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"Betweentime" (the thirty-fifth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
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Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Betweentime" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (DST), July 15, 2004 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| Betweentime by V.F.Geister vfgeister@juno.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| On Tuesday, July 13, at exactly
4:55:23 AM, straight from celebrating both his recent separation from
"Conniving Witch, Number Three" and dumping, against all odds, those last, two,
"unmovable" Lincolns - 24-ounce slab and fries digesting tentatively, the
spicy-smoky mix of a double-"house" brandy and the longest, fattest, most
expensive cigar the nice tits but flat-assed waitress at "Tenderhook’s
‘Beefomat’" could dig out from the greasy display case under the
register, comfortingly numbing his palate – Cornelius Brinkman, too
exhausted to even shrug out of his suit jacket, threw himself face-down into
bed and, smiling wetly into his pillow over the myriad colors he could just
picture that jackass Portnow’s face turning when he found the paperwork
for those two garish four-wheeled hunks of junk waiting for him all nice and
neat dead-center on his desk at 9AM – found himself suddenly embraced in
the steel arms of a massive coronary occlusion that turned him, within the
twenty-seven seconds it took, from ruddy to purple to blue to every color
(including, briefly, the very same lime-green that had rendered, for all these
many months in dealership limbo, those two garish four-wheeled hunks of junk so
"unmovable") to, ultimately and, as far as anyone knew, irrevocably and
irretrievably, simply and silently, by exactly 4:56:00 AM… deceased.
"The Gekkman" – named, not entirely whimsically, for Gordon Gekko, the hero of Cornelius’ all-time favorite motivational film, "Wall Street" – returning from another quick, wet, snurfle over every inch of his floor space for the anything even remotely edible he was positive was just waiting for him around every corner, took the uncustomary quietude in the room as an invitation to a sleep-over and, so, having jumped, then stamped around for "comfy," finally plopped his great, hairy, bulk to face the door, lest anything even remotely edible suddenly manifest in another part of the house without him hearing it – laid his head down, thumped his tail a few times just "because," heaved a liver-scented sigh, licked his nose, and farted. Slightly taken aback that Two-Paws back there didn’t immediately make his usual gagging noises and hurl something hard and pointy at him, but, instead, just lay there behind him, serene and so uncommonly still, The Gekkman – determined immediately to make as much "hay" as he could of such an uncustomary moment and, turning over onto his great, hairy, back, relaxed his limbs, lolled his tongue, closed his eyes and happily, cut another. Ah yes. Life is good. *** Meanwhile, several hundred gajillion floors up, in the Department of Transitions, Manager Cue Dendrit was asserting – to key-operator, Wallice Gob – his personal disagreement with the very same concept. "Ah, you know, Gob – life stinks." Tossing the thick file he’d been scrutinizing intensely for the last fifteen minutes onto the vast tundra of carbons and print-outs and triplicates that – bi-annual audit looming – overwhelmed his desktop, Dendrit leaned back in his chair and, hefting one sandaled foot onto his desk’s bottom drawer – permanently extended to accept the burden – propped his tired, jowly, head on his right hand and turned his scrutinizing attentions on Gob. "I know it." he drawled half into his palm, "and YOU know it. Or, you WILL know it, you hang around here long enough. And manage to not get your ass booted back downstairs to "Apologetics." Which, given this, believe me, Gob, you just might. "But, Gob," Dendrit suddenly dismounted his foot from its perch with a heavy "thud" and leaned forward to tap hard emphasis on the desk as he spoke, "THEY don’t know it. The ones downstairs, the ones we’re responsible for. "No, Gob – they don’t know it. And they never WILL." Dendrit leaned back in his chair again. "Not if we’re doing our job, anyway." "But this, Gob – THIS…" he gestured toward the file sitting forlornly in the middle of his desk where he’d tossed it, "THIS is not us doing our job. THIS is us screwing up." He lasered his eyes onto Gob - scrawny, pimply, pathetically sweating and squirming in the flow of cool falling from the overhead a/c unit - "this is YOU screwing up." "So, Gob," Dendrit edged back into his chair, "tell me. What happened?" Gob gulped. He was at a loss to say. Or, rather, he wished he was at a loss to say. For, actually, he knew exactly what happened. "Chicklet" happened. New key operator Chicklet Bodine. Chicklet of the long, dark, lashes and big, brown, doe eyes and funny little nose freckles. Chicklet of the long, wavy, golden-brown, frankincense-scented hair. Chicklet of the milk-and-honey-scented breaths that tickled right through him every time she laughed. And Chicklet of the soft, mauve wings that he tried so hard not to but couldn’t stop himself from wondering how they’d feel wrapped snugly around him whenever she fluttered by. Gob sighed. Yes… Chicklet happened. And, yet… it was not her fault. True, she was the one who’d been keying the In-Timer’s "OutTime" data when it happened. But it’d been HE who couldn’t wait till she was finished keying the data to present her with the bag of "Chocolate-Covered MannaChips™" she’d called him over and asked him to go to the lounge and buy for her, her feet were hurting her so. And, it’d been HE who’d (stupid, stupid) bought the wrong ones, the "Chocolate-Covered MannaPOPS™"instead of the CHIPS. Causing her to – completely understandably – stamp her foot in frustration and throw her keyboard at him. Thus Inadvertently hitting "Enter" before the InTimer’s data’d been double-checked. So, really – though, OK, technically, it’d been Chicklet’s responsibility – in fairness, had he not been so immature and pushy and stupid – she’d not have transposed the InTimer’s "OutTime" data and sent them, causing the InTimer to "time-out" of his vessel prematurely into "Betweentime." So no, no – he wouldn’t drag her into it, it wasn’t her fault. He wouldn’t say a word about her, not even if it DID mean having his ass booted back downstairs to "Apologetics." He would, in fact, be PROUD to go, if it meant he’d done the right thing by Chicklet. Dendrit, curled slightly sideways in his chair, propped his big, jowly, head on his right palm, watched with only marginal interest the frizzled-winged, pimpled idiot on the other side of the desk he drifted silently, smilingly, in-and-out of intelligence.. Good God, had HE ever been this young and blind and dip-stick stupid? He’d seen that new operator – a frizzled-winged, pimply little beast just like this one, only smarter by light-years (in a shrewd, venal, way) – and wondered what in the cosmos did anyone – even her parents – see in her? But, then again – he’d been a walking hormone once himself. So that’s how it went. Feeling sorry, now, for the idiot, Dendrit decided to cut the kid some slack. THIS time. Speaking of "time,"though – a quick glance at his watch reminded him it was closing in on lunchtime and Dendrit’s stomach suddenly piped up to remind him if it was Tuesday – it was "Mac’n’Cheese" day. He’d have to get a move on, then – "Mac’n’Cheese" always moved like hotcakes. "ALRIGHT, GOB – HOP TO!" Dendrit slammed his hands down on his desktop, sending Gob’s eyelids rolling upward like window shades and his scrawny, frizzled-winged carcass flying off his chair and onto the floor. Dendrit stifling a chuckle, pulled the Betweentimer’s file on his desk toward him and waited for Gob to scramble back into his chair. "OK, Gob, I haven’t got any more time to throw at this so, here’s what’s going to happen. THIS time – you get off with a warning. A warning… and you stay here as long as it takes to clean up your mess. "Don’t screw up again and you’re fine. Screw up again, though – and your name isn’t "Gob" any more, it’s "MUD." Got that? Gob nodded. "OK, good. So… let’s see… the InTimer’s ‘IOT’ – his ‘Intended OutTime’…" Dendrit zig-zagged a thick finger slowly down the page till it found its destination, "…was supposed to be ‘July 31’… and by ‘massive coronary occlusion.’ But YOU… (he shot a sharp glance across the desk at Gob who, at that moment, was slouching in his chair, head tilted back, mouth gawping, staring up at the ceiling tiles. Nah, he took it back. No way in Heaven or Hell or even on Earth he could ever have been THIS stupid.) …"mistakenly" keyed it in as "July 13." And, so, this InTimer, this… what’s his name…" Dendrit flipped back a few PostIts-pocked pages… "OK, this… ‘Cornelius Brinkman’… was timed-out of his vessel before his actual, ‘Intended OutTime." Leaving him in Betweentime. Dendrit leaned back into his chair. "So, the thing to do is – since he really has only… (Dendrit closed his eyes and counted out-loud) sixteen… seventeen… eighteen… since he really has only eighteen days till his real ‘IOT’ – you need to find a suitable vessel – a vessel rendered, as they say, "redundant" – and shove this Brinkman in it until his time is, actually, up. So, let’s see what’s available in Brinkman’s immediate area…" Dendrit started flipping through the file again. "Aha! Just what the doctor ordered! Looks like old Brinkman, here, has a room-mate. With an ‘IOT’ of, what ho – also July 13! ‘July 13… 4:58:14 AM… Hit by car.’ It doesn’t say anything about major car damage so, if that pans out, it sounds like an excellent fit. "And, who better to be than someone you already live with? You already know he drill. "OK, well, Gob – so there’s your ‘redundant vessel." Suddenly, outside in the hall, Dendrit heard the sound of squealing and yelling and stampeding feet. Alarmed, he jumped up and ran to the door – to see what appeared to be the entire floor not just walking, but RUNNING for the exits. Out of their offices, from around their cubicle partitions – from out of the woodwork, it seemed… Well, what the… Oh, wait. Dendrit looked down at his watch. Of course – lunchtime. Lunchtime on "Mac’n’Cheese" Tuesday. "OK, Gob – I gotta’ get a move on." Dendrit ran back to his chair for his suit jacket and, picking up Brinkman’s file as he went, tossed it into Gob’s lap. "Ok, now, listen, Gob," he said, from one foot in the hall, "it’s very easy. Just do what you always do – go back into the system, call up Brinkman’s file, and just exchange his and Gekkman’s "IOT"s. Dendrit was halfway out the door when he stopped short. "Just make sure you add a few seconds onto Gekkman’s ‘IOT’ before you assign it to Brinkman. Gekkman needs to be past his own "OutTime" before his vessel can be re-assigned. Or it’ll get pretty crowded in there. And who knows what else. "Got that, Gob?" Dendrit looked back over his shoulder into his office at Gob, standing there, holding Brinkman’s file tightly to his bony chest. Dendrit paused for a second to chew his bottom lip, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t stay and make sure it got done right. The kid was, after all, nigh-on an idiot. Just then, however, Julia from way down the hall hobbled her broken leg by him in the direction of the cafeteria at such whirlwind speed he felt his suit jacket flap and Dendrit realized Gob was more than capable of handling such an easy task by himself. *** Back at his station, Gob was determined to do this thing right. And, in doing so, save the day for and win the heart of Chicklet. So he logged on and he called up and he exchanged and then… and then… and then… And then Chicklet, herself, wafted by on her way back from the cafeteria with a big tray of "Mac’n’Cheese." But he could see she had nothing to drink. Nor did she have anything for dessert. And Gob could not let such a situation stand. So Gob stood instead. And looked down at his keyboard, and at the screen with the exchange between Brinkman and his room-mate, Gekkman, poised, waiting for him to hit "Enter." But there was something else he was supposed to have done, wasn’t there? Something about adding numbers. Or was it subtracting numbers? Gob stood there, his right index finger in his mouth, staring at the monitor, thinking… thinking… He heard a small cough from Chicklet’s station. Omigosh – she was choking to death! Don’t worry, Chicklet – I’m coming, I’ll save you! Gob hit "Enter" and ran to save the day. *** On Tuesday, July 13, at exactly 4:56:01 AM, having just barely dozed off after returning home from a night celebrating the happy excision from his life both discordant wives and discoloured cars, Cornelius Brinkman awoke with a gasp into his bedroom, enveloped in a thick shroud of such suffocating despair and hopelessness that he felt, if he didn’t know better, he had just known death. But that moment passed into the next and, suddenly, there he was feeling unusually fit for a man his age and astounded himself by scampering down off the bed and immediately out into the house where the incredible abundance of energy he was feeling was matched only by the astonishing over-abundance of things that smelled just plain good, and he spent the next minute or so chasing his nose around the house - under the kitchen sink where the mice lived, into the sofa cushion where Wife Number Three – that bitch – sat till, finally, his nose led him to the front door where – well what’s this, did he leave it open? And a quick shoulder nudge and scoot around the door jamb and down the walkway to the street and – omigod, look, cars! Cars! Cars! Cars! Cornelius just loved cars. Loved to sell them… loved to chase, them even more, though. Where’d that thought come from? Aw, who cared – there were CARS! Parked in the street! Where were the moving ones? They were much funner. He’d have to find some. Out of his mind with the sheer joy of outside, Cornelius danced around his front yard and then – was that a car he heard? – raced out to the sidewalk. And, look – there was one coming around the corner right now! Tongue lolling out of his mouth (what an odd feeling – but nice!) Cornelius sat down right in he middle of the street to wait for it. And the sun was just showing… and a friend was howling an ode to edible things somewhere… and he could smell… mmmmm… cat… and here comes the car! the car! the car! Oh boy, the car! And, sun and sounds and smells and cars and, yessir, no doubt about it… Life wasn’t just good. Life was frickin’ GREAT. |
| Betweentime by Bev Cull beautbev@iinet.net.au (Entry #6) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| It took all of my restraint not to
scratch. The material in my costume was quite irritating, and it had the most
annoying habit of riding up. Had I not been a seasoned veteran of nylon suits,
then I fear all would have been lost. The five seasons I spent on the Star Trek
set had paid off. It didn’t make me a household name, but it paid the
bills for a while. Since I had worn the Trekkie uniform for so long, this should be a picnic, or so I thought. There certainly hadn’t been any petty bickering about whose costume looked better as they were identical. The money wasn’t so bad either but it was long gone and that was the reason I was standing in front the camera again. It was just a pity the costume department couldn’t spring for something with a little less static. The director had called for a ten minute break for the make-up guys to do their magic. Time was ticking on and we really needed to get this last night scene done now. We were so far behind schedule it wasn’t funny. Standing there looking at all the activity I had to pinch myself. This was a chance of a lifetime for an actor my age. I think the reason behind me getting the role was my degree in Medieval Studies. They needed someone in the know and I was their man. Hey, I wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t every day a writer gets to act in his own play. The designer had no idea what a knight’s armour looked like or how a damsel would dress. That’s where I came in. On set they had trouble persuading the leading lady that she would shine, despite having to wear a wimple. She thought she looked like a nun. How Jenelle could ever think she looked like a nun was ridiculous. A shrew maybe, but never a nun. Now I was being catty, but after three weeks on location, my patience had worn thin. When they asked me to play Lord Halverson how could I resist? After all, he was penned by yours truly. The royalties alone would more than make up for the money squandered at the roulette table. It didn’t take much persuading for me to take the part. Truly good roles rarely came my way. I did have some lingering doubts about how it could be transferred from stage to screen but the lure of having a bank account in the black was too good to ignore. After the tenth attempt to nail a simple scene, I was beginning to wonder if I’d done the right thing. So many things had happened to dog our progress. Even the weather was against us. The sun played hide and seek for most of the day. I saw the production manager biting her nails, hoping we wouldn’t go into overtime, but by now she must have realised that was a forgone conclusion. Despite that, I knew without a doubt, they had picked the right location. We were surrounded by some breathtaking countryside. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it actually looked like the England I remembered. However, we were in the heart of New Zealand, and this was the last scene of the day, or should I say night. The sun had gone down long ago. It was the last night scene, and the director, in his infinite wisdom, decided to film it now. I had hoped to be sitting in my trailer, reading a good book but alas, that was not to be. "My Lord, my Lord, I fear all has been lost!" A figure dressed in armour appeared before me, seemingly ready for battle. That was my cue. Raising the sword in my hand, I stood quickly, trying my hardest to keep my costume where it should be. "Why such haste Sir Briar? The enemy is surely not yet at our gates?" "Lord Halverson! The news is grave indeed. Our lookouts have seen several stout squires butchered before their eyes. They are using darkness to cover their treachery. Some say ‘twas the Black Knight!" "The Black Knight you say? Nay Sir Briar! He will never storm this castle! Never!" "Cut! Finally! Ok people that’s all for today," the director called out. "Nice work Peter." He spoke, referring to the character of Sir Briar. The guy had a couple of walk-ons and he was saying "nice work"! Geeze, could he be any more obvious that he hated my acting? For most of the day I’d been the target of his scathing comments. I only messed up two of those takes, but you’d think it were the entire lot, the way he kept glaring in my direction. He’d been a tyrant all day. After fourteen hours of filming, I had begun to loath the sight of him. It felt like divine retribution when, of all things, Howard’s cell phone rang during a crucial scene. He blamed his assistant for not turning it off, but it was gratifying to see the look of embarrassment on his face. It was no good worrying about it now. Tomorrow was another day. I collected my carry bag and quickly ducked into the wardrobe trailer. I couldn’t wait to change out of my costume. It was the quickest costume change I had ever managed. Standing outside a few minutes later in my jeans and t-shirt, I began to feel myself again, minus the itchiness. "Nigel. A word in your ear," the wardrobe girl called out. "Do you think you could get through the day without tugging on your leggings? I don’t know how much it will take of you pulling at it every five minutes!" She stood with the offending leggings in her hands. I was trying to remember if I had hung them back where they belonged. That was another thing she had warned us about last time. I would love to say that I’m a tolerant person but after such a long day, I was simply not in the mood for it. "Well, if you stop them from riding up the crotch then I’ll stop tugging at them! If you had ones with a less snug fit, that would be even better. Unless, of course you want the whole world to know that, yes, I am most definitely a male!" It was out of my mouth before I even knew it. "Oh, for heaven’s sake! I thought Jenelle was a Prima Dona! Just be more careful next time!" With that she spun on her heels and marched off without another word. It was someone else I’d have to make amends with. The last thing I needed was too much starch in my shirts. The day just couldn’t get any worse. It hadn’t started off like that. In between filming I spent some time explaining the nuances of the English language with the American cast. We were in stitches listening to the differences between the two countries. Even I had learnt a thing or two. When I offered to "nurse" an extra’s baby, she glared at me and sat at another table. It was only at the end of the break that I figured it out. How on earth I was going to get through the next three months was beyond me. The caterers hadn’t even managed to make a decent cup of coffee. It tasted like dishwater. They kept on offering me cups of tea instead. What was with the Aussies and New Zealanders? Did every single one of them drink tea? "Nigel!" Oh, why hadn’t I left when the going was good? I looked up to see the script writer marching over in my direction. This could only mean one thing. She most probably wanted to make a few changes. I turned to smile. This was one person I’d prefer to humour. One stroke of her pen could wreak havoc. "Susan, what can I do for you?" I asked trying my best to smile. "I’m not sure how the next scene will go. I know you’re the Shakespearean authority, but what the heck does "betweentime" mean? As much as you might love it all, the audience won’t have a clue Nige." I closed my eyes for a second. She was about the third person who had shortened my name and probably wouldn’t be the last. Why do people do that? I could imagine one of them meeting Prince Charles and saying "Nice to meet you Chuck." "Just for the record, I don’t really like being called Nige, but if you have to I suppose I’ll get used to it." "Sorry. I hate it when people call me Suzy. Nigel it is. Now… back to the betweentime thing. Work with me here please. I assume you don’t want subtitles?" I chuckled. I could just imagine sitting in a cinema watching the subtitles flash by. It wouldn’t be the first time an English film ended up with teletext, but still highly annoying. "Trainspotting" I could forgive. Even I needed titles for that film. "Perhaps not. I can’t believe that two countries with English as their first language can be so damn different," I told her, as I picked up my coat. "By the way sweetie, you’re about 500 years out. Shakespeare didn’t come on the scene until much later. Now, about betweentime….ummm… I suppose it means in between…. and, no, it can’t be shortened, not unless you totally want to confuse people." "Thanks for the history lesson," she gave a wry smile then continued. "What about scene three?" She spoke, flipping through the script pages. "Tell me again why can we say fanny instead of rear end? What’s the problem there?" "Well, unless you want the British censors coming down on you like a ton of bricks I suggest you stay away from that one." "I don’t get it." "Let’s just say it’s another part of a woman’s anatomy. Because it’s a PG film, you don’t even want to go there." "Oh…" I could still see her bewildered look and then a light bulb moment. "Ok. Now, I get it. Why don’t we grab a bite to eat and see what we can come up with?" Susan asked as she draped her arm around my shoulder. "I’ll even make you a cup of Earl Grey tea. I have some in my trailer." "You’re thinking of Patrick Stewart my love. He was the Trekkie captain and the tea drinker. By the way not all Englishmen like tea. Personally, I hate the stuff. Give me coffee any day." "Coffee I have, but I’ll warn you…. I have a ten year old who’s Trekkie mad. He’s waiting for us now. I told him I’d get you there somehow." Oh well, there went my idea of a romantic evening. It would teach me a lesson for even thinking it in the first place. I was old enough to be her father. That’s all I needed. A ten year old firing all manner of questions. The last fan I met asked me if Klingons really could mate with humans. It made me wonder if any of them actually read books. "Well, I’ll do you a deal. If I let your son in on some trade secrets, do I get to keep "betweentime"?" "Hmm… we’ll see. You never know, you might even like my ideas." "Oh, that’s reassuring." Susan laughed as she opened her door to the strains of Led Zeppelin. A young boy stood playing an electric guitar and fairly well, I might add. That music was my vintage. The kid had good taste. Somewhere in the trailer the coffee was brewing. I could smell it. Perhaps the evening wasn’t an entire loss after all. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #8 Second place: #6 Others receiving votes: #1, #5 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Betweentime lee10@host365.com |
#1 of 9 |
| 786 words | |
| The universe abides, serene, above a carcinoma-ochre
haze, while the day's emotions bubble, trapped like magma beneath the yellow
crust. It is the betweentime; the time when the line between truth and magic
for a short time blurs; the time when old angers and vomited violences sidle
through empty streets; when, in a faint whiff of ozone, their substance is
harvested, the ingredients of dreams. The makers of mischief from nightmare
worlds, like bees collecting sweetness, gather putrefying images of dismay.
Manipulating Man's primordial mischiefs, they sprinkle their malice over
slumbering citizens and somewhere in the city, a child wakes up screaming.
The night time's crop is a good one; the whole city shares the bounty, feeding unconsciously on the agonies of others; locked by maleficent hands into a cycle, whereby the sharper the rages, the more bitter are the reapings. Sooty motes of misery, the dusting of a careless scattering, drift over a sleeping, stinking tramp washed up amidst McDonald's flotsam, duvet'd under sweating newsprint, beyond the council's caring. His bedroom's an abandoned doorway, wallpapered with desiccated flies shrouded in the collapsed webs of spiders, generations gone. Banks of alcoholic mists float across an emptying mind that once stored scientific exactness. The steps of frantic phantoms whirl around the ragged pillars of remaining conscious thought, rotting in 48 proof tides, while screeching dervishes derange his mumbling dregs of sanity. His scabrous head nods to the baleful movie playing within and his legs twitch, in vain to flee the torment. When a thrumming rain announces the day's reluctant start, he grumbles, waking stiffly; muttered words caught like crumbs in his ragged beard. Clinking carrier bags contain the detritus of his history, the Co-op branded scavengings of bins. His coat is waterproofed by the passage of greasy years and his worn, torn boots prepare to move him on. * Elsewhere in the city, another wakes to daylight's hesitation, the anguish of a dream-filled night chiselled on his face. Plum-purple eyes glare at mirrored, joweled cheeks where, popped by late night whisky, veins trace red routes through dayblack stubble. His temples pound furiously. He squints, loses the image as a second overlays the first. His oaths echo back from an empty house. For breakfast he chooses the hair of the dog and the fire fuels a foul temper. Nick-sore shaved, dark-suited, paper-packed briefcase held tight, he keys his BM' and enters the day. * A loose heel slaps the tarmac as legs already weary trudge the High Street. Cadged cash in his pocket buys vodka; the bottle concealed in thin, translucent plastic. He staggers, head tilted, the liquid sunshine soothing the rawness where his life used to be. He stumbles to a corner, steps from the kerb. Unsteady, he stops in the gutter to drink and his boots dam the flow of the trashfilled stream. * His smart shoes pinch and his foot treads hard on the car's throttle as he tries to beat the rush hour traffic. The whisky has soft-focused his brain. In the wrap-around warmth, awareness of what he is doing slides from his reach. Like a swinging watch, the car's wipers entrance him, entangling his mind in a place elsewhere. Through the windscreen's medium the driver views the derelict, distinct as though through the bottom of an uptilted glass. The tramp glimpses the debauched through the realm of detachment; cause and effect unconnected. A squeal of brakes jolts the tramp backwards, out of his reverie. He sits, hard, on the pavement, bottle held aloft, safe. The car slides, bangs the kerb and stops. Its wheels dam the flow of the trashfilled stream. The driver leaps from his vehicle, a madman screaming venom, enraged in each mean fibre of his being. He spits invective upon the greying head and slaps the bottle away. The old man cries, oblivious to all but his sunshine, dribbling, coalescing with the rain. The rich man's parting spite is to kick the bottle, to set it spinning. It falls under the car where it spills its remaining silver onto trash. The driver's door cracks shut. The throttle's furiously thrust and the BM' drives away at speed; the rear tyre softening, slashed by malicious vodka-smeared shards * Pain and madness trickle from the scene to pool beneath a blocked drain's rim; to wait for the betweentime; for the time when the line between truth and magic will, for a short time blur. The night's crop will be a good one and the whole city will share the bounty, feeding unconsciously on the agonies of others; locked by maleficent hands into a cycle, whereby the sharper are the rages, the more bitter will be the reapings. |
|
| Betweentime mrsdew4@adelphia.net |
#2 of 9 |
| 357 words | |
| Light pulled in and out of the window each day as we experienced the birth of our first baby Michelle. We realized through our excitement as we took her home from the hospital how needy we were, but it was supposed to be she. We were in the betweentime of moving from grown children to parents. Dewey and I were so young ourselves. Things were happening so unexpectedly, like a single drop of rain falling on our skin from a fast storm advancing in the spring. Before we could absorb the years of her life that had gone by, another and then another rain drop fell. We barely noticed. Our heart ached when we found ourselves at Michelle's high school graduation. Her life was now moving so fast as she moved onto her path to college. We couldn't imagine her not being at home with us. Betweentime, thankfully, we had documented with pictures. Melancholy now filling quiet times once filled with nourishing chaos. During quiet times, we actually stopped and noticed as light pulled in and out of the window each day. Loitering during our free time, we waited for those all important phone calls, and for Michelle to come home for brief visits called Spring Break and Holiday Weekends. Each visit was much too short, like each spring shower is to newly planted flowerbeds. The flowers remember how wonderful those single rain drops felt on their delicate petals. They would graciously savor them until the next drizzle would come, and their roots would be filled up again with needed nourishment. Of course, we would help the flowers by watering between visits from Mother Nature. She knew what we needed and when. That's why she allowed the light to pull in and out the window each day. So we would know what to do in the betweentime of light and darkness. She set our internal clocks. She knew where to keep Michelle in our heart. Knowing how fast we had to grow from children to parents, she kept sending those single rain drops to get our attention. She was there, and thankfully, she definitely got our attention. |
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| Betweentime My Nguyen idlemousse@hotmail.com |
#3 of 9 |
| 3298 words The author chose to keep this story at a word count beyond the allowable limit. Critiques are requested. |
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| Hanna woke up disoriented in her hospital room with no
memory whatsoever what had led her here, or why the hell these heavy bandages
were on her arms and hands and sore face. She would feel the terrible pain later, engulfing her like the fire did. She tried lifting her bandages paw to her face, but cried out in pain as her brunt flesh revolted, though she did not know at the time that underneath these burdensome wraps were blisters and sores that were just cooling. Hanna wanted to get up and move out of this stupid bed. She started to panic, but soon calmed herself with slow quick breaths that soothed her enough to allow her a little more time to think. She knew, above all, she wanted to see what the rest of her body looked like. Lying there, she could hardly see the tips of her feet under the wool blanket. Hanna realized with terror, that she could barely move her legs. Her whole body suddenly felt oddly stiff and alien to her. She started to struggle on the flimsy hospital bed, shifting from side to side, frantically as if to escape from this weird cocoon she happened to wake up in. This is not right, she thought, again and again. What happened?-----I don’t remember, she realized. And suddenly, tearing agony ripped through her raw flesh, arisen from her sudden movements and the rubbing done by the bandages on her wounds that only caused her more grief and pain. She screamed and screamed, howling into the world for the second time in her life, not unlike an infant just arrived into this world, unused to the cold air that was stinging its flesh. Though only in this case, her flesh felt raw and singed. She cried out. It was suddenly too horrifying for her. She almost lost all consciousness then. The pain could be heard in her wailing, resonating down the halls of the hospital. Those patients aware enough at the time, looked up from their beds and sullen preoccupation, to their doors in silent reverie of a pain and suffering worse than theirs.A tremor slid through her body and she felt lost in the pain. Hanna was not aware of the group of nurses coming into her room, rushing to her side, nor the simple crumpled card that had slipped from her hand and onto the floor she had been clutching all this time as tears gushed out of her eyes in torture. Soon her wails became silenced through the welcoming relief of unconsciousness. A nurse came up, picked up the card, and smoothed it out. She laid the piece of paper on the nightstand next to the bed, thinking the patient would like to keep it, knowing the visitor who gave it to her had come with religious frequency since her recovery. She was, for a moment, side tracked by the image of the old women. As if entranced, she thought of all those rings and jewelry that seemed to hold some hypnotic power on all who shared too long at the ruby and sapphire stones, unconscious or consciously wondering, as the colors seeped into their eyes, their true value. The beaded necklaces that swished back and forth as the gypsy walked, seemed to add consistency to the layers of mystery swathed all around her. And those eyes that seemed to look right into you and across time… But the nurse soon found herself forgetting all this when the doctor arrived trailing in his entourage of interns and aides. She placed the card onto the center of the stand, so that Hanna would notice it upon awakening, without reading the urgent message scrawled on the back. *** To say, just years ago, could she have imagined herself like this, sitting alone on the front porch, in a wheelchair, for that matter, with scars and burns all over her once perfect skin, and without a memory to explain this tragedy that had fallen on her without warning, or if she did earn it, justification. Each time Hanna tried to remember, haze and smoke smothered her vision and she would feel such terror and panic, that she would not hasten to reproduce that memory. As the sun set and the orange glow splashed the dying sun light on to her face, she found herself trying to suppress her tears but they fell anyways, heedless to her stubborn will to fight them away…It was hard, she thought as she cried softly. Gathering her strength again, Hanna resolutely wiped her ears away, and admonished herself for being so weak. She did not want people to see her like this, even if these turn of events did merit a few tears. She decided to watch this sun go down like any other day and to go on like this; to meet every rising and demise as it comes without real defeat. But she continued to feel the loss as she touched her face and stifled a sob of vanity. Her wounds had long ago healed, but they will always leave their mark. She kept telling herself that she was lucky to be at least alive and breathing, though she thought this without conviction. Yet there’d be someone, who’d soon come and tell her just that and somehow convince it to her that it was true. The other visitor and her card were forgotten for the time being. The card somewhere on Hanna’s desk, not quite lost in the mess that she had kept these past months. The gothic print advertised in bold letters of a fortune telling business on the west side of Clove St. near the beach residential area. On the back, scrawled in a rush in a tight, cramped handwriting read: If you would like to remember, or if you want time, contact me. *** Jonas stopped before the house, having passed it by for about the fourth time that day, was uncertain why he was here in the first place. He passed before the gate and put his hands in his pockets, jiggling his loose change nervously, looking down the neighborhood of gracious houses and taking a deep breath as he glance down once more at his shuffling feet. When he finally did look up, the glare of the sun blocked the features of the figure sitting on the porch though he knew it was the person he had come to see. Hanna’s rough, once clear, ringing voice greeted him, "Are you the one who called? You wanted to tell me something about the fire," she stated bluntly, as he arrived up the steps. He took it that the woman he had come to meet was not going to make it any easier for him. Jonas, still looking down, had not yet met her searing gaze. Apparently still distraught, he took one more deep breath and tried to explain. His father was a dedicated firefighter. One night with one of those calls, he had hurried to the site. The fire was a raging inferno, he had heard later. With his research, he learned there had been one survivor, though it had not been his father. "So I’ve come here ever since the fire the last two years, you can say, for a bit of closure. I don’t know, but this thing, his death, it haunts me. It’s all I think about. It almost consumes me in a way. "I’ve come here…to see, to believe… once I heard that there was a survivor----after all this time, I felt a bit of hope…you understand?" "I know, the newspapers hid it well." "I wished to remain anonymous," she continued in a stately way to explain after the long pause. "A non-entity for a while. Of course, we have the money for it." She gestured at the grand white house and surrounding lush gardens. "I did not want anybody to see me like this, you know." She stopped, becoming teary eyed. She had often though of the firefighter who had sacrificed his life for her, but this boy’s presence only made her realize her own selfishness, that she could not really face just yet, when he and others may have lost so much more. Hanna realized, the time following the fire had made her bitter and the remorse had even left her closed off. "I’m sorry, what is you name? We’ve been talking but you’ve yet to introduce yourself. I know your father was Steve Murrey," she said this, acting the gracious hostess now, though with a twinkle in her eye, either from a twist of amusement, or repressing a tear. "I’m sorry. My name is Jonas. I guess you already know my family name so no introductions there," he rambled nervously. He held out his hand after the encouragement, finally looking directly into her eyes. He scanned over her scars that ravaged her face, but did not say anything. There followed an awkward silence. "Hanna," she said after taking his hand. "Yes, I know who you were before we met." She glanced at him shrewdly. After a pause, she started, finally, "Jonas, I bet you wish it could’ve been your father instead of me before you. Don’t you? I know right now I do. Well, you’ve come for answers. Now you know I don’t have any." Jonas waited. When he finally did speak, he said, obviously choked up, "How can you say that? Yes, I admit, in moments I do wish he was here with me. But to say that to replace you or anyone for that matter, how could you accuse me---? He died so that you may live. There must be a reason, if then, just to live." He looked steadily into her eyes, " I really hope you don’t think that his life was wasted. And that everything now is for nothing." Hanna looked back at him, her eyes glistening. A part of her had healed jut then and she realized with his presence that it was really not for naught. *** Jonas came back frequently to that house during that month as though making a habit of trying to stay in contact with, though Hanna, one of his remaining connections to his father. Gradually, the silly facade and games lifted and things became more natural and comfortable. Taking deep breathes of the fresh and calming air around them, they conversed about the things that matter to them and then turned to the insignificant things that would, matter in other times: to ease the apparent creases away and to get to know the stains and wrinkles that had stayed. Hanna’s eyes reflected laughter from the fading sun’s light, but as her eyes met Jonas’, he gazed pass her as if trying to past the scars. It hurt her when she noticed this. But what more could she want? She had mentioned to him the strange card she found while cleaning her cluttered desktop and getting to all those other things that she had left astray those past months. She thought of the fortuneteller’s card and then, the message on the back: If you would like to remember, or if you want time… She had doubts that this cryptic note could mean anything, but it still continued to probe her mind. *** "Do I know you?" was the first thing Hanna thought to say upon entering the cramped space, musty and dark that had an odd aura of waiting, waiting for someone like her to finally enter its doors. "No. You will though. But what does it matter now. You’re here. What is it you want? I have a feeling I could help. And, you know, I’m good with hunches," the old gypsy-like women in beads and trinkets from head to toe, gestured almost theatrically for Hanna to enter the innermost sanctum. Her eyes did not reveal anything as Hanna wheeled herself in, nor did she bend her back over to help her, almost knowing how Hanna wanted things. Still doubtful why she was even here, Hanna held out the card and decided to ask the questions later. The other women took the card. "What is it that you really want?" the wizen women-like doll said looking closely at Hanna, as if the answer lied so precariously on the surface. "I want… my time—everything back," Hanna said. Her hand fell hand fell back on her lap, useless. "Yes, yes. I understand," said the gypsy nodding eagerly, as if she had just read Hanna’s mind and found it plausible. "Come and see," she beckoned, holding out one of the bigger chains hanging around her neck and presented a stone in the shape of a leaf on her palm. Into that dark red, Hanna closed her eyes, she remembers herself in the days her smooth skin shone and it was not hard to wake up each day and meet other people’s gaze without feeling shunned or betrayed. She sank deeper into that ruby red image. When she opened her eyes, she way a portal window shimmering on the wall. Into the window, she saw a girl,--as she had envisioned just a while ago behind her eyelids. It couldn’t be, she gasped. It had been so long since she had gazed into that face opposite from herself in the mirror. Hanna reached out in longing. The gypsy who knew what she wanted all along, only guided her chair towards the opening in the wall. She was just someone who was there to help, someone who pushed the willing women toward what she wanted, not the one who denoted the bomb of coming events. Carefully, with the help of the fortuneteller, Hanna entered through the passage, a world of her own making, again. *** Lil. She’d liked to be called that. Hanna is such a repulsive name, she thought, such a conservative, housewife name, the appearance came into her mind. She could roll her eyes in disgust, but she didn’t have the time for that. She needed to find a job for that summer. There’s nothing to do around here, she moaned, but rather happily. She rolled over on her bed with the newspaper hovering overhead, deciding a new position would find a better perspective on things. Ah. Something caught her eyes: Looking for a companion/nurseNo professional training requiredConversations, readings, and general discussions on life She thought this ad a little misplaced in the newspaper and strange, but it sounded easy enough. Rather interesting, she thought. *** Hanna walked up the steps to the house uncertainly. She felt out of place beside this badly scarred woman, and she did not know what to say. All her brimming enthusiasm was suddenly dashed. Her mind was a blank when all that came up seemed obscure and ill fitting to her. Her hair, she thought of the women sitting there, as she reached up to touch her own, her joy and vanity, fingering the thick strands of blond, so much like her own. It left her wondering but her thoughts were quickly interrupted and she swiftly snapped out of her trance. "You’ve come for the interview. What would you like to be called? Excuse my manners. I’m Ms. Shaws." "Well," said Hanna astonished, "that was my mother’s maiden name…I know this is peculiar, but do I know you?" "No," said Hanna briskly, "we’ve never met before. But can I ask you again, dear," she knew she hated to be addressed that. "What is it you’d like to be called? It is very important that I know what you’d like to be referred to as." "Well," she thought the situation a little off. "Lil," managed to say after thinking a bit. "Yes," said Hanna, expecting the response. "I want you to meet someone." "I’ve got the job?" "Well, what do you think?" "But that’s so sudden. You’ve haven’t even asked me really anything yet." "I think you’re qualified enough." Lil shrugged happily. Hanna, seeing this carefree girl smile, the person she once was, made her love and hate her at the same time. "Come," she managed to say, but seeing the familiar lanky figure coming up the walk, gave her mixed emotions all over again. "There he is. That’s Jonas. He’s working for me as well. You’ll like him." Hanna closed her eyes for a moment, as Lil came down to meet Jonas, obviously relieved to get away. A dewdrop fell from her web of tears. *** Jonas came often to see both of the girls. Getting to know Lil was oddly refreshing. She reminded him of someone but it did not yet come across to him as whom. It was that contented afternoon, as the sun setted, elbow to elbow, did their hands touched hands. *** "Why?" asks Hanna almost frantically. Why has there been no change when this thought passed through her mind, sitting on the porch that afternoon when all else should’ve been fine. "Why am I still like this?" her eyes holding steady onto the soothsayer’s eyes. She passed her hands over her scars once more. Tears fell. "I went back so I wouldn’t be like this---anymore. I went back so things would end differently." "That is the logic of fate. You cannot cheat it," answered the gypsy placidly. That was when, finally, all the cards fell into place. "I want to remember what happened before my accident." "You cannot change sin." "Wh-what do you mean?" "He leads you to his end," said the stooped women instead, pointing to Hanna’s concaved heart. "Yes," said the gypsy, understanding everything and each falling event. "He was the reason in the beginning on now---what of it?" *** "What is this?" screamed Lil, waving the letters in Hanna’s face. Letters that Jonas had sent back to her. "Why did you do this? Write such letters to Jonas and in my handwriting. You have the gull lady. And now he’s gone," she simmered down. Then again, "Why did you do this? It is none of you business. How dare you interfere." "It’s for your own good. You know nothing. There… there will be others." Lil looked at Hanna with a look of pure disgust on her face. "You meddler!" her temper rising. "Isn’t it enough that you’re a cripple and nobody wants to even look at you? They’d rather turn their heads away." The fireplace crackled behind them, hungry for more, as if it knew this was a battle that neither can win. "Look at yourself. At the mask you hide behind. Look at what’s your true face. Finally look at me then!" and Lil or Hanna looked at her. And true to her own words, she could see herself in the women she would be, standing before her by the wheelchair. Lil/Hanna’s rage and fear, mingled together, and she could not accept this raw, invading truth. Not thinking whether or not she’d regret this later or not, she pushed Hanna/herself into the licking flames in the fireplace. For a moment she panicked, only now thinking of the consequences. She tried dragging her other self out of the fire but Hanna only tightened her hold around Lil, locked them in the flames. Together they thrashed and breathed their last breaths as two different entities, and slowly died, merging as one. *** Hanna remembers the fire and weeps. It was all coming back. All because of her. She’s lost everything once more, because she thought she could take things in her own hands and undo everything. That she was the only one to blame. She tells the soothsayer all this and asks to forget. Yes, the gypsy women comforts Hanna as she slips into her deadening slumber, tucking a card into her hand that when she wakes, will help her forget it all. |
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| Betweentime dingusdongus2000@yahoo.com |
#4 of 9 |
| 147 words | |
| Wean times, you suck the nipple, bottle or tit, that is it. Teen times, nipples out of reach, because of that spot, that’s your lot. Give me my betweentimes Keen times, money is your aim, a well-paid job your desire, hope office work will light your fire. Lean times, buy house and car, cut down on drink, remember to clean the kitchen sink. Give me my betweentimes Queen times, hear her speak for the nation, vomit in sink, glad it was clean, you think. Dream times, you know what you want, a bigger house, a different spouse. Give me my betweentimes. Mean times, divorce on the cards, you know the rules, get the jewels. Preen times, older but wiser, new spouse hunt starts, one with less farts. Seen times, been there, done it, enjoy the kid’s kids, until the final shut of eyelids. Give me my betweentimes. |
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| Betweentime jacket@smartchat.net.au |
#5 of 9 |
| 326 words | |
| It was nothing really. An email but the formatting was all wrong. Single sentences each relaying a different message. Each message unrelated more like a memo from your boss than an email from a friend. Not that I would call them friends. Unless of course my definition of friend and everyone else’s is completely different. I wouldn’t treat a friend they way they treat me but I should be used to it by now, it’s been going on for years. My whole life really. I get one side of the story, I get the other side of the story – never the truth, whatever that is but I’m sure I never get it. And it’s messing with me you know? Forty years old and I’m still being shovelled shit and the sad thing is I let them do it. Every time I say welcome, come on in, and oh yeah while you’re here feel free to dump your shit on me – no please I insist. Eventually I can’t breath and I explode, as you do and I spit out a few hateful poems and withdraw my company and my willing ears and I lock the door. But then I find, after a while that I can’t get out and as soon as I unlock that door in they come gushing, apologetic, we’re sorry, we’re sorry, we love you. Don’t take us so seriously they say, hiding their bruises. Well not anymore. This time I’ll be ready. I’ve replied to the dot point email, one word answers and I’ve sent a hateful poem but this time I won’t be opening the door or answering the phone-not that they’d ring, they prefer the face to face bury you in shit kind of approach. I’m just hoping, betweentime, that if my doors remain shut then maybe, eventually they’ll bury themselves and then I’ll be free to unlock my doors safe in the knowledge that there’ll be no-one there. | |
| Betweentime Bev Cull beautbev@iinet.net.au |
#6 of 9 Runner-up |
| 1965 | |
| It took all of my restraint not to scratch. The
material in my costume was quite irritating, and it had the most annoying habit
of riding up. Had I not been a seasoned veteran of nylon suits, then I fear all
would have been lost. The five seasons I spent on the Star Trek set had paid
off. It didn’t make me a household name, but it paid the bills for a
while. Since I had worn the Trekkie uniform for so long, this should be a picnic, or so I thought. There certainly hadn’t been any petty bickering about whose costume looked better as they were identical. The money wasn’t so bad either but it was long gone and that was the reason I was standing in front the camera again. It was just a pity the costume department couldn’t spring for something with a little less static. The director had called for a ten minute break for the make-up guys to do their magic. Time was ticking on and we really needed to get this last night scene done now. We were so far behind schedule it wasn’t funny. Standing there looking at all the activity I had to pinch myself. This was a chance of a lifetime for an actor my age. I think the reason behind me getting the role was my degree in Medieval Studies. They needed someone in the know and I was their man. Hey, I wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t every day a writer gets to act in his own play. The designer had no idea what a knight’s armour looked like or how a damsel would dress. That’s where I came in. On set they had trouble persuading the leading lady that she would shine, despite having to wear a wimple. She thought she looked like a nun. How Jenelle could ever think she looked like a nun was ridiculous. A shrew maybe, but never a nun. Now I was being catty, but after three weeks on location, my patience had worn thin. When they asked me to play Lord Halverson how could I resist? After all, he was penned by yours truly. The royalties alone would more than make up for the money squandered at the roulette table. It didn’t take much persuading for me to take the part. Truly good roles rarely came my way. I did have some lingering doubts about how it could be transferred from stage to screen but the lure of having a bank account in the black was too good to ignore. After the tenth attempt to nail a simple scene, I was beginning to wonder if I’d done the right thing. So many things had happened to dog our progress. Even the weather was against us. The sun played hide and seek for most of the day. I saw the production manager biting her nails, hoping we wouldn’t go into overtime, but by now she must have realised that was a forgone conclusion. Despite that, I knew without a doubt, they had picked the right location. We were surrounded by some breathtaking countryside. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear it actually looked like the England I remembered. However, we were in the heart of New Zealand, and this was the last scene of the day, or should I say night. The sun had gone down long ago. It was the last night scene, and the director, in his infinite wisdom, decided to film it now. I had hoped to be sitting in my trailer, reading a good book but alas, that was not to be. "My Lord, my Lord, I fear all has been lost!" A figure dressed in armour appeared before me, seemingly ready for battle. That was my cue. Raising the sword in my hand, I stood quickly, trying my hardest to keep my costume where it should be. "Why such haste Sir Briar? The enemy is surely not yet at our gates?" "Lord Halverson! The news is grave indeed. Our lookouts have seen several stout squires butchered before their eyes. They are using darkness to cover their treachery. Some say ‘twas the Black Knight!" "The Black Knight you say? Nay Sir Briar! He will never storm this castle! Never!" "Cut! Finally! Ok people that’s all for today," the director called out. "Nice work Peter." He spoke, referring to the character of Sir Briar. The guy had a couple of walk-ons and he was saying "nice work"! Geeze, could he be any more obvious that he hated my acting? For most of the day I’d been the target of his scathing comments. I only messed up two of those takes, but you’d think it were the entire lot, the way he kept glaring in my direction. He’d been a tyrant all day. After fourteen hours of filming, I had begun to loath the sight of him. It felt like divine retribution when, of all things, Howard’s cell phone rang during a crucial scene. He blamed his assistant for not turning it off, but it was gratifying to see the look of embarrassment on his face. It was no good worrying about it now. Tomorrow was another day. I collected my carry bag and quickly ducked into the wardrobe trailer. I couldn’t wait to change out of my costume. It was the quickest costume change I had ever managed. Standing outside a few minutes later in my jeans and t-shirt, I began to feel myself again, minus the itchiness. "Nigel. A word in your ear," the wardrobe girl called out. "Do you think you could get through the day without tugging on your leggings? I don’t know how much it will take of you pulling at it every five minutes!" She stood with the offending leggings in her hands. I was trying to remember if I had hung them back where they belonged. That was another thing she had warned us about last time. I would love to say that I’m a tolerant person but after such a long day, I was simply not in the mood for it. "Well, if you stop them from riding up the crotch then I’ll stop tugging at them! If you had ones with a less snug fit, that would be even better. Unless, of course you want the whole world to know that, yes, I am most definitely a male!" It was out of my mouth before I even knew it. "Oh, for heaven’s sake! I thought Jenelle was a Prima Dona! Just be more careful next time!" With that she spun on her heels and marched off without another word. It was someone else I’d have to make amends with. The last thing I needed was too much starch in my shirts. The day just couldn’t get any worse. It hadn’t started off like that. In between filming I spent some time explaining the nuances of the English language with the American cast. We were in stitches listening to the differences between the two countries. Even I had learnt a thing or two. When I offered to "nurse" an extra’s baby, she glared at me and sat at another table. It was only at the end of the break that I figured it out. How on earth I was going to get through the next three months was beyond me. The caterers hadn’t even managed to make a decent cup of coffee. It tasted like dishwater. They kept on offering me cups of tea instead. What was with the Aussies and New Zealanders? Did every single one of them drink tea? "Nigel!" Oh, why hadn’t I left when the going was good? I looked up to see the script writer marching over in my direction. This could only mean one thing. She most probably wanted to make a few changes. I turned to smile. This was one person I’d prefer to humour. One stroke of her pen could wreak havoc. "Susan, what can I do for you?" I asked trying my best to smile. "I’m not sure how the next scene will go. I know you’re the Shakespearean authority, but what the heck does "betweentime" mean? As much as you might love it all, the audience won’t have a clue Nige." I closed my eyes for a second. She was about the third person who had shortened my name and probably wouldn’t be the last. Why do people do that? I could imagine one of them meeting Prince Charles and saying "Nice to meet you Chuck." "Just for the record, I don’t really like being called Nige, but if you have to I suppose I’ll get used to it." "Sorry. I hate it when people call me Suzy. Nigel it is. Now… back to the betweentime thing. Work with me here please. I assume you don’t want subtitles?" I chuckled. I could just imagine sitting in a cinema watching the subtitles flash by. It wouldn’t be the first time an English film ended up with teletext, but still highly annoying. "Trainspotting" I could forgive. Even I needed titles for that film. "Perhaps not. I can’t believe that two countries with English as their first language can be so damn different," I told her, as I picked up my coat. "By the way sweetie, you’re about 500 years out. Shakespeare didn’t come on the scene until much later. Now, about betweentime….ummm… I suppose it means in between…. and, no, it can’t be shortened, not unless you totally want to confuse people." "Thanks for the history lesson," she gave a wry smile then continued. "What about scene three?" She spoke, flipping through the script pages. "Tell me again why can we say fanny instead of rear end? What’s the problem there?" "Well, unless you want the British censors coming down on you like a ton of bricks I suggest you stay away from that one." "I don’t get it." "Let’s just say it’s another part of a woman’s anatomy. Because it’s a PG film, you don’t even want to go there." "Oh…" I could still see her bewildered look and then a light bulb moment. "Ok. Now, I get it. Why don’t we grab a bite to eat and see what we can come up with?" Susan asked as she draped her arm around my shoulder. "I’ll even make you a cup of Earl Grey tea. I have some in my trailer." "You’re thinking of Patrick Stewart my love. He was the Trekkie captain and the tea drinker. By the way not all Englishmen like tea. Personally, I hate the stuff. Give me coffee any day." "Coffee I have, but I’ll warn you…. I have a ten year old who’s Trekkie mad. He’s waiting for us now. I told him I’d get you there somehow." Oh well, there went my idea of a romantic evening. It would teach me a lesson for even thinking it in the first place. I was old enough to be her father. That’s all I needed. A ten year old firing all manner of questions. The last fan I met asked me if Klingons really could mate with humans. It made me wonder if any of them actually read books. "Well, I’ll do you a deal. If I let your son in on some trade secrets, do I get to keep "betweentime"?" "Hmm… we’ll see. You never know, you might even like my ideas." "Oh, that’s reassuring." Susan laughed as she opened her door to the strains of Led Zeppelin. A young boy stood playing an electric guitar and fairly well, I might add. That music was my vintage. The kid had good taste. Somewhere in the trailer the coffee was brewing. I could smell it. Perhaps the evening wasn’t an entire loss after all. |
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| Betweentime annettemiller@sympatico.ca |
#7 of 9 |
| 2480 | |
| June 27, 1999. That date will forever dwell in my
memory. It was on that date that I traveled betweentime. That comment alone is
enough to make most of you sit back and laugh, wondering about my sanity. I
don’t blame you, I would too if somebody told me this story and expected
me to believe it. I have always been known as a sane and rational person, heck at least as sane as you, but what happened to me and my wife, on the night of June 27, is without explanation. Let me tell you the story and can draw your own conclusions. I was 32 at the time, and had been married to Jen, my wife, for just over three years. Jen is a very even-tempered, dependable person. She accompanied me on my trip betweentime. Jen refuses to discuss what happened that night. "It’s far too weird to even think about." She says. We had been living north of Harare, Zimbabwe, Central Africa and had decided to immigrate to South Africa. The border crossing into South Africa from Zimbabwe is Beit Bridge. A journey for us of over 800 km or some 550 miles. In those years I drove an old Peugeot 404. I had a set of inexpensive re-tread tires fitted especially for the trip. Tires were cheaper in South Africa, and I planned to replace them upon our arrival. Traveling at night in this part of Africa is always very popular at this time of the year, because of the extreme day-time temperatures. The route I had chosen was the main thoroughfare to Beit Bridge via Victoria Falls, and it always carried large amounts of traffic. Jen and I started our journey at 11:30 pm on June 26th, and pulled into Uvuma for gas at around 2:30am on June 27th. There was not a cloud in the sky, and visibility was excellent although there was no moon. A warm summer breezes drifted gently across the meager vegetation, picking up the fine sand and carrying it to the next obstacle in its path, leaving the larger grains to bounce their way across the ground. There were a couple of bikes propped up against the wall of the gas station; otherwise except for the African attendant the station was deserted. "Fill ‘er up!" I instructed the attendant. "Ja baas." Was his quick reply, fumbling with the gas hose. I glanced down at my odometer and made a mental note of the kilometers on the dial. 146,967km. Jen yawned and stretched, "Think I’ll go for a walk to the ladies; stretch my legs a little. Probably get a cold drink, do you want something?" she inquired. "Yeah good idea, get me a Coke." This gas station was the last civilization we would encounter before ‘the Bridge,’ so we might as well make use of all it had to offer. The upcoming part of our trip was a long stretch, some 600 km. I knew my Peugeot maximum speed was no more that 140 km/per hour. I had calculated that we should arrive at ‘the Bridge’ at about 8:30am. With the gas tank full, and various goodies for us to snack upon, we hit the road again. Jen sat happily munching chips and slurping her Coke. We chattered away happily about our new life in South Africa. Making plans for our fresh start in a different country. We had traveled some 10km south of Uvuma, and I was pushing my Peugeot to the maximum "Look a traffic cop!" remarked Jen between mouthfuls of chips. "Strange! Speed trapping this time of night." I immediately slackened off on the gas and brought the Peugeot back to 100km. Speed trapping on this road was always very popular, but rarely done at night. The traffic cop was seated by the side of the road, talking into what appeared to be a walkie-talkie. Both Jen and I glanced in his direction as we sped past. "Strange uniform." remark Jen. "Yeah, sort of metallic looking." I commented "Almost plasticky." "Just shows you what the Government does with our tax dollars. Now the traffic cops have new metallic-looking uniforms. What was wrong with the khaki ones they always wore?" Jen glanced back, but could see nothing behind them. "Well, at least he is not coming after us for speeding." We traveled a few more kilometers in silence enjoying the last remnants of our chips and coke. "Guess we’re not the only one’s awake at this time of night. Look up there on the left, on top of that hill." Jen said motioned with her hand. "Must be a farmer. Perhaps he’s getting up early to start milking cows or something. That’s odd! I never remembered there being any farm houses along this stretch of road before." I remarked. "That light looks really strange, almost like a beacon, are there any communication towers near here? Or perhaps a spot-light of some sort" queried Jen "Not that I know of." "Look Allan! The light’s revolving, kind of like a lighthouse." I glanced out of the window. It was an extremely bright light and appeared fairly close by, definitely not high enough to be a tower of some sort however, not wanting to alarm Jen I replied "I don’t know Jen, perhaps something has been built there since our last trip." Jen sat watching the light in silence for a while. "Allen!" she said. "I think it’s a helicopter. It’s keeping pace with the car." I looked again at the light; it was very bright and had a strange bluish tinge to it. On for five seconds, then off for two. It was definitely too low to be a helicopter. "I’m sure it’s nothing Jen. Try and find something worth listening too on the radio." I suggested trying to distract her. I glanced down at the speedometer; once again we were traveling at 140km. The road stretched out like a black ribbon ahead of us. Gradually I noticed that the headlights and interior dashboard lights were beginning to fade, and in an instant they blinked out completely. However, there was now this immense light around the car. The temperature inside the vehicle grew increasingly cold. Jen dug into the luggage we had on the back seat, and pulled out sweaters and coats for both of us. I could hear her teeth chattering from the cold. This was definitely unseasonable as it was the middle of summer in Africa. I turned on the car’s heater and was relieved to feel heat emanating from the grills. I relaxed my foot a little on the accelerator, but the car continued to speed along as usual, the speedometer creeping up to 150km. I took my foot off the accelerator. "Oh God!" I muttered under my breath. There was no reduction in speed; it kept sneaking up now over 160km. I gently applied my foot to the brake peddle. Nothing! No braking sensation at all. I tried to move the steering wheel a little to the left, nothing happened. I tried to the right with the same result. I had no control over the car, and I had driven the last 20km with out any headlights. I could not stop nor turn, yet the engine sounded normal. We were now approaching 170km. I considered that my leg was paralyzed and tried moving and stretching it. I could to that normally. I lit a cigarette, so there was definitely no paralyzes of any sort. I was terrified. Cold fingers flittered up and down my spine. I dared not say anything to Jen as it would upset her even more. "How can you sit there so calmly?" Jen shouted, her voice quivering. "Oh, why?" I replied trying to keep my voice sounding as normal as possible. "It’s probably a UFO! So what are you going to do about it?" "What can I do about it? Even if you are right, there is nothing we can do. Anyway, I’m sure it’s not, so don’t worry about it." All the time I was growing more and more petrified, and Jen appearing to be on the point of hysteria. I watched in disbelief as the bright light slowly moved from Jen’s side of the car to mine. UFO? It can’t be. I had never paid much attention to all the hype over them. Anyway why would they be interested in two such ordinary people as my wife and I? Just then, up ahead I saw head-lights. Oh thank God, people! I thought "Look Jen humans! There’re people up ahead." The head-lights approached fast. It was an African bus that had pulled into the lay-by outside a small African store. All the lights in the bus, as well as its headlights were blazing. The two doors were open and the engine was running, but there was nobody in sight. Usually these buses are crammed with passengers and luggage, with bikes, bags and trunks, and chickens on top. Many passengers would sit the entire journey guarding their possessions, even relieving themselves in the bus rather than leave their personal goods and chattels. This time there was nobody around. "That’s very weird!" I remarked as we sped by. The bright bluish light which was now on my side of the car, abruptly divided into two, one moving away to take up a position above the car. "Oh my God!" shrieked Jen "Now there are two UFO’s!" Both UFO’s where traveling at the same speed as the car, and the light had stopped revolving. "Strange how quiet the road is tonight!" I remarked. "You would think that there would be a lot more traffic on the road, especially as tomorrow is a long weekend in South Africa." "I don’t care about the traffic!" Jen shouted. "It’s those two UFO’s that worry me." I glanced down at the speedometer half afraid at what I might see. Oh God! 200 km. I knew that my old Peugeot couldn’t go that fast. I tried the brake again – nothing, it was as though we were on automatic pilot. I had no control over the car at all. Suddenly I became aware that we were surrounded by the most unexpected terrain. There were countless low bushes, and masses of high grass. There were large expanses of swamp, with water on the surface, which was reflecting the light from above. There was lush foliage all around us, the sides of the road, the verges and the country beyond was wet with lots of water and tropical vegetation. Yet the road ahead was dry. I knew this area well, and it was very dry with sparse vegetation, with a few ‘umbrella trees’ scattered here and there. "Listen?" Jen commented "Do you hear anything?" "Yeah, that song on the radio that we both like." "No, no not that!" she said turning off the radio. "Listen?" I strained my ears; I could hear nothing, not even the noise of the engine. "What’s happened to the sounds of the crickets and cicadas?" Jen asked "That’s strange." I remarked. "Don’t worry about it, I’m sure there is a perfectly logical explanation, perhaps it’s too late for the crickets and cicadas to be out alone." I said flippantly trying to ease the tension. Deep down inside I was petrified. I couldn’t drive the car and when I tried there was no response. I might as well have climbed into the back seat, away from the controls. "Jen. Jen!" I shouted. Jen had fallen into a sort of coma like sleep, and I could not wake her. "Just relax, we mean you no harm.." A voice said, coming from the back seat. "I have put your wife to sleep, she was getting far too agitated, and when she awakes she will remember very little of what has happened to her. We have programmed your motor vehicle; you will see only what we want you to see." "Who are you?" I questioned, straining to get a look at my rear-view mirror, to see the traveler who was seated in my back seat. "You have been programmed to see what you want to see. If you think that I’m a monster, then I will appear as a monster. If you think I look like a duck then you will see a duck." My body felt paralyzed, I could only move my head. I turned slowly to look at the passenger in the back seat. I was surprised; he had on that silver plasticky suit that we had seen earlier on the traffic cop. He appeared human. Dark hair, and from what I could make out about average height. Nothing special. Again he said "You see only what you want to see, we can take many different forms." "What do you want from us? Where are you from?" I asked frantically. "We come from the outer galaxies. We’re collecting genetic material. It is our hope that we can help save the world, once you humans are finished destroying it. That’s why we are collecting these samples. I will now put you to sleep and remove both you and your wife to my spacecraft, where we will perform a few test and take our samples. We will then return you to your vehicle. Neither you nor your wife will remember much of what has happened." "Jen wake up, we’re approaching ‘the bridge." I shouted, suddenly aware of where I was. Jen awoke with a start. "What?" she asked questioningly. "Can’t be! Its only 4:30am. The sky is only starting to turn pink. The sun’s just beginning to coming up." "No shit, there’s Beit Bridge." I replied, as we rounded a corner and saw Beit Bridge up ahead. "God what happened? How did we get here so quickly?" We passed through customs with no problems and pulled into the first gas station I found. "Fill ‘er up." I said to the attendant. Moments later the attendant hollered to me "Hey sir, you’re joking of course." "Err no, why?" I asked. "I’ve put in 17c and the tank’s full." The attendant looked at me as though I was some sort of idiot. I glanced down at the odometer; the kilometer reading was 146,981. We had traveled only 14km. "What going on?" Jen asked. I got out of the car and took a look at my cheapy tires expecting to see heavy wear. They still looked brand new. "I don’t know Jen, I have no idea how we traveled 600 km in just over two hours and used only 17c worth of gas." I thought back over our strange trip to Beit Bridge, I remembered the UFO’s that had followed us, I remember loosing control of the car, and the strange passenger that had appeared in the back seat. "Well Jen, all I can say is that I think we’ve been traveling betweentime." |
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| Betweentime V.F.Geister vfgeister@juno.com |
#8 of 9 Winner |
| 2491 words | |
| On Tuesday, July 13, at exactly 4:55:23 AM, straight
from celebrating both his recent separation from "Conniving Witch, Number
Three" and dumping, against all odds, those last, two, "unmovable" Lincolns -
24-ounce slab and fries digesting tentatively, the spicy-smoky mix of a
double-"house" brandy and the longest, fattest, most expensive cigar the nice
tits but flat-assed waitress at "Tenderhook’s ‘Beefomat’" could
dig out from the greasy display case under the register, comfortingly numbing
his palate – Cornelius Brinkman, too exhausted to even shrug out of his
suit jacket, threw himself face-down into bed and, smiling wetly into his
pillow over the myriad colors he could just picture that jackass Portnow’s
face turning when he found the paperwork for those two garish four-wheeled
hunks of junk waiting for him all nice and neat dead-center on his desk at 9AM
– found himself suddenly embraced in the steel arms of a massive coronary
occlusion that turned him, within the twenty-seven seconds it took, from ruddy
to purple to blue to every color (including, briefly, the very same lime-green
that had rendered, for all these many months in dealership limbo, those two
garish four-wheeled hunks of junk so "unmovable") to, ultimately and, as far as
anyone knew, irrevocably and irretrievably, simply and silently, by exactly
4:56:00 AM… deceased. "The Gekkman" – named, not entirely whimsically, for Gordon Gekko, the hero of Cornelius’ all-time favorite motivational film, "Wall Street" – returning from another quick, wet, snurfle over every inch of his floor space for the anything even remotely edible he was positive was just waiting for him around every corner, took the uncustomary quietude in the room as an invitation to a sleep-over and, so, having jumped, then stamped around for "comfy," finally plopped his great, hairy, bulk to face the door, lest anything even remotely edible suddenly manifest in another part of the house without him hearing it – laid his head down, thumped his tail a few times just "because," heaved a liver-scented sigh, licked his nose, and farted. Slightly taken aback that Two-Paws back there didn’t immediately make his usual gagging noises and hurl something hard and pointy at him, but, instead, just lay there behind him, serene and so uncommonly still, The Gekkman – determined immediately to make as much "hay" as he could of such an uncustomary moment and, turning over onto his great, hairy, back, relaxed his limbs, lolled his tongue, closed his eyes and happily, cut another. Ah yes. Life is good. *** Meanwhile, several hundred gajillion floors up, in the Department of Transitions, Manager Cue Dendrit was asserting – to key-operator, Wallice Gob – his personal disagreement with the very same concept. "Ah, you know, Gob – life stinks." Tossing the thick file he’d been scrutinizing intensely for the last fifteen minutes onto the vast tundra of carbons and print-outs and triplicates that – bi-annual audit looming – overwhelmed his desktop, Dendrit leaned back in his chair and, hefting one sandaled foot onto his desk’s bottom drawer – permanently extended to accept the burden – propped his tired, jowly, head on his right hand and turned his scrutinizing attentions on Gob. "I know it." he drawled half into his palm, "and YOU know it. Or, you WILL know it, you hang around here long enough. And manage to not get your ass booted back downstairs to "Apologetics." Which, given this, believe me, Gob, you just might. "But, Gob," Dendrit suddenly dismounted his foot from its perch with a heavy "thud" and leaned forward to tap hard emphasis on the desk as he spoke, "THEY don’t know it. The ones downstairs, the ones we’re responsible for. "No, Gob – they don’t know it. And they never WILL." Dendrit leaned back in his chair again. "Not if we’re doing our job, anyway." "But this, Gob – THIS…" he gestured toward the file sitting forlornly in the middle of his desk where he’d tossed it, "THIS is not us doing our job. THIS is us screwing up." He lasered his eyes onto Gob - scrawny, pimply, pathetically sweating and squirming in the flow of cool falling from the overhead a/c unit - "this is YOU screwing up." "So, Gob," Dendrit edged back into his chair, "tell me. What happened?" Gob gulped. He was at a loss to say. Or, rather, he wished he was at a loss to say. For, actually, he knew exactly what happened. "Chicklet" happened. New key operator Chicklet Bodine. Chicklet of the long, dark, lashes and big, brown, doe eyes and funny little nose freckles. Chicklet of the long, wavy, golden-brown, frankincense-scented hair. Chicklet of the milk-and-honey-scented breaths that tickled right through him every time she laughed. And Chicklet of the soft, mauve wings that he tried so hard not to but couldn’t stop himself from wondering how they’d feel wrapped snugly around him whenever she fluttered by. Gob sighed. Yes… Chicklet happened. And, yet… it was not her fault. True, she was the one who’d been keying the In-Timer’s "OutTime" data when it happened. But it’d been HE who couldn’t wait till she was finished keying the data to present her with the bag of "Chocolate-Covered MannaChips™" she’d called him over and asked him to go to the lounge and buy for her, her feet were hurting her so. And, it’d been HE who’d (stupid, stupid) bought the wrong ones, the "Chocolate-Covered MannaPOPS™"instead of the CHIPS. Causing her to – completely understandably – stamp her foot in frustration and throw her keyboard at him. Thus Inadvertently hitting "Enter" before the InTimer’s data’d been double-checked. So, really – though, OK, technically, it’d been Chicklet’s responsibility – in fairness, had he not been so immature and pushy and stupid – she’d not have transposed the InTimer’s "OutTime" data and sent them, causing the InTimer to "time-out" of his vessel prematurely into "Betweentime." So no, no – he wouldn’t drag her into it, it wasn’t her fault. He wouldn’t say a word about her, not even if it DID mean having his ass booted back downstairs to "Apologetics." He would, in fact, be PROUD to go, if it meant he’d done the right thing by Chicklet. Dendrit, curled slightly sideways in his chair, propped his big, jowly, head on his right palm, watched with only marginal interest the frizzled-winged, pimpled idiot on the other side of the desk he drifted silently, smilingly, in-and-out of intelligence.. Good God, had HE ever been this young and blind and dip-stick stupid? He’d seen that new operator – a frizzled-winged, pimply little beast just like this one, only smarter by light-years (in a shrewd, venal, way) – and wondered what in the cosmos did anyone – even her parents – see in her? But, then again – he’d been a walking hormone once himself. So that’s how it went. Feeling sorry, now, for the idiot, Dendrit decided to cut the kid some slack. THIS time. Speaking of "time,"though – a quick glance at his watch reminded him it was closing in on lunchtime and Dendrit’s stomach suddenly piped up to remind him if it was Tuesday – it was "Mac’n’Cheese" day. He’d have to get a move on, then – "Mac’n’Cheese" always moved like hotcakes. "ALRIGHT, GOB – HOP TO!" Dendrit slammed his hands down on his desktop, sending Gob’s eyelids rolling upward like window shades and his scrawny, frizzled-winged carcass flying off his chair and onto the floor. Dendrit stifling a chuckle, pulled the Betweentimer’s file on his desk toward him and waited for Gob to scramble back into his chair. "OK, Gob, I haven’t got any more time to throw at this so, here’s what’s going to happen. THIS time – you get off with a warning. A warning… and you stay here as long as it takes to clean up your mess. "Don’t screw up again and you’re fine. Screw up again, though – and your name isn’t "Gob" any more, it’s "MUD." Got that? Gob nodded. "OK, good. So… let’s see… the InTimer’s ‘IOT’ – his ‘Intended OutTime’…" Dendrit zig-zagged a thick finger slowly down the page till it found its destination, "…was supposed to be ‘July 31’… and by ‘massive coronary occlusion.’ But YOU… (he shot a sharp glance across the desk at Gob who, at that moment, was slouching in his chair, head tilted back, mouth gawping, staring up at the ceiling tiles. Nah, he took it back. No way in Heaven or Hell or even on Earth he could ever have been THIS stupid.) …"mistakenly" keyed it in as "July 13." And, so, this InTimer, this… what’s his name…" Dendrit flipped back a few PostIts-pocked pages… "OK, this… ‘Cornelius Brinkman’… was timed-out of his vessel before his actual, ‘Intended OutTime." Leaving him in Betweentime. Dendrit leaned back into his chair. "So, the thing to do is – since he really has only… (Dendrit closed his eyes and counted out-loud) sixteen… seventeen… eighteen… since he really has only eighteen days till his real ‘IOT’ – you need to find a suitable vessel – a vessel rendered, as they say, "redundant" – and shove this Brinkman in it until his time is, actually, up. So, let’s see what’s available in Brinkman’s immediate area…" Dendrit started flipping through the file again. "Aha! Just what the doctor ordered! Looks like old Brinkman, here, has a room-mate. With an ‘IOT’ of, what ho – also July 13! ‘July 13… 4:58:14 AM… Hit by car.’ It doesn’t say anything about major car damage so, if that pans out, it sounds like an excellent fit. "And, who better to be than someone you already live with? You already know he drill. "OK, well, Gob – so there’s your ‘redundant vessel." Suddenly, outside in the hall, Dendrit heard the sound of squealing and yelling and stampeding feet. Alarmed, he jumped up and ran to the door – to see what appeared to be the entire floor not just walking, but RUNNING for the exits. Out of their offices, from around their cubicle partitions – from out of the woodwork, it seemed… Well, what the… Oh, wait. Dendrit looked down at his watch. Of course – lunchtime. Lunchtime on "Mac’n’Cheese" Tuesday. "OK, Gob – I gotta’ get a move on." Dendrit ran back to his chair for his suit jacket and, picking up Brinkman’s file as he went, tossed it into Gob’s lap. "Ok, now, listen, Gob," he said, from one foot in the hall, "it’s very easy. Just do what you always do – go back into the system, call up Brinkman’s file, and just exchange his and Gekkman’s "IOT"s. Dendrit was halfway out the door when he stopped short. "Just make sure you add a few seconds onto Gekkman’s ‘IOT’ before you assign it to Brinkman. Gekkman needs to be past his own "OutTime" before his vessel can be re-assigned. Or it’ll get pretty crowded in there. And who knows what else. "Got that, Gob?" Dendrit looked back over his shoulder into his office at Gob, standing there, holding Brinkman’s file tightly to his bony chest. Dendrit paused for a second to chew his bottom lip, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t stay and make sure it got done right. The kid was, after all, nigh-on an idiot. Just then, however, Julia from way down the hall hobbled her broken leg by him in the direction of the cafeteria at such whirlwind speed he felt his suit jacket flap and Dendrit realized Gob was more than capable of handling such an easy task by himself. *** Back at his station, Gob was determined to do this thing right. And, in doing so, save the day for and win the heart of Chicklet. So he logged on and he called up and he exchanged and then… and then… and then… And then Chicklet, herself, wafted by on her way back from the cafeteria with a big tray of "Mac’n’Cheese." But he could see she had nothing to drink. Nor did she have anything for dessert. And Gob could not let such a situation stand. So Gob stood instead. And looked down at his keyboard, and at the screen with the exchange between Brinkman and his room-mate, Gekkman, poised, waiting for him to hit "Enter." But there was something else he was supposed to have done, wasn’t there? Something about adding numbers. Or was it subtracting numbers? Gob stood there, his right index finger in his mouth, staring at the monitor, thinking… thinking… He heard a small cough from Chicklet’s station. Omigosh – she was choking to death! Don’t worry, Chicklet – I’m coming, I’ll save you! Gob hit "Enter" and ran to save the day. *** On Tuesday, July 13, at exactly 4:56:01 AM, having just barely dozed off after returning home from a night celebrating the happy excision from his life both discordant wives and discoloured cars, Cornelius Brinkman awoke with a gasp into his bedroom, enveloped in a thick shroud of such suffocating despair and hopelessness that he felt, if he didn’t know better, he had just known death. But that moment passed into the next and, suddenly, there he was feeling unusually fit for a man his age and astounded himself by scampering down off the bed and immediately out into the house where the incredible abundance of energy he was feeling was matched only by the astonishing over-abundance of things that smelled just plain good, and he spent the next minute or so chasing his nose around the house - under the kitchen sink where the mice lived, into the sofa cushion where Wife Number Three – that bitch – sat till, finally, his nose led him to the front door where – well what’s this, did he leave it open? And a quick shoulder nudge and scoot around the door jamb and down the walkway to the street and – omigod, look, cars! Cars! Cars! Cars! Cornelius just loved cars. Loved to sell them… loved to chase, them even more, though. Where’d that thought come from? Aw, who cared – there were CARS! Parked in the street! Where were the moving ones? They were much funner. He’d have to find some. Out of his mind with the sheer joy of outside, Cornelius danced around his front yard and then – was that a car he heard? – raced out to the sidewalk. And, look – there was one coming around the corner right now! Tongue lolling out of his mouth (what an odd feeling – but nice!) Cornelius sat down right in he middle of the street to wait for it. And the sun was just showing… and a friend was howling an ode to edible things somewhere… and he could smell… mmmmm… cat… and here comes the car! the car! the car! Oh boy, the car! And, sun and sounds and smells and cars and, yessir, no doubt about it… Life wasn’t just good. Life was frickin’ GREAT. |
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| Betweentime topcat@spiritone.com |
#9 of 9 |
| 2283 | |
| One moment his uncle was lying there in bed and the
next, his uncle was standing behind him. "Hello Robert." Robert Wilson nearly jumped out of his skin. "Uncle Hi! How did you do that?" "Help me back to bed and I'll tell you." Hiram Plink's room was furnished well but littered with stacks of books and papers. He clutched his crucifix as Robert led him back to his bed where he subsided with the groan of an old man dying of cancer. "You know my two sons and daughter, of course," he began in a raspy, tired voice. "Of course, my cousins. I haven't seen them in a while." "Neither had I, thankfully until I got sick. Now the damned leeches have been dropping by, wearing fake smiles because they think I've got a lot of money. They never cared much about the old man before. Well I do have a lot of money but they're only going to get a thousand dollars each - the rest is going to charity" At this, the old man was seized by a paroxysm of coughing. Reaching for his inhaler, he waved Robert toward a nearby chair. Robert, dressed in his usual neat slacks and sweater, sank into a plush armchair and managed to sit upright while he peered with concern at his uncle through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. "I've always thought of you as a son," Hiram said when he was able to continue. "You always sent Christmas cards and called every month or two to talk about your computer studies at college. Hell, you even drove four hundred miles last year to come to my eightieth birthday." Robert sat quietly as the statement didn't seem to require a response. "You've done well, top grades, haven't got into any trouble, so you're the only one I can trust with this secret, and it's a doozy. You see this thing that looks like a cross?" Robert nodded in acknowledgement. "Well it's really a complex device attuned to the four cardinal points. I just fancied it up on the outside to make it look like a crucifix. This thing that looks like a star in the middle is really a button. When it's pressed, you can make time stop for up to five minutes. Everything in betweentime will be frozen except for you." Robert gawked at him in astonishment. This must be the raving of a senile old man. Such a thing just couldn't be possible. "I know you think it's impossible but it's true. I made the discovery quite by accident, never mind how - that secret will die with me, but take my word for it, the doggone thingy actually works. I can make time stop, as you have seen when one minute I was in bed and in what seemed like one second to you, I was standing behind you. Sorry to give you a fright like that," Hiram said with a chuckle, " but you never would have believed me otherwise. I've gone around fixing up a few things here and there. That's how I made my money. No, I didn't rob any banks or anything. I went to casinos, played the stock market, this and that. I kinda feel like a modern day Robin Hood - taking from the rich and giving to the poor. You'll get this doodad and a detailed letter of how I used betweentime when I pass on. You know the awesome responsibility it carries as you can just imagine the evil that could be done if it fell into the wrong hands. Now you get on back to college and whomp those finals you got coming up. I see a wonderful career ahead for you, you're going to do just fine. You are..." But Uncle Hi had dropped off to sleep. Robert sat stunned for a minute before tiptoeing out of the room to the sounds of soft snoring. One week later, Hiram Plink was dead. Robert went to the funeral and the reading of the will; secretly amused by the dazed bitter looks on his cousin's faces as they heard of their tiny bequests. He returned to college, read his uncle's fascinating letter, put the time stopper safely away, finished his exams, and started packing. Robert (never Robby) had always been the good boy. He had been picked on at school for that but managed to get through it all by being as inconspicuous as possible. In college he didn't have much time for dating and girls didn't seem to find him very attractive anyway. Only once in his life had he been drunk, his freshman year. The puking and subsequent hangover had cured him of that. Tonight though, he felt like having a drink to celebrate and so he wandered down to the popular college tavern. The party was in full swing, as they say, with a hundred or so students, liberated by the end of school and freed of any remaining inhibitions by alcohol. Robert sipped a beer and watched them wistfully, wishing he was the type to get out there and "bust a move" with the rest of them. The girls were especially enticing as they sashayed around in their tight halter top and bare midriffs, giggling and teasing. The bulge in his pants was getting too embarrassing to ignore but suddenly Robert had an idea. He went back to his apartment, took out his uncle's time-stopper from its hiding place, and walked over to the nearest sorority. Nervously, he pushed the button and entered betweentime. The world took on a bluish tinge. All motion stopped; cars in the street, people frozen in mid-stride. He couldn't believe it, the gizmo really worked! Robert dashed into the sorority house and began prowling around, finding several girls in a state of undress. He tried fondling one of them but she was hard to the touch, like a mannequin. Oh well, at least I got an eyeful, he thought as he dashed back out the front door, pressed the button on the cross, and the world resumed its normal motion. The next morning, giddy thoughts of the previous evening still haunted him. He hungered for more. What he needed was money so he could attract women, heck, even buy their services. Finding a job could wait. It was time for a little fun. He felt that he'd earned at least that much. He put his stuff into storage, took out his last $874 from the bank, and bought a plane ticket to Las Vegas. Vegas. Sin City. Garish and beckoning as it sparkled in the stifling June heat. Robert got himself a modest room just off the Strip and headed for the casinos. At first he played legitimately but he wasn't a very good gambler. His hand went into his pocket for the device. He had forgotten to bring his uncle's letter along with him, containing the detailed instructions, but how hard could it be? Stop the roulette wheel and put the ball where you need it. Rig the dice, look at the blackjack cards. He was prudent enough not to use it often - lose, lose, win - and after several hours he was up about twenty thousand dollars. That night he moved into a posh suite and spent the next few days gambling, seeing all the sights, listening to jokes and laughing it up with friends in the bars - newfound friends since he was buying the rounds of drinks. And then there were several trips to the Bunny Ranch. When you go to the Bunny Ranch, some signal was tripped when you went through the main gate so by the time you reached the building and entered the front door, there were twenty girls lined up dressed in Victoria's Secret lingerie, with a Madam standing by with a clipboard. All you had to do was pick one and go back to her room. It all seemed so antiseptic to him, though. You both had to use a bidet, he had to wear a condom, and any pleasantries or moans of pleasure were surely faked. He thought it would be nice to have a real girlfriend, someone to love and love him back, but it was just a fleeting thought. He was having more sex with more girls in three days than he'd had in all of his life. The morning of his fourth day in Vegas found him sitting in a casino, somewhat groggy from his days of debauchery, but with a large stack of chips in front of him. He felt a tap on his shoulder and was called into the manager's office. "Mr. Wilson. I have been quietly checking with all the casinos and you seem to be ahead over a hundred thousand dollars. We can't figure out what you're doing or how you're doing it, but as of this moment, you are no longer welcome at this or any other casino in town. I hope you enjoyed your stay, Sir." Oh well, that was that. On the cab ride to the airport, he thought he should go back and reread his uncle's letter thoroughly and figure out how to do these things. Besides, now that he had his college degree, it was time to start looking for a job. This flamboyant lifestyle was really not like him, but it was too late. He had changed too much already. In the airport terminal he looked at all the destination screens and for some reason chose Calcutta. Calcutta. The magic city. Sure there was incredible poverty in much of it, but Calcutta had a rich cultural history, many beautiful temples, wonderful museums, great food, and a thriving nightlife. After a couple of days in New York City, where he indulged in the vices of that little burg while getting a visa and going through other red tape, Robert was winging his way to India. He found a nice hotel and spent his days sightseeing and his nights in clubs and brothels. It was a strange and sometimes terrifying city but he was enjoying it for the most part. At least they spoke English, or something they jokingly called Hinglish; a combination of old British and various words that had seeped in from Hindu dialects. Of course you couldn't get a decent hamburger anywhere. The time-stopper stayed in his pocket always but he couldn't think of anything good he could do with it to help anyone. He had plenty of money so he just drifted along. The poverty in Calcutta was appalling. He had seen homeless people in America panhandling for quarters but here, they would follow a horse cart waiting to find undigested oats in their droppings. Parents would cut off the limb of a child to make them more pathetic as they begged in the streets. He couldn't think of a way to use the device to stop this horrendous madness short of donating some money to the Mother Teresa charity, which he did on the sly, but those altruistic thoughts soon became lost in his nightly haze of alcohol and sex. One evening, he fell in with some rich American tourists who were complaining about how rotten India was and bragging about how great it was back in the States, though they had plenty of complaints about that too. Robert suddenly felt homesick. He didn't belong here with the Indian people or the crass Americans either. He wanted to go back home, maybe find a job, or even start his own little company. Maybe find a real girlfriend who would love him for himself, and not because he was paying. He could almost hear the ghost of Hiram Plink. Before he left, he couldn't resist one little prank on these obnoxious tourists that he was almost ashamed to be a countryman of. He slipped his hand into his pocket, pressed the button on the cross, and once again in betweentime, the world turned bluish. A little hot, hot, Indian spice was placed in each man's drink and then he somehow managed to maneuver one arm of theirs onto the breast of the other man's wife. Retreating to a safe distance, Robert turned the world back on and sniggered smugly at the chaos that ensued. He gulped down his drink and staggered out of the bar back to his hotel. He lost his bearings and found himself on a side street. Two men were approaching and they didn't look friendly. They demanded money from him and panicked, Robert reached for his cross and pulled it out, fumbling for the button, but he was too late. A sickening blow to the back of his head made him crumple to the ground unconscious as the cross flew out of his hand and skittered to the side of the pavement. The thieves dragged his body into an alley. "Was that a cross he dropped?" "Who knows? We are not Christians." "Is he still alive or dead?" "What does it matter? Go through his pockets and I'll get his watch and ring." "Ooowee. There are many rupees here, and American dollars too. What are you doing with the knife?" "I may have to cut off his finger. This ring won't come off." "There are people coming. Let us go now." And they scuttled off through the alley. A pair of nuns were walking down the street. The eyes of one of them caught the crucifix that was lying scuffed and dirty in the street. "This is a pretty crucifix. I wonder who lost it?" "The Lord must mean for us to have it." "I wonder what this star in the middle is for?" |
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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club