| "Door To
Nowhere" (the second ACW monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Door To Nowhere" 2000 words or less. Deadline: October 15, 2001 |
| We received so many good entries this time, my wife suggested we have a runner up and honorable mentions. ~Jon |
| Door To
Nowhere By Margot Woods shire@erols.com |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| "Can you see it? Look carefully through the break in the
trees." Watching her body language I shifted my weight ever so slightly and followed her intense gaze with my own eyes. Sure enough, just on the other side of the fence and a short distance back in the thick undergrowth there was a door. It was well hidden and if not for the unwavering stare of my constant companion I would have missed it altogether. "Why the sudden interest? It looks like it has been there for a very long time. Besides, it is just an old door, a door to nowhere." Come on, we need to get home before dark and besides, I am cold." We left the area and continued to walk up the hill, following the lane toward the light of the house. All the while she just kept looking back over her shoulder and lagging behind. The last of the daylight faded just as we climbed the porch steps and I opened the door. I knew it had to be morning because there was a hot breath in my face and I was being pushed off the bed. "OK, OK, I'm getting up." Reading my mail and drinking a second cup of tea gave the day time enough to warm up, and the almost constant reminders that a walk would do me good, finally got me up and moving toward my boots and then the door. I was thinking how a nice leisurely stroll would be a pleasant way. But no, my partner had other plans. "Come on, hurry up, you have got to see this thing I found." Back and forth she rushed, running up and taking my hand for a moment and then rushing off down the lane, only to turn around and run back again. "Listen here," I was starting to get annoyed with her persistent badgering, "that door looks like it was just dumped and forgotten. I'm willing to bet it has been there for 50 years or more and we have probably walked past it hundreds of times. So what's the big deal now?" All I got in return was a rather mournful glance and then she went back to worrying about the door. I gave in and taking into account that I wasn't feeling as stiff as usual agreed to hike the length of the fence until we could find a gate. After all there had to be a gate somewhere in that long fence and we really had never bothered to look for one. Today would be a good day to find it and as I started walking down the lane with more purpose to my step than I had had in years, I thought I could see some wisdom in her desire. All morning long we walked and since I hadn't tried to walk this far for some time I was forced to stop often and rest. She never would let me rest for as long as I really wanted, always insisting I get up and start moving again. Her persistent move-along-nudges were a true show of good judgement since I tend to stiffen up if I stop moving for very long. Twice I stumbled and she was right there to steady me and once when I dropped my cane, I could have almost sworn she actually caught it before it hit the ground. Even with all her help and support, by noon I was totally exhausted and starting to realize this might not be a good idea. All morning we had walked, coming to the end of the lane and for the past hour or more had been walking along a narrow path that continued to follow the fence line and there was no break or gate in sight. After a long rest in a warm patch of sunlight, I managed to convince her we really needed to turn around and head back home. Back home, I was too tired to even think about cooking and so we both made do with a cold supper. Too tired to do anything other than eat a few bites, pull off my boots and fall across the bed, the last thing I remembered was the covers slowly being pulled up and a warm body stretching out next to mine. How in the world did she always know just where I needed warmth and where I needed pressure to help ease the pain? With that thought, darkness covered me like a furry blanket. The next morning dawned cold and dank, a harbinger of the weather that continued to worsen into full winter. Cold, dark day followed pain-filled, cold, dark day. Most of the time I just stayed inside since it was so hard to move. My steady, faithful partner would make quick excursions out to check on things each day. Then little by little I realized the days were getting longer again and there were days that didn't seem quite so cold. One morning, hot breath and steady nudging woke me to the fact that a truly nice day was about to start. Taking a couple of minutes to get my balance under control I started for the bathroom and then the kitchen with the obligatory stop in the office to turn on the computer and check the mail. When I opened the door I realized it was going to be a wonderful warm, sunny day and yes a walk was at the top of my list of things to do. That morning walk became the first of what turned into a daily ritual. Every morning, rain or shine we would walk at least as far at that place in the fence where we could look out and see the door. I became a student of that door. I took to studying it for hours on end. It was an old style door. The doorknob low set, with chipped paint and a green tinge. The door itself had been painted at one time but now weather and age made it impossible to tell what color it had been. Inset panels set two long ones over two shorter ones and the lack of any window made me think it had once been an inside door. Whatever sort it had been it now rested out there in the woods and was beckoning me to come and investigate what lived on the other side. I said 'lived' because I was coming to think of it as a door to somewhere. My partner continued to insist we walk every day. Each day I tied a yellow ribbon to the fence to mark our progress. "Hey, do you know what you are doing to me? I mean, do you realize you have managed to get me to walk farther and farther every day? You know," I continued, "you are pretty slick with the way you get me to do stuff I think I don't want to do." She just glanced over at me and then picked up my cane and handed it to me We kept this schedule going all summer and into the fall. As the days started to get shorter and cooler again I was faced with the stiffening and the pain and having been without the worst of it for several months, the pain seemed just that much harsher when it returned. No longer could I walk all the way to the end of the line of yellow ribbons and each day it was harder to get out of bed, even with her help. Now when we got to the place in the fence where we could both see the door, we stopped because it was hard for me to make it even that far. That door. What was it about that door? In a certain light and when the angle was just right, I thought it looked as if it was opening just a little bit. In fact, I was sure it was opening. No longer just an old door, abandoned and forgotten. The cold rains of fall came and with the rain came the stiffness and the pain. For days I was not able to walk to that spot; the place I had taken to thinking of as the Door To Nowhere. As happens so late in the year, the weather changed again and for a few days it was cool, crisp and dry. We headed straight for that spot just as soon as I was able to limber up enough to walk any distance at all. Today was definitely different. Today, my partner helped me sit on the log I had taken to using as my vantage point, and instead of pacing up and down the fence line, she started to dig. All morning she dug, stopping to take only a short break now and then. Into the afternoon she dug and by early evening when I insisted we had to head back for the house she had managed to wear her nails down almost to the quick from the constant digging. There was now a sizable hole headed under the fence. Tomorrow would be another day. Sure enough the next morning I hurried as best I could to get through the slow morning rituals that my body demanded. Once I could move, albeit at a slow pace, we headed back to where the freshly dug hole huddled at the base of the fence. Taking my seat on the log, I looked through the chain link and as my eyes located the door I could have sworn there was a light streaming out around the edges. My partner started to dig almost at once. The dirt flew and just a little before noon she broke through to the other side. "Great," I thought, "Just great. Now she will be able to go check out the door and I am still stuck here." I was so wrong and a wave of guilt crashed over me for ever daring to think she would ever consider leaving me behind. Instead, when she had wiggled to the other side of the fence she turned around and started digging again. She was actually making the hole under the fence larger. The day stretched on and with the sinking sun the area around us started to grow dark. It didn't much matter because I was no longer watching her dig nor was I very much aware of the lack of light because the door was definitely swinging open. I could see a warm and friendly light streaming out. Satisfied with the size of the hole, my partner slid back under the fence and trotted over to me. She picked up my cane, handed it to me, then turned sideways so I could grab her shoulders. The cane, plus her pull, managed to get to my feet. It took no urging on her part to get me to limp to that hole under the fence. Using her as balance I slowly lowered myself to the ground and then, on my belly followed her under. Once on the other side again she helped me to roll over and slowly sit and then, clinging to her, I managed to pull myself up. As soon as I was standing in a stable position she rushed back to the hole, zipped through to the other side and grabbed my cane. Poking and shoving and then coming back through and pulling, she managed to bring the cane to me. With it in my right hand and with her on my left, we made our way to that door and the light. I looked down at her and she, looking up at me, seemed to grin and her stump of a tail was just a blur as it wagged with pleasure. With my hand lightly touching her neck the two of us stepped through that door, going from Nowhere to Somewhere. Margot Woods, Dog Trainer shire@erols.com http://www.applewoodsdogtraining.com http://www.dogtrainerdirectory.com |
| Door To
Nowhere By GC gc_13@hotmail.com |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| I
put away the ledger, and prepared to go home. It had been a long day, and
though I considered many times to give it up and go home, I continued with the
tedious work and stayed. It isn't always like this, sometimes I can concentrate on some plan or listen to music and have no problems with my figures. Planning something or listening to music seems to offset the mundane job I have. Today, I just couldn't concentrate on the work, much less listen to music or plan something. I had to give the ledgers my full attention. I seemed to forget from one entry to the next, did I enter that or not. Let's see, last week's figures are here, so this must be this week's figures. No, now this week's figures are the exact same amount as last week's. How can that be? Let's total that up again. Could I have made a mistake? Was the mistake made last week or this week? Let's total that up again. Did I even do the figures last week? Yes, that pretty much sums it up for the day. This hasn't happened to me before. Something just out of focus keeps almost surfacing, then as quickly as I zero in on it, it's gone again. Oh well. I reach up, get my coat and put it on. Take one last look at my desk to make sure everything is put away and I'm not forgetting anything. I reach out to turn the knob on the door. As I look down at my hand, I notice something odd. This is not my hand and that is not my ring. I wear a gold ring on my right hand, and this one is silver. What's going on here! As soon as I think the question, everything fades to black, and I'm conscious of lying in bed. I sit up and shake off the sleep. That was the strangest dream. I get up, throw on my robe, and walk to the bathroom to get a drink of water. As I am filling my glass, I look up into the mirror to see if my eyes are puffy. Instead of a mirror, there in its place, is the window to the side yard. What am I doing in the kitchen? I just walked into the bathroom! Once again I am conscious of lying in bed. This time I pinch myself and it hurts really bad, so I sit up and know I am awake. Now what? Am I really awake this time? I study my hands. My ring is in the right place, right hand middle finger. It's gold not silver. Maybe I should just get up and make some coffee. I step heavily, bouncing, to jar myself awake. I am awake this time. I go to the faucet in the kitchen, reassure myself that it is the kitchen by looking out the window, hold my hand under the water, feel the coolness and splash water on my face. Yes, finally, I am awake. I fill the kettle with water, and pull out a cup and the instant coffee. I'm not going to wait to brew a pot. I need coffee now. While I'm waiting for the water to boil, I go to the dining room table. There's some paperwork lying there. Now this looks a mess. I thought I had this straightened up! Sitting down I start reading the ledger. Let's see, last week's figures are here, so this must be this week's figures. No, now this week's figures are the exact same amount as last week's. How can that be? Let's total that up again. Could I have made a mistake? Was the mistake made last week or this week? Let's total that up again. Did I even do the figures last week? Something just out of focus, almost surfacing, then as quickly as I zero in on it, it's gone again. Oh well. I put away the ledger, and prepare to go home. I reach up, get my coat and put it on. Take one last look at my desk to make sure everything is put away and I'm not forgetting anything. I reach out to turn the knob on the door. GC gc_13@hotmail.com |
| Door To
Nowhere By Cynthia Clark Ladyreck@yahoo.com |
| ~Honorable Mention~ |
| Welcome to reality, come take a ride with me, Invade my dreams, loose my memories. Face life head on, let go of your soul, No need to worry, I have complete control. Loose the anger, the pain and fear, No need to shed any tears, This ride will shine the light, On the loneliness of my life. I built it myself it comes incomplete, Lost and lonely, a world filled with misery. Two doors that open wide, which will it be, Only one has the light. The other, nowhere that I see. Journey from the darkness, the depth that fills my heart, Hang on tightly, you can't fall apart. Now's not the time, to back away from your goal, Come journey with me into the darkness of my soul. By Cynthia Clark Ladyreck@yahoo.com |
| Door To
Nowhere By P. Scott Garcia, Copyright 2001 |
| ~Honorable Mention~ |
| I
had been told to wait. I wasn't ready to purchase my ticket. I was undecided.
No destination felt right. I looked out the multi-paned windows that encircled
me. Each window showed diverse surroundings. To my right was the noisy Hong
Kong cityscape brightly lit yet pitched with dark shadows. At my left was the
ocean, warm exotic beaches in the moonlight, the surf softly whispering against
the silvered sands. Before me was the only truly blank space, I looked at the
empty wall and wondered why? Exotic locales were visual at every turn, yet this
one point where the walls and ceilings met had no focal point-just infinite
blackness. It was as if I could see forever. The walls were black, I assumed
this was to keep the interest on the featured destinations punctuating my view.
Even the ceiling was a midnight sky … the stars and planets a glittering
display for those interested in an out-of-this-world excursion. But my eyes
kept returning to the emptiness of the wall before me. I experienced a hunger
for that blankness. I felt a hunger in that blackness. I was drawn.
I looked down and found that I was no longer seated at the utilitarian bench in the waiting room's center. I was almost to the wall, I didn't remember getting up. I stretched out one hand. I wanted to feel the solidity of the wall. I felt nothing. I reached out with both arms, as if to embrace a beloved child--yet my arms remained empty. I was alone and aching to enter the door. What door? There was no door … yet I was no longer in the windowed room. Warm darkness surrounded my body, it felt thick and full. I knew my eyes were open, yet I perceived nothing in the deep blackness that enclosed me. I took a step forward, then back. I wanted to go forward yet I found that I could not. I turned, yet every direction held the same emptiness. The air became too heavy for breath. I stopped myself from drinking greedily of the thickness. I no longer moved and my breath seemed to cease. I didn't labor for air or fight the lethargy of my limbs. I merged into the darkness. At once whole, yet nothing. I knew I had gone nowhere. P. Scott Garcia, Copyright 2001 |
The Other Entries...
(In the
order they were received)
| Door to Nowhere | Heckter Ligtop |
| Stanton Blanton was a tall man.
He was proud and was just glad that he had an opportunity to compete in the
national dart throwing challenge. He had a rough dream last night and it was
still very fresh in his mind. It was Friday, June 5th and Stanton started to
get his stuff together and get ready to leave for the final round in the
challenge. His wife Lilly was a small lady with thin lips and oversized
forearms. Her hair was streaked with colors of shaded ivy. Although she went to
college and was top in her class, she never really found her dream job. She
made sacrifices so Stanton could pursue his dream of Dart throwing. This often
caused stress with Stanton and made Lilly a little resentful.
Lilly heard Stanton downstairs and yelled, “honey, make sure you stop and get some cauliflower, I am having the girls over for a get together.” Stanton grabbed a few of his best darts, “honey, no problem, I will make a stop at Gallo’s and pick up a few things.” Stanton knew that if he refused her request that she would whoop him. Stanton loved his wife and although she was supportive, he often thought of choking her. So Stanton decided to go a little out of his way and get that damn cauliflower. He like the veggie as well and he knew it may give him the edge he needed against Claude Jeffers, the current dart throwing champ. Ever since Stanton was a young boy he dreamed of throwing the winning dart and walking away with the ultimate - the Cantora. The Cantora was the trophy that went to the winner. It was named after Floyd Cantora who made some colossal contributions to the sport. Floyd was a twin and was also known for his vivacious personality. Stanton wanted to be just like Floyd so he practiced all the time and would enter every event he could. For years he dominated his region. The only set back was when be got involved in pornography and lost a bit of his focus. This went on for years until he met Lilly. She made him realize that if you can fine tune your sexual desires to one entity you can achieve ultimate experiences. This interested Stanton and he decided to get more serious with the relationship. After all, he could not afford to be too picky since he was tall and somewhat awkward. He had also been diagnosed with an irregular pituitary which spurted his growth and caused him to walk a bit sluggish. With his big feet he could always rely on Tall N’ Big Feet for shoes that would fit. Even with all his difficulties Stanton made great strides in his endeavors. Today was June the5th and he had made the finals in the Ballitan sponsored Dart shoot off. Ballitan is known for the best darts and Stanton uses them exclusively. So after leaving the house that Friday he first made his way to Gallo’s and got a pound of cauliflower. He now could focus on victory. Stanton pulled up at Spirgo’s and sluggishly made his way back to the dart room. He walked by Claude with a firm glee and then ordered a tall beer with a side glass of spruced laced water. There were many people watching and ESPN began to coordinate their cables to get ready for the air. The game was to be Cricket and from the coin toss Claude was to throw first. Claude threw and made some good points. It looked good and he looked confident. Then Stanton stepped up to make his marks. Wow, was everyone in a shock for what he was about to do. The game was not even close. Stanton had grown so much that he did not even have to throw. He just stood on the throwing line, leaned forward, and stuck the darts in the board for points. Claude was in shock. All he could do is shake Stanton’s hand and make some closing comments with ESPN commentator Billy Dirch. With the victory Stanton walked up and grabbed the Cantora. His dream had been met. Or had it? Something was wrong. He just was not happy and the people watching knew something was wrong. Billy approached Stanton, “what is wrong, you have won, why are you not happy?” Stanton took a deep breath and shook the sweat off his lip, “ I don’t know Billy, I had this bad dream last night. My wife has given up so much so I could be successful. All I can remember is her looking at me with disgust and walking away. She said good luck honey with your darts. I have no life. Then all of these demons dragged her off and pulled her through this big green opening that had mulch and slime all around it. The marker over this opening was labeled “door to nowhere.” Stanton with all the guilt and frustration took the Cantora and the cauliflower and slung it off this big overhang he often went to when he was depressed. Stanton tried to re-think his life. He made a pack with himself that his purpose in life must start to include Lilly. She was happy for this and together they endeavored ultimate experiences.... Done... |
|
| Door To Nowhere | Paula Sheehy |
| There’s a
spirit in the air that points The direction to a million doors. He says these are your choices And we laugh him to scorn. What do you mean we have a choice There is no choice for us. We are not the gifted ones We are the sick and lost. The city we live in is crowded The pollution is too much to bear. The teachers do not teach Us and no one really cares. Our minds are under too much Stress we cannot keep up. Terrorist are bombing So its time to just give up. I have no one around me And I’ve never had a friend. Who is God where is he I can’t see him it’s the end. I am to old now and I Haven’t got a pot. There are to many needs And I haven’t got a lot. A million excuses a million Alibis. A million reasons And a million lies. Have you not learned a thing In life the most important one. That your life has to do with Which door you chose. So be careful to chose the right one. So do not chose the door That leads to nowhere. For it is cold, callus and dark And no one will be there. |
|
| The Door to Nowhere | rejuvenescent |
| At eleven-fifteen on Thursday
morning, Janet was transcribing a sheaf of scrawled notes into a PowerPoint
presentation, when Todd flew into the office. Janet managed the schedules of
all four of the principals at the J. Marks Agency, and she knew that he was
back from an important proposal. "How'd it go?" she asked, giving him a big smile. "Knocked 'em dead!" He made guns with his index fingers and shot them at her to demonstrate. "Pow! Pow!" He strutted into his office and shut the door. Todd had breezed through so quickly, she hadn't had time to blush. She felt her cheeks getting warm now. Two months ago he had taken her on a few dates, and she had fallen hard for him. She had floated into the office each day, often sporting a new outfit or hairstyle. Between answering the phone and making copies, she fantasized about being Mrs. Todd Ramsey. Then he had taken her to Ho Wok Fat's after work one evening. Between the egg rolls and the chow mein, he had taken her hands in his. "Janet, you're a really sweet girl," he said. Her heart started thumping. "But I think we should just be friends." Ever since, she had been heartsick. She had tried to cover it up by being even perkier than she had been while they were dating. She hoped Todd would have a change of heart. She glanced into Jack's office, where Jack and Kevin were on a conference call. Jack liked to joke that since he was the boss, his office had the view. The J. Marks Agency occupied an inside suite with no windows to the outside, but Jack's office had a glass wall with a view of Janet's desk in the hallway. At noon, Jack and Kevin emerged. "We're going to grab a bite," Jack said. "We'll be back in thirty." There was a client meeting at one. With Brad in San Diego and the other two at lunch, she was alone in the office with Todd. Janet microwaved her lunch and ate at her desk. Todd came out and dropped a folder in front of her. "Could you make six copies of these for the one o'clock?" he said. She had a mouthful of pasta and couldn't swallow it fast enough, so she nodded. By twelve-fifty, she had the copies laid out in the conference room. At one o'clock, the was no sign of either Jack and Kevin or the clients. Todd poked his head out of his office. "Where are those guys? Would you try to page them?" Janet picked up the phone. The line hummed, but when she pressed "9" for an outside line, it went dead. She tried again, with no luck. She dialed Todd's extension. "Yeah." "I--I was just testing the line. I can't get an outside line." "Lemme try." He hung up. A moment later he called her. "I don't know what's going on, I can't get a line either. Just let me know when they show up." At two o'clock, no one had shown up yet. Todd came out. "Where is everybody, anyway? I'll be back in a few." Todd opened the door that led out of the suite. "Holy shit!" he yelled. "What's wrong?" Janet said. "Come here." Janet got up and walked to the door. "Omigod," she said, her hands flying to her mouth. There was nothing outside the door. No hallway, no elevator bank. No sky, and no ground. No stars. Just... nothing. "What happened?" she said. "I don't know." "What do we do?" she asked. He shook his head. Then she started shrieking and crying. Todd held her and patted her hair absently while he stared out the door. Eventually, he led her away from the door and into the conference room. They sat down on the couch. She nuzzled against him and dozed off. When she woke up, she was alone on the couch. She ran out. Todd was standing by the door. "Oh, God, I thought you'd left me!" she said, throwing her arms around him. "I love you, Todd, I love you so much," she said, clinging to him. "Why?" he said. "Why do you love me?" "I--I've always loved you! You're the only one! You're the only one there is!" She buried her face in his chest. "Tell me that you love me." He didn't answer. "Don't you love me?" She rubbed her hands all over his body, kneaded him. He stepped back, and pulled her hands together. "I'm leaving," he said. "Leaving? I'll go with you." "Okay," he said, and stepped towards the door. "Wait, I--" she started. She thought they would walk out together, holding hands, to face whatever lay beyond. But he didn't stop. He walked through without looking back. Janet looked back at the empty office. She could feel the aloneness pressing in on her. Then she followed him. |
|
| Door to Nowhere | P. Scott Garcia |
| I had been told to wait. I
wasn’t ready to purchase my ticket. I was undecided. No destination felt
right. I looked out the multi-paned windows that encircled me. Each window
showed diverse surroundings. To my right was the noisy Hong Kong cityscape
brightly lit yet pitched with dark shadows. At my left was the ocean, warm
exotic beaches in the moonlight, the surf softly whispering against the
silvered sands. Before me was the only truly blank space, I looked at the empty
wall and wondered why? Exotic locales were visual at every turn, yet this one
point where the walls and ceilings met had no focal point-just infinite
blackness. It was as if I could see forever. The walls were black, I assumed
this was to keep the interest on the featured destinations punctuating my view.
Even the ceiling was a midnight sky … the stars and planets a glittering
display for those interested in an out-of-this-world excursion. But my eyes
kept returning to the emptiness of the wall before me. I experienced a hunger
for that blankness. I felt a hunger in that blackness. I was drawn.
I looked down and found that I was no longer seated at the utilitarian bench in the waiting room’s center. I was almost to the wall, I didn’t remember getting up. I stretched out one hand. I wanted to feel the solidity of the wall. I felt nothing. I reached out with both arms, as if to embrace a beloved child-yet my arms remained empty. I was alone and aching to enter the door. What door? There was no door…yet I was no longer in the windowed room. Warm darkness surrounded my body, it felt thick and full. I knew my eyes were open, yet I perceived nothing in the deep blackness that enclosed me. I took a step forward, then back. I wanted to go forward yet I found that I could not. I turned, yet every direction held the same emptiness. The air became too heavy for breath. I stopped myself from drinking greedily of the thickness. I no longer moved and my breath seemed to cease. I didn’t labor for air or fight the lethargy of my limbs. I merged into the darkness. At once whole, yet nothing. I knew I had gone nowhere. |
|
| Door To Nowhere | dice elm |
| Tandy saw a man with green hair
come out of a door in the alley. She stepped back in the shadows as he walked
into the street and flagged a cab. Tandy had been down this alley many times on
the way to work and had never seen that door before. As she approached she
noticed a small window in the middle of the door. Looking in she saw a stream ,
trees, and pasture dotted with flowers. Snowflakes caught in her eyelashes as she tiptoed to get a better look at the springtime scene. Tandy reached for the knob and jerked her hand back because it tingled in her palm. It felt like it was alive. Determined she opened it anyway. The warmth of the sun immediately enveloped her and she quickly removed her coat as she stepped through. She heard the streams babble and the sweet melody of birds. The smell of green with the hint of flowers around her made this scene before her eyes intoxicating. She wondered if she had stumbled into Eden or if it was all just an illusion that would soon end. Tandy walked towards some weeping birches that were beside the stream glancing at the peculiar flowers that grew along the path . There were midnight blue flowers with black centers, pink delicate bells, and purple snaps. There was even baby blue ferns and white clumps of fairy gloves. As she neared the trees she saw that they formed a circle beside the stream. In the center were stones of different shapes and sizes almost reminding her of the primitive furniture in a Flintstone cartoon. But these stones were much more delicate in appearance and in different colors from pinks to whites, and malachite greens to lapis blues. Tandy stopped when she saw the man sitting beside a table watching her approach. He had long yellow hair and cherry red lips. She could see the pointed tips of his ears that his long hair didn’t quite hide. This was startling enough but the thing that froze her steps was his blue eyes that pierced her soul. Pierced her soul? How the hell would she know what that felt like? Never in her life had she encountered a being that could do such a thing. Yeah, sure she’d read those lines in books but it was not something that she ever believe in or ever experienced. He smiled at her as if he was reading her thoughts. This made Tandy blush with discomfort. The man winked at her, “Hello, my name is Eland. Welcome Tandy.” “Hhhow…?”, Tandy began. “…did I know your name? You might not remember this but we’ve met before. I think you were about four at the time.” Tandy felt the blood drain from her face. That was a dream and only one person knew about it. Tandy was suppose to be taking a nap and her mom found her awake, babbling a strange tale of fairies and fairy lands. Mother said it was just a dream, but it seemed so real. “No way! That was just a …” “….dream. No it was real. I was there to invite you here, remember?” “ I thought you were trying to kidnap me. I tried to tell my mom but she wouldn’t believe me. Wait a minute how can this be real. You haven’t aged. You’re still as I remember you.” “Time is different here. “ Eland smiled gently. Tandy wondered why after all these years she still felt as if she knew this man as well as anyone she’d ever met. As a child she felt that pull and resisted because she didn’t want to hurt her family by leaving them to join this man. Over the years she thought of her decision and wondered how she found the strength , when it was obvious to her now that she wouldn‘t be able to resist this time. “Welcome back . I hope you will decide to stay this time.” Eland whispered. “How did I get here?” Did I die? Tandy wondered. “I didn’t even believe this place was real or that I would one day return. I thought that I would be leaving behind the real world if I went with you the first time I saw you.” Eland chuckled and held out his long fingered hand to her. When they touched she felt a tingle that made her feel excited and welcomed. That touch felt so good that she hoped she wasn’t imagining it too and if this is how death feels she thought, I don’t ever want to go back to the land of living. Her knees weakened slightly as if they lost strength. Eland folded her arm into the crook of his and began, “You are home again and you arrived through the Door to Nowhere……” |
|
| Better and Better | Stephen Brynes |
| "Good afternoon, Mrs. O'Brien.
This is Marketeers International. My name is Fergus." Her throat cleared. Intuition and experience told him that very soon her phone would come slamming down. Time to change the script. "Help us, please! We need to know ...." Her hesitation provided an opening, and he moved in quickly. Had she bought a personal deodorant recently? When did she use it? What about other brands? How did they compare? Finally the last line -- 9 questions and 73 seconds later. He thanked her for answering. She complained that the questionnaire was "too damn long." Furtively glancing around to ensure that a supervisor was not hovering behind him, he agreed, apologized, and again thanked her. "So what the hell are you calling for? You think I smell bad or something?" "No ... no, not at all, ma'am. The companies that make these products need information ... to improve their products ... to help you as a customer make more informed decisions...." "Well, don't call back." And she hung up. Fergus shook his head. She shouldn't act like that, he told himself. Her was just doing his job. Then he felt guilty about wasting time and returned to the next call. It was later Friday afternoon. He had reached his quota of "completes" the day before. After that came "override," a commission above the base salary. Last month he had reached the upper fourth of "phoners," this month the top 10 percent. When he started, Fergus had mixed feelings about the job, but soon put then aside. He felt it benefited society. "I'm not religious," he told co-workers, "but I have faith in information. Without information, there's not much point to anything." They looked blank at first. "Oh yeah," one finally said with a sour expression, "you used to be a computer programmer." Like himself, they had recently been laid off from "something better." They distrusted his enthusiasm and thought him a nerd. He was used to this. Short, slight of build, and cross-eyed, he had long ago retreated from people and into a separate space. The eyes did it. Since childhood he had hated the sympathetic looks and averted faces that accompanied his handicap. He avoided contact, staring just over the shoulder, reading faces with little darting, almost imperceptible glances. The telephone gave him privacy. People couldn't see his eyes, and he had naively expected that the public would welcome his calls and eagerly questions. But they were often surly. Timing, a deep voice, "command presence," and a brisk, overbearing manner would overcome this, the company's training program emphasized. Sympathy brought a reprimand. "Don't try to be a nice guy," said a supervisor sharply. "You're not selling vacuum cleaners." This harshness made no sense to him, but he followed orders. They also disliked his soft, weak voice and almost fired him after two weeks. Fergus had discipline. He worked hard and improved his timing. He began speaking from the "back of the throat" as the manuals recommended and exercising his stomach muscles to give his voice greater resonance. His completion rate improved rapidly. More completions meant extra money, and a little was now coming his way. He couldn't help sympathizing with those on the other end of the line, but grew clever at concealment. He was sure flattery kept people from hanging up. Why did the company so rigidly insist on following the script to the letter? To ensure "scientific accuracy," the manual said. But he worried about getting enough "completes" and shrugged at procedure. The script was stilted and awkward, but also sacrosanct. It was written by the Marketing Director, a slender ascetic-looking woman with a pin-striped suit and an MBA. On rare occasions, she nodded to him in the corridors, though they had never spoken. Supervising the "phone room" from day to day were various underlings who listened in on the lines or skulked past the cubicles with a furtive and harried air. The company often used follow-up letters or calls to ensure that completed interviews were genuine. It was quick to fire people who didn't follow orders. A merger of two huge companies in the area had resulted in many layoffs, and there were always many new applicants. Fergus had been a programmer with a now bankrupt defense contractor. The government had concelled a grandiose software project to "made every soldier into a system." The pay had been much higher than market research telephoning, and he felt bitter about losing the job. His skills were specific to the defense industry. Short of going back to school and learning a new computer language, there seemed no way out. So he read the script with one eye and watched for supervisors with the other. Luckily, there was a very faint hum on the line when another phone was off the receiver. Cautiously, but with the exhilaration of a misbehaving schoolboy, he improvised, stroking egos, telling people over and over that their opinions were interesting, that they were interesting, and that he enjoyed talking with them. The script was pompous and arrogant, he felt. There were no rewards for answering questions. He was a beggar, and he begged passionately and shamelessly. No matter if people cursed or laughed at him -- just that they answered the questions! Once into the questionnaire, resentment often flared. Why did so many take it personally? Sometimes he forgot about his eyes and wished he could read the questionnaire face to face. Did they feel he was a voyeur, peeking in windows, watching their naked bodies, making them feel ashamed? He was too inhibited to ask. Cope with their sadness and hostility. Accept or get out. He needed something -- a philosophy or a religion, he wasn't sure which -- to guide the daily round. The newer self-improvement guides didn't help. Much better was an old book called "The Practice of Autosuggestion According to Emile Coue." For example: "Take a piece of string and tie in it 20 knots. By this means you can count with a minimum expenditure of attention, as a devout Catholic counts his prayers on a rosary. The number 20 has no intrinsic virtue; it is merely adopted as a suitable round number. "On getting into bed close your eyes, relax your muscles and take up a comfortable posture. These are no more than the ordinary preliminaries of slumber. Now repeat 20 times, counting by way of the knots, the general formula: `Day by day, in every way, I'm getting better and better.'" [Page 42, New York, Garden City Press, 1924.] He followed the directions that night, and work did go slightly better the next day. Somewhat haphazardly, Fergus had been reared as a Catholic, attending a parochial school until age 12. But after his father walked out, there was no money. He and his mother were shuffled among non-religious relatives, and both had fallen away. His last Mass was a distant memory. Autosuggestion made more sense to him than plaster saints and Hail Marys. Now he could fill in the details. The former programmer proceeded to program himself. A headset left both hands free for paperwork as he made calls and her constantly pushed to cram as much work as possible into the shortest time. He grew adept at classifying the voices, identifying with them, reading the questionnaire more slowly to the elderly, briskly to the young, softly to women, loudly to men. Steadily pushing against constant resistance, he felt himself moving very slightly faster each day. He was, he thought, like a copier on automatic pilot, producing picture inside of picture, stepping down a size each time. What would happen when he reached zero? As he drove himself relentlessly toward a goal he could not even imagine, each day began to blur into the next. Finally there was nothing of substance left to learn. He was the top producer in the office, steadily widening his lead over second place. The key now was alertness -- to avoid the mistakes that others made. Then it happened. He was called into the office of the Marketing Director and commended on his performance. Pale and asexual in her tailored suit, she brought back childhood memories of nuns. Indeed, there was office gossip that she had been a nun in the distant past. But she talked like an MBA. "I have good news and bad news," she said, studying him closely. He nodded carefully. "The bad news is that we're going out of business. All phoners will be laid off." He knew the overall completion rate was declining, but had never expected they would shut down. He couldn't think of anything to say. "The good news is that we're starting a new company, Focus Marketing, Inc. We want you to come with us, Fergus." "What would I be doing?" "Running focus groups. You do know what they are?" "He did. But she told him anyway. "We want you to do what you're doing new, only face to face and with a small group. They will be paid," she emphasized, "so there will be no problems with cooperation. Do you think you're up to it?" He hesitated. Once, self-consciousness about his eyes would have intimidated him. But not now. "I know I am," he said. "Wonderful! Welcome to the fast track, Fergus." She extended a cool dry hand. "I'm sure you'll do well. You know, there's something about you I've always admired." "What's that?" "You project a certain quality. Hard to describe ...... what's the word I'm looking for? Vulnerability, that's it! You make people want to help you, to give answers. A definite plus in this line of work." A look of fear flickered across his face. Had she been listening on the line, and somehow he hadn't caught it? But she only repeated "welcome to the fast track" and shook his hand once more. The day finally came, and, wearing a new suit for the occasion, he was ready to start the questions with his first group. She had offered to sit in, but he had memorized the questions so thoroughly she begged off. "You don't need my mentoring," she said. A focus group of eight filed in. Three housewives, a gas station attendant, and four factory workers recently laid off. All low income, but younger than 35 and thus potentially upscale. "Value marketing" was the name of the game. Winning their loyalty now with low profit items might set the stage for upgrading later on. Their apathetic expressions made Fergus feel smug, an indulgence he rarely permitted himself. They seemed bored and unhappy, forced by economics to show up for a question and answer session at the minimum wage. He, on the other hand, had an interesting job. But once he got started, the smugness evaporated. Talking in front of a group bothered him. Should he stand by the blackboard, sit in a chair, or casually sit on the desk? Professors in college did all three. He compromised by standing next to the desk, touching it from time to time to steady himself. He took role, checking names off, staring at his list. His self-confidence had been premature. It still bothered him to look at faces. "Now then," he began, "we're talking today about deodorants. How do you feel about them? What qualities might lead you to choose one over another?" He was genuinely curious. Low income, self-image, social class, sense of smell -- a tangled set of relationships to unravel. "Anything that comes to mind. Mrs. O'Brien?" "Mrs. O'Brien!" Nearly everyone he talked with on the phone abruptly dropped from memory in an automatic clearing process. But he remembered her. He had never attempted a visualization, but still she startled him. Broad shouldered and obese, with tiny eyes in a face like a concrete slab, she seemed Slavic rather than Irish, resembling those Russian women on the evening news who stood in line at the markets. "So," she crowed triumphantly, "you think I smell bad or something!" Fergus clutched a corner of the desk with all his strength, hunching his narrow shoulders into the job. There was work to do. He lifted his eyes and stared directly in her face with a pleading expression. He knew only that he had to start all over again. |
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| The Door To Nowhere | Cynthia Clark |
| Welcome to reality, come take a
ride with me, Invade my dreams, loose my memories. Face life head on, let go of your soul, No need to worry, I have complete control. Loose the anger, the pain and fear, No need to shed any tears, This ride will shine the light, On the lonliness of my life. I built it myself it comes incomplete, Lost and lonely a world filled with misery. Two doors that open wide, which will it be, Only one has the light.The other nowhere that I see. Journey from the darkness, the depth that fills my heart, hang on tightly, you can't fall apart. Nows not the time, to back away from your goal, Come journey with me into the darkness of my soul. |
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| Door To Nowhere | Noay Inell |
| I was never that good at keeping
track of things. I would spend the day running, trying to keep up, trying to remember, trying. I didn't succeed. I read a lot (force of habit) and happened upon a piece of work known as _Memory's Ghost_. _MG_ is about a man whose brain surgery (a butcher's job) landed him with no memory. (That is not quite right. He has a memory. He remembers *skills*, and sometimes *facts*. But he cannot remember his mother, his father, how long he's been in the nursing home he's in now, who his caretakers are, or anything else. If asked, he will tell you that today is the day he gets his surgery. And he will tell you that every single day of his life.) It was a sorrowful thing to read; not because of his plight, but because of the way his plight contrasts with most people's. Most people have their memories and the pain and joy of various ones; he has none to feel pain or joy from. His life is a blank tape in the VCR that is his mind, and his responses are all snow on the screen. I came to realize that my memory of facts is good, and my memory of skills as well; but my episodic memory is the problem. I cannot remember that my teacher assigned such-and-such, or that I have already been to that class, or what time it is supposed to be now. I know that if I wear a watch, I can look at it. And you can't imagine how many times I have tried to. I never, never remember to put them on. I suppose I could fix it all with a list, a laminated list to write on each morning, but I don't see the reason. I asked a doctor about this. He recommended a psychiatrist, and a few weeks later, he recommended a CAT scan. I'm told that the tumor is inoperable, and they will tell me soon if it's malignant or not. However, considering the rate of growth so far (virtually none) they suspect it's benign. The spot it sits at is the spot missing for the man with no memory of events. Bad enough to learn when you're young that someday you will not be young; worse to learn someday you will not even be at all. But worst of all to have an door in front of you, and the knob rattles every now and then. Because the only thing worse than suffering is nothing, and nothing is a very real threat to me these days. |
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| Door To Nowhere | Angele Roy |
| shooting star don't wish on me burning out no destiny no name to claim no home to roam too short a light to belong in the night gone wrong |
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| Door to Nowhere | Larry Kerr |
| Through an open door
opportunity may reside a chance to mold the future A calm little man, dressed in a lab coat of sparkling white, paints great truths in mathematics, before the dim lifeless eyes of a dozen sulking youths. Elegant, spiritual formulae that die, unloved, in the artist’s hand. Advantaged youth that will never possess the simple joy of understanding, yet all will overtake his fame and fortune. All will matter more to this world then the lonely mathematician The great head bows, his mass of white hair hard against the blackboard straining the formulae twisting empty trails through the hopeful variables. All of mankind is here, and yet they always choose ignorance. Through an open door the Truth may reside a single moment of clarity A grumbling crowd of trench coats press sheaves of vague speculation into the little man’s giddy hands. Wondrous spells from hidden, alien laboratories. Ancient technology from an unmentioned source. A glimpse past natural order into the heart and mind of his God. The little man shook from excitement his troubled mind immediately recognizing the delicate order of intrinsic truth. The language was inhuman but the terms were mathematics. Sub-atomic particle theory could not contain the message. He would re-form the world with his discoveries. Though an open door deception may reside hiding self and purpose. A generation of fevered study, bottomless coffers puking forth money and research teams at a heavenly pace. Discoveries sucked back quickly and armed for use. Academic honors pour in overwhelming wall space and reason. The little man presses on. If only he could unlock this last phrase, this last relationship of unknown particles. The little man is growing careless. The last phrase is transposed, a form that he can relate to his world. A minor change that binds everything into perfect symmetry. Through an open door Truth resides where purpose kneels to appetite. A tiny girl-child, nearly five in tattered smock and deep shock, drags a battered headless rag doll in crushing spirals about the living dead. Wraiths in the rubble of her home. Her eyes are horror What was once laughter and smiles, Are vacant windows reflecting nothing nothing, endless mindless nothing. The door to nowhere. A nowhere sky The nowhere color of broken lives, melting into the tortured rubble of nothingness stretching from horizon to lost horizon. A single phrase transposed. Through an open door madness resides wicked stepmother of Truth Fagen slept Fagen the father-god of midnight and winter, shivered in a narcotic dream as he pissed himself. Fagen, the lab animal, slept, living God’s nightmares. |
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| Door To Nowhere. | ||
| This problem has bothered Barry
since high school. He heard about it in the eighth grade when they studied
polynomials. - “The second degree has a very easy general solution”,
said the math teacher Mr. Blum, starting to draw the derivation on the black
board. - “What about other degrees?” , Asked Barry with homegrown
arrogance. Mr. Blum put the choke down, whipped his hands out and said: - The
solution above the 4th degree does not exist. The 3rd and 4th degree solutions
do exist, but they are very cumbersome. I welcome you to try them though. Barry
started from the 3rd degree first. The problem turned out to be very slippery -
nothing to grab on. It was irritating. After fidgeting on the spot for a couple
of hours and covering several pieces of papers with impatient chicken scratch,
Barry gave up. “God damn you, piece of shit!” - he thought scrambling
the papers and throwing them in the trash. Back then there were more pressing
things to do, like parties, baseball, watching TV, playing computer games,
fighting with parents. But now… now Barry lived alone in a small shit
hole, worked a nauseating 9 to 5 job and had no woman or dog to soothe his
frustration. Now he came back to the problem just like he came back for that
fat boy he did not fight at Andy’s party because he had to do the girl in
the bedroom upstairs. He began by simplifying it from (Image involving what appears to be mathematical equations) Then Barry went for partial solution cases: (Another image involving what appears to be mathematical equations) Up until now Barry moved very quickly. Actually it was just more of an organized rewrite of his junior high school attempt. At this point though Barry dead-ended and started pacing his small room back and forth. “If found roots are indeed values of the function then what are their corresponding argument values?” - reverberated in his head. Some other thought also moved around his mental focal point, but he couldn’t quite grab it. “Screw this shit!” - he thought. He felt confined and irritated, put on a jacket and went outside. Barry walked along the empty streets, looking at the trees that started already getting yellow and lights in the house windows. He turned around the corner and went on a larger street where he watched store displays. Then he stopped by a Movie Theater and looked at the posters. A couple of good-looking girls came by and Barry made a mental note that he hasn’t had sex for ages already. One of them reminded him of someone. He looked at her closely and waited until she looked back. - Hi - Said Barry and smiled. - Hi - Said the girl cautiously. - Is this movie ok? - Said Barry pointing to the poster in front of him. - I did not watch it yet - Said the girl. - Then why don’t we watch it together? - I don’t even know you. - Said the girl rolling her eyes and looking at her friend. - You will if we rent the same room at a motel - Said Barry the first thing that came to mind which happened to be a paraphrased line from some old foreign movie. - Jerk! - Said both girls in harmony. At that moment Barry figured out who this girl reminded him of - his ex. She looked different, but inside she was the same. He gave them both a narrow sardonic smile and Vulcan “live long and prosper” gesture. Suddenly he was able to grab that thought that was slipping away from him at home. He remembered that the root values contained the same term Ö -B. Without this term they would simply be combination of 0,1, Ö3 and 2. “Wait, wait, wait “ - said Barry to himself, stopping in the middle of the street. “What does it remind me of? These values are just like points on a sinusoid, only doubled. The actual values on a sinusoid should have been 0,1/2, Ö3/2 and 1 for corresponding angles of 0,30,60 and 90 degree angles. With that thought Barry went home in a hurry. Once there, he threw his jacket on the couch and grabbed a piece of paper. He assumed that all the roots lie on the same sinusoid, only separated by some unknown phase and start quickly sketching the root locus. That’s what it looked like: (Image of a graph involving a wavy line.) Here the blue line shows the first locus and both red lines show the second and the third loci. Thus Barry assumed the general solution in the form: Y1 = 2Ö(-B/3) SIN(a1) Y2 = 2Ö(-B/3) SIN(a2) Y3 = 2Ö(-B/3) SIN(a3) Where a1, a2 and a3 are angles separated by some phase. When Barry finished, it was already late. He went to sleep happy, but slept nervously: kept on waking up and got up in the morning with a headache. At work he had a hard time concentrating to the point that during a meeting, he asked his boss to restate a question. After work he was in a hurry to get home. But he was too exited and could only look at already existing proof in the drunken stupor. For a moment he even thought of calling his ex girlfriend, but then quickly rejected the idea. If he could only sleep with her without talking. But nooooo…She would terrorize him with her endless jazz of conversation that would drift from subject to subject and would never ever get to the point. Barry got in his car and drove to the ocean. When he arrived, it was 9:34 and he had no problem finding parking. He went over the sand zone towards the water, took his shoes and socks off and rolled up his pants. The water was cold at first, but after he got used to the temperature, it felt nice. There was a full moon looking from the dark sky like a gigantic half portion of egg’s benedict, leaving the yellow trail in the water. Barry walked towards Venice Beach listening to the howling of the wind and hissing of the waves. The beach by the water line was almost empty. Only now and then he was noticing a single standing figure or a couple making out wrapped in blankets who postponed their rhythmic movements waiting for him to pass by. Barry looked towards the dark line of horizon and it seemed as if somewhere, behind the waves, was a beautiful island where life is perfect, parents don’t get divorced and die from lung cancer, men are friendly and women are understanding and happy. The next day after work he was attacking the problem again. The main task was to determine the angles a1, a2 and a3 or rather to determine the difference in phase between those angles. Barry expressed them, in terms of assumed functions. (Another image involving what appears to be mathematical equations) He rewrote them making substitutions: a3 = a2 + ß3 a1 = a2 + ß1 After long trig manipulations he was able to prove that the phase difference was the same, and determined its value: 2p/3. Barry took a closer look at original C coefficient hoping that it would have a one to one correspondence with the SIN(a2) as the graph has suggested and started to play with it. (Another image involving what appears to be mathematical equations) Actually he had no idea where he was going. He feared that he might end up with something totally un-digestible. After a couple of hours of messing up with the expression, he unexpectedly came to the one that threw the chill down his spine. (Another image involving what appears to be mathematical equations) That was the expression for SIN(3a2)! Barry could not believe his eyes. As if someone had planted this relation especially for him, as if it was built in the nature of the Universe! The rest was a piece of cake. After a couple of reverse substitutions, Barry got the general solution in the following form. (Another image involving what appears to be mathematical equations) Barry felt elevated: the solution - beautiful and elegant and all his own! No one else in the World had it! He felt like sharing with someone what he had discovered. He even thought of calling that girl he met at the laundry mat. Cute, thin, and full in all the right places, nice smile, white teeth. Most of all she had that light untroubled look about her. Barry liked girls like this. What was her name? Something starting with “B” - Betty or Becky. Then he laughed at the stupidity of such an idea. Oh yes he’ll call her and talk about Trig. Duh… Plus the timing for the first call was off. They met on Sunday - today it was only Tuesday. Barry thought that he should call at least Wednesday, better on Thursday. And he definitely wanted to have his ex over the day before, just so he wouldn’t feel over-anxious. Who else can he call, Andy? He was a cool guy to play baseball with, go to bars and parties, but this? He wouldn’t even understand. Actually Barry has never told anything like this even to his high school buddies. The only person he could call was old Mr. Blum - his junior high school teacher. Barry looked up his number and punched it on the handset. - Mr. Blum? This is Barry Ross. How are you doing? - Hm,, Barry , Barry Ross. Which Barry Ross? I knew three of them, if I am not mistaken. - The one is from six years ago. I am kind of tall, always sat in the last row, had a grin and gave “Smart Alec” remarks. - Oh, Barry… Yes I remember now. Surprise… Surprise. What are you doing nowadays? - Mr. Blum, remember you gave us a 3rd degree polynomial to solve. - Said Barry impatiently. - Did I? It certainly wasn’t part of the curriculum. Well, ok and? - I solved it. - You solved it? … Gee. I’d have never believed it. I though you were a jock. - I just like to play sports. - So you solved it when? - I solved it now. - Now? Well it’s certainly nice that you are not forgetting algebra. - Can I e-mail you the solution? - Oh sure, I’ll be interested to take a look at it. The rest of the conversation, they went over other guys and gals in Barry’s class and Mr. Blum gave Barry his e-mail address. Next day Barry wrote it all nicely in Word and sent it to Mr. Blum from work. On Thursday closer to the end of the day Barry got Blum’s answer.
That day Barry came back from work feeling very tired. He opened the door, put the jacket on the hanger and sat on the couch. He persisted like this for a long time without a movement. Why did he do it? Didn’t he know that the solution existed? What was he thinking - he was a great mathematician? Did he want to match Carnoit? Be serious, Carnoit lived in the seventeen century or even earlier. Back then even Trig was not invented! Blum will show this solution to his class… Oh what an honor… What was he expecting, national recognition? Maybe Bell Labs would invite him, for an interview? How silly, no how stupid of him…how stupid! Barry got up from the couch went to the fridge and pulled out a Beck’s. He opened the bottle and started drinking. His soul was empty and dark. It was Thursday night. He sighed, opened the telephone book, picked up the phone receiver and start punching the numbers on the pad. |
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| About the ACW Club: |
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