The man checked the list once more, checked everything off.
“Alright. Here’s what we got. You’ve got your weapons in front of you. You have two hours to finish your assignment, as I briefed you yesterday. You know what to do, and you know how it must be done. If this fails and the commander is not happy, I will make sure each and every one of you is put on KP for the rest of your natural lives in this organization. Any questions? Stewart!”
Stewart lowered his hand.
“Can we see the target’s picture one more time?”
The captain looked at them, and looked back at the covered picture on the wall. He walked over and uncovered it.
Upon the revelation of the picture, there was a collective squeak from each of the men, and then laughter.
The captain furrowed his brow and proceeded to bark at his charges.
“The commander’s daughter is NOT going to be happy with you unless you give her what she wants. And she wants a birthday cake, with a picture of Hello Kitty holding a damn rifle on it! So you’re going to give it to her, or by God and the stars he holds, you will all be wishing it WAS Hello Kitty tearing you a new asshole!”
All of the men stood serious, hands behind their backs, whisks and spatulas at the ready.
“Get cookin’! That’s an order!”
The captain proceeded out of the room.
All the guys looked at each other, looked down at the spatulas…and proceeded to double over with laughter. Until the voice of the captain bellowed from down the hallway.
88 years of life gave Emil Jacobson lots of wonderful memories.
He sat in his bed, looking out the window as the dawn started to rise. He couldn’t sleep that night, he knew that he had to write down his thoughts. He was in the last moments of writing his memoirs, “The Long Story of an Ordinary Man”. Emil had many years as a writer, and many years as a father and husband. As he went through his memories, he knew the last things he wanted to write.
He set his pen down again, looking out at the garden below his window. He looked at the pumpkin flowers as they were blooming. He smiled as he saw the autumn winds lightly blowing the leaves on the trees. The tall oak tree that he saw behind the garden was gently swaying its branches in the breeze.
He picked up the cell phone next to his bed and slowly typed a message to someone listed as “Publicist”.
“Stop by in a few hours,” he said out loud, with a creaky voice, “The manuscript will be finished. No need for edits. Publish it raw.”
He put down the phone and picked up his pen again. He looked at the brightening sky and smiled. His eyes became bright and glowing.
To those I leave behind, I want you all to know that you’ve always shared my darkest hours, no matter where I’d go. My sons and daughters, you saw me in the darkest of hours. When your mom passed on, when I held that 15 year old girl in my hands as she died in Northridge, when I was hospitalized after my beach house collapsed into the Pacific; you all were there for me, and saw me in the darkness. You lifted me out by just being nearby. For that, I will always be thankful.
He smiled, as he thought of his last sentences. As he thought, his lungs spasmed and he hacked. For a good 10 seconds, he hacked, his old age showing through in each cough. Even with the coughing, he returned to a smile and he wrote again.
He put his pen down, and breathed lightly on the page. Making sure the ink was dry, he closed the book. He sat back in his bed, pulling the covers up to his chest. As the sun started peeking over the neighbors house and the hills of the small coastal town, he closed his eyes and smiled. He breathed in the air and sighed contently.
He took in one more breath, and the smile from his face slowly started to fade. He grew still and stony. His hands still holding the book on his lap, his body sat like a statue’s.
——-
Emil Jacobson looked down upon his body. He smiled, seeing the completeness of his earthly life for one last moment. He turned his spirit towards the rising dawn and smiled, as he was lifted up above the trees and above the houses. He continued to fly upwards above the earth. With a quickening pace, he flew upwards through clouds and through space. As he flew upwards, the years that were apart of his earthly life started to melt away.
Within what seemed like moments, he stood on a rocky cliff, looking out over a vast ocean. He looked down at himself and saw himself not as the old man that he was, but as a strong built young man.
“Welcome!” he heard someone call from behind. He turned around and looked at another man.
“Is this Paradise?”
The welcoming man looked at him and smiled.
“Emil, welcome to Paradise. Your arrival is the talk of the folk here. Let’s go meet them, eh?”
Emil smiled at Paul, and joined along with him as he walked from the rocky cliff over to other heavenly folk.
The sun was setting in the skies off the coast. The bright yellow of the sun sunk below the horizon, the sky starting to turn a firy orange with twinges of red. There were no clouds in the sky, the winds were calm, and the surf was very mild. It was exactly like a picture, frozen in a moment in time.
Paul Bernal sat top a set of rocks close to the ocean’s edge, looking out at the seas. He had come there for solitude, to calm the raging beast within himself. He looked out at the ocean, and felt the soothing splashing of the waves on rocks farther out. This was his place of refuge from the rest of the world. This is where he was able to do all of the things he needed to do. He was along the waterfront, right where he needed to be.
The rocks he stood on had a roughness that was pronounced. However, one spot seemed to be perfectly cut into the rock pile where it was smooth. The rocks formed two cylinders, which allowed for ease of kneeling when praying. And it was in those grooves that Paul put his legs, and knelt in prayer.
As he prayed, he thought about all that had happened in the day and even days as he prayed, the situations recounted in his mind as he brought all those cares up for prayer. The images from the computer screen that triggered his inner beast were being addressed in prayer, and how much he struggled with images that were more erotic and stimulating. While it had been a few days since the last time, he knew that he had to continue being in prayer and putting forth all the things that he could not keep inside.
He lifted up his troubles at work, dealing with all of the stresses of being a financial aid counselor. Hearing the hard luck stories and not being able to do much didn’t help his psyche at all, and lifting those cares up helped ease the pain that he felt.
For nearly 20 minutes, as the sun continued to descend beyond the horizon and twilight started to show it’s beauty, he continued praying. As he finished his prayers, he stood up on the rocks, and climbed down from them. Landing on the soft sand, he looked down and smiled.
“I’ll be back again, tomorrow. Be ready for me, Lord,” he said, staring out into the darkening skies and ocean. He turned and walked back towards his car, ready to head home and face another night alone.
A position of submission. A position of subjugation.
Kneeling for prayer did not come easy for Brighton Avanzari. A former subject of a middle eastern king, he grew up despising kneeling. If he didn’t kneel he was flogged. That’s how it was, especially with a maniacal king.
When he was able to leave and to go to another country to study, he grasped the opportunity with his life. He knew that studying in a foreign country would give him the opportunity to shake off the chains of his country’s monarchist obsession.
What he experienced in his studies broke him.
Brighton was treated like a pawn by members of the university student union, the administration, and others. He quit studying with a four credit course to go before getting his bachelor’s in literature. He was tired, and he didn’t like what he was doing. He didn’t have much to go on as a foreigner in the country, and he was pressured to be a part of so much that he finally rejected everyone and started studies of his own.
He would work during the day, repairing vehicles at a garage in Sacramento. He would travel home to a small apartment in a nearby town, riding his bike. He sat in his apartment and read all of the major works of literature, sometimes spending hours upon end pouring over the details and inhaling it’s scent.
One day, just for fun, he picked up a Bible that was given to him. He started reading in the New Testament, and looked. He read about prayer, about being on your knees. At this he got mad and threw it at the wall. For a few minutes, Brighton went berserk. He sat down after his “hulkout” and started to breathe. He analyzed what happened and thought about it.
He realized that the only way to deal with his anger was to actually do what he despised.
He took the first step, and he put one knee down. It took all the strength that he had not to recoil and remove. Now, the tough part came. He started to put his other knee down.
Prayer can happen anywhere…
He felt this thought go through his head, and stopped for a moment.
Don’t fear. Your previous king was a tyrant. This king, the King of Kings, is not.
Brighton’s heart started to soften ever so slightly, as he continued to put his knee down. When it touched the floor, he bowed his head.
You kneel not in subjugation, but in honor. Pray, and know that you will be heard.
For the first time since he left the kingdom, he was able to kneel and pray. And for the first time since he was a child, he knew what it felt to truly pray to his Lord.
They knew that there were going to be many enemy agents and mercenary troops outside waiting for them. Their only way of getting out of there was to fight there way to a vehicle that would be waiting for them in camouflage, and try to make it to the edge of the city. If they could make it to the bridge on the far end, they could trap the troops inside the city and make their escape.
Former Gunnery Sergeant M.D. Parkinson, known to everyone as “Park”, was an expert shot with rifles, shotguns, positronic rifles, direct energy weapons, and the occasional acerbic pun. He was in the corner of the building nearest to the door, “suiting up”. Each part of his body had some sort of name attached to it. Beretta on his right arm, Ruger on his left, Claymore on his belt, just to name a few.
Claire “June” Fujima was a Chinese-trained Japanese militia member, who had emigrated to this part of the United States to help out in getting people out of tough situations. She was in the other corner near the door, using lasers to sharpen both katana. She would carry shurikens on her belt and mini stun grenades on in her hair, in her earrings, on her necklace, pretty much anywhere you could put jewelry. Her skills with the katana, a dual wielder, were considered lethal to those who knew her.
Combined with computer technician and resident media Simon “Skullcap” Ramsey, the three were on the run. They were charged with crimes from the murder of military officials and bail jumping, to treason and crimes against the empire of the new Western Government. In reality, the reason they were being pursued so heavily were due to their tendency to expose multiple nefarious schemes of the Western president and members of his military.
The Western Government stretched from the Mississippi and the St. Croix rivers all the way to the Pacific Ocean. The bombed out hideout where they were located was right on the border at Clinton, Iowa. If they were able to make it across the river, they would be in safe territory with the Canadian-American government, which held territories from Alberta on east to Ontario, and all of the Eastern United States.
“Ready to go with this, June?” Park asked, as he moved to the door.
“Run like hell, attack when we can, and do what’s necessary to keep Skullcap going,” she replied, putting the newly sharpened katana in her sheath with a “sh-tick”.
Skullcap, with his iPads strapped to the front of his body and covered with protective armor, looked a bit green. Park put his hand on his shoulder and whispered to him.
“You’ll do fine. Remember, you’re with us. We’ve taken on the Western forces before, and we’ve come out on top. You’re safe with us.”
“I wish we could just teleport there. You know how I hate dealing with violence,” he said, the green slowly creeping up his neck.
They all stood on one side of the door, getting themselves ready to run.
“On three.”
They counted slowly, waiting for the right possible moment.
One…
Park’s grip on the door handle was tight.
Two…
June’s hand was ready to push Skullcap out the door.
“THREE!”
Park pulled the door open quickly, and flew out the door. Firing off a few rounds from his Baretta, he provided cover for June and Skullcap, who bolted out from behind him.
All three ran quickly down the stone and rock path, the groomed low hedges allowing them a view of the mercenaries that were positioned to take them down.
On Park’s side, he ran with all the force that his feet could take him. The one-two marching sound of his shoes crunching under his feet was only punctuated by the rounds he fired off. As the opponents came forth, each one crumpled into a heap at the hedges, blood oozing from each of the wounds. He pulled a grenade from his belt with his free hand and put it in his mouth, his teeth holding the pin. As the mag emptied, he discharged it and slapped in a new one, without skipping a beat.
On June’s side, she unsheathed her katana and kept running behind Skullcap. With a sickening look of glee on her face, she spun both katana around like fan blades, chopping and slicing the approaching mercenaries with reckless abandon. Occasionally, when the katana wouldn’t work, she would punch the offender in the nose, sending bone fragments into their brain and them flying into the bushes.
A break in the action allowed them a chance to gain speed and run as fast as they could towards the end of the property and a small bridge that crossed a small gully. At the end of the bridge, however, stood 15 armed mercenaries who were looked like they weren’t having any of it. Skullcap slowed down, allowing June to pass him and jump high up in the air. At the same time as she jumped, Park pulled the pin from the grenade and tossed it in the air towards the 15 guards.
The grenade sailed past June and into the face of one of the guards, who had a millisecond to react before it took his entire head off. As the fragments blew through some of the guards, June’s fan blade attack shredded those who happened to be near where she landed, the bullets that were fired against her bounding off the katana like armor.
Of the 15 at the bridge, only one would make it out alive, and he couldn’t do anything as his arm was sliced off. Skullcap kept running, with Park helping him along with a burst of speed through the gore that was left over.
They looked ahead, noting the absence of mercenaries or troops. They kept running down the greenway until they heard a “beep beep.”
“Benny’s here!” Park yelled out to June and Skullcap.
For the first time in the entire adventure, Skullcap’s greenness started to subside. As they finally reached the car, Benny smiled.
“Ready to head for East Clinton, Illinois?”
“Punch it.”
They jumped into the converted 1971 Oldsmobile 442, it’s top cut off and the back and trunk gutted for ease of munitions storage. As Skullcap lowered his head under the dashboard and proceed to hide from view, Benny jammed the gear and punched out. The old car tore out of the park area and headed straight down 8th Street.
“If we don’t encounter civ traffic, and we can keep the Westies off our back for the next three miles, we should be able to make it into Illinois,” Benny called back.
“Just drive. If something gets in your way, run it down. You’ve got pure steel in your grasp.” Park barked back, as he readied a mounted gatling gun on the back. June sat on his right, ready to mow down any foot patrols with her katana.
They tore down the street, accelerating into high speeds. As they approached downtown, three or four jeeps full of mercenaries pulled in close behind them. Park aimed the gatling gun and proceeded to fire in a spray at them, gritting his teeth all the while. The 10 second long spray of bullets took down three of the jeeps in a short time, with one of them being able to avoid the fire.
Cursing himself, he bent down for a few seconds. Grabbing onto a large cylindrical object, he pulled it up and extended the barrel. With a missile already loaded and ready to go, he aimed at the jeep. Bullets flew from the jeep towards Park, and whizzed past his head. Park took a steady breath, and with an exhale, he mashed down the button.
The missile flew straight out of the chamber and went flying straight into the windshield of the jeep. The Jeep exploded into a firy mess, tumbling end over end behind the 442.
Park pulled another rocket out and loaded the launcher, sheathing the cylinder quickly in case something else came forth.
June looked back, smiled, then looked forward.
Only to see a line of gunmen on her side of the road.
She grinned a sickly grin, as she stabbed her Katana through the side of the door, the blade sticking out in front of her. As they passed by the line of gunmen, they all topped to the ground, bodies sliced in half and their innards falling out. She laughed maniacally as she pulled the katana out and she wiped the gore off the blade.
“3rd Street! 30 more seconds!” Benny cried, as he punched the accelerator to the floor. The car lurched and sped up, Park nearly falling out the back. Park, annoyed as hell, would smack Benny for that after they got into Illinois.
They sped onto the approach to the Gateway Bridge. Park poked June, and gave her some cloth.
“Give it to Skullcap. It’ll indicate the Can-Am to let us through. It’s their flag.”
June gave the flag to Skullcap and told him what to do. He smiled as he proceeded to hold up the flag in front of his face as he stood up.
They approached the middle of the suspension bridge, where the Can-Am forces had a major checkpoint. As they approached the checkpoint, a Western helicopter surfaced from the right side of the bridge. It was too close to call, and the modified Bell 222 had it’s guns trained on the Olds.
Park took out a small grenade from his belt, pulled the pin and fired it at the helo. The helo broke it’s concentration on them to avoid the grenade, giving Park time to pull out the RPG. He extended the barrel and pointed it up at the helo. Not even bothering to take a breath, he fired the rocket. It sped at the airborne gunship, looking like it was about to miss. The rocket blasted it’s warhead into the tail of the helo, shattering it to pieces.
The helo and it’s crew were helpless as to what they were going to do, and within moments they crashed into the side of the bridge, making the Iowa side of the bridge unstable.
As the Olds zipped past the checkpoint, the Can-Am troops waving them through and giving a salute, the Iowa side of the bridge suddenly collapsed. Any chance of the Western army coming across at Clinton was unlikely to happen now.
Park sighed, and dismounted the gatling gun. He sat down in his seat and looked over at June. June looked back at him, and gave a bright smile.
“Where do we go next?”
“Let’s report in at Milwaukee and see what happens. They may want to hear about what we saw in Iowa.”
He then pulled June over and gave her a long kiss, his way of saying “We’re safe.”
It was a calm day on the seas. Off the coast of Catalina, the yacht Isabelle was slowly making it’s way south towards San Diego. The drifting of the boat was enough to feel that there was movement, but yet it was slow enough that it wouldn’t go too far if someone fell off.
Mark Yulogh sat behind the helm of the yacht. He was dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt that screamed “Magnum P.I.”. Clad in white shorts, canvas shoes, and with a pair of shades propped on his head, he looked like a typical boater and tourist. Though he made his home in Oceanside, he always loved taking the yacht for a ride whenever he could.
His girlfriend Jayna was sitting on the bow of the yacht, accumulating as much vitamin D as she could as she let the ultraviolet rays of the bright midday sun beats down on her. Wearing a white bikini that hid enough, and with a white wrap around her waist, she looked like a stereotypical “yacht girl”.
The seas they were on were very calm, with very little movement happening. The currents were not very strong this day, and the water glowed a brighter blue-green color. It was as if the day was a perfect one for just laying out in the ocean with no cares.
“Honey,” Mark called out, as he walked from the cabin to the bow, carrying two more glass bottles of Pepsi, “Do you want to have lunch off Catalina, or would you like to head down towards Dana Point?”
“Catalina sounds fine for me. I’m just about done with sunning, anyways. What do we have to eat today, anyways?”
“We’ve got some turkey and cheese hoagies, some wonderful home-baked potato chips with sea salt and pepper, and our cola.”
Jayna sat up and smiled broadly.
“Did you say home-baked potato chips?”
Mark winked at her, as he started to turn.
“Made them myself last night, and put them in an airtight container. They should be very crisp.”
The couple lowered anchor off the western coast of Catalina Island and enjoyed their lunch. As they were finishing the last of the chips, a small cruiser pulled up by them.
“Hey, ahoy there!” the officer on the police cruiser called.
“Ahoy, officer. Are we not allowed out here today?”
“Nah, just got a message here. You’re Mark Yulogh, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a note from your parents. They’re flying into Lindbergh tonight.”
Mark sighed, with the weight on his shoulders.
“Thank you for letting me know. We’ll get on our way in just a few.”
The officer saluted and zipped back towards the northern coast.
“Looks like we’re going to have to make things official with them.”
Jayna looked up at Mark, and cocked her head to the side. A couple of her sun-kissed brunette locks fell down around her face.
He patted his pockets and smiled. He proceeded to pull out a small box, and kneeled down in front of her.
“For a very long time, Jayna, we’ve been together. I was thinking about doing this tonight after we got back to San Diego, but now is good of a time as any.”
Jayna gasped, as she knew what was coming.
“Jayna Brown, would you marry me?”
She squealed and jumped up and down.
“Yes! Yesyesyes! A thousand times yes!”
She proceeded to hug him and smiled at him broadly.
“I guess we should get back to port, eh? If they’re coming in tonight, that means we’re going to have to take them out to dinner.”
Jayna smiled at him and looked out over the ocean.
“After we get married, we should think about a long sail down the pacific coast. Maybe hit Cabo or San Salvador.”
Mark just smiled as he pulled up the anchor.
The couple walked into the cabin, and with a roar of the motor, they scuppered off toward home port. Fiancees on their way to give good news.
15 years ago, Charles Martin stood on top of an outcropping over Lake Superior and yelled out to anyone who could hear him on the lake.
“I WILL NEVER, EVER, GET MARRIED!”
Charles was a frustrated man. From the time he was young, everything he wanted to do was thwarted in some way. He had a dream of becoming a congressman, and the corruption of those who he looked up to left him in disgust. He had a dream of going into the NFL and becoming a great running back, and a torn ACL in high school killed his career before it could even start. Before that day, 15 years ago, he was engaged twice. Both times, the women left him.
“You’re boring.”
“You are just not right for me after all.”
Charles was so frustrated by these dumpings, and his incredible bad luck during his teen years, that at the age of 24, he made his proclamation to God, the world, the water, and anything that could hear him.
Those 15 years gave Charles a chance to get himself on a better track. He graduated from college, toured the United States, and later left for China to teach Mathematics to university students.
He and his fellow teacher, Shen-Wei, sat in a bar and joked over a couple of Qingdao beers.
“Man, I could never live in the US again. They’re just falling over flat. Being here…it’s close to heaven,” Charles said, his speech slurring slightly from the amount of beers that he has.
“China can be good place for people. Not exactly heaven, but it has great beer.”
As they laughed at the botched reference to an old Wisconsin tavern tune, a young lady walked up behind Shen-Wei and tapped his shoulder. She asked a few things in Chinese to him, and he replied brusquely. She nodded, and walked over to Charles.
“I told your friend, you are very handsome,” she said, in broken English.
Charles eyed her up and down, to get an idea of who she was. As he finished giving her the scanning eye, he noticed a small tattoo on her shoulder. The tattoo was of a celtic cross. He started to feel a bit fuzzy, as he looked down at his own shoulder. He remembered getting a similar tattoo years ago, without even thinking about things.
“Where did you get the tattoo?” he asked her, skipping all pleasantries.
“Korea. I got idea in vision.”
“Interesting.”
By this time, the fascination had gone by. However, his heart wouldn’t let him leave it behind just yet.
“What is your name?”
“Shen-Zhen. In English, I am Cindy.”
After that first meeting, Charles went home and sat. The image of that celtic cross on her shoulder, in the same exact place as his, made him wonder.
He tried to forget her, but everywhere he went in the city of Qingdao, somehow she was there. Even if she didn’t talk to him, he still saw her dead in his sights. Slowly, but surely, he noticed that he liked going places and seeing her there. He didn’t know what he could do. He made his vow. Did this mean that he was falling for someone again?
The answer to his question happened about 2 weeks after the last encounter, 6 months after their first meeting.
He sat in a park in Qingdao, looking around and just resting. He had seen Cindy earlier in the month, but started to avoid the bars. He just wasn’t interested in drinking cheap beer anymore.
“Charles?”
He looked up from his bench and straight into the deep dark brown eyes of Cindy.
“Cindy…what are you doing here?”
“I came to find you. You haven’t been around.”
“I decided to give up drinking and bars.”
Cindy smiled, and sat down.
“I think of you. You make me happy.”
Charles’s head swung her way quickly.
“What do you mean?”
“There is famous poet here, many years ago, said something important. “A man who says he never marries, will find love when he doesn’t want it.””
Charles groaned.
“Not another Confucius says…”
She looked at him and turned a small bit of fire on him.
Now that didn’t sound like Confucius, Charles thought.
“Who said that?”
Cindy smiled.
“Eddie the Rabbitt.”
Charles looked at her, his eyes staring at her in disbelief.
“Tell me, Cindy. Are you trying to say you love me?”
“Yes. I want you forever.”
Charles was floored. He didn’t know what to reply.
“I said once that I would never marry. What would make you different from the others who left me?”
Cindy looked at him square in the eye and pulled her shirt over her head. Next to her tank top, on the shoulder, she showed him the celtic cross. She grabbed his sweater, and pulled it to show his.
“We are linked.”
He suddenly realized that it wasn’t going to be the same as the others. If he didn’t take his chance now with this woman, he was lost forever.
Sherry Makinami and Scott Schmidt looked out at the plants that grew outside of the Hamilton Dormitory Complex, while they each sipped on a cold drink. In the aftermath of the events from earlier that day, word had spread to parts that two girls had it out with each other, but without a punch thrown. While no one really knew what happened, Sherry knew. And she was still shedding tears.
Scott looked down at her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. He leaned her head against the crook in his shoulder as he sipped on his soda.
“Think you can tell me now what happened?”
Sherry looked down at his hand, sighing.
“I don’t like talking about it, honestly.”
“And yet, to make sure I know what I’m getting into, I need to know.”
She sat up and looked him square in the eye. She took a breath in, readying herself for the story that she was about to tell.
“It started in high school. I was being picked on for many reasons, most of which were incredibly childish and petty. One day, it went too far. And I just got mad at this one girl. I just kept thinking about how she just needed to go away, to just shut up and leave me alone. I didn’t realize it until after her body hit the floor that I caused her to die. They called it a stroke, but I know that it was me who did it. With my mind.”
Scott looked into her eyes, piercing the veil and seeing the true feelings in her mind.
“And this thing you have, it only happens…when you’re stressed?”
“Not really. It’s more either when there’s a lot of danger happening, like with Delia wanting to have her goons beat you up; or it’s when someone really makes me angry. I’ve learned to control it so that it doesn’t hurt people who I love when they disappoint or cause me anger, but the limiters come off when something I love is threatened.”
Scott continued to look into her eyes.
“So that means my brains won’t go splat if we have an argument, right?”
Sherry’s face turned to horror, before she closed her eyes and breathed.
“No, Scott. I wouldn’t do that to you. If you executed my mother and father in cold blood, then yes. But I know you, and I know you wouldn’t do that.”
Scott smiled, and laid her head back down on his shoulder.
“Even with knowing what you can do, I wouldn’t leave you.”
She snuggled into his shoulder and sighed contently.
They spent the rest of the evening and late night looking out at the people, just holding each other and being content. As the evening wore on, they never noticed the peculiarly placed plumbing van on the other side of the street.
“Got eyes on the target, Vincent?”
“Yep. I think we’ll be able to get her this time. And this time, it won’t end up in fiction like ‘Firestarter’.”
*********************
“Meow Meow!”
The sound of Scott’s “meowing cat alarm clock ringtone” helped to rouse him from his sleep. He stretched his arms out, and looked at his bed. Noticing that no one was there, and breathing a sigh of relief, he sat up and went over to the window. He opened it and looked out on the sunny quad, overlooking Humpy Lumpy Lawn.
He noticed a pair of nice looking legs tanning in the mid-morning sun, reading a book. He looked at her and grinned, as he got himself dressed.
He walked out to the lawn in flip flops, a hawaiian shirt, and cargo shorts. He stopped just before, and took a look at the nice pair of legs, attached to a beautiful rest of a female form, and he plopped down next to her.
“You are the best sight to see in the morning,” he said to her.
Sherry looked up at him from her book and gave him a peck on the cheek.
“Very few people are talking about yesterday. I’m back to being largely anonymous.”
He brushed a strand of shoulder-length maroon hair out of her face. He admired her face for a few seconds.
“I don’t know how long that will be, though.”
Sherry looked up at him, puzzled.
“What if I became student union president and serenaded you in the middle of the amphitheatre?”
Immediately after the word “serenaded”, she started to blush a color that nearly matched her hair.
Scott looked at her and smiled. He finally found something that he could use for later.
Sherry closed her book and sat up onto her knees. She brought her face close to his, and looked deep into his eyes. He felt her pierce his soul, and he hers.
“Maybe you can serenade me over lunch at Rennie’s.”
He smiled, and lifted her up.
“Let’s go. We don’t have classes until 1.”
They left the lawn and headed towards the other side of campus. They walked across the street, and passed the van that was still sitting next to the curbside.
Scott was about to say something, when he felt his world go black. The last thing he heard was the muffled scream from Sherry, as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Yeardley’s Club was a place for lovers to visit, to eat, and to spend time with their mates. The owner, Bill Yeardley, had a habit of saying that Yeardley’s “is the place where parents can be married again.” Night after night, the main dining room would be packed with the soft sounds of dinner being served, the light sounds of a jazz piano or jazz ensemble playing in the background while parents relaxed. No expense was spared when giving the parents a time to rest.
There were some nights when it was tense, with some parents that didn’t end up relaxing all that much and ended up in an escalating argument. For those times, Yeardley himself came out to the table and helped get them to a private table in a soundproof room where they could mediate their issues and still enjoy dinner. The atmosphere was still the same in these rooms, with microphones around the restaurant piping in the sound.
Most nights, however, were a delight for Yeardley and his staff of 25. They did all that they could do to make the patron’s experiences enjoyable. Not only would this get them to come back again, but it would continue to set their reputation as “the place to get away from the kids”.
This night, Yeardley sat back in a chair in a hidden area overlooking the restaurant floor. He would be able to see if there were any issues, and still enjoy his time. Since the staff were pretty well policed, he didn’t have to worry about major problems. About an hour into the Friday dinner “rush”, he decided to take a walk around the floor.
He walked around the tables, stopping every so often just to make sure that things were alright, and quickly moved on. As he was about to finish his walkaround, he heard the sounds of what appeared to be a couple in distress. He looked around and spotted the table. The closest waiter to him was summoned, and briefed him on what was going on.
“Alfonse, what’s going on at Table 15?”
“Looks like marital problem. I think it’s an affair from what I am understanding.”
“Get the special wine, do NOT charge them for it, and ready “the crystal”. I’ll go over and do the recon and see if we have to deploy.”
Alfonse did so, and Yeardley went over to the table to get more information.
“Good evening. I’m Bill Yeardley, the owner of the restaurant. Is everything going okay for you tonight?”
The young mother looked at him with a look of disgust on her face.
“We came out here to have a night away from the kids, and he decided to tell me he’s found someone new.”
The young father grumbled. Yeardley turned and looked at him with the usual kind eyes.
“Is that so?”
“It’s not that I found someone new, it’s that I’ve been contemplating it because we aren’t in love anymore.”
Yeardley chuckled at this. The young man did not look amused at the chuckling.
“My dear young man, one of the things to remember is that love isn’t a fleeting feeling. Sure, there’s the feeling of eros; the type of love that makes you all gooey inside and makes you put the wrong key in your door. That’s a form of love. But those who are married, and who have kids, it’s more than just that emotional and primal state of love.”
The young man just huffed at this notion, as Yeardley turned his eyes to the young woman.
“My dear lady, let me ask something. When you are at home because of the kids, and your husband walks through the door, what do you ask him first?”
She thought for a moment, and replied, “Can you help me with dinner?”
Yeardley looked at both of them, with a small bit of shock on his face at the obliviousness of the couple, and promptly snapped his fingers. Within seconds, Alfonse and two of the other waiters were at his hand.
“Deploy “the crystal”, Alfonse.”
“Right away, sir.”
Yeardley looked down at the couple, as Alfonse approached the stage.
“I want you to listen to the song that will be played first. Take the lyrics and apply it. I think you’ll understand things.”
Alfonse went up onto the stage, and smiled at everyone.
“If I may have your attention please! There are some points in time where live music is going to be necessary for increased ambiance. Sometimes, it is also for people to listen to something that may give them aid in issues that they may have. In these times, that is when we bring on a few of our better players to join in and play something for a certain couple who may need a little more assistance. For that, we bring on our resident jazz siren. Please welcome, Sugar Ruby!”
The applause from the people was strong, yet respectful as Sugar Ruby, the jazz/standards singer for the house, walked onto stage. With a count of four, her and the house band started into a nearly note for note rendition of Crystal Gayle’s 1978 classic “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue”.
As the couple listened to the song, the young man looked at his wife and sighed. He shook his head at himself, and he reached over to hold his wife’s hand. The wife looked at him and bowed his head slightly as she covered his hand with her other one.
Yeardley looked down at the couple again, and gave a satisfied smile. He waited back a ways from the table while they enjoyed the music.
After the song was complete, a couple of minutes of just plain, soft, piano music played as Ruby got herself some water.
Yeardley slid back over to the table and looked down.
“My good man, your wife loves you. Sometimes it may seem like there’s a lot to bear, being the man of the house. But remember something, she’s the one you’re supposed to protect. She’s your life. She isn’t disposable, and she loves you dearly. Try to work with her on things, and see how things can go.”
He looked back at the young woman.
“For you, young lady, the biggest thing that you can do for your husband when he comes home is to give him a kiss. It’s a small thing, and it may take two seconds, but instead of giving him a command that may turn him off, it’ll ignite his fire and maybe want to help you with cooking dinner.”
They both nodded at this.
“Your dinner for tonight is on the house. Stay as long as you like, order up a slice of “two-person cheesecake”. But promise me that when you get home, you’ll spend more time with each other.”
“We promise,” they said, in unison. They giggled as they looked at each other.
“And have a good night,” Yeardley finally said, completing his job for that time. As he walked from the table towards the kitchen, he looked at Alfonse, who was grinning from ear to ear at what he had seen.
“Al, this is what Yeardley’s is all about. Making sure that parents have a chance to get together, work whatever issues they have out, and to enjoy themselves while doing it. If I ever retire, I want you to remember that.”
“No chance I’ll forget, sir,” Alfonse replied, with a smile and a salute.
Yeardley laughed at the awkward pose, as he swung through the kitchen doors.
Lacey Opheim sat under the bus stop canopy, trying her hardest to stay out of the downpour that was currently plaguing the city she lived in. Summertime was always a worrysome time for the rains, especially if they came early. On this early July afternoon, the rain was coming down in buckets and showed no signs of letting up.
It fit her mood perfectly.
She sat and looked out over the rice fields of her city, trying to make sense of all that had happened. She looked out and sighed heavily, knowing that when she arrived at work, hell was going to break loose and she was not going to be all that pleased about the results. As the editor of a foreign language newspaper, it was her responsibility to take care of errors and issues, and she had a big one run through the morning edition like a runaway freight train.
She sat under that canopy as though it were a dark cloud. She barely even noticed when a young man walked in from the rain.
“Mind if I sit here?”
She waved him in, without taking a second look at him. An awkward silence filled the air
“Looks like today it’s really coming down,” he said, leaning back and relaxing his elbows on the railing behind him.
She didn’t say anything, and just kept staring at the rice fields across the road.
She looked up at him with a face full of ‘go away’ written all over it.
“And I’ve seen that face too many times to mention,” the man said.
Lacey saw that the man was Asian, either Japanese or Korean. She didn’t really know the difference, as she was “one of those ignorant foreigners”. She also noticed that the asian man was wearing a stetson, but otherwise was soaked through.
“You’re going to catch a cold if you don’t take care of those wet clothes,” she responded, hoping that he would leave her alone.
“Young lady, I’ve been through too many rainstorms to have to worry about my clothes. I make it a regular event to walk in a downpour.”
She turned her head back to the rain and the fields.
“So what are you supposed to be, sir? Some sort of a rain-soaked counselor?”
The man just chuckled.
“Well, I reckon that I am merely here waiting for the bus downtown, and that you have something going on that you are just wanting to get off your chest.”
She sighed, as he hit the nail on the head.
“I made a major error. One that could get me fired. And it wasn’t even something I knew about. It was just automatic approval.”
“What was it?”
“If you saw the front page of today’s newspaper, you’d be likely to see the error.”
“You mean the headline story about how the mayor was suspected of having an illicit affair even though everyone seems to know that it was not true?”
She groaned at this.
“What if I told you that when you go into work today, you’re not going to be fired? You’re not going to be yelled at. Nothing will happen to you.”
“Let me put it another way. The story was not in error. And just before you exit the elevator on your floor, the floor with the editors and the desk jockey journalists, you will be given a notice about a developing story about the mayor’s resignation due to accusations of sexual assault by no less than five teenage girls.”
Her mouth just dropped.
“How do you know this? How the hell do you know all of this?”
The man chuckled, as he pulled out his cell phone and smiled.
“I’m the mayor’s chief of staff. I know his secrets, and I’ve been waiting to tell them to someone.”
Lacey looked at him, and fell backwards into unconsciousness.
Music and Fiction 
