grandpa had in fact existed? Should he have touched it?

“Hey! Orville!” he called into the dark in a harsh whisper.

When no response came, Jason threw one of his shoes over the seat back, and heard a satisfying thunk! followed by a mumbled, “Wha…”

“Orville, did you go in to see Grandpa?”

“Um … Grandpa?”

“Wake up long enough to answer me, will ya? Did you see Grandpa Bill?”

“Uh huh,” Orville mumbled.

“Did you touch him?”

“Yesss…” came the muffled response.

Figuring Orville was burrowing back down into his covers, afraid he was about to lose his cousin to sleep for the rest of the night, Jason asked one last question.

“How did it feel?”

“Hard…” Orville whispered. “Cold…”

“That wasn’t him,” Jason said, more to convince himself than to refute Orville.

Unsatisfied, uneasy, he rolled onto his side and let exhaustion drag him to sleep’s realm. That’s where Grandpa Bill found him.

C’mon, Jaybird. You had your taste of the dark elixir this morning, so you got no excuse. Get a move on.

Jason opened his eyes to a bright, blue-sky day with a familiar field spread out all around him, and carpeting the gentle hillside directly ahead. He knew the place well. It was the pasture behind his grandpa’s barn. A few paces away stood Grandpa Bill in his overalls and plaid work shirt, face shaded by his sweat-stained, wide-brimmed straw hat. Grandpa grinned, turned, and strode up the slope.

‘Wait!’ Jason called. Grandpa Bill’s long, easy strides ate the distance so that he had to run to catch up. When he did, his grandfather slowed and put a hand on his shoulder.

Remember this? Grandpa Bill said.

Jason stopped and looked about, taking in the barn behind, the fence line to the right, and the tree line to the left. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘It’s your pasture.’

Hah! Grandpa Bill laughed, then squatted, took off his hat, and leveled his lively blue eyes on Jason. Well yes, you are right about that. But I didn’t mean, do you know where this is. I meant, do you know when this is? At Jason’s confused expression, he added, You will. Just wait a bit.

Grandpa sat facing downhill toward the barn with his legs drawn up and his arms resting across his knees. Jason sat beside him, glanced sideways to check, and made a couple of adjustments to exactly match his grandfather’s pose. On some level he knew he was dreaming, but something seemed odd even for a dream. After a moment, he realized what that was.

At first he’d been looking out through his own eyes, seeing the world as one would expect. Somewhere along the way his perspective changed, he had slipped outside, and was now watching himself and his grandfather from a little distance away. He could see himself, and he accepted that in the calm way dreamers so often accept the most absurd things. It simply was the way it was.

But when the Jason sitting beside Grandpa suddenly sat up straighter, looking down the slope, the Jason watching felt gooseflesh ripple over his body. He knew what had snared the other’s attention, he had seen it all before.

There, downhill and to the left, the brown tips of its ears twitched above the top of a clump of grass. In a moment it would hop into the open--two hops, no more--then sit back on its haunches to look around. All this the rabbit did as if on cue. The watching Jason knew it would happen just that way because that’s the way it had happened that day three months back when he’d spent a week with his grandparents. Now it was time for the next player to appear.

Hear that? Grandpa Bill said to the other Jason as a shrill cry split the silence. All three looked up.

It came out of the sun, a streak of gray/brown and white, nose down, wings tucked, talons pulled in. At the last instant, it flared out its wings over the just-beginning-to-react rabbit, and the clawed feet came down. The rabbit gave one horrific, high-pitched shriek before the hawk’s wings covered it like a shroud.

As if connected by a psychic umbilicus, the watching Jason experienced the fright, the panic, the absolute terror for the rabbit that the other Jason felt--felt them because they had assaulted him when these exact events had occurred three months ago. Or were they happening now? Or still happening in some closed loop, some eternal cycle where the life and death struggle was forever being played out? At the moment, none of that mattered. The blind, raging fear for the rabbit’s life--for life itself--was all that existed.

‘Grandpa!’ the other Jason cried.

Grandpa Bill grabbed up a pebble off the ground, stood, and threw it at the hawk, shouting, Get outta here!

The bird extended its neck and glared.

Hey! Get! Grandpa yelled, moving down the slope toward it. Startled, the raptor tried to take flight with its prey clutched in its talons, but the rabbit was a big one. The lumbering bird dropped its catch, gave two powerful pumps with its curved wings, and flew off with one last piercing cry.

The other Jason ran at his grandfather’s heels to where the rabbit had fallen. Knowing what was to come, the watching Jason followed more slowly.

The rabbit was not dead. Lying in a blood-soaked, brownish heap, sides heaving, it made no effort to rise and run away. It could only stare with bulging eyes as Grandpa Bill and the other Jason knelt in the grass beside it.

‘Grandpa?’ the other Jason whispered. ‘Can you fix it?’

After the briefest of pauses, Grandpa Bill answered, No, Jaybird. This one’s done for. It’s suffering. Best we can do is make that stop.

‘How?’ The other Jason reached to pet the stricken animal.

Don’t! Grandpa said sternly. You might get rabbit fever from the blood. He gave the other Jason a sad, sympathetic look and continued in a softer tone. Best not watch this. Go on, look away off there in the trees. That’s where that hawk went. See if you can spot him.

The other Jason did as instructed. This time the watching Jason watched as Grandpa Bill tenderly picked up the rabbit, cradled it for a moment, then gave its neck a quick twist. Both Jasons flinched at the soft crunch that seemed to ring through the warm air around them like a rifle shot. When the other Jason looked back, Grandpa was laying the rabbit’s still, supple body back on the ground.

There, he said, wiping the blood from his hands onto the grass. It’s not suffering anymore.

The watching Jason remembered his Uncle Howard’s report that the doctor said Grandpa Bill had ‘probably dropped where he stood’, that he ‘didn’t suffer’. He gazed at his grandpa kneeling beside that other him, and he smiled. That was good. Knowing what was coming next, his smile melted into a frown of concentration. He knew, but he needed to hear it again to try to work out exactly what it might mean.

‘Why’d that have to happen, Grandpa?’ the other Jason asked with un-cried tears in his eyes. ‘Why couldn’t the hawk just leave that rabbit alone?’

Cause that would have been unnatural.

‘Unnatural?’

That’s right. Grandpa Bill regarded him solemnly. It means when a thing’s not the way it’s supposed to be. Like that hawk. It’s alive and wants to stay so, so one thing it has to do is eat. And hawks eat rabbits. If the hawk had seen that rabbit and just let it go on its way, it wouldn’t have been acting the way God made it to act. To do that would have been unnatural. You understand?

‘Uh huh,’ the other Jason said, but the watching Jason knew it wasn’t so, not completely. ‘But why this rabbit? Why right now?’

Because this rabbit and that hawk were right here right now. I’ve read where some folks think time turns like a great big wheel with everything coming around when it’s supposed to. Choices are made hours ago, days ago, huh, maybe lifetimes ago--I don’t rightly understand it all yet--but anyway, things are set in motion. When it’s time for something to happen, it happens. For it to happen any other way would be unnatural.
I just discovered the significance of that word lately while reading what Mr. Charles Darwin had to say that got so many people stirred up. He wrote a lot about what he called Natural Selection, and that got me to thinking about what would make a thing unnatural. Grandpa Bill gazed down the hill, out over the barn to the house.
And your grandma’s none too happy about that. In fact, she doesn’t like to hear that word at all. You see, your grandma figures everything is natural, we just don’t understand it all yet. And maybe she’s right. Maybe the only unnatural thing in the world is not accepting how things are just ‘cause we don’t like them. He gave a wry smile that confused the other Jason, but broke the watching Jason’s heart. Anyway, I try not to say that word too much around her. So let’s you and me keep it between us, okay? It’ll be part of our secret language for when we talk about important things. He stood and arched his back, stretching out the kinks.

Still kneeling beside the rabbit’s body, the other Jason said, ‘Are we gonna bury it?’

No. I shouldn’t have thrown that rock in the first place. By doing that, I’ve already disturbed the cycle enough. We’ll leave it here in case that hawk’s still around watching. Anything else would be unnatural. Grandpa Bill turned, and for the first time looked directly at the watching Jason. Remember this, he said. Now, let’s get back to the house.

Jason’s eyelids fluttered open on a dark world. He was curled up on the front seat of the family car, Grandpa Bill wasn’t around anymore, and something else was wrong. He lay still, yet half in the land of dreams, listening to something out of place amid the usual night noises.

“What is that?” he whispered to himself as he strained to make sense of the nearly-rhythmic sound pulsing through the car’s body panels and window glass. Barefoot, sleep banished and curiosity itching, he left the car. As he stepped onto the night-cooled boards of the front porch, the noise began to coalesce into something like speech. When he entered the living room, it became a recognizable voice.

“…a brother, a good man…”

The Stonebraker was holding forth in the bedroom where Grandpa Bill was laid out. Some in the living room, adult as well as child, managed to sleep. Most sat silent, staring, listening as the booming voice rang down the short hallway and vibrated around them the way that soft crunch had echoed across the pasture when Grandpa Bill broke the rabbit’s neck to end its suffering. Was the Stonebraker trying to end the family’s suffering by praising Grandpa? Then why did he say ‘brother’ when Grandpa Bill was an only child? Why didn’t he mention ‘husband’ or ‘father’ in his accolades? Why did he leave off ‘Grandpa’?

“Lazarus was all those things, yes,” the Stonebraker extolled. “But more important than any of that, he was the beloved friend of Jesus Christ almighty, Himself!”

Jason knew the story of Lazarus, of how Jesus had come late, after the burial, and in front of all Lazarus’ weeping family and friends had called the dead man from the tomb. That story always scared him a little; the idea of the dead walking. It just wasn’t right.

The folks sitting in the living room all looked so tired, so unawake for a Wake. Jason had no idea what time it was. For that matter, after his dream, he was very confused about anything having to do with time. But that was okay. He steered a path through the mourners compelled by the half-formed intuition that a great wheel was inexorably turning, and the natural thing to do was move with it.

In the bedroom, Grandma Rose still sat in the center of the arc of chairs with Jason’s dad to her right and Uncle Howard on her left. The Stonebraker was beside him. Various other relatives crowded the room. Jason walked up beside his mom who stood just behind his dad. When she noticed him, she squatted and said, “What are you doin’ up, Honey? Is it Orville?”

“Orville’s okay,” he said. “I heard the Sto-- I heard the preacher, and came to listen.”

“The men gnashed their teeth and ripped their garments asunder!” the Stonebraker roared. “And the women wailed and yanked out hands-full of their hair by the roots!”

“He does go on, doesn’t he?” Jason’s mom whispered, but Jason was only half listening, too busy checking her head to see if she’d torn out any hair.

“Martha, Lazarus’ sister, actually dared to criticize Jesus. Said He’d come too late! Jesus wept at their sorrow, but He was untroubled by her accusation.” The Stonebraker paused. “And do you know why?”

“Yes,” Jason whispered, unaware he’d done so and too low for anyone to hear.

“Because he wasn’t late!” the Stonebraker thundered. “Christ knew that all things happen in their time, and it was Lazarus’ time to die!”

Jason felt the wheel turning, and the tears streamed down his cheeks to grease its path. He looked long and hard at Grandpa Bill’s body on the bed, and knew his grandpa wasn’t really there. Grandpa Bill was riding the wheel in his allotted place, and had rolled on. He was gone, and though it hurt Jason beyond what words could convey, that’s how it was supposed to be.

“But Christ had a plan,” the Stonebraker continued. “He would use this tragedy for His glory, and show the mourners a thing of wonder: a miracle! ‘Open the tomb!’ Christ ordered the men standing there. ‘But he’s been buried for three days,’ they said. ‘His body’s already corrupted.’ Christ knew the body was corrupted. The body is always corrupt.”

“Not that…” Jason’s dad whispered. Grandma Rose shushed him.

“But though the body be the source of so many of our temptations, the storehouse of all our carnal desires, all our human failings, a body is what carried the soul of Lazarus out of that tomb obedient to Christ’s command!” He leveled his fiery gaze on Grandpa Bill’s body. “Wouldn’t it be something if our brother Bill could come back to us like that? Just the way the dead did when Jesus stood before the tomb.” The Stonebraker stood and spread his arms wide, casting a shadow like a dark angel across the body on the bed. “And he cried, ‘Lazarus! Come forth!’”

To a scattered chorus of ‘amens’, the Stonebraker remained upright a moment longer, trembling, then sagged back onto his chair withdrawing his shadow from the bed. “Wouldn’t that be something?” he whispered. Breathless. Spent. Unwound.

And it seemed to Jason that whatever it was that wound the Stonebraker so tight leaped from that man straight into him, and gave one god-almighty crank on his spring.

“No!” he said loud and clear. “Grandpa Bill shouldn’t come outta the tomb! He wouldn’t want to!” Undeterred by the shocked expressions fixed on him, he added, “That would be unnatural.”

“Jason!” His mom put a hand to her breast and looked an apology around the room. “What’s gotten into you? Where on Earth do you get such ideas?”

Jason turned away from her and found himself staring through his tears straight into Grandma Rose’s shimmering eyes. She was too near not to have heard him, and she was smiling.

I have this piece of work. And I have some questions.

First: What is it?
Besides being pure farce, I'm not quite sure ... but I like it. I think of it as a warped adult fairy tale. Adult, as in, there is sex involved, but all in fun and tastefully done, I believe. Warped, as in, it's just slightly out of phase with reality. Yes, I know most, if not all, fairy tales are not in phase with reality but more so with mythology. But this story is even slightly out of phase with the average fairy tale, and not in the direction that would take it back to the world of the normal. So...

Second: What can I do with it?
It's long, for a short story. And it's short, for a novel. It might be a novella. But what the hell is that anyway except something that's too long for a short story and too short for a novel. I hear the word 'novella' and the speaker may as well have said 'Lalalalala' for all that conveys. It helps me not a bit. At 24,135 words (roughly 80 pages), I don't know what to do with it.
The story is set in one place, over a short period of time, with a cast of characters that move in and out of the scenes, and it is mostly dialogue ... mostly ... so I have thought of converting it to a stage play. I've never done a stage play; might be an interesting challenge. Which brings me back to my questions...

Third: Is this something that would be worth the time and effort involved in converting it to a stage play?
While writing it I saw it performed in my mind's eye. That's the way I write everything. I'm very visually cued. But then, in hearing my characters deliver their lines I strive for a smooth, natural conversational flow which I can transfer to the written page, so I suppose I'm also aurally cued to them. But I'm certain the performance I saw in my head isn't what another reader will experience, not exactly. The scenes may not flow one into another. The dialogue may not work to the desired effect. So what to do...

Here is what I'm going to do. I intend to present the first quarter (approximately) of the story, stopping a what seems a natural break in the action. And anyone who wishes, PLEASE give me any feedback you want, on any of the above questions you want, or on any other aspect you choose.

This piece of work sprang from a Facebook exchange I had with a niece who told of how her four-year-old little girl had picked up one of her story books, opened it, and pretended to read herself a story. Instead of beginning with the traditional 'Once upon a time...', this child began her story with 'One at a time, there was a big princess...'
I told my niece that HAD to be the first line of my next story. My plan was to write a cute little fairy tale she could read to her daughter and one day tell her she was its inspiration. But somehow, working with that strange first line, the story that came to me was something quite different. Let's just say my niece's daughter will have to wait a few years to hear it, or even read it for herself. Let's say several years.
Anyway, as I promised, I began the story with those nine words, even though I had to break them up between the first line and the first five words of the second line. It's intentionally wordy, overwritten, and laced with adverbs. And tell me, when was the last time you read a fairy tale with footnotes?

So without further ado, here is 'Part One' of...


One At A Time

"One at a time!”

There was a big princess who once had to shout thus because, having become impatient from being so very hungry, she forgot to name a particular serving boy when she called for some food to be brought to her. The big princess’s name was Hortense, by the way, a name which led to some rather unkind jokes at her expense by the randier castle guards. But the big princess no longer lived in the Castle. Instead, she lived in a wattle and daub hovel (1) that looked a bit like a big brown doghouse.


(1 - Wattle and daub is a construction method that involves building a framework of interlaced twigs or thin split branches (the wattle) which is then daubed with clay (or excrement) and horsehair to form a surprisingly effective wall. A hovel is a small, squalid, unpleasant, or simply constructed dwelling.
Big Princess Hortense’s big wattle and daub hovel was waterproofed by coating the exterior with bacon grease.)


When the big princess Hortense did live in the Castle, the Lord Treasurer took it upon himself one particularly dark day to voice the opinion that she was depleting the Kingdom’s treasury with her appetite. Curiously, it was around the time the big princess first overheard some of those randy, castle-guard jokes that she began to eat so much. Considering her lineage, Big Princess Hortense would most assuredly have been big no matter what. But what measure of her eventual bigness was due to some sort of reaction to overhearing those unkind jokes is certainly a matter quite worthy of speculation.

However, for all her eating, the big princess was not fat. She was BIG. As in tall, large boned, stout, thick of frame, muscular … for a girl, broad shouldered, and she had a wart on her right cheek with exactly three black hairs growing from it. That last bit of information may seem out of place when describing the big princess Hortense’s bigness, but as warts go, her’s was also big.

Since Big Princess Hortense’s eating habits could not be restricted at the Castle where she was able to order the kitchen staff about--and with the survival of the Kingdom’s treasury in mind--sadly, forlornly, and with no malice of forethought, the King and Queen removed the big princess from the Castle, and installed her in the wattle and daub hovel in the forest. There she was provided with carefully measured--though still quite generous as befitted a princess--gastronomic staples for her sustenance.

Big Princess Hortense was not a child when she went to live in the wattle and daub hovel in the forest. She was a maiden of nineteen, to be exact, and the big princess really did like to be exact. And she was not sent away from the Castle alone--that would not do at all for a princess. She was sent to live in the wattle and daub hovel attended by two ladies-in-waiting and two serving boys, all of whom were quite unknown to her.

Their names were Annabeth and Sarabeth--those sisters being the ladies-in-waiting, of course--and Egbert and Rupert. If you guessed they were the serving boys, you guessed right, but I’ll wager you didn’t know they were not boys at all, but were in fact fully grown young men. The ladies-in-waiting did general lady-in-waiting stuff. With a nod to her regard for exactness, the big princess Hortense gave each serving boy an exact duty.

Rupert was responsible for breakfast, and when summoned by the big princess, would promptly deliver to her a platter loaded with scrumptious breakfast goodies such as biscuits, gravy, eggs, hash browns, and of course, bacon. ‘Don’t forget the bacon,’ the big princess so often sternly warned that whenever she called, ‘Rupert!’ he would mumble ‘Better bring the bacon,’ over and over again so as not to forget what was best not forgotten.

Egbert was responsible for dinner, and when summoned by the big princess Hortense, would hurry to her carrying a platter heaped high with succulent dinner items such as mashed potatoes, peas, asparagus and corn on the cob, all served as side dishes to goat. You guessed it: the goat was so important not to forget that Egbert, when summoned, would go about piling the succulent dinner items onto the platter mumbling, ‘Gotta get the goat.’ (2)


(2 - You’re probably wondering about Big Princess Hortense’s lunches and her evening snacks. Those were taken care of by her ladies-in-waiting, Annabeth and Sarabeth, during which time they were forced to temporarily forego their afternoon and evening licentious shenanigans with Egbert and Rupert respectively.)


The big princess’s daily routine was exact, and in fact it was from that very exactness that the trouble sprang on that fateful Spring day when, feeling hungry--to be exact, so very hungry--Big Princess Hortense forgot to be exact and simply called, “Serving boy!”

Not hearing a specific name called, and it being neither time for breakfast nor dinner--nor lunch, nor evening snack, for that matter--both Egbert and Rupert were confused as to who should go and what that person should heap upon the platter to be taken. Besides, Annabeth and Sarabeth had them each otherwise occupied in their respective beds in their respective small, wattle and daub hovels, and were in the process of doing certain very unrespectable things to the two of them which all four of them quite liked. Neither Egbert nor Rupert had the slightest desire to take anything to the big princess ... at least for the next hour. But the big princess refused to be ignored much less denied. Besides, she was so very hungry.

“SERVING BOY!” Big princess Hortense shouted again, so loudly it shook some of the daub loose from her hovel’s wattle.

“Bloody hell!” said Egbert from beneath a panting Annabeth in his small, wattle and daub hovel. “I suppose you’d better untie me. What with all that shouting and wattle wrecking going on, I simply won’t be able to concentrate on any of those delightful, unrespectable things you’re doing.” When Annabeth pulled a pouty face, he added, “When I get back, we can pick up where we left off, okay?”

“Alrighty.” She hopped off him, straightened her skirts, and untied him from the bed. “Hurry back,” she called as he hurried from his hovel.

In the meantime much the same scene, minus the ropes, had played out between Rupert and Sarabeth in his small, wattle and daub hovel so that while scurrying to the kitchen he and Egbert nearly ran into each other. Rupert was still trying to pull up and secure his trousers, and that bit of fumbling allowed Egbert to avoid him.

“Missed a belt loop there.” Egbert pointed, trying to be helpful.

Not wanting to leave anything to chance as to Big Princess Hortense’s current culinary predilections, Egbert and Rupert soon had two platters heaped high with various foodstuffs, and ran with those toward the big princess’s big wattle and daub hovel. Arriving together, they tried to enter at precisely the same instant, and as a result, became stuck side-by-side in the doorway as tight as a cork in a bottle. That’s when the big princess, sitting in her usual place upon a rough bentwood chair behind a rather crude plank table, shouted, “One at a time!”

“Beg pardon, Majesty,” Rupert managed to squeak, pressed so closely against Egbert he could hardly breathe. Egbert couldn’t speak at all. In fact, he couldn’t breathe at all. Mouth gaping, Egbert was turning quite blue.

“May I be of service?” a voice said from outside behind the serving-boy-plug.

“Who is that?” the big princess asked.

“Mmmph,” Egbert said, gulping a tiny bit of much-needed air.

“Yes, Mr. Mumph, you may indeed be of service,” Big Princess Hortense said to the owner of the voice from outside. “Yank these two buffoons out of my doorway, if you please.”

“Jim,” the voice said.

“What was that?” The big princess frowned. She was not used to being made to wait for her food to be served. And she certainly did not intend to wait for her serving boys to be yanked out of her doorway.

“Name’s Jim,” the owner of the voice said, sounding quite calm considering there was a serving boy--Egbert, to be exact--being crushed to death before his very eyes.

“Whatever,” said Big Princess Hortense. “I shall call you Stranger.”

“Suit yourself,” said the voice named Jim.

“Very well, Stranger, would you give a good yank there on that rather bluish serving boy, and right away.” Being so very hungry, the big princess was getting a bit peckish. Though truth be told, she was never really sure what she was hungry for. Food just seemed to be the easiest answer.

“Here goes,” said the voice named Jim.

The serving-boy-plug flew backward out of the doorway as if sucked by a powerful vacuum (3).


(3 -  One definition of the word ‘vacuum’, which stems from the Latin adjective ‘vacuus’ for ‘empty’, is the gap left by the loss, death, or departure of someone or something significant: i.e., the political vacuum left by the death of an Emperor.
Believing herself the only personage of significance in the immediate environs, Big Princess Hortense, seeing her serving boys thus pulled, possibly sucked, from her doorway in the stranger’s direction, assumed the stranger could not possibly be significant.)


“That’s more like it,” the big princess said. “Now Egbert, if you will, be so good as to bring in my platter of figs.” She smiled expectantly, quite believing she had specified figs when she called out for some food to be brought.

“Figs, Majesty?” Egbert choked out as if a fig were in fact stuck in his throat. He was only now beginning to get his breath back. Both he and Rupert were lying in a food encrusted and slathered heap just outside the big wattle and daub hovel, their platters having turned every which way when they were yanked from the doorway. Being a bit of an oversight on each of their parts as they went about preparing their respective platters, one food item with which they were neither encrusted nor slathered was figs.

A rather big stranger stepped into Big Princess Hortense’s big wattle and daub hovel’s doorway and said, “Might I make a suggestion?”

“Who are you?” The big princess narrowed her eyes. She was not accustomed to receiving guests, especially male guests who approached her rather than running away.

“Name’s Jim,” said the stranger.

“Whatever,” the big princess said. “I’m a bit confused here. What do you have to do with my figs?” She was still hungry, though not quite so very hungry as a minute before. “Oh, and I’m still going to call you Stranger.”

“Suit yourself,” Jim said. “I could go and fetch some figs for you, if you want. Though I must say, it seems quite a silly way to conduct an employment interview.”

    “Employment interview?” The big princess arched her eyebrows which, as eyebrows go, were also big. “Why would I hire you when I have two perfectly good serving boys at my disposal?”

Just then, Egbert and Rupert pushed past Jim into the big wattle and daub hovel and groveled before Big Princess Hortense, each dripping various foodstuffs onto the rush covered floor.

“Just a thought,” Jim said. “But you might want to let them clean up a bit before once again being at your disposal.”

“Majesty,” the big princess said.

“What?” Jim answered.

“I do so like to be referred to as Majesty,” the big princess Hortense said all pouty.

“Whatever,” Jim said. “But your serving boys are rather a mess right now. Perhaps a bath—”

“We could clean them up,” said Sarabeth who had stepped into the big wattle and daub hovel’s doorway behind Jim. Her voice was all smokey and throaty, as if she were speaking from inside a smokehouse (4) hung with sides of curing bacon ... and also filled with smoke, of course.
 

(4 - The average outside dimensions of the typical smokehouse are about 2 feet wide, 4 feet deep and 8 feet tall. This will smoke the bacons and jowls from five hogs. Though the term bacon on its own typically refers to bacon from the pork belly, a leaner cut called back bacon is generally preferred.
Big Princess Hortense really had no preference in her choice of bacon. The use of its byproduct--excess grease--to coat the exterior of her big wattle and daub hovel did often have an interesting effect on travelers who happened to venture nearby on hot summer days.)


Standing in the doorway beside Sarabeth, Annabeth’s eyes were very bright as she twisted a length of red satin rope in her hands.

“Yes, could they help clean us up?” Egbert said rather too quickly. He was breathing much better if perhaps a bit fast as he cast glances at Annabeth and her rope.

“The poor dears,” Big Princess Hortense said. “I hate to give them anything else to do. They always seem so tired as it is. I worry they don’t get enough sleep.”

“I wonder if they ever sleep,” whispered Rupert. Egbert giggled.

“But you two are rather disgusting at the moment, what with all your food drippings and such,” said the big princess to her serving boys. “I suppose my ladies-in-waiting could help you out just this once, perhaps by doing your laundry. Don’t you go and work them too hard, now.”

“Alrighty,” Rupert and Egbert said simultaneously. They hurried out the door with Sarabeth and Annabeth in tow.

“Now, about those figs...” Big Princess Hortense paused, examining Jim somewhat clinically. “Did you know you’re rather big?”

“Yes, thank’s for noticing.” Jim smiled. “What of it?”

“Oh nothing,” said the big princess. “Merely an observation. Now as to those figs, how soon can you fetch me some?”

“In a jiffy, I expect,” Jim said. “I know where they’re kept--had a good look at your larder before all the fuss over here at your big wattle and daub hovel snared my interest. Once I’ve fetched them, will the employment interview be over?”

    “What silliness,” the big princess Hortense said. “Why do you think this is an employment interview?”

“You mean it’s not? When I heard someone shout ‘One at a time!’ I assumed there was a line of job applicants here you meant to interview individually. Being currently without a proper position, and not wanting to pass up a bird in the bush, I sauntered over.” Jim pulled a bit of a hang-dog look. “Sorry about the mistake. Guess I’ll be on my way.” He turned to go.

“Just one moment, Stranger!” Big Princess Hortense snapped.

“Jim,” Jim said.

“Oh, whatever.” The way the three black hairs growing from the wart on her right cheek twitched, it was quite obvious the big princess was becoming frustrated. “What about my figs?”

“Since I’m not to be employed here,” Jim said, “quite frankly, I don’t give a fig.”

“Now hold on.” Though not so very hungry as she was a few minutes before, the big princess Hortense was still hungry for something. And having talked about them for some time now, she was certain figs would fill the bill quite nicely. But with Rupert and Egbert otherwise occupied at the moment--as were Annabeth and Sarabeth, what with all that getting wet and rubbing and scrubbing and such--who would fetch them?

“Perhaps I was a bit hasty,” Big Princess Hortense continued. “Those two serving boys of mine do generally seem as tired as my ladies-in-waiting generally are. It would be nice to give them a day off now and then to rest up. Tell you what, Stranger, fetch me a platter of figs, and we’ll talk about it.” Big Princess Hortense gazed at him expectantly.

“Name’s Jim,” Jim said.

“Whatever,” said the big princess. “Fetch my figs in a jiffy, and the job’s yours.”

“Alrighty,” Jim said, and sauntered out the door.

Big Princess Hortense admired that backside perspective of Jim as he was leaving, though she couldn’t have said why. After all, it wasn’t as if he were a haunch of well-cooked goat with a side of plum sauce for dipping. But then, he was rather big.

“Here you go,” Jim said when he returned shortly with not a platter, but a plate of figs. And the figs weren’t even heaped upon the plate, but simply covered the surface in a single-layer pattern that rather resembled a spiral galaxy.

Noticing neither the lack of heaping nor the artistic presentation, and while popping a fig into her mouth, the big princess said, “Would you like to kiss me?”

“Not particularly,” Jim said.

“Suit yourself,” said Big Princess Hortense.

“Might I ask why you ask such a thing?” Jim asked.

“Oh, it’s customary, is all,” the big princess said. “You see, there’s a prophesy (5) about me being kissed, and some magical something or other that might just happen if I am kissed … by the right man, of course. Are you a right man, Stranger?”


(5 - In ‘The Magician's Companion’, Whitcomb observes, “The accuracy or outcome of any prophecy is altered by the desires and attachments of the seer and those who hear the prophecy.”
Seeing as how it had been some time since Big Princess Hortense had been kissed in any sort of way by a man--the last such occurrence having been most chaste, coming as it did from her father, the King--she might deserve to be excused if her desire for some sort of attachment had, unbeknownst to her, become quite prophetically profound.)


“Name’s Jim,” Jim said. “And I have been right about a thing or two in my life. But I’m sure I can’t say if I’m the right sort to accomplish anything magical by kissing you. I am curious, though, as to how this kissing custom came about?”

“We shall have to do something about all this name confusion,” the big princess Hortense said. “But for now, let me explain about the kissing. It involves a hag and some bacon grease.” She popped another fig into her mouth and continued. “It all began a year ago when my mother, the Queen, was escorting me here to this wattle and daub hovel in the forest. As you can well imagine, distraught as we both were over me being banished from the Castle and all, we were both rather preoccupied.”

“Banished, were you? Rather bad luck, I’d say,” Jim said.

“Oh, I suppose it was my fault,” said the big princess, remembering the Lord Treasurer’s accusations concerning her appetite’s effect on the Kingdom’s finances.

“Well, there you go,” Jim said. “They say acceptance is the first step to recovery.”

“Whatever,” said Big Princess Hortense. “But back to my story. Preoccupied as Mother and I were, we nearly ran down a hag with our carriage. Mother was driving and felt terrible about it, although I think she made much too much of the matter. The hag wasn’t really hurt, merely muddied up a bit. Mother gave her some baubles for her trouble, and the hag gave us a prophesy.” The big princess paused then blurted, “Are you sure you don’t want to kiss me?”

“Quite,” Jim said.

“Suit yourself,” said the big princess Hortense. “Anyway, the prophesy went something like this. ‘Cursed she is, and cursed shall be, ‘til a stranger’s kiss sets her free.’ Or some such. Mother gave me the quote later. I was eating some bacon at the time, and not really paying attention.”

“Would you like me to fetch some bacon?” Jim said.

“What? No, Stranger, these figs will suffice.” The big princess popped another into her mouth.

“Name’s Jim,” Jim said.

“Wha’e’er,” the big princess said while chewing. She swallowed rather noisily and continued. “Let’s see … where was I?”

“Eating bacon, I believe,” Jim said.

“Ah yes, of course, the bacon. It was rather yummy.” With a far off, dreamy look, Big Princess Hortense plucked another fig from the plate, and nibbled it around the edges. “To continue, in case you haven’t noticed, my big wattle and daub hovel uses a coating of bacon grease as a moisture barrier. As you can well imagine, in the hot summer months that grease fairly sizzles under the brutal sun producing a rather amazing aroma. As a result, quite often and out of nowhere, one or more chaps will stumble out of the forest and ask if breakfast is being served.
I always tell them no, of course, after all we’re not operating a common public house here. But with the possibility that muddied-up old hag may have been on to something, I always ask if one or another of them might want to kiss me. Some politely decline. Most just run away. In fact, they all leave fairly quickly, stumbling back into the forest once it’s apparent we really aren’t serving breakfast. Still, whenever the opportunity has presented itself, I’ve tried. One never knows, does one, Stranger?”

“Jim,” Jim said.

“Whatever,” said the big princess. “I intend to keep calling you Stranger.”

“Suit yourself,” Jim said.

“By the way, you did a bang-up job fetching these figs. Was your position previous to coming here also as a serving boy?” The big princess Hortense put down the latest fig she’d picked up without even giving it a nibble, and instead only licked its juice from her fingers. She was just beginning to experience the rather unfamiliar sensation of, if not actually being full, at the very least, being not quite so empty.

“As a matter of fact,” Jim said. “Until rather recently, I was a prince.”

“Well, this is awkward.” Big Princess Hortense’s eyes, which were big to begin with, got even bigger. “Can one legally employ a prince?”

“Oh, don’t give it another thought,” Jim said. “I’m not one anymore--walked away from all that princely stuff weeks ago. Got tired of lying about the castle whilst shouting orders to the servants such as ‘Boy, fetch my falcon. I intend to have it kill something!’ or ‘You there, have you found my jodhpurs (6) yet?’”


(6 - Jodhpurs are long pants snug from the calf to the ankle, with the thighs and hips flared; a design that originates from an ancient style of trouser associated with the ruling class in the Indian state of Rajasthan.
Jim was indeed wearing jodhpurs when he arrived at Big Princess Hortense’s big wattle and daub hovel in the forest, a style which may have exaggerated his overall bigness. However, it’s doubtful they were his jodhpurs as he had obtained them from his sister Jane’s closet. He simply stole them wanting something in his possession by which to remember his beloved sister while he was out in the world.)


“I came to feel so useless,” Jim continued. “Besides, it was utterly boring. I just chucked the whole lot, and set out to make my life on my own terms. And look, I’ve already secured a fine position as a serving boy. Sky’s the limit, I say!”

“You walked away from it? How completely silly,” said Big Princess Hortense. After all, she most assuredly had not simply walked away from her family’s Castle, but was in fact escorted off the grounds by a pair of the randier castle guards who insisted on whispering some last-second, unkind jokes at her expense. They shut up tight as a serving-boy-plug when her mother, the Queen, arrived with the royal carriage to drive the big princess to her new home in the big wattle and daub hovel in the forest. Remembering how her mother’s presence had quieted the randy guards, Big Princess Hortense added, “I quite like being a princess.”

“Suit yourself,” Jim said.

“Whatever.” The big princess was growing a bit piqued at Jim’s royal bashing, seeing it as possibly treasonous. But having no quick rejoinder to his observations, she decided to end the conversation then and there. “You may clear this away, Stranger.” She indicated the plate that still held quite a few figs, a thing that would have astonished both Rupert and Egbert.

“Name’s Jim,” Jim said.

“Whatever,” the big princess said. “Take the rest of the day to build your own wattle and daub hovel--a small one, of course--and be prepared to assume your duties tomorrow.”

As Jim gathered up the fig plate and exited the big wattle and daub hovel, again, and for a reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on, Big Princess Hortense admired that backside perspective of him. After all, he was rather big, even accounting for the exaggerating effect produced by wearing those jodhpurs. But the measure of pleasure she took in admiring Jim from that perspective was somewhat diminished due to a sense of unease as to what she might do with the remainder of her day. For you see, the big princess Hortense had never before seriously contemplated boredom.

Could it be, the big princess wondered. That being a princess was not all it was cracked up to be? “Oh, whatever!” she said in a royal huff.

Meanwhile, Jim had just deposited the fig plate in the kitchen when he thought he heard someone calling his name.

“Oh, that’s jim … Jim! … JIM DANDY!” called an excited voice from inside the nearest small wattle and daub hovel.

Jim poked his rather big head in the door, and was quite surprised to see a naked Sarabeth on the bed straddling an equally naked Rupert who was no longer dripping various foodstuffs, but was in fact quite clean except for a glistening sheen of sweat.

“Lord love a duck, Rupert!” Sarabeth said in her smokey, throaty voice. “That was ever so grand.”

“Indeed,” said Rupert breathlessly.

“Excuse me,” Jim said.

“Oh!” Sarabeth grabbed up a blanket, and covered herself as best she could considering the way she straddled Rupert prevented her from pulling her bare legs under. She blushed rather prettily and looked away.

“Am I intruding?” Jim asked.

“Not at all,” said Rupert from beneath Sarabeth. “I believe we’re quite finished for the moment. Can I help you with something?”

“Possibly.” Jim avoided staring at Sarabeth’s bare legs as she seemed so embarrassed, the poor modest dear. “It seems I’m to be the new serving boy hereabouts, and was wondering if I might get some help building myself a wattle and daub hovel ... small, of course.”

“There’s no need for that.” Adjusting his position beneath Sarabeth, Rupert squirmed a bit, eliciting another “Oh,” from her, but rather than being all smokey and throaty, this ‘Oh,’ was more soft and breathy. “You can use that medium-sized wattle and daub hovel on the other side of the kitchen,” Rupert continued. “It belongs to Sarabeth and Annabeth, but I’m sure they won’t mind--neither of them have slept there in months. It’s probably all spiderwebby by now, but evict the arachnids, give it a good dusting, and you should find it quite comfortable.”

“Thank you, that’s awfully convenient,” Jim said. “Well, you two carry on.”

“Oh, we do,” Sarabeth said all smokey and throaty again. As Jim withdrew his big head from the doorway, she commenced a rather slow grind against Rupert, who couldn’t help but smile.

(To Be Continued)